[Illustration: _Originally Eng^d. by A. Wilson Edin^r._

    “EO MAGIS PRÆFULGIT, QUOD NON VIDETUR”
                                   _Tacit_


PUBLISHED BY JOHN ANDERSON JUN^R. 55, NORTH BRIDGE STREET &c. EDIN^R.
AND SUBSEQUENTLY BY W. & R. CHAMBERS, 339, HIGH STREET, EDIN^R.]




Illustrations

OF THE

AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY

BEING

_Notices and Anecdotes_

OF

REAL CHARACTERS, SCENES, AND INCIDENTS

Supposed to be described in his Works.


BY

ROBERT CHAMBERS.


Third Edition.


W. & R. CHAMBERS,
_LONDON AND EDINBURGH._

1884.




[Illustration]

YE LEADENHALLE PRESSE, LONDON, E.C.
T. 3253.

[Illustration]




_Preface by Author._


This Work first appeared in November, 1822. It was a juvenile
production, and, of course, deformed with all the faults and
extravagances of nineteen. The Public, however, received it with
some degree of encouragement; and, a second edition being now called
for, I have gladly seized the opportunity of repairing early errors,
by greater correctness of language and more copious information.
The present volume will be found to contain thrice the quantity of
letterpress, and a much greater variety of interesting details.

    R. C.

_EDINBURGH, INDIA PLACE, 8th March, 1825._

[Illustration]




_Addendum_

BY AUTHOR’S SON.


In the belief that there are many admirers of Sir Walter Scott who
would gladly welcome the reappearance of a work which many years ago
was, in connection with his novels, eagerly perused, the “Illustrations
of the Author of Waverley” have been again printed.

    R. C. (Secundus).

EDINBURGH, 339, HIGH STREET, 1884.

[Illustration]




_Contents._


Waverley.
                                                                    PAGE

HIGHLAND FAITH AND HONOUR                                              1

BRADWARDINE                                                            4

SCOTTISH FOOLS (DAVIE GELLATLEY)                                       6

RORY DALL, THE HARPER                                                 23

“CLAW FOR CLAW, AS CONAN SAID TO SATAN”                               23

TULLY-VEOLAN (TRAQUAIR HOUSE)                                         24

THE BODACH GLAS                                                       25


Guy Mannering.

CURIOUS PARTICULARS OF SIR ROBERT MAXWELL OF ORCHARDSTON              29

ANDREW CROSBIE, ESQ. (COUNSELLOR PLEYDELL)                            32

DRIVER                                                                41

SOUTH COUNTRY FARMERS (DANDIE DINMONT)                                50

A SCOTTISH PROBATIONER (DOMINIE SAMPSON)                              53

JEAN GORDON (MEG MERRILIES)                                           55


The Antiquary.

ANDREW GEMMELS (EDIE OCHILTREE)                                       60


Rob Roy.

ANECDOTES OF ROBERT MACGREGOR (ROB ROY)                               65

PARALLEL PASSAGES                                                     73


The Black Dwarf.

LANG SHEEP AND SHORT SHEEP                                            76

DAVID RITCHIE (ELSHENDER THE RECLUSE)                                 77


Old Mortality.

DESERTED BURYING-GROUND                                               88

VALE OF GANDERCLEUGH                                                  89

HISTORY OF THE PERIOD                                                 90

ADDITIONAL NOTICES RELATIVE TO THE INSURRECTION OF 1679              103


The Heart of Mid-Lothian.

THE PORTEOUS MOB                                                     109

THE CITY GUARD                                                       113

JEANIE DEANS                                                         117

PATRICK WALKER                                                       119

PARTICULARS REGARDING SCENERY, ETC.                                  124


Bride of Lammermoor.

THE PLOT, AND CHIEF CHARACTERS OF THE TALE                           128

LUCY ASHTON AND BUCKLAW                                              133

A COUNTRY INNKEEPER (CALEB BALDERSTONE)                              136


Legend of Montrose.

PLOT OF THE TALE                                                     139

THE GREAT MONTROSE                                                   142

       *       *       *       *       *

PHILIPHAUGH                                                          154

CUSTOMER-WARK                                                        158


The Monastery.

A VILLAGE ANTIQUARY (CAPT. CLUTTERBUCK)                              164

SCENERY                                                              170

HILLSLOP TOWER                                                       173

SMAILHOLM TOWER                                                      174


The Romances.

MATCH OF ARCHERY AT ASHBY—IVANHOE                                    179

KENILWORTH CASTLE—KENILWORTH                                         180

DAVID RAMSAY—NIGEL                                                   182

THE REDGAUNTLET FAMILY—REDGAUNTLET                                   182

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[Illustration]




Illustrations

OF

The Author of Waverley.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER I.

=Waverley.=


HIGHLAND FAITH AND HONOUR.

(_The Plot of the Novel._)

“When the Highlanders, upon the morning of the battle of Prestonpans,
made their memorable attack, a battery of four field-pieces was
stormed and carried by the Camerons and Stuarts of Appine. The late
Alexander Stuart of Invernahyle was one of the foremost in the charge,
and observed an officer of the king’s forces, who, scorning to join
the flight of all around, remained with his sword in his hand, as
if determined to the very last to defend the post assigned to him.
The Highland gentleman commanded him to surrender, and received for
reply a thrust, which he caught in his target. The officer was now
defenceless, and the battle-axe of a gigantic Highlander (the miller
of Invernahyle’s mill), was uplifted to dash his brains out, when
Mr. Stuart with difficulty prevailed on him to surrender. He took
charge of his enemy’s property, protected his person, and finally
obtained him liberty on parole. The officer proved to be Colonel Allan
Whiteford, of Ballochmyle, in Ayrshire, a man of high character and
influence, and warmly attached to the House of Hanover; yet such was
the confidence existing between these two honourable men, though of
different political principles, that, while the civil war was raging,
and straggling officers from the Highland army were executed without
mercy, Invernahyle hesitated not to pay his late captive a visit, as
he went back to the Highlands to raise fresh recruits, when he spent a
few days among Colonel Whiteford’s whig friends as pleasantly and good
humouredly as if all had been at peace around him.

“After the battle of Culloden, it was Colonel Whiteford’s turn to
strain every nerve to obtain Mr. Stuart’s pardon. He went to the Lord
Justice Clerk, to the Lord Advocate, and to all the officers of State,
and each application was answered by the production of a list, in which
the name of Invernahyle appeared ‘marked with the sign of the beast!’
At length Colonel Whiteford went to the Duke of Cumberland. From him
also he received a positive refusal. He then limited his request,
for the present, to a protection for Stuart’s house, wife, children,
and property. This was also refused by the Duke; on which Colonel
Whiteford, taking his commission from his bosom, laid it on the table
before his Royal Highness, and asked permission to retire from the
service of a king who did not know how to spare a vanquished enemy.
The Duke was struck, and even affected. He bade the Colonel take up
his commission, and granted the protection he requested with so much
earnestness. It was issued just in time to save the house, corn, and
cattle at Invernahyle from the troops who were engaged in laying waste
what it was the fashion to call ‘the country of the enemy.’ A small
encampment was formed on Invernahyle’s property, which they spared
while plundering the country around, and searching in every direction
for the leaders of the insurrection, and for Stuart in particular.
He was much nearer them than they suspected; for, hidden in a cave,
(like the Baron of Bradwardine,) he lay for many days within hearing
of the sentinels as they called their watchword. His food was brought
him by one of his daughters, a child of eight years old, whom Mrs.
Stuart was under the necessity of trusting with this commission, for
her own motions and those of all her inmates were closely watched.
With ingenuity beyond her years, the child used to stray out among the
soldiers, who were rather kind to her, and watch the moment when she
was unobserved, to steal into the thicket, when she deposited whatever
small store of provisions she had in charge, at some marked spot, where
her father might find it. Invernahyle supported life for several weeks
by means of these precarious supplies; and, as he had been wounded in
the battle of Culloden, the hardships which he endured were aggravated
by great bodily pain. After the soldiers had removed their quarters,
he had another remarkable escape. As he now ventured to the house at
night, and left it in the morning, he was espied during the dawn by a
party who pursued and fired at him. The fugitive being fortunate enough
to escape their search, they returned to the house, and charged the
family with harbouring one of the proscribed traitors. An old woman
had presence of mind enough to maintain that the man they had seen was
the shepherd. “Why did he not stop when we called to him?” said the
soldiers. “He is as deaf, poor man, as a peat-stack,” answered the
ready-witted domestic. “Let him be sent for directly.” The real
shepherd accordingly was brought from the hill, and, as there was time
to tutor him by the way, he was as deaf, when he made his appearance,
as was necessary to maintain his character. Stuart of Invernahyle was
afterwards pardoned under the act of indemnity.

“He was a noble specimen of the old Highlander, far-descended, gallant,
courteous, and brave even to chivalry. He had been _out_ in 1715 and
1745; was an active partaker in all the stirring scenes which passed in
the Highlands between these memorable eras; and was remarkable, among
other exploits, for having fought with and vanquished Rob Roy, in a
trial of skill at the broadsword, a short time previous to the death of
that celebrated hero, at the clachan of Balquhidder. He chanced to be
in Edinburgh when Paul Jones came into the Firth of Forth, and, though
then an old man, appeared in arms, and was heard to exult (to use his
own words) in the prospect of ‘drawing his claymore once more before he
died.’”

This pleasing anecdote is given in a critique upon the first series
of the “Tales of my Landlord,” (supposed to be written by Sir Walter
Scott,) in the thirty-second number of the _Quarterly Review_; and we
heartily concur with the learned Baronet in thinking it the groundwork
of “Waverley.”

Yet it is somewhat remarkable that the name of a Major Talbot, as
well as that of Lieutenant-Colonel Whiteford, occurs in the list of
prisoners published by the Highland army, after their victory at
Prestonpans.

The late Alexander Campbell, author of the “History of Poetry in
Scotland,” and editor of “Albyn’s Anthology,” a gentleman whose
knowledge of his native Highlands was at once extensive and accurate,
used to assert that it was the _younger sister_, not the _daughter_
of Mr. Stuart, that brought his food. He had heard an account of the
affecting circumstance from her own mouth.

Stuart of Invernahyle marked his attachment to the cause of the exiled
Prince by the composition of a beautiful song, which is to be found in
Mr. Hogg’s “Jacobite Relics.”


BRADWARDINE.

Of the genus of Bradwardine, Colonel Stewart gives the following
account:—

“The armies of Sweden, Holland, and France gave employment to the
younger sons of the Highland gentry, who were educated abroad in the
seminaries of Leyden and Douay. Many of these returned with a competent
knowledge of modern languages added to their classical education—often
speaking Latin with more purity than Scotch, which, in many cases,
they only learned after leaving their native homes. The race of
Bradwardine is not long extinct. In my own time, several veterans might
have sat for the picture of that most honourable, brave, learned, and
kind-hearted personage. These gentlemen returned from the continent
full of warlike Latin, French phrases, and inveterate broad Scotch.
One of the last of these, Colonel Alexander Robertson, of the Scotch
Brigade, uncle of the present” (now late) “Strowan, I well remember.

“Another of the Bradwardine character is still remembered by the
Highlanders with a degree of admiration bordering on enthusiasm. This
was John Stewart, of the family of Kincardine, in Strathspey, known to
the country by the name of John Roy Stewart, an accomplished gentleman,
an elegant scholar, a good poet, and a brave officer. He composed
with equal facility in English, Latin and Gaelic; but it was chiefly
by his songs, epigrams, and descriptive pieces, that he attracted the
admiration of his countrymen. He was an active leader in the rebellion
of 1745, and, during his ‘hiding’ of many months, he had more leisure
to indulge his taste for poetry and song. The country traditions are
full of his descriptive pieces, eulogies and laments on friends, or in
allusion to the events of that unfortunate period. He had been long
in the service of France and Portugal, and had risen to the rank of
colonel. He was in Scotland in 1745, and commanded a regiment, composed
of the tenants of his family and a considerable number of the followers
of Sir George Stewart of Grandtully, who had been placed under him.
With these, amounting in all to 400 men, he joined the rebel army, and
proved one of its ablest partizans.”—_Sketches, vol._ ii. _notes_.

Diligent research, however, has enabled us to point out a much nearer
original.

The person who held the situation in the rebel army which in the
novel has been assigned to the Baron, namely, the command of their
few cavalry, was Alexander, fourth Lord Forbes of Pitsligo. This
nobleman, who possessed but a moderate fortune, was so much esteemed
for his excellent qualities of temper and understanding, that when,
after the battle of Prestonpans, he declared his purpose of joining
Prince Charles, most of the gentlemen in that part of the country put
themselves under his command, thinking they could not follow a better
or safer example than the conduct of Lord Pitsligo. He thus commanded
a body of 150 well mounted gentlemen in the subsequent scenes of the
rebellion, at the fatal close of which he escaped to France, and was
attainted, in the following month, by the title of _Lord Pitsligo_,
his estate and honours being of course forfeited to the crown. After
this he claimed the estate before the Court of Session, on account of
the misnomer, his title being properly _Lord Forbes of Pitsligo_; and
that Court gave judgment in his favour, 16th November, 1749; but on an
appeal it was reversed by the House of Lords, 1750.

Like Bradwardine, Lord Pitsligo had been _out_ in 1715 also—though it
does not appear that much notice was then taken of his defection. His
opposition to the whiggery of modern times had been equally constant,
and of long standing; for he was one of those staunch and honourable
though mistaken patriots of the last Scottish Parliament, who had
opposed the Union.

He could also boast of a smattering of the _belles lettres_; and
probably plumed himself upon his literary attainments as much as the
grim old pedant, his counterpart. In 1734, he published “Essays, Moral
and Philosophical;” and something of the same sort appeared in 1761,
when he seems to have been in the near prospect of a conclusion to his
earthly trials. He died at Auchiries, in Aberdeenshire, December 21,
1762, at an advanced age, after having possessed his title, counting
from his accession in 1691, during a period of seventy-one years.

It is not unworthy of remark, that the supporters of Lord Pitsligo’s
arms were two bears proper; which circumstance, connected with the
great favour in which these animals were held by Bradwardine, brings
the relation between the real and the fictitious personages very close.


SCOTTISH FOOLS.

(_Davie Gellatley._)

It appears that licensed fools were customary appendages of the
Scottish Court at a very early period; and the time is not long gone by
when such beings were retained at the table and in the halls of various
respectable noblemen. The absence of more refined amusements made them
become as necessary a part of a baronial establishment as horses and
hounds still continue to be in the mansions of many modern squires.
When as yet the pursuits of literature were not, and ere gaming had
become vicious enough to be fashionable, the rude humours of the jester
could entertain a pick-tooth hour; and, what walnuts now are to wine,
and enlightened conversation to the amusements of the drawing-room,
the boisterous bacchanalianism of our ancestors once found in coarse
buffooneries and the alternate darkness and radiance of a foolish mind.

In later times, when all taste for such diversion had gone out, the
madman of the country-side frequently found shelter and patronage under
the roofs of neighbouring gentlemen; but though the _good things_ of
_Daft Jamie_ and _Daft Wattie_ were regularly listened to by the laird,
and preserved in the traditions of the household, the encouragement
given to them was rather extended out of a benevolent compassion for
their helpless condition than from any desire to make their talents
a source of entertainment. Such was the motive of Bradwardine in
protecting Davie Gellatley; and such was also that of the late Earl of
Wemyss, in the support which he gave to the renowned Willie Howison,
a personage of whom many anecdotes are yet told in Haddingtonshire,
and whose services at Gosford House were not unlike those of Davie at
Tully-Veolan.

Till within the last few years, these unfortunate persons were more
frequently to be found in their respective villages throughout the
country than now; and it is not long since even Edinburgh could boast
of her “_Daft Laird_,” her “_Bailie Duff_,” and her “_Madam Bouzie_.”
Numerous charitable institutions now seclude most of them from the
world. Yet, in many retired districts, where delicacy is not apt to be
shocked by sights so common, the blind, the dumb, and the insane are
still permitted to mix indiscriminately with their fellow-creatures.
Poverty compels many parents to take the easiest method of supporting
their unfortunate offspring—that of bringing them up with the rest
of the family; the decent pride of the Scottish peasant also makes
an application to charity, even in such a case as this, a matter of
very rare occurrence; and while superstition points out that those
whom God has sent into the world with less than the full share of
mental faculties are always made most peculiarly the objects of this
care, thus rendering the possession of such a child rather a medium
through which the blessings of heaven are diffused than a burden or
a curse, the affectionate desire of administering to them all those
tender offices which their unhappy situation so peculiarly requires,
of tending them with their own eyes, and nursing them with their own
hands, that large and overflowing, but not supererogatory share of
tenderness with which the darkened and destitute objects are constantly
regarded by parents—altogether make their domestication a matter of
strong, and happily not unpleasing necessity.

The rustic idiots of Scotland are also in general blessed with a few
peculiarities, which seldom fail to make them objects of popular esteem
and affection. Many of them exhibit a degree of sagacity or cunning,
bearing the same relation to the rest of their intellectual faculties
which, in the ruins of a Grecian temple, the coarse and entire
foundations bear to the few and scattered but beautiful fragments of
the superstructure. This humble qualification, joined sometimes to the
more agreeable one of a shrewd and sly humour, while it enables them
to keep their own part, and occasionally to baffle sounder judgments,
proves an engaging subject of amusement and wonder to the cottage
fireside. A wild and wayward fancy, powers of song singularly great,
together with a full share of the above qualifications, formed the
chief characteristics of Daft Jock Gray of Gilmanscleugh, whom we are
about to introduce to the reader as the counterpart of Davie Gellatley.

JOHN GRAY is a native of Gilmanscleugh, a farm in the parish of
Ettrick, of which his father was formerly the shepherd, and from which,
according to Border custom, he derives his popular designation or title
“OF GILMANSCLEUGH.” Jock is now above forty years of age, and still
wanders through the neighbouring counties of Roxburgh, Selkirk, and
Peebles, in a half minstrel, half mendicant manner, finding, even after
the fervour of youth is past, no pleasure in a sedentary or domestic
life.

Many months, many weeks, had not elapsed after Jock came into the
world, before all the old women of the _Faculty_ in the parish
discovered that “he had a want.” As he grew up, it was found that he
had no capacity for the learning taught at the parish school, though,
in receiving various other sorts of lore, he showed an aptitude far
surpassing that of more highly gifted children. Thus, though he had not
steadiness of mind to comprehend the alphabet, and Barrie’s smallest
primer was to him as a fountain closed and a book sealed, he caught, at
a wonderfully early age, and with a rapidity almost incredible, many
fragments of Border song, which he could repeat, with the music, in the
precise manner of those who instructed him; and indeed he discovered
an almost miraculous power of giving utterance to sounds, in all their
extensive and intricate varieties.

All endeavours on the part of his parents to communicate to his mind
the seeds of written knowledge having failed, Jock was abandoned to the
oral lore he loved so much; and of this he soon possessed himself of an
immense stock. His boyhood was passed in perfect idleness; yet if it
could have been proved upon him that he had the smallest glimmering of
sense, his days would not have been so easy. In Jock’s native district
there are just two ways for a boy to spend his time; either he must
go to school, or he must tend the cows; and it generally happens that
he goes to school in summer and tends the cows in winter. But Jock’s
idiocy, like Caleb Balderstone’s “fire,” was an excuse for every duty.
As to the first employment, his friend the Dominie bore him out with
flying colours; for the second, the question was set for ever at rest
by a _coup de main_ achieved by the rascal’s own happy fancy. “John,”
says the minister of Yarrow to him one day, “you are the idlest boy in
the parish; you do nothing all day but go about from house to house;
you might at least herd a few cows.” “Me, sir!” says Jock, with the
most stolid stare imaginable, “how could I herd the kye? Losh, sir,
_I disna ken corn by garse_!”—This happy bit was enough to keep Jock
comfortable all the rest of his life.

Yet though Jock did not like to be tied down to any regular task, and
heartily detested both learning and herding, it could never be said
of him that he was sunk in what the country people call _even-down
idleset_. He sometimes condescended to be useful in running errands,
and would not grudge the tear and wear of his legs upon a seven-mile
journey, when he had the prospect of a halfpenny for his pains; for,
like all madmen, he was not insensible, however stupid in every other
thing, to the value of money, and knew a bawbee from a button with the
sharpest boy in the clachan. It is recorded to his credit, that in all
his errands he was ever found scrupulously honest. He was sometimes
sent to no less a distance than Innerleithen, which must be at least
seven miles from Gilmanscleugh, to procure small grocery articles for
his neighbours. Here an old woman, named Nelly Bathgate, kept the
metropolitan grocery shop of the parish, forming a sort of cynosure to
a district extending nearly from Selkirk to Peebles. This was in the
days before _St. Ronan’s Well_ had drawn so many fashionables around
that retired spot; and as yet Nelly flourished in her little shop,
undisturbed by opposition, like the moon just before the creation
of the stars. Rivals innumerable have now sprung up around honest
Nelly; and her ancient and respectable, but unpretending sign-board,
simply importing, “N. BATHGATE, GROCER,” quails under the glowing and
gilt-lettered rubrics of “—— ——, FROM EDINBURGH,” etc., etc., etc.,
who specify that they import their own teas and wines, and deal both
_en gros et en petit_.

For a good while Jock continued to do business with Nelly Bathgate,
unannoyed, as the honest dame herself, by any other grocery shop; and
indeed how there could be such a thing as another grocery shop in the
whole world besides Nelly’s, was quite incomprehensible to Jock. But at
length the distracting object arose. A larger shop than Nelly’s, with
larger windows, and a larger sign-board, was opened; the proprietor had
a son in Edinburgh with a great wholesale grocer in Nicolson Street;
and was supplied with a great quantity of goods, at cheap prices,
of a more flashy nature than any that had ever before been dreamt
of, smelt, or eaten in the village. Here a strange grocery article,
called pearl ashes, was sold; and being the first time that such a
thing was ever heard of, Innerleithen was just in a ferment about it.
Jock was strongly tempted to give his custom, or rather the custom of
his employers, to this shop; for really Nelly’s customary _snap_ was
growing stale upon his appetite, and he longed to taste the comfits of
the new establishment. This Nelly saw and appreciated; and, to prevent
the defection she feared, Jock’s allowance was forthwith doubled, and,
moreover, occasionally varied by a guerdon of a sweeter sort. But still
Jock hankered after the sweets of that strange forbidden shop; and, as
he passed towards Nelly’s, after a long hungry journey, could almost
have wished himself transformed into one of those yellow bees which
buzzed about in noisy enjoyment within the window and show-glasses
of the new grocer,—creatures which, to his mind, appeared to pass
the most delightful and enviable life. It is certainly much to Jock’s
credit, that, even under all these temptations, and though he had
frequently a whole sixpence to dispose of in eight or ten different
small articles, and, no less, though he had no security engaged for
intromissions, so that the whole business was nothing but a question
of character,—yea, in not so much as a farthing was he ever found
wanting.

Nelly continued to be a good friend to Jock, and Jock adhered as
stoutly to Nelly; but it was frequently observed by those who
were curious in his mad humours, that his happy conquest over the
love of comfits was not accomplished and preserved without many
struggles between his instinctive honesty and the old Adam of his
inner man. For instance, after having made all his purchases at Mrs.
Bathgate’s, when he found only a single solitary farthing remain
in his hand, which was to be his faithful companion all the way
back to Gilmanscleugh, how forcibly it must have struck his foolish
mind, that, by means of the new grocer, he had it in his power to
improve his society a thousand-fold, by the simple and easy, though
almost-as-good-as-alchymical process of converting its base brazen
form into a mass of gilt gingerbread. Such a temptation might have
staggered St. Anthony himself, and was certainly far too much for
poor Jock’s humble powers of self-denial. In this dreadful emergency,
his only means of safety lay in flight; and so it was observed by his
rustic friends, on such occasions, that, as soon as he was fairly
clear of Nelly’s door, he commenced a sort of headlong trot, as if for
the purpose of confounding all dishonourable thoughts in his mind,
and ran with all his might out of the village, without looking once
aside; for if he had trusted his eye with but one glance at that neat
whitewashed window of four panes, where two biscuits, four gingerbread
cakes, a small blue bottle of white caraways, and a variety of other
nondescript articles of village confectionery displayed their modest
yet irresistible allurements, he had been gone!

There is one species of employment in which Jock always displays the
utmost willingness to be engaged. It must be understood, that, like
many sounder men, he is a great admirer of the fair sex. He exhibits
an almost chivalrous devotion to their cause, and takes great pleasure
in serving them. Any little commission with which they may please to
honour him, he executes with alacrity, and his own expression is that
he would “jump Tweed, or dive the Wheel (a deep eddy in Tweed), for
their sakes.” He requires no reward for his services, but, like a
true knight, begs only to kiss the hand of his fair employer, and is
satisfied. It may be observed, that he is at all times fond of saluting
the hands of ladies that will permit him.

The author of “Waverley” has described Davie Gellatley as dressed in
a grey jerkin, with scarlet cuffs, and slashed sleeves, showing a
scarlet lining, a livery with which the Baron of Bradwardine indued
him, in consideration of his services and character. Daft Jock Grey has
at no period of his life exhibited so much personal magnificence. His
usual dress is a rather shabby suit of hodden grey, with _ridge and
furrow_[1] stockings; and the utmost extent of his finery is a pair of
broad red garters, bound neatly below the knee-strings of his nether
garments, of which, however, he is probably more vain than ever belted
knight was of the royal garter. But waiving the matter of dress, their
discrepance in which is purely accidental, the resemblance is complete
in every other respect. The face, mien, and gestures are exactly
the same. Jock walks with all that swing of the body and arms, that
abstracted air and sauntering pace, which figure in the description of
Davie (“Waverley,” vol i. chap. ix.), and which, it may indeed be said,
are peculiar to the whole genus and body of Scottish madmen. Jock’s
face is equally handsome in its outline with that given to the fool of
Tully-Veolan, and is no less distinguished by “that wild, unsettled,
and irregular expression, which indicated neither idiocy nor insanity,
but something resembling a compound of both, where the simplicity of
the fool was mixed with the extravagance of a crazed imagination.” Add
to this happy picture the prosaic and somewhat unromantic circumstance
of a pair of buck-teeth, and the reader has our friend Jock to a single
feature.

The Highland madman is described by his pedantic patron, to be “a poor
simpleton, neither _fatuus nec naturaliter idiota_, as is expressed in
the brieves of furiosity, but simply a cracked-brained knave, who could
execute any commission that jumped with his own humour, and made his
folly a plea for avoiding every other.” This entirely agrees with the
character of Jock, who is thought by many to possess much good common
sense, and whose talents of music and mimicry point him out as at
least ingenious. Yet to us it appears, that all Jock’s qualifications,
ingenious as they may be, are nothing but indications of a weak mind.
His great musical and mimetic powers, his talent and willingness of
errand-going, his cunning and his excessive devotion to the humours and
fancies of the fair sex, are mere caricatures of the same dispositions
and talents in other men, and point out all such qualifications, when
found in the best and wisest characters, as marks of fatuity and
weakness. Where, for instance, was the perfection of musical genius
ever found accompanied with a good understanding? Are not porters and
chairman the smallest-minded among mankind? Is not cunning the lowest
of the human faculties, and always found most active in the illiberal
mind? And what lady’s man, what _cavaliere serviente_, what squire of
dames, what man of drawing-rooms and boudoirs, ever yet exhibited the
least trace of greatness or nobility of intellect? Jock, who has all
these qualifications in himself, may be considered as outweighing at
least four other men who severally possess them.

Like Davie Gellatley, Jock “is in good earnest the half-crazed
simpleton which he appears to be, and incapable of any steady exertion.
He has just so much wild wit as saves him from the imputation of
insanity, warm affections, a prodigious memory, and an ear for music.”
This latter quality is a point of resemblance which puts all question
of their identity past the possibility of doubt. Davie it must be
well remembered by the readers of “Waverley,” is there represented as
constantly singing wild scraps of ancient songs and ballads, which,
by a beautiful fiction of the author, he is said to have received
in legacy from a poetical brother who died in a decline some years
before. His conversation was in general carried on by means of these,
to the great annoyance of young Waverley, and such as, like him, did
not comprehend the strange metaphorical meaning of his replies and
allusions. Now, Jock’s principal talent and means of subsistence
are vested in his singular and minstrel-like powers of song, there
being few of our national melodies of which he cannot chaunt forth a
verse, as the occasion may suggest to his memory. He never fails to
be a welcome guest with all the farmers he may chance to visit,[2]
on account of his faculties of entertaining them with the tender or
warlike ditties of the Border, or the more smart and vulgar songs of
the modern world. It is to be remarked, that his style of singing,
like the styles of all other great geniuses in the fine arts, is
entirely his own. Sometimes his voice soars to the ecstasy of the
highest, and sometimes descends to the melancholious grunt of the
lowest pitch; while ever and anon he throws certain wild and beautiful
variations into both the words and the music, _ad libitum_, which
altogether stamp his performances with a character of the most perfect
originality. He generally sings very much through his nose, especially
in humorous songs; and, from his making a curious hiss, or twang, on
setting off into a melody, one might almost think that he employs
his notorious buck-teeth in the capacity of what musicians term a
_pitchfork_.

Jock, by means of his singing powers, was one of the first who
circulated the rising fame of his countryman, the Ettrick Shepherd,
many of whose early songs he committed to memory, and sung publicly
over all the country round. One beginning, “Oh Shepherd, the weather
is misty and changing,” and the well known lyric of “Love is like a
dizziness,” besides being the first poetical efforts of their ingenious
and wonderful author, were the earliest of Jock Gray’s favourite songs,
and perhaps became the chief means of setting him up in the trade of a
wandering minstrel. We have seen him standing upon a _dees stane_ in
the street of Peebles, entertaining upwards of a hundred people with
the latter ludicrous ditty; and many a well-told penny has he made it
squeeze from the iron purses of the inhabitants of that worthy town,
“albeit unused to the _opening_ mood.”

In singing the “Ewe-buchts, Marion,” it is remarkable that he adds a
chorus which is not found in any printed edition of the song:

    “Come round about the Merry-knowes, my Marion,
      Come round about the Merry-knowes wi’ me;
    Come round about the Merry-knowes, my Marion,
      For Whitsled is lying lea.”

Whitsled is a farm in the parish of Ashkirk, county of Selkirk, lying
upon the water of Ale; and Merry-knowes is the name of a particular
spot in the farm. This circumstance is certainly important enough to
deserve the attention of those who make Scottish song a study and
object of collection; as the verse, if authentic, would go far to prove
the locality of the “Ewe-buchts.”

In addition to his talent as a musician, Jock can also boast of a
supplementary one, by means of which, whenever memory fails in his
songs, he can supply, _currente voce_, all incidental deficiencies. He
is not only a wit and a musician, but also a _poet_! He has composed
several songs, which by no means want admirers in the country, though
the most of them scarcely deserve the praise of even mediocrity. Indeed
his poetical talents are of no higher order than what the author of
an excellent article in the “Edinburgh Annual Register” happily terms
“wonderfully well considering”; and seem to be admired by his rustic
friends only on the benevolent principle of “where little has been
given, let little be required.”

He has, however, another most remarkable gift, which the author
of “Waverley” has entirely rejected in conceiving the revised and
enlarged edition of his character,—a wonderful turn for _mimicry_.
His powers in this art are far, far indeed, from contemptible, though
it unfortunately happens that, like almost all rustic Scottish
humorists, he makes ministers and sacred things his chief and favourite
objects. He attends the preachings of all the ministers that fall
within the scope of his peregrinations, and sometimes brings away
whole _tenthlies_ of their several sermons, which he lays off to any
person that desires him, with a faithfulness of imitation, in tone and
gesture, which never fails to convulse his audience with laughter.
He has made himself master of all the twangs, _soughs_, wheezes,
coughs, _snirtles_, and bleatings, peculiar to the various parish
ministers twenty miles round; and being himself of no particular sect,
he feels not the least delicacy or compunction for any single class
of divines—all are indiscriminately familiar to the powers of the
universal Jock!

It is remarkable, that though the Scottish peasantry are almost without
exception pious, they never express, so far as we have been able to
discover, the least demur respecting the profanity and irreverence of
this exhibition. The character of the nation may appear anomalous on
this account. But we believe the mystery may be solved by supposing
them so sincerely and unaffectedly devout, in all that concerns
the sentiment of piety, that they do not suspect themselves of any
remissness, when they make the outward circumstances, and even the
ordinances of religion, the subject of wit. It is on this account,
that in no country, even the most lax in religious feeling, have the
matters of the church been discussed so freely as in Scotland; and
nowhere are there so many jokes and good things about ministers and
priests. In this case the very ministers themselves have been known
to listen to Daft Jock’s mimicries of their neighbours with unqualmed
delight,—never thinking, good souls, that the impartial rascal has
just as little mercy on themselves at the next manse he visits. It is
also to be remarked, that, in thus quizzing the worthy ministers, he
does not forget to practise what the country-people consider a piece
of exquisite satire on the habits of such as _read_ their sermons.
Whenever he imitates any of these degenerate divines, who, by their
unpopularity, form quite a sect by themselves in the country, and
are not nearly so much respected as extempore preachers,[3] he must
have either a book or a piece of paper open before him, from which he
gravely affects to read the subject of discourse; and his audience
are always trebly delighted with this species of exhibition. He was
once amusing Mrs. C——, the minister’s wife of Selkirk, with some
imitations of the neighbouring clergymen, when she at last requested
him to give her a few words in the manner of Dr. C——, who being
a notorious _reader_, “Ou, Mem,” says Jock, “ye maun bring me the
Doctor’s Bible, then, and I’ll gie ye him _in style_.” She brought the
Bible, little suspecting the purpose for which the wag intended it,
when, with the greatest effrontery, he proceeded to burlesque this
unhappy peculiarity of the worthy doctor in the presence of his own
wife.

Jock was always a privileged character in attending all sorts of
kirks, though many ministers, who dreaded a future sufferance under
his relentless caricaturing powers, would have been glad to exclude
him. He never seems to pay any attention to the sermon, or even deigns
to sit down, like other decent Christians, but wanders constantly
about from gallery to gallery, upstairs and downstairs. His erratic
habit is not altogether without its use. When he observes any person
sleeping during the sermon, he reaches over to the place, and taps him
gently on the head with his _kent_ till he awake; should he in any of
his future rounds (for he parades as regularly about as a policeman in
a large city) observe the drowsy person repeating the offence, he gives
him a tremendous thwack over the pate; and he increases the punishment
so much at every subsequent offence, that, like the military punishment
for desertion, the third infliction almost amounts to death itself. A
most laughable incident once occurred in —— church, on a drowsy summer
afternoon, when the windows were let down, admitting and emitting
a thousand flies, whose monotonous buzz, joined to the somniferous
snuffle of Dr. ——, would have been fit music for the bedchamber of
Morpheus, even though that honest god was lying ill of the toothache,
the gout, or any other equally _woukrife_ disorder. A bailie, who had
dined, as is usual in most country towns, between sermons, could not
resist the propensity of his nature, and, fairly overpowered, at last
was under the necessity of affronting the preacher to his very face,
by laying down his head upon the book-board; when his capacious, bald
round crown might have been mistaken, at first sight, for the face of
the clock placed in the front of the gallery immediately below. Jock
was soon at him with his stick, and, with great difficulty, succeeded
in rousing him. But the indulgence was too great to be long resisted,
and down again went the bailie’s head. This was not to be borne. Jock
considered his authority sacred, and feared not either the frowns of
elders, nor the more threatening scowls of kirk-officers, when his
duty was to be done. So his arm went forth, and the _kent_ descended
a second time with little reverence upon the offending sconce; upon
which the magistrate started up with an astonished stare, in which the
sentiment of surprise was as completely concentrated as in the face
of the inimitable Mackay, when he cries out, “Hang a magistrate! My
conscience!” The contrast between the bailie’s stupid and drowsy face,
smarting and writhing from the blow, which Jock had laid on pretty
soundly, and the aspect of the _natural_ himself, who still stood at
the head of the pew, shaking his stick, and looking at the magistrate
with an air in which authority, admonition, and a threat of further
punishment, were strangely mingled, altogether formed a scene of
striking and irresistible burlesque; and while the Doctor’s customary
snuffle was increased to a perfect whimper of distress, the whole
congregation showed in their faces evident symptoms of everything but
the demureness proper to a place of worship.

Sometimes, when in a sitting mood, Jock takes a modest seat on the
pulpit stairs, where there likewise usually roost a number of deaf
old women, who cannot hear in any other part of the church. These
old ladies, whom the reader will remember as the unfortunate persons
that Dominie Sampson sprawled over, in his premature descent from the
pulpit, when he _stickit_ his first preaching, our waggish friend would
endeavour to torment by every means which his knavish humour could
invent. He would tread upon their corns, lean amorously upon their
laps, purloin their _specks_ (spectacles), set them on a false scent
after the psalm, and, sometimes getting behind them, plant his longest
and most serious face over their black cathedral-looking bonnets, like
an owl looking over an ivied wall, while few of the audience could
contain their gravity at the extreme humour of the scene. The fun was
sometimes, as we ourselves have witnessed, not a little enhanced by
the old lady upon whom Jock was practising, turning round, in holy
dudgeon, and dealing the unlucky wag a vengeful thwack across the face
with her heavy _octavo_ Bible. We have also seen a very ludicrous scene
take place, when, on the occasion of a baptism, he refused to come
down from his citadel, and defied all the efforts which James Kerr,
the kirk-officer, made to dislodge him; while the father of the child,
waiting below to present it, stood in the most awkward predicament
imaginable, not daring to venture upon the stairs while Jock kept
possession of them. It is not probable, however, that he would have
been so obstinate on that occasion, if he had not had an ill-will at
the preserver of the peace, for his interrupting him that day in his
laudable endeavours to break the slumbers of certain persons, whose
peace (or _rest_) it was the peculiar interest of that official to
preserve.

We will conclude this sketch of _Daft Jock Gray_ with a stupendous
anecdote, which we fear, however, is not strictly canonical. Jock once
received an affront from his mother, who refused to gratify him with
an extra allowance of bannocks, at a time when he meditated a long
journey to a New Year’s Day junketing. Whereupon he seems to have felt
the yearnings of a hermit and a misanthrope within his breast, and
longed to testify to the world how much he both detested and despised
it. He withdrew himself from the society of the cottage,—was seen to
reject the addresses of his old companion and friend the cat,—and
finally, next morning, after tossing an offered cogue of _Scotia’s
halesome food_ into the fire, and breaking two of his mother’s best and
blackest _cutty pipes_, articles which she held almost in the esteem
of _penates_ or household gods,—off he went, and ascended to the top
of the highest Eildon Hill, at that time covered with deep snow. There
he wreaked out his vengeance in a tremendous and truly astonishing
exploit. He rolled a huge snow-ball, till, in its accumulation, it
became too large for his strength, and then taking it to the edge of
the declivity,

    “From Eildon’s proud vermilioned brow
    He dashed upon the plains below”[4]

the ponderous mass; which, increasing rapidly in its descent, became a
perfect avalanche before it reached the plain, and, when there, seemed
like a younger brother of the three Eildons, so that people thought
Michael Scott had resumed his old pranks, and added another hill to
that which he formerly “split in three.” This enormous conglomeration
of snow was found, when it fully melted away through the course of next
summer, to have licked up with its mountain tongue thirty-five clumps
of withered whin bushes, nineteen hares, three ruined cottages, and a
whole encampment of peat-stacks!

The _Naturals_, or Idiots, of Scotland, of whom the Davie Gellatley of
_fictitious_, and the Daft Jock Gray of _real_ life, may be considered
as good specimens, form a class of our countrymen which it is our
anxious desire should be kept in remembrance. Many of the anecdotes
told of them are extremely laughable, and we are inclined to prize
such things, on account of the just exhibitions they sometimes afford
of genuine human nature. The sketch we have given, and the anecdotes
which we are about to give, may perhaps be considered valuable on this
account, and also from their connection, moreover, with the manners of
rustic life in the Lowlands of Scotland.

_Daft Willie Law_[5] of Kirkaldy was a regular attendant on
_tent-preachings_, and would scour the country thirty miles round in
order to be present at “_an occasion_.”[6] One warm summer day he was
attending the preaching at Abbots Hall, when, being very near-sighted,
and having a very short neck, he stood quite close to “_the tent_”
gaping in the minister’s face, who, greatly irritated at a number of
his hearers being fast asleep, bawled out, “For shame, Christians, to
lie sleeping there, while the glad tidings of the gospel are sounding
in your ears; and here is Willie Law, a poor idiot, hearing me with
great attention!” “Eh go! sir, that’s true,” says Willie; “but if I
hadna been a puir idiot, I would have been sleeping too!”

The late John Berry, Esq., of Wester Bogie, was married to a distant
relation of Daft Willie, upon which account the poor fellow used a
little more freedom with that gentleman than with any other who was
in the habit of noticing him. Meeting Mr. Berry one day in Kirkaldy,
he cries, “God bless you, Mr. Berry! gie’s a bawbee! gie’s a bawbee!”
“There, Willie,” says Mr. Berry, giving him what he thought a
halfpenny, but which he immediately saw was a shilling. “That’s no a
gude bawbee, Willie,” continues he; “gie me’t back, and I’ll gie ye
anither ane for’t.” “Na, na,” quoth Willie, “it sets Daft Willie Law
far better to put away an ill bawbee than it wad do you, Mr. Berry.”
“Ay, but Willie, if ye dinna gie me’t back, I’ll never gie ye anither
ane.” “Deil ma care,” says the wag, “it’ll be lang or I get ither
four-and-twenty frae ye!”

Willie was descended from an ancient Scottish family, and nearly
related to John Law of Lauriston, the celebrated financier of France.
On that account he was often spoken to and noticed by gentlemen of
distinction; and he wished always to appear on the most intimate terms
with the nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood. Posting one day
through Kirkcaldy with more than ordinary speed, he was met by Mr.
Oswald of Dunnikier, who asked him where he was going in such a hurry.
“I’m gaun to my cousin Lord Elgin’s burial.” “Your cousin Lord Elgin’s
burial, you fool! Lord Elgin’s not dead!” “Ah, deil may care,” quoth
Willie; “there’s sax doctors out o’ Embro’ at him, and they’ll hae him
dead afore I win forat!”

Of _Matthew Cathie_, an East Lothian idiot, numerous characteristic
anecdotes are related. He lives by begging in the town of North
Berwick, and is well treated by the people there, on account of his
extreme inoffensiveness. Like Daft Jock Gray, he is fond of going
into churches, where his appearance does not fail to set the people
a-staring. On one occasion the minister, pointing to Matthew, said,
“That person must be put out before we can proceed.” Matthew, hearing
this, exclaimed, “Put him out wha likes, I’ll hae nae hand in’t!”
Another time, the minister said, “Matthew must be put out!” when
Matthew got up and replied, “Oh! Geordie, man, ye needna fash—Matthew
can gang out himsel’!”

The Earl of Wemyss, walking one day, found his fool, Willie Howison,
asleep upon the ground, and, rousing him, asked what he had been
dreaming about. “Ou, my lord,” says Willie, “I dreamed that I was in
hell!” “Ay, Willie, and pray what did ye observe there?” “Ou, my lord,
it’s just there as it’s here—the grit folk’s ta’en _farrest ben_!”

Selkirkshire boasts of several highly amusing idiots, all of whom
John Gray once made the subject of a song, in which each of them
received some complimentary mention. Himself, _Davie o’ the Inch_,
_Caleb and Robbie Scott_, and _Jamie Renwick_, are the chief heroes.
Caleb, a very stupid natural, was once engaged by a troop of wandering
showfolks to personate the character of an orang-outang at a Melrose
fair; the regular orang-outang of the establishment having recently
left his keepers in the lurch, by marrying a widow in Berwick, which
enabled him to give up business, and retire to the shades of domestic
privity. Caleb performed very well, and, being appropriately tarred and
feathered, looked the part to perfection. Amateurship alone would have
soon reconciled him to be an orang-outang all the rest of his life, and
to have left Selkirkshire behind; for, according to his own account,
he had nothing to do but hold his tongue, and sit munching apples all
day long. But his stars had not destined him for so enviable a life
of enjoyment. A drunken farmer coming in to see “the wild man of the
woods,” out of pure mischief gave Caleb a lash across the shoulders
with his whip, when the poor fellow, roaring out in his natural voice,
a mortifying _denouement_ took place; the showfolks were affronted and
hissed out of the town, and Caleb was turned off at a moment’s notice,
with all his blushing honours thick upon him!

_Jamie Renwick_ has more sense and better perceptions than Caleb
Scott, but he is much more intractable and mischievous. He is a
tall, stout, wild-looking fellow, and might perhaps make as good a
hyena as Caleb made an orang-outang. Once, being upon an excursion
along with Jock Gray, they came to a farmhouse, and, in default of
better accommodation, were lodged in the barn. They did not like this
treatment at all, and Jock, in particular, was so irritated, that he
would not rest, but got up and walked about, amusing himself with some
of his wildest and most sonorous melodies. This, of course, annoyed his
companion, who, being inclined to sleep, was making the best he could
of a blanket and a bundle of straw. “Come to your bed, ye skirlin’
deevil!” cries Jamie; “I canna get a wink o’ sleep for ye: I daursay
the folk will think us daft! Od, if ye dinna come and lie down this
instant, I’ll rise and _bring ye to your senses_ wi’ my rung!” “Faith,”
says Jock, “if ye do _that_, it will be mair than ony ither body has
ever been able to do!” It will be remembered that even the minister of
Yarrow himself failed in accomplishing this consummation so devoutly to
be wished.

The following anecdote, from Colonel Stewart’s work on the Highlands,
displays a strange instance of mingled sagacity and fidelity in a
Celtic madman; and has, we have no doubt, been made use of in the
author of “Waverley’s” examples of the fidelity of Davie Gellatley, as
exerted in behalf of his unfortunate patron on similar occasions.

“In the years 1746 and 1747, some of the gentlemen ‘_who had been out_’
in the rebellion were occasionally concealed in a deep woody den near
my grandfather’s house. A poor half-witted creature, brought up about
the house, was, along with many others, intrusted with the secret of
their concealment, and employed in supplying them with necessaries. It
was supposed that when the troops came round on their usual searches,
they would not imagine that he could be intrusted with so important a
secret, and, consequently, no questions would be asked. One day two
ladies, friends of the gentlemen, wished to visit them in their cave,
and asked Jamie Forbes to show them the way. Seeing that they came from
the house, and judging from their manner that they were friends, he did
not object to their request, and walked away before them. When they had
proceeded a short way, one of the ladies offered him five shillings.
The instant he saw the money, he put his hands behind his back, and
seemed to lose all recollection. ‘He did not know what they wanted: he
never saw the gentlemen, and knew nothing of them;’ and, turning away,
walked in a quite contrary direction. When questioned afterwards why
he ran away from the ladies, he answered, that when they had offered
him such a sum (five shillings was of some value seventy years ago, and
would have bought two sheep in the Highlands), he suspected they had no
good intention, and that their fine clothes and fair words were meant
to entrap the gentlemen.”


RORY DALL, THE HARPER.[7]

An allusion is made to this celebrated musician in the description of
Flora Mac-Ivor’s performance upon the harp in the Highland glen. “Two
paces back stood Cathleen, holding a small Scottish harp, the use of
which had been taught her by Rory Dall, one of the last harpers of the
Western Islands.” (“Wav.,” vol. i. p. 338.) _Roderick Morison_, called
_Dall_ on account of his blindness, lived in Queen Anne’s time, in the
double capacity of harper and bard to the family of Macleod of Macleod.
Many of his songs and poems are still repeated by his countrymen.


“CLAW FOR CLAW, AS CONAN SAID TO SATAN.”

When the Highlanders prepared for Prestonpans (“Wav.,” vol. ii. p.
289), Mrs. Flockhart, in great distress about the departure of her
lodgers, asks Ensign Maccombich if he would “actually face thae
tearing, swearing chields, the dragoons?” “Claw for claw,” cries the
courageous Highlander, “and the devil take the shortest nails!” This
is an old Gaelic proverb. _Conan_ was one of Fingal’s heroes—rash,
turbulent, and brave. One of his unearthly exploits is said to have
led him to Iurna, or Cold Island (similar to the Den of Hela of
Scandinavian mythology), a place only inhabited by infernal beings. On
Conan’s departure from the island, one of its demons struck him a blow,
which he instantly returned. This outrage upon immortals was fearfully
retaliated, by a whole legion setting upon poor Conan. But the warrior
was not daunted; and exclaiming, “Claw for claw, and the devil take the
shortest nails!” fought out the battle, and, it is said, ultimately
came off victorious.


TULLY-VEOLAN.

(_Traquair House._)

TULLY-VEOLAN finds a striking counterpart in Traquair House, in
Peebles-shire, the seat of the noble family whose name it bears. The
aspect of the gateway, avenue, and house itself, is precisely that of
the semi-Gothic, bear-guarded mansion of Bradwardine. It is true that,
in place of the multitudinous representations of the bear, so profusely
scattered around Tully-Veolan, we have here only a single pair, which
adorn the gate at the head of the avenue: and that the avenue itself
cannot pretend to match the broad continuous shade through which
Waverley approached the Highland castle; and also that several other
important features are wanting to complete the resemblance;—yet,
if we be not altogether imposed upon by fancy, there is a likeness
sufficiently strong to support the idea that this scene formed the
original _study_ of the more finished and bold-featured picture of
the novelist. Traquair House was finished in the reign of Charles I.
by the first Earl, who was lord high treasurer of Scotland at that
period. This date corresponds with that assigned to Tully-Veolan,
which, says the author, was built when architects had not yet abandoned
the castellated style peculiar to the preceding warlike ages, nor yet
acquired the art of constructing a baronial mansion without a view to
defence.

It is worthy of remark, that the Earl of Traquair is the only Scottish
nobleman, besides the Earl of Newburgh, who still adheres to the
Romish faith:[8] and that his antique and interesting house strongly
resembles, in its _internal economy and appearance_, Glenallan Castle,
described in the “Antiquary.”

Among the illustrative vignettes prefixed to a late edition of
the author of “Waverley’s” works, a view of Craig Crook Castle,
near Edinburgh, is given for Tully-Veolan; and, to complete the
_vraisemblance_, several bears have been added to the scene. It is
only necessary to assert, in general, that these bears only exist in
the imagination of the artist, and that no place has less resemblance
to the Tully-Veolan of “Waverley” than Craig Crook, which is a small
_single_ house, in a bare situation, more like the mansion of poor
Laird Dumbiedykes than the castle of a powerful feudal baron.


THE BODACH GLAS.

The original of the _Bodach Glas_, whose appearance proved so
portentous to the family of the Mac-Ivors, may probably be traced to
a legend current in the ancient family of Maclaine of Lochbuy, in the
island of Mull, noticed by Sir Walter Scott in a note to his “Lady
of the Lake.”[9] The popular tradition is, that whenever any person
descended of that family is near death, the spirit of one of them,
who was slain in battle, gives notice of the approaching event. There
is this difference between the _Bodach Glas_ and him, that the former
appeared on these solemn occasions only to the chief of the house of
Mac-Ivor, whereas the latter never misses an individual descended of
the family of Lochbuy, however obscure, or in whatever part of the
world he may be.

The manner of his showing himself is sometimes different, but he
uniformly appears on horseback. Both the horse and himself seem to be
of a very diminutive size, particularly the head of the rider, from
which circumstance he goes under the appellation of “_Eoghan a chinn
bhig_,” or “_Hugh of the little head_.” Sometimes he is heard riding
furiously round the house where the person is about to die, with an
extraordinary noise, like the rattling of iron chains. At other times
he is discovered with his horse’s head nearly thrust in at a door or
window; and, on such occasions, whenever observed, he gallops off in
the manner already described, the hooves of his steed striking fire
from the flinty rocks. The effects of such a visit on the inmates of
the dwelling may be easily conceived when it is considered that it was
viewed as an infallible prognostication of approaching death—an event
at which the stoutest heart must recoil, when the certainty is placed
before him of his hours being numbered. Like his brother spirits,
he seems destined to perform his melancholy rounds amidst nocturnal
darkness, the horrors of which have a natural tendency to increase the
consternation of a scene in itself sufficiently appalling.

The origin of the tradition is involved in the obscurity of antiquity.
It is related of him that, on the eve of a battle in which he was to
be engaged, a weird woman prophesied to him, that if his wife (who was
a daughter of Macdougall of Lorn), on the morning when he was to set
out on his expedition, had his breakfast prepared before he was ready
for it, good fortune would betide him; if, on the other hand, he had
to call for his breakfast, he would lose his life in the conflict.
It seems he was not blest with an affectionate spouse; for, on the
morning in question, after waiting a considerable time, he had at last
to call for his breakfast, not, however, without upbraiding his wife,
by informing her of what was to be the consequence of her want of
attention. The presentiment that he was to fall may have contributed to
the fulfilment of the prophecy, which was accomplished as a matter of
course. This part of the story probably refers to one of the Maclaines
of Lochbuy, who was married to a daughter of Macdougall of Lorn,
and who, with his two eldest sons, was killed in a feud with their
neighbours, the Macleans of Duart, which had nearly proved fatal to the
family of Lochbuy. This happened in the reign of King James IV.

It has not come to our knowledge for what cause the penance was imposed
on _Eoghan a chinn bhig_ of giving warning to all his clan of their
latter end—whether for deeds done in this life, or whether (as some
people imagine that departed spirits act as guardian angels to the
living) he is thus permitted to show his regard for his friends by
visiting them in their last moments, to prepare them for another
world. The latter would appear to be the most probable, from a
circumstance reported of him, which seems rather at variance with the
general character of a harbinger of death. It is said that he took a
great fancy to a near relation of the family of Lochbuy (called, by
way of patronymic, John M‘Charles), to whom he paid frequent visits,
and communicated several particulars respecting the future fate of the
family. Whenever he wished an interview with his favourite, he would
come to his door, from which he would not stir till John M‘Charles came
out; when he would pull him up behind him on his Pegasus, and ride all
night over hills, rocks, woods, and wilds, at the same time conversing
with him familiarly of several events that were to happen in the
Lochbuy family, one of which is said to have been accomplished, about
forty years ago, according to his prediction.

This tiny personage, though light of limb, has the reputation of being,
like all other unearthly beings, endued with supernatural strength, of
which his exploits with John M‘Charles afford an instance. Not many
years ago, a man in Mull, when returning home about dusk, perceived
a person on horseback coming towards him. Supposing it might be some
person whom he knew, he went up to speak to him; but the horseman
seemed determined to pass on without noticing him. Thinking he observed
something remarkable in the appearance of the rider, he approached
close to him, when he was unexpectedly seized by the collar, and
forcibly dragged about a quarter of a mile by the stranger, who at
last abandoned his hold, after several ineffectual attempts to place
his terrified victim behind him, which, being a powerful man, he
successfully resisted. He was, however, so much bruised in the scuffle,
that it was with difficulty he could make his way home, although he had
only about half a mile to go. He immediately took to his bed, which he
did not leave for some days, his friends wondering all the time what
could be the matter with him. It was not until he told the story, as
we have related it, that the adventure was known. And as, after the
strictest inquiry, it could not be ascertained that any person on
horseback had passed that way on the evening on which it took place,
it was, by the unanimous voice of all the seers and old wives in the
neighbourhood, laid down as an incontrovertible proposition, that the
equestrian stranger could be no other than “_Eoghan a chinn bhig_.”

In whatever way the tradition originated, certain it is that, at one
time, it was very generally, if not universally, received over the
island of Mull and adjacent parts. Like other superstitions of a
similar nature, it has gradually given way to the more enlightened
ideas of modern times, and the belief is now confined to the vulgar.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] See introduction to “Peveril,” where the Scottish Novelist
describes himself as wearing such old-fashioned habiliments.

[2] While Sir Walter Scott resided at Ashesteil, Jock frequently
visited him, and was much noticed, on account of his strange humours
and entertaining qualities.

[3] A respectable clergyman of our acquaintance, who is in the habit
of preaching his elegant discourses with the help of M.S., was once
extremely amused with the declaration of a hearer, who professed
himself repugnant to that practice. “Doctor,” says he, “ye’re just a
slave to the bit paper, and nane o’ us ha’e that respect for ye that
we ought to ha’e; but to do ye justice, I maun confess, that since I
changed my seat in the loft, and ha’na ye now sae fair atween my een,
so that I can _hear_ without _seeing_ ye, fient a bit but I think ye’re
just as good as auld _Threshin’ Willy_ himsel’!”

[4] The Russiade, a poem, by James Hogg.

[5] We are indebted for this and the two succeeding anecdotes to the
“Scotch Haggis,” a curious collection of the pure native wit of our
country, published in 1822.

[6] The country people call a dispensation of the greater Sacrament
“_an occasion_.” It is also scoffingly termed “_the Holy Fair_.”
In Edinburgh it is called “_the Preachings_.” But, it must be
observed, these phrases are only applied in reference to the outward
circumstances, and not to the holy ceremony itself.

[7] We are indebted for this and the succeeding illustration to the
late Alexander Campbell’s edition of Macintosh’s Gaelic Proverbs.

[8] Charles, fifth Earl of Traquair, was implicated in the proceedings
of the year 1745, though he did not appear openly. See the evidence of
Secretary Murray on the trial of Lord Lovat, _Scots Magazine_ for 1747,
p. 105.

[9] Note 7 to Canto III.




CHAPTER II.

=Guy Mannering.=


CURIOUS PARTICULARS OF SIR ROBERT MAXWELL OF ORCHARDSTON.

(_Groundwork of the Novel._)

“Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardston, in the county of Galloway, was
the descendant of an ancient Roman Catholic family of title in the
south of Scotland. He was the only child of a religious and bigoted
recluse, who sent him, while yet very young, to a college of Jesuits in
Flanders, for education—the paternal estate being, in the meantime,
wholly managed by the boy’s uncle, the brother of the devotee, to
whom he resigned the guardianship of the property, in order that
he might employ the remainder of his days exclusively in acts of
devotion. In the family of Orchardston, as, indeed, in most great
families of that day, the younger branches were but ill provided for,
and looked to the inheritor of the family estate alone for the means
of supporting their rank in society: the liberal professions and the
employments of trade were still considered somewhat dishonourable; and
the unfortunate junior, nursed with inflated ideas of consequence and
rank, was doomed in after-life to exercise the servility and experience
the mortification of an humble dependant. In this case, the culpable
negligence of the father had transferred the entire management of
a large estate to his younger brother, who was so delighted in the
possession, that he resolved to retain it, to the exclusion of the
rightful heir. He consequently circulated a report that the boy was
dead; and on the death of the old baronet, which took place about
this period, he laid claim to the title and estate. In the meantime,
our young hero was suffering (very reluctantly) the severe discipline
of the Jesuits’ college, his expenses being defrayed by occasional
supplies sent him by his uncle, which were represented to him as the
bounties of the college—a story which he could not discredit, as he
had been placed there at an age too young to know distinctly either who
he was or whence he came. He was intelligent and docile; and was deemed
of sufficient capacity to become hereafter one of their own learned
body, with which view he was educated. When at the age of sixteen, he
found the discipline and austerities of a monastic life so ill suited
to his inclination, that, on a trivial dispute with the superior of
his college, he ran away, and enlisted himself in a French marching
regiment. In this situation he sustained all the hardships of hunger,
long marches, and incessant alarms; and, as it was in the hottest part
of the war between France and England, about the year 1743, it may
easily be imagined that his situation was by no means enviable. He
fought as a foot-soldier at the battle of Dettingen; he was also at
the battle of Fontenoy; and landed, as an ensign in the French troops,
at Murray Frith, during the rebellion of 1745. He joined the rebels a
little before the battle of Prestonpans, marched with them to Derby,
and retreated with them to Scotland. He was wounded at the battle of
Culloden, and fled with a few friends to the woods of Lochaber, where
he remained the greater part of the summer 1746, living upon the roots
of trees, goats’ milk, and the oatmeal and water of such peasants as
he durst confide in. Knowing, however, that it would be impossible to
continue this course of life during the winter, he began to devise
means of effecting his return to France—perfectly unconscious that,
in the country where he was suffering all the miseries of an outcast
criminal, he was entitled to the possession of an ample estate and
title. His scheme was to gain the coast of Galloway, where he hoped
to get on board some smuggling vessel to the Isle of Man, and from
thence to France. The hardships which he suffered in the prosecution
of this plan would require a volume in their description. He crept
through by-ways by night, and was forced to lie concealed among rocks
and woods during the day. He was reduced almost to a state of nudity,
and his food was obtained from the poorest peasants, in whom only he
could confide. Of this scanty subsistence he was sometimes for days
deprived; and, to complete his misfortunes, he was, after having walked
barefooted over rocks, briars, and unfrequented places, at length
discovered, seized, and carried before a magistrate near Dumfries. As
his name was Maxwell, which he did not attempt to conceal, he would
have suffered as a rebel, had not his commission as a French officer
been found in the lining of his tattered coat, which entitled him to
the treatment of a prisoner of war. This privilege, however, only
extended to the preservation of his life. He was confined in a paved
stone dungeon so long, that he had amused himself by giving names to
each stone which composed the pavement, and which, in after-life,
he took great pleasure in relating and pointing out to his friends.
An old woman, who had been his nurse in childhood, was at this time
living in Dumfries, where he was a prisoner; and having accidentally
seen him, and becoming acquainted with his name, apparent age, etc.,
felt an assurance that he was the rightful Sir Robert Maxwell. The
indissoluble attachment of the lower orders in Scotland to their chiefs
is well known; and, impelled by this feeling, this old and faithful
domestic attended him with almost maternal affection, administering
liberally to his distresses. After an interview of some weeks, she
made him acquainted with her suspicion, and begged leave to examine a
mark which she remembered upon his body. This proof also concurring,
she became outrageous with joy, and ran about the streets proclaiming
the discovery she had made. This rumour reaching the ears of the
magistrates, inquiry was made, the proofs were examined, and it soon
became the general opinion that he was the son of the old baronet of
Orchardston. The estate lay but a few miles from Dumfries; and the
unlawful possessor being a man of considerable power, and of a most
vindictive disposition, most people, whatever might be their private
opinion, were cautious in espousing the cause of this disinherited
and distressed orphan. One gentleman, however, was found, who, to
his eternal honour, took him by the hand. A Mr. Gowdy procured his
release from prison, took him to his own house, clothed him agreeably
to his rank, and enabled him to commence an action against his uncle.
The latter was not inactive in the defence of his crime, and took
every pains to prove his nephew to be an impostor. Chagrin and a
consciousness of guilt, however, put an end to his existence before
the cause came to a hearing; and Sir Robert was at length put into
possession of an estate worth upwards of ten thousand pounds a year.
He now began to display those qualities and abilities which had been
but faintly perceptible in his former station. He now discovered an
ingenuous mind, an intellect at once vigorous and refined, and manners
the most elegant and polished. His society was courted by all the
neighbouring gentry; and, in the course of time he married a Miss
Maclellan, a near relation of the family of Lord Kirkcudbright; with
this lady he lived in the most perfect happiness for many years. He
joined in the prevalent practice of farming his own estate, and built
a very elegant house on an eminence overlooking the Nith. An imprudent
speculation in the bank of Ayr, however, compelled him to abandon the
seat of his ancestors. He had reserved a small pittance, on which he
and his lady lived the latter part of their days. This calamity he
bore as became a man familiar with misfortune; and he continued the
same worthy open-hearted character he had ever been. The reduction of
his fortune served only to redouble the kindness and cordiality of his
friends. He died suddenly in September, 1786, whilst on the road to
visit one of them—the Earl of Selkirk. He left behind him no issue;
but his name is still remembered with ardent attachment.”—_New Monthly
Magazine, June, 1819._


ANDREW CROSBIE, ESQ.

(_Counsellor Pleydell._)

We feel no little pleasure in presenting the original of a character
so important as the facetious Pleydell. He is understood to be the
representative of Mr. Andrew Crosbie, who flourished at the head of
the Scottish bar about the period referred to in the novel. Many
circumstances conspire to identify him with the lawyer of the novel.
Their eminence in their profession was equally respectable; their
habits of frequenting taverns and High Jinks parties on Saturday nights
was the same, and both were remarkable for that antique politeness of
manner so characteristic of old Scottish gentlemen. It may be allowed
that Pleydell is one of the characters most nearly approaching to
_generic_ that we have attempted to identify with real life; but it is
nevertheless so strenuously asserted by all who have any recollection
of Mr. Crosbie, that Pleydell resembles _him in particular_, that we
feel no hesitation in assigning him as the only true specific original.
We therefore lay the following simple facts before the public, and
leave the judicious reader to his own discrimination.

Mr. Crosbie was in the prime of life about the middle of the last
century, and, from that period till the year 1780, enjoyed the highest
reputation in his profession. He came of a respectable family in the
county of Galloway—the district, the reader will remember, in which
the principal scenes of the novel are laid, and probably the shire of
which Paulus Pleydell, Esq., is represented (vol. ii. chap, xvi.) as
having been, at an early period of his life, the sheriff-depute.

The residence of Mr. Crosbie, in the early periods of his practice,
exactly coincides with that of Pleydell, whom, if we recollect rightly,
Colonel Mannering found in a dark close on the north side of the High
Street, several storeys up a narrow common stair. Mr. Crosbie lived
first in Lady Stair’s Close, a steep alley on the north side of the
Lawnmarket; afterwards in the Advocate’s Close, in the Luckenbooths;
and finally in a self-contained and well-built house of his own, at
the foot of Allan’s Close, still standing, and lately inhabited by
Richard Cleghorn, Esq., Solicitor before the Supreme Courts. All these
various residences are upon the north side of the High Street, and the
two first answer particularly to the description in the novel. The
last is otherwise remarkable as being situated exactly behind and in
view of the innermost penetralia of Mr. Constable’s great publishing
warehouse,[10]—the _sanctum sanctorum_ in which Captain Clutterbuck
found the _Eidolon_ of the Author of “Waverley,” so well described in
the introduction to “Nigel.”

At the period when Mr. Crosbie flourished, all the advocates and judges
of the day dwelt in those obscure _wynds_ or alleys leading down
from the High Street, which, since the erection of the New Town, have
been chiefly inhabited by the lower classes of society. The greater
part, for the sake of convenience, lived in the lanes nearest to the
Parliament House—such as the Advocate’s Close, Writer’s Court, Lady
Stair’s Close, the West Bow, the _Back Stairs_, the President’s Stairs
in the Parliament Close, and the tenements around the Mealmarket. In
these dense and insalubrious obscurities they possessed what were
then the best houses in Edinburgh, and which were considered as such
till the erection of Brown’s Square and the contiguous suburbs, about
the beginning of the last king’s reign, when the lawyers were found
the first to remove to better and more extensive accommodations,
being then, as now, the leading and most opulent class of Edinburgh
population. This change is fully pointed out in “Redgauntlet,” where a
writer to the signet is represented as removing from the Luckenbooths
to Brown’s Square about the time specified—which personage, disguised
under the name of Saunders Fairford, we have no doubt was designed for
Sir Walter Scott’s own father, a practitioner of the same rank, who
then removed from the Old Town to a house at the head of the College
Wynd, in which his distinguished son, the _Alan Fairford_ of the
romance, was born and educated.

Living as they did so near the Parliament House, it was the custom of
both advocates and senators to have their wigs dressed at home, and to
go to court with their gowns indued, their wigs in full puff, and each
with his cocked hat under his arm.[11] About nine in the morning, the
various avenues to the Parliament Square used to be crowded with such
figures. In particular, Mr. Crosbie was remarkable for the elegance of
his figure, as, like his brethren, he emerged from the profundity of
his alley into the open street. While he walked at a deliberate pace
across the way, there could not be seen among all the throng a more
elegant figure. He exhibited at once the dignity of the counsellor high
at the bar and the gracefulness of the perfect gentleman. He frequently
walked without a gown, when the fineness of his personal appearance
was the more remarkable. His dress was usually a black suit, silk
stockings, clear shoes, with gold or silver buckles. Sometimes the suit
was of rich black velvet.

Mr. Crosbie, with all the advantages of a pleasing exterior, possessed
the more solid qualifications of a vigorous intellect, a refined taste,
and an eloquence that has never since been equalled at the bar. His
integrity as a counsel could only be surpassed by his abilities as a
pleader. In the first capacity, his acute judgment and great legal
knowledge had long placed him in the highest rank. In the second,
his thorough and confident acquaintance with the law of his case,
his beautiful style of language, all “the pomp and circumstance”
of matchless eloquence, commanded the attention of the bench in no
ordinary degree; and while his talents did all that could be done
in respect of moving the court, the excelling beauty of his oratory
attracted immense crowds of admirers, whose sole disinterested object
was to hear him.

It is recorded of him that he was one day particularly brilliant—so
brilliant as even to surprise his usual audience, the imperturbable
Lords themselves. What rendered the circumstance more wonderful
was, that the case happened to be extremely dull, common-place and
uninteresting. The secret history of the matter was to the following
effect:—A facetious contemporary, and intimate friend of Mr.
Crosbie, the celebrated Lord Gardenstone, in the course of a walk
from Morningside, where he resided, fell into conversation with a
farmer, who was going to Edinburgh in order to hear his cause pled that
forenoon by Mr. Crosbie. The senator, who was a very homely and rather
eccentric personage, on being made acquainted with the man’s business,
directed him to procure a dozen or two farthings at a snuff-shop in
the Grassmarket—to wrap them separately up in white paper, under the
disguise of guineas—and to present them to his counsel as fees, when
occasion served. The case was called: Mr. Crosbie rose; but his heart
not happening to be particularly engaged, he did not by any means exert
the utmost of his powers. The treacherous client, however, kept close
behind his back, and ever and anon, as he perceived Mr. C. bringing his
voice to a cadence, for the purpose of closing the argument, slipped
the other farthing into his hand. The repeated application of this
silent encouragement so far stimulated the advocate, that, in the
end, he became truly eloquent—strained every nerve of his soul in
grateful zeal for the interests of so good a client—and, precisely
at the fourteenth farthing, gained the cause. The _denouement_ of the
conspiracy took place immediately after, in John’s Coffee-house, over
a bottle of wine, with which Mr. Crosbie treated Lord Gardenstone from
the profits of his pleading; and the surprise and mortification of the
barrister, when, on putting his hand into his pocket in order to pay
the reckoning, he discovered the real extent of his fee, can only be
imagined.

Within the last forty years, a curious custom prevailed among the
gentlemen of the long robe in Edinburgh—a custom which, however
little it might be thought of then, would certainly make nine modern
advocates out of ten shudder at every curl just to think of it. This
was the practice of doing all their business, except what required to
be done in the court, in taverns and coffee-houses. Plunged in these
subterranean haunts, the great lawyers of the day were to be found,
surrounded with their myrmidons, throughout the whole afternoon and
evening of the day. It was next to impossible to find a lawyer at
his own abode, and, indeed, such a thing was never thought of. The
whole matter was to find out his tavern, which the cadies upon the
street—those men of universal knowledge—could always tell, and then
seek the oracle in his own proper _hell_, as Æneas sought the sibyl. At
that time a Directory was seldom applied to; and even though a stranger
could have consulted the celebrated Peter Williamson’s (supposing it
then to have been published), he might, perhaps, by dint of research,
have found out where Lucky Robertson lived, who, in the simple words of
that intelligencer, “_sold the best twopenny_;” or he might have been
accommodated, more to his satisfaction, with the information of who,
through all the city, “_sett lodgings_” and “_kept rooms for single
men_;” but he would have found the Directory of little use to him in
pointing out where he might meet a legal friend. The cadies, who, at
that time, wont to be completely _au fait_ with every hole and bore in
the town, were the only directories to whom a client from the country,
such as Colonel Mannering or Dandie Dinmont, could in such a case apply.

The peculiar haunt of Mr. Crosbie was Douglas’s tavern in the Anchor
Close, then a respectable and flourishing house, now deserted and shut
up. Here many revelries, similar to those described in the novel,
took place; and here the game of High Jinks was played by a party of
convivial lawyers every Saturday night. The situation of the house
resembles that of Clerihugh, described in “Guy Mannering,” being the
second floor down a steep _close_, upon the north side of the High
Street. Here a club, called the _Crochallan Corps_, of which Robert
Burns was a member when in Edinburgh, assembled periodically, and held
bacchanalian orgies, famous for their fierceness and duration.

There was also a tavern in Writer’s Court, kept by a real person, named
Clerihugh, the peculiarities of which do not resemble those ascribed
to the tavern of the novel, nearly so much as do those of Douglas’s.
Clerihugh’s was, however, a respectable house. There the magistrates of
the city always gave their civic dinners, and, what may perhaps endear
it more in our recollections, it was once the favourite resort of a
Boswell, a Gardenstone, and a Home. We may suppose that such a house as
Douglas’s gave the idea of the tavern described by our author, while
_Clerihugh_ being a more striking name, and better adapted for his
purpose, he adopted it in preference to the real one.

The custom of doing all business in taverns gave that generation of
lawyers a very dissipated habit, and to it we are to attribute the
ruin of Mr. Crosbie. That gentleman being held in universal esteem and
admiration, his company was much sought after; and, while his celibacy
gave every opportunity that could be desired, his own disposition to
social enjoyments tended to confirm the evil. An anecdote is told of
him, which displays in a striking manner the extent to which he was
wont to go in his debaucheries. He had been engaged to plead a cause,
and had partially studied the _pros_ and _cons_ of the case, after
which he set off and plunged headlong into those convivialities with
which he usually closed the evening. His debauch was a fierce one, and
he did not get home till within an hour of the time when the court
was to open. It was then too late for sleep, and all other efforts to
cool the effervescence of his spirits, by applying wet cloths to his
temples, etc., were vain; so that when the case was called, reason had
scarcely reassumed her deserted throne. Nevertheless, he opened up with
his usually brilliancy, and soon got warm into the argument; but not
far did he get leave to proceed with his speech, when the agent came
up behind, with horror and alarm in his face, pulled him by the gown,
and whispered into his ear, “What the deevil! Mr. Crosbie! ye’ll ruin
a’! ye’re on the wrang side; the very Lords are winking at it; and the
client is gi’en’ a’ up for lost.” The crapulous barrister gave a single
glance at the _exordia_ of his papers, and instantly comprehended his
mistake. However, not at all abashed, he rose again, and “Such my
lords,” says he, “are probably the weak and intemperate arguments of
the defender, concerning which, as I have endeavoured to state them,
you can only entertain one opinion, namely, that they are utterly
false, groundless, and absurd.” He then turned to upon the right side
of the question, pulled to pieces all that he had said before, and
represented the case in an entirely different light; and so much and so
earnestly did he exert himself in order to repair his error, that he
actually gained the cause.

Some allusion is made to Mr. Crosbie’s propensity to wine, in a
birthday ode, written in his honour by his friend, Mr. Maclaurin
(afterwards Lord Dreghorn), and set to music by the celebrated Earl of
Kelly. We there learn that, at his birth, Venus, Bacchus, and Astrea,
came and contended for the possession of his future affections, and
that Jove gave a decision to this effect:—

    “’Tis ordered, boy, Love, Law, and Wine,
    Shall thy strange cup of life compose;
    But, though the three are all divine,
    The last shall be thy _favourite dose_.”

It was indeed his favourite dose, and proved at last a fatal one. But,
before we relate the history of his end, it will be necessary to notice
a few particulars respecting his life.

Towards the conclusion of the American war, when Edinburgh raised a
defensive band, and offered its services to government, Mr. Crosbie
interested himself very much in the patriotic scheme, and was
appointed lieutenant-colonel of the regiment. About the same period,
he also interested himself very deeply in a business of a different
description, namely, the institution of the Scottish Antiquarian
Society, which was first projected by the Earl of Buchan. Mr. Crosbie
was one of the original members, and had the honour to be appointed
a censor. Honourable mention is made of him in his friend Boswell’s
Tour to the Hebrides, being one of the northern literati who were
introduced to Dr. Johnson when he passed through Edinburgh. In the life
of Johnson, also, it will be found that the barrister visited the great
lexicographer in London, shortly after the Doctor had returned from his
northern excursion. The conversations which took place on both these
occasions are curious, but not sufficiently interesting to be extracted
into this work.

In the course of a long successful practice, the original of Pleydell
acquired some wealth; and, at the time when the New Town of Edinburgh
began to be built, with an enthusiasm prevalent at the period, he
conceived the best way of laying out his money to be in the erection
of houses in that noble and prosperous extension of the city. He
therefore spent all he had, and ran himself into considerable debt, in
raising a structure which was to surpass all the edifices yet erected,
for making the design of which he employed that celebrated architect,
Mr. James Craig, the nephew of Mr. Thomson, who planned the New Town
on its projection in 1767. The house which Mr. Crosbie erected was to
the north of the splendid mansion built by Sir Lawrence Dundas, which
subsequent times have seen converted into an excise-office; and as
the beauty of Mr. C.’s house was in a great measure subservient to
the decoration of Sir Lawrence’s, that gentleman, with his accustomed
liberality, made his tasteful neighbour a present of five hundred
pounds. Yet this _bonus_ proved, after all, but an insufficient
compensation for the expense which Mr. Crosbie had incurred in his
sumptuous speculation; and the unfortunate barrister, who, by his
taste, had attracted the wonder and envy of all ranks, was thought to
have made himself a considerable loser in the end. While it was yet
unfinished, he removed from Allan’s Close, and, establishing himself
in one of its corners, realized Knickerbocker’s fable of the snail
in the lobster’s shell. He lived in it for some time, in a style
of extravagance appropriate to the splendour of his mansion; till,
becoming embarrassed by his numerous debts, and beginning to feel
the effects of other imprudencies, he was at last obliged to resort
to Allan’s Close, and take up with his old abode and his diminished
fortunes. About this period his constitution appeared much injured by
his habits of life, and he was of course unable to attend to business
with his former alacrity. An incipient passion for dogs, horses, and
cocks, was another strong symptom of decay. To crown all, he made a low
marriage with a woman who had formerly been his menial, and (some said)
his mistress; and as this tended very much to take away the esteem of
the world, his practice began to forsake, and his friends to neglect
him.

It was particularly unfortunate that, about this time, he lost the
habit of frequenting one particular tavern, as he had been accustomed
to do in his earlier and better years. The irregularity consequent
upon visiting four or five of a night, in which he drank liquors of
different sorts and qualities, was sufficient to produce the worst
effects. Had he always steadily adhered to Clerihugh’s or Douglas’s,
he might have been equally fortunate with many of his companions, who
had frequented particular taverns, through several generations of
possessors, seldom missing a night’s attendance, during the course of
fifty years, from ill health or any other cause.

It is a melancholy task to relate the end of Mr. Crosbie. From one
depth he floundered down to another, every step in his conduct
tending towards a climax of ruin. Infatuation and despair led him on,
disrespect and degradation followed him. When he had reached what
might be called the goal of his fate, he found himself deserted by
all whom he had ever loved or cherished, and almost destitute of a
single attendant to administer to him the necessaries of life. Bound by
weakness and disease to an uneasy pallet, in the garret of his former
mansion, he lingered out the last weeks of life in pain, want, and
sickness. So completely was he forsaken by every friend, that not one
was by at the last scene to close his eyes or carry him to the grave.
Though almost incredible, it is absolutely true, that he was buried
by a few unconcerned strangers, gathered from the street; and this
happened in the very spot where he had been known all his life, in the
immediate neighbourhood of hundreds who had known, loved, and admired
him for many years. He died on the 25th of February, 1785.


DRIVER.

MR. CROSBIE’S clerk was a person named ROBERT H——, whose character
and propensities agreed singularly well with those of Mr. Pleydell’s
dependant, Driver. He was himself a practitioner before the courts, of
the meaner description, and is remembered by many who were acquainted
with the public characters of Edinburgh, towards the end of last
century. He was frequently to be seen in the forenoon, scouring the
closes of the High Street, or parading the Parliament Square; sometimes
seizing his legal friends by the button, and dragging them about in the
capacity of listeners, with an air and manner of as great importance as
if he had been up to the very pen in his ear in business.

He was a pimpled, ill-shaven, smart-speaking, clever-looking fellow,
usually dressed in grey under-garments, an old hat nearly brushed to
death, and a black coat, of a fashion at least in the seventh year of
its age, scrupulously buttoned up to his chin. It was in his latter
and more unfortunate years that he had become thus slovenly. A legal
gentleman, who gives us information concerning him, recollects when he
was nearly the greatest fop in Edinburgh—being powdered in the highest
style of fashion, wearing two gold watches, and having the collar of
his coat adorned with a beautiful loop of the same metal. After losing
the protection of Mr. Crosbie, he had fallen out of all regular means
of livelihood; and unfortunately acquiring an uncontrollable propensity
for social enjoyments, like the ill-fated Robert Fergusson, with whom
he had been intimately acquainted, he became quite unsettled—sometimes
did not change his apparel for weeks—sat night and day in particular
taverns—and, in short, realized what Pleydell asserted of Driver,
that “sheer ale supported him under everything; was meat, drink, and
cloth—bed, board, and washing.” In his earlier years he had been
very regular in his irregularities, and was a “complete fixture” at
John Baxter’s tavern, in Craig’s Close, High Street, where he was the
_Falstaff_ of a convivial society, termed the “_Eastcheap Club_.” But
his dignity of conduct becoming gradually dissipated and relaxed, and
there being also, perhaps, many a landlady who might have said with
Dame Quickly, “I warrant you he’s an infinite thing upon my score,”
he had become unfortunately migrative and unsteady in his taproom
affections. One night he would get drunk at the sign of the _Sautwife_,
in the Abbeyhill, and next morning be found tipping off a corrective
dram at a porter-house in Rose Street. Sometimes, after having made a
midnight tumble into “the Finish” in the Covenant Close, he would, by
next afternoon, have found his way (the Lord and the policeman only
knew how) to a pie-office in the Castlehill. It was absolutely true
that he could write his papers as well drunk as sober, asleep as awake;
and the anecdote which the facetious Pleydell narrated to Colonel
Mannering, in confirmation of this miraculous faculty, is also, we
are able to inform the reader, strictly consistent in truth with an
incident of real occurrence.

Poor H—— was one of those happy, thoughtless, and imprudent
mortals, whose idea of existence lies all in to-day, or to-morrow at
farthest,—whose whole life is only a series of random exertions and
chance efforts at subsistence—a sort of constant _Maroon war_ with
starvation. His life had been altogether passed in Edinburgh. All he
knew, besides his professional lore, was of _Edinburgh_; but then he
knew _all_ of that. There did not exist a tavern in the capital of
which he could not have winked you the characters of both the waiters
and the beefsteaks at a moment’s notice. He was at once the annalist
of the history, the mobs, the manners, and the jokes of Edinburgh—a
human phial, containing its whole essential spirit, corked with wit and
labelled with pimples.

H—— was a man rich in all sorts of humour and fine sayings. His
conversation was dangerously delightful. Had he not unhappily fallen
into debauched habits, he possessed abilities that might have entitled
him to the most enviable situations about the Court; but, from the
nature of his peculiar habits, his wit was the only faculty he ever
displayed in its full extent—pity it was the only one that could not
be exerted for his own benefit! To have seen him set down “for a night
of it” in Lucky F——’s, with a few cronies as _drowthie_ as himself,
and his _Shadow_ (a person who shall hereafter be brought to light),
was in itself a most exquisite treat. By the time that the injunction
of “another half-mutchkin, mistress,” had been six times repeated,
his lips, his eyes, and his nose, spoke, looked, and burned wit—pure
wit! “He could not ope his mouth, but out there flew a trope.” The
very sound of his voice was in itself a waggery; the twinkle of his
eye might have toppled a whole theatre over into convulsions. He could
not even spit but he was suspected of a witticism, and received the
congratulation of a roar accordingly. Nay, at the height of such a tide
as this, he would sometimes get the credit of Butler himself for an
accidental scratch of his head.

His practice as a writer (for so he is styled in Peter Williamson’s
Directory) lay chiefly among the very dregs of desperation and poverty,
and was withal of such a nature as to afford him the humblest means
of subsistence. Being naturally damned, as he himself used to say,
with the utmost goodness of heart, he never hesitated at taking any
poverty-struck case by the hand that could hold forth the slightest
hope of success, and was perfectly incapable of resisting any appeal to
his sense of justice, if made in _forma pauperis_. The greater part of
his clients were poor debtors in the Heart of Midlothian, and he was
most frequently employed in cases of _cessio_, for the accomplishment
of which he was, from long practice, peculiarly qualified. He had
himself a sort of instinctive hatred of the name of creditor, and would
have been at any time perfectly willing to fight _gratis_ upon the
debtor’s side out of pure amateurship. His idle and debauched habits,
also, laid him constantly open to the company of the lowest litigants,
who purchased his advice or his opinion, and, in some cases, even his
services as an agent, for the paltriest considerations in the shape of
liquor; and, unfortunately, he did not possess sufficient resolution to
withstand such temptations—his propensity for social enjoyments, which
latterly became quite ungovernable, disposing him to make the greatest
sacrifices for its gratification.

Yet this man, wretched as he eventually was, possessed a perfect
knowledge of the law of Scotland, besides a great degree of
professional cleverness; and, what with his experience under Mr.
Crosbie, and his having been so long a hanger-on of the Court, was
considered one of the best agents that could be employed in almost any
class of cases. It is thought by many of his survivors that, if his
talents had been backed by steadiness of application, he might have
attained to very considerable eminence. At least, it has been observed,
that many of his contemporaries, who had not half of his abilities,
by means of better conduct and greater perseverence, have risen to
enviable distinction. Mr. Crosbie always put great reliance in him, and
sometimes intrusted him with important business; and H—— has even
been seen to destroy a paper of Mr. Crosbie’s writing, and draw up a
better himself, without incurring the displeasure which such an act of
disrespect seemed to deserve. The highest compliment, however, that
could be paid to Mr. H——’s abilities, was the saying of an old man,
named Nicol,[12] a native of that litigious kingdom, Fife, who, for a
long course of years, pestered the Court, _in forma pauperis_, with a
process about a dunghill, and who at length died in Cupar jail—where
he had been disposed, for some small debt, by a friend, just, as was
asserted, to keep him out of harm’s way. Old John used to treat H——
in Johnnie Dowie’s, and get, as he said, _the law out o’ him_ for the
matter of a dram. He declared that “he would not give H——’s drunken
glour at a paper for the serious opinions of the haill bench!”

Sunday was wont to be a very precious day to H——,—far too good
to be lost in idle dram-drinking at home. On Saturday nights he
generally made a point of insuring stock to the amount of half-a-crown
in his landlady’s hands, and proposed a tour of jollity for next
morning to a few of his companions. These were, for the most part,
poor devils like himself, who, with few lucid intervals of sobriety
or affluence—equally destitute of industry, prudence, and care for
the opinion of the world—contrive to fight, drink, and roar their
way through a desperate existence, in spite of the devil, their
washerwoman, and the small-debt-court—perhaps even receiving Christian
burial at last like the rest of their species. With one or two such
companions as these, H—— would issue of a Sunday morning through the
Watergate, on an expedition to Newhaven, Duddingstone, Portobello, or
some such guzzling retreat,[13]—the termination of their walk being
generally determined by the consideration of where they might have
the best drink, the longest credit, or where they had already least
debt. Then was it most delightful to observe by what a special act of
Providence they would alight upon “the last rizzer’d haddock in the
house,” or “the only hundred oysters that was to be got in the town;”
and how gloriously they would bouse away their money, their credit, and
their senses, till, finally, after uttering, for the thousand and first
time, all their standard Parliament-House jokes—after quarrelling with
the landlord, and flattering the more susceptible landlady up to the
sticking-place of “a last gill,”—they would reel away home, in full
enjoyment of that glory which, according to Robert Burns, is superior
to the glory of even kings!

Nevertheless, H—— was not utterly given up to Sunday debauches,
nor was he destitute of a sense of religion. He made a point of
always going to church on rainy Sundays—that is to say, when his
neckcloth happened to be in its honey-moon, and the button-moulds
of his vestments did not chance to be beyond their first phase. He
was not, therefore, very consistent in his devotional sentiments and
observances; for the weather shared with his tailor the credit of
determining him in all such matters. He was like Berwick smacks of
old, which only sailed, “wind and weather permitting.” When, however,
the day was favourably bad, he would proceed to the High Church of
St. Giles (where, excepting on days of _General Assembly_, there are
usually enow of empty seats for an army), and, on observing that the
Lords of Session had not chosen to hold any _sederunt_ that day, he
would pop into their pew. In this conspicuous seat, which he perhaps
considered a sort of common property of the College of Justice, he
would look wonderfully at his ease, with one threadbare arm lolling
carelessly over the velvet-cushioned gallery, while in the other hand
he held his mother’s old black pocket Bible—a relic which he had
contrived to preserve for an incredible number of years, through a
thousand miraculous escapades from lodgings where he was insolvent,
in memory of a venerable relation, whom he had never forgot, though
oblivious of every other earthly regard besides.

Mr. H——’s _Shadow_, whom we mentioned a few pages back, however
unsubstantial he may seem from his _sobriquet_, was a real person,
and more properly entitled Mr. NIMMO. He had long been a dependant
of H——’s, whence he derived this strange designation. Little more
than the shadow of a recollection of him remains as _materiel_ for
description. He bore somewhat of the same relation to his principal
which Silence bears to Shallow, in Henry IV.,—that is, he was
an exaggerated specimen of the same species, and exhibited the
peculiarities of H——’s habits and character in a more advanced stage.
He was a prospective indication of what H—— was to become. H——,
like Mr. Thomas Campbell’s “coming events,” cast his “shadow before;”
and Nimmo was this shadow. When H—— got new clothes, Nimmo got the
_exuviæ_ or cast-off garments, which he wore on and on, as long as
his principal continued without a new supply. Therefore, when H——
became shabby, Nimmo was threadbare; when H—— became threadbare,
Nimmo was almost denuded; and when H—— became almost denuded, Nimmo
was quite naked! Thus, also, when H——, after a successful course of
practice, got florid and in good case, Nimmo followed and exhibited a
little colour upon the wonted pale of his cheeks; when H—— began to
fade, Nimmo withered before him; by the time H—— was _looking thin_,
Nimmo was _thin indeed_; and when H—— was attenuated and sickly,
poor Nimmo was as slender and airy as a moonbeam. Nimmo was in all
things beyond, before, ahead of H——. If H—— was elevated, Nimmo was
tipsy; if H—— was tipsy, Nimmo was _fou_; if H—— was _fou_, Nimmo
was dead-drunk; and if H—— persevered and got dead-drunk also, Nimmo
was sure still to be beyond him, and was perhaps packed up and laid
to sleep underneath his principal’s chair. Nimmo, as it were, cleared
the way for H——’s progress towards destruction—was his pioneer, his
vidette, his harbinger, his avant-courier—the aurora of his rising,
the twilight of his decline.

Nimmo naturally, and to speak of him without relation to the person of
whom he was part and parcel, was altogether so inarticulate, so empty,
so meagre, so inane a being, that he could scarcely be reckoned more
than a mere thread of the vesture of humanity—a whisper of Nature’s
voice. Nobody knew where he lived at night: he seemed then to disappear
from the face of the earth, just as other shadows disappear on the
abstraction of the light which casts them. He was quite a casual
being—appeared by chance, spoke by chance, seemed even to exist only
by chance, as a mere occasional exhalation of chaos, and at last
evaporated from the world to sleep with the shadows of death,—all
by chance. To have seen him, one would have thought it by no means
impossible for him to dissolve himself and go into a phial, like
Asmodeus in the laboratory at Madrid. His figure was in fact a libel
on the human form divine. It was perfectly unimaginable what he would
have been like _in puris naturalibus_, had the wind suddenly blown him
out of his clothes some day—an accident of which he seemed in constant
danger. It is related of him, that he was once mistaken, when found
dead-drunk in a gutter, on the morning after a king’s birth-day, for
the defunct corpse of _Johnnie Wilkes_,[14] which had been so loyally
kicked about the streets by the mob on the preceding evening; but, on
a scavenger proceeding to sweep him down the channel, he presently
sunk from the exalted character imputed to him, by rousing himself,
and calling lustily, “Another bottle—just another bottle, and then
we’ll go!” upon which the deceived officer of police left him to the
management of the stream.

Besides serving Mr. H—— in the character of clerk or amanuensis,
he used to dangle at his elbow on all occasions, swear religiously
to all his charges, and show the way in laughing at all his jokes.
He was so clever in the use of his pen in transcription, that his
hand could travel over a sheet at the rate of eleven knots an hour,
and this whether drunk or sober, asleep or awake. Death itself could
scarcely have chilled his energies, and it was one of his favourite
jokes, in vaunting of the latter miraculous faculty, to declare that
he intended to delay writing his will till after his decease, when he
would guide himself in the disposal of his legacies by the behaviour of
his relations. We do not question his abilities for such a task; but
one might have had a pretty good guess, from Nimmo’s appearance, that
he would scarcely ever find occasion, either before or after death, to
exercise them.

These sketches, from the quaint flippancy of their style, may be
suspected of fancifulness and exaggeration; yet certain it is, that
out of the ten thousand persons said to be employed in this legal
metropolis in the solicitation, distribution, and execution of justice,
many individuals may even yet be found, in whom it would be possible to
trace the lineaments we have described. Such persons as H—— and Nimmo
dangle at the elbows of The Law, and can no more be said to belong to
its proper body than so many rats in a castle appertain to the garrison.

H—— continued in the course of life which we have attempted to
describe till the year 1808, when his constitution became so shattered,
that he was in a great measure unfitted for business or for intercourse
with society. Towards the end of his life, his habits had become still
more irregular than before, and he seemed to hasten faster and faster
as he went on to destruction, like the meteor, whose motion across
the sky seems to increase in rapidity the moment before extinction.
After the incontestable character of the greatest wit and the utmost
cleverness had been awarded to him,—after he had spent so much money
and constitution in endeavouring to render his companions happy,
that some of them, more grateful or more drunken than the rest,
actually confessed him to be “a devilish good-natured foolish sort
of fellow,”—after he had, like certain Scottish poets, almost drunk
himself into the character of a genius,—it came to pass that—he died.
A mere pot-house reveller like him is no more missed in the world of
life than a sparrow or a bishop. There was no one to sorrow for his
loss—no one to regret his absence—save those whose friendship is
worse than indifference. It never was very distinctly known how or
where he died. It was alone recorded of him, as of the antediluvian
patriarchs, that _he died_. As his life had become of no importance, so
his death produced little remark and less sorrow. On the announcement
of the event to a party of his old drinking friends, who, of course,
were all decently surprised, etc., one of them in the midst of the _Is
it possibles? Not-possibles!_ and _Can it be possibles?_ incidental
to the occasion, summed up his elegy, by trivially exclaiming, “Lord!
is Rab dead at last! Weel, that’s strange indeed!—not a week since I
drank six half-mutchkins wi’ him down at _Amos’s_! Ah! he was a good
bitch! (Then raising his voice) Bring us in a biscuit wi’ the next
gill, mistress! Rab was ay fond o’ bakes!” And they ate a biscuit to
his memory!

It is somewhat remarkable that the deaths of Crosbie and H—— should
have been produced by causes and attended by circumstances nearly the
same, though a period of full twenty years had intervened between the
events. Both were men of great learning and abilities,—they were drawn
down from the height in which their talents entitled them to shine by
the same unfortunate propensities,—and while, in their latter days,
both experienced the reverse of fortune invariably attendant upon
imprudence, they at length left the scene of their notoriety, equally
despised, deserted, and miserable.

Both cases are well calculated to illustrate the lesson so strenuously
inculcated by Johnson,—that to have friends we must first be virtuous,
as there is no friendship among the profligate.

Mr. Crosbie’s death presents the more trite moral of the two—for
in it we see little more than the world forsaking an unfortunate
man, as crowds fly from the falling temple, to avoid being crushed
in the ruins. But the moral of Mr. H——’s death is striking and
valuable. In him we see a man of the brightest genius gradually
losing that self-respect, so necessary, even when it amounts to
pride, for the cultivation and proper enjoyment of superior mental
powers,—becoming in time unsettled in his habits, and careless of
public estimation,—losing the attachment of friends of his own rank,
and compensating the loss by mixing with associates of the lowest
order:—next, become incapable of business, we see him dejected and
forlorn as poverty itself, by turns assuming every colour and every
aspect of which the human countenance and figure is susceptible, till
the whole was worn down to a degree of indiscriminate ruin—the _ne
plus ultra_ of change:—at length, when every vulgar mode of enjoyment
had been exhausted, and when even the fiercest stimulants had grown
insipid, we see him lost at once to sensibility and to sensation,
encountering the last evils of mortality in wretchedness and obscurity,
unpitied by the very persons for whom he had sacrificed so much, and
leaving a name for which he expected to acquire the fame of either
talent or misfortune,

    “To point a moral and adorn a tale!”[15]


SOUTH COUNTRY FARMERS.

(_Dandie Dinmont._)

Perhaps the Author of “Waverley” has nowhere so completely given the
effect of reality to his portraiture as in the case of honest Dandie
Dinmont, the renowned yeoman of Charlieshope. This personage seems to
be quite familiar to his mind, present to his eye, domesticated in the
chambers of his fancy. The minutest motions of the farmer’s body, and
the most trivial workings of his mind, are alike bright in his eye; and
so faithful a representation has been produced, that one might almost
think the author had taken his sketch by some species of mental _camera
obscura_, which brought the figure beneath his pencil in all its native
colours and proportions.

It is impossible to point out any individual of real life as the
original of this happy production. It appears to be entirely
generic—that is to say, the whole class of Liddisdale farmers is here
represented, and little more than a single thread is taken from any
single person to form the web of the character. Three various persons
have been popularly mentioned as furnishing the author with his most
distinguished traits, each of whom have their followers and believers
among the country people. It will perhaps be possible to prove that
Dandie Dinmont is a sort of compound of all three, the ingredients
being leavened and wrought up with the general characteristic qualities
of the “Lads of Liddisdale.”

Mr. ARCHIBALD PARK, late of Lewinshope, near Selkirk, brother of the
celebrated Mungo Park, was the person always most strongly insisted on
as being the original of Dandie. He was a man of prodigious strength,
in stature upwards of six feet, and every member of his body was in
perfect accordance with his great height. He completely realized
the most extravagant ideas that the poets of his country formerly
entertained of the stalwart borderers; and his achievements “by flood
and field,” in the violent exercises and sports of his profession,
came fully up to those of the most distinguished heroes of border
song. He had all the careless humour and boisterous hospitality of
the Liddisdale farmer. On the appearance of the novel, his neighbours
at once put him down as the Dandie Dinmont of real life, and he was
generally addressed by the name of his supposed archetype by his
familiar associates, so long as he remained in that part of the
country, which, however, was not long. His circumstances requiring him
to relinquish his farm, he obtained, by the interest of some friends,
the situation of collector of customs at Tobermory, to which place he
removed in 1815. Soon after he had settled there, he was attacked by a
paralytic affection, from which he never thoroughly recovered, and he
died in 1821, aged about fifty years.

Mr. JOHN THORBURN, of Juniper Bank, the person whom we consider to have
stood in the next degree of relationship to Dinmont, was a humorous
good-natured farmer, very fond of hunting and fishing, and a most
agreeable companion over a bottle. He was truly an unsophisticated
worthy man. Many amusing anecdotes are told of him in the south, and
numerous scenes have been witnessed in his hospitable mansion, akin to
that described in the novel as taking place upon the return of Dandie
from “Stagshawbank fair.” The interior economy of Juniper Bank is said
to have more nearly resembled Charlieshope than did that of Lewinshope,
the residence of Mr. Park. Indeed the latter bore no similarity
whatever to Charlieshope, excepting in the hospitality of the master
and the Christian name of the mistress of the house. Mr. Park, like
his fictitious counterpart, was one of the most generous and hearty
landlords alive; and his wife, who was a woman of highly respectable
connections, bore, like Mrs. Dinmont, the familiar abbreviated name of
_Ailie_.

Thorburn, like Dandie, was once before _the feifteen_. The celebrated
Mr. Jeffrey being retained in his cause, Thorburn went into Court to
hear his pleading. He was delighted with the talents and oratory of
his advocate; and, on coming out, observed to his friends, “Od, he’s
an _awfu’ body_ yon; he said things that I never could hae thought o’
mysel’.”

Mr. JAMES DAVIDSON, of Hindlee, another honest south-country farmer,
was pointed out as the prototype of Dandie Dinmont. This gentleman used
to breed numerous families of terriers, to which he gave the names of
Pepper and Mustard, in all their varieties of _Auld_ and Young, Big and
Little; and it was this community of designation in the dogs of the
two personages, rather than any particular similarity in the manners
or characters of themselves, that gave credit to the conjecture of Mr.
Davidson’s friends.[16]

It will appear, from these notices, that no individual has sat for the
portrait of Dinmont, but that it has been painted from indiscriminate
recollections of various border store-farmers. We cannot do better
than conclude with the words of the author himself, when introducing
this subject to the reader:—“The present store-farmers of the south
of Scotland are a much more refined race than their fathers, and the
manners I am now to describe have either altogether disappeared or are
greatly modified. Without losing their rural simplicity of manners,
they now cultivate arts unknown to the former generation, not only
in the progressive improvement of their possessions, but in all the
comforts of life. Their houses are more commodious, their habits of
life better regulated, so as better to keep pace with those of the
civilized world; and the best of luxuries, the luxury of knowledge, has
gained much ground among the hills during the last thirty years. Deep
drinking, formerly their greatest failing, is now fast losing ground;
and while the frankness of their extensive hospitality continues
the same, it is, generally speaking, refined in its character, and
restrained in its excesses.”


A SCOTCH PROBATIONER.

(_Dominie Sampson._)

There are few of our _originals_ in whom we can exhibit such precise
points of coincident resemblance between the real and fictitious
character, as in him whom we now assign as the prototype of
Dominie Sampson. The person of _real_ existence also possesses the
singular recommendation of presenting more dignified and admirable
characteristics, in their plain unvarnished detail, than the ridiculous
caricature produced in “Guy Mannering,” though _it_ be drawn by an
author whose elegant imagination has often exalted, but seldom debased,
the materials to which he has condescended to be indebted.

Mr. JAMES SANSON was the son of James Sanson, tacksman of Birkhillside
Mill, situate in the parish of Legerwood, in Berwickshire. After
getting the rudiments of his education at a country-school, he went to
the University of Edinburgh, and, at a subsequent period, completed
his probationary studies at that of Glasgow. At these colleges he made
great proficiency in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages, and became
deeply immersed in the depths of philosophy and theology, of which, as
with Dominie Sampson, the more abstruse and neglected branches were his
favourite subjects of application. He was a close, incessant student;
and, in the families where he afterwards resided as a tutor, all his
leisure moments were devoted to the pursuits of literature. Even his
hours of relaxation and walking were not exempted, in the exceeding
earnestness of his solicitude. Then he was seldom seen without a book,
upon which he would be so intent, that a friend might have passed,
and even spoken to him, without Sanson’s being conscious of the
circumstance. After going through his probationary trials before the
presbytery, he became an acceptable, even an admired preacher, and was
frequently employed in assisting the clergymen of the neighbourhood.

From the narrow circumstances of his father, he was obliged early in
life to become a tutor. Into whose family he first entered is unknown.
However, in this humble situation, owing probably to the parsimonious
economy to which he had been accustomed in his father’s house, he in
a short time saved the sum of twenty-five pounds—a little fortune in
those days to a youth of Mr. Sanson’s habits.

With this money he determined upon a pedestrian excursion into England,
for which he was excellently qualified, from his uncommon strength
and undaunted resolution. After journeying over a great part of the
sister kingdom, he came to Harwich, where a sight of the passage-boats
to Holland, and the cheapness of the fare, induced him to take a trip
to the continent. How he was supported during his peregrinations was
never certainly discovered; but he actually travelled over the greater
part of the Netherlands, besides a considerable portion of Germany,
and spent only about the third part of his twenty-five pounds. He
always kept a profound silence upon the subject himself; but it is
conjectured, with great probability, that in the Low Countries he had
recourse to convents, were the monks were ever ready to do acts of
kindness to men of such learning as Sanson would appear to them to be.
Perhaps he procured the means of subsistence by the expedients which
the celebrated Goldsmith is said to have practised in his continental
wanderings, and made the disputation of the morning supply the dinner
of the day.

After his return from the continent, about 1784, he entered the family
of the Rev. Laurence Johnson of Earlston, where he continued some
time, partly employed in the education of his children, and giving
occasional assistance in his public ministerial duty. From this
situation he removed to the house of Mr. Thomas Scott, uncle of the
celebrated Sir Walter, whose family then resided at Ellieston, in the
county of Roxburgh. While superintending this gentleman’s children, he
was appointed to a higher duty—the charge of Carlenridge Chapel, in
the parish of Hawick, which he performed regularly every Sunday, at
the same time that he attended the education of the family through the
week. We may safely conjecture that it was at this particular period of
his life he first was honoured with the title of _Dominie Sanson_.

He was next employed by the Earl of Hopetoun, as chaplain to that
nobleman’s tenants at Leadhills, where, with an admirable but
unfortunate tenaciousness of duty, he patiently continued to exercise
his honourable calling, to the irreparable destruction of his own
health. The atmosphere being tainted with the natural effluvia of the
noxious mineral which was the staple production of the place, though
incapable of influencing the health of those who had been accustomed
to it from their infancy, had soon a fatal effect upon the life of
poor Sanson. The first calamitous consequence that befel him was the
loss of his teeth; next he became totally blind; and, last of all, to
complete the sacrifice, the insalubrious air extinguished the principle
of life. Thus did this worthy man, though conscious of the fate that
awaited him, choose rather to encounter the last enemy of our nature,
than relinquish what he considered a sacred duty. Strange that one,
whose conduct through life was every way so worthy of the esteem
and gratitude of mankind—whose death would not have disgraced the
devotion of a primitive martyr—should by means of a few less dignified
peculiarities, have eventually conferred the character of perfection
on a work of _humour_, and, in a caricatured exhibition, supplied
attractions, nearly unparalleled, to innumerable theatres!

Mr. James Sanson was of the greatest stature—near six feet high, and
otherwise proportionately enormous. His person was coarse, his limbs
large, and his manners awkward; so that, while people admired the
simplicity and innocence of his character, they could not help smiling
at the clumsiness of his motions and the rudeness of his address.
His soul was pure and untainted—the seat of many manly and amiable
virtues. He was ever faithful in his duty, both as a preacher and a
tutor, warmly attached to the interests of the family in which he
resided, and gentle in the instruction of his pupils. As a preacher,
though his manner in his public exhibitions, no less than in private
society, was not in his favour, he was well received by every class
of hearers. His discourses were the well-digested productions of a
laborious mind; and his sentiments seldom failed to be expressed with
the utmost beauty and elegance of diction.


JEAN GORDON.

(_Meg Merrilies._)

The original of this character has been already pointed out and
described in various publications. A desire of presenting, in this
work, as much original matter as possible, will induce us to be very
brief in our notice of Jean Gordon.

It is impossible to specify the exact date of her nativity, though it
probably was about the year 1670. She was born at Kirk-Yetholm, in
Roxburghshire, the metropolis of the Scottish Gipsies, and was married
to a Gipsy chief, named Patrick Faa, by whom she had ten or twelve
children.

In the year 1714, one of Jean’s sons, named Alexander Faa, was murdered
by another Gipsy, named Robert Johnston, who escaped the pursuit of
justice for nearly ten years, but was then taken and indicted by his
Majesty’s Advocate for the crime. He was sentenced to be executed, but
escaped from prison. It was easier, however, to escape the grasp of
justice than to elude the wide spread talons of Gipsy vengeance. Jean
Gordon traced the murderer like a blood-hound, followed him to Holland,
and from thence to Ireland, where she had him seized, and brought him
back to Jedburgh. Here she obtained the full reward of her toils, by
having the satisfaction of seeing him hanged on Gallowhill. Some time
afterwards, Jean being at Sourhope, a sheep-farm on Bowmont-water,
the goodman said to her, “Weel, Jean, ye hae got Rob Johnston hanged
at last, and out o’ the way?” “Ay, gudeman,” replied Jean, lifting up
her apron by the two corners, “and a’ that fu’ o’ gowd hasna done’t.”
Jean Gordon’s “apron fu’ o’ gowd” may remind some of our readers of Meg
Merrilies’ poke of jewels; and indeed the whole transaction forcibly
recalls the stern picture of that intrepid heroine.

The circumstance in “Guy Mannering,” of Brown being indebted to Meg
Merrilies for lodging and protection, when he lost his way near
Derncleugh, finds a remarkably precise counterpart in an anecdote
related of Jean Gordon:—A farmer with whom she had formerly been on
good terms, though their acquaintance had been interrupted for several
years, lost his way, and was benighted among the mountains of Cheviot.
A light glimmering through the hole of a desolate barn, that had
survived the farmhouse to which it once belonged, guided him to a place
of shelter. He knocked at the door, and it was immediately opened by
Jean Gordon. To meet with such a character in so solitary a place, and
probably at no great distance from her clan, was a terrible surprise
to the honest man, whose rent, to lose which would have been ruin to
him, was about his person. Jean set up a shout of joyful recognition,
forced the farmer to dismount, and, in the zeal of her kindness, hauled
him into the barn. Great preparations were making for supper, which the
gudeman of Lochside, to increase his anxiety, observed was calculated
for at least a dozen of guests. Jean soon left him no doubt upon the
subject, but inquired what money he had about him, and made earnest
request to be made his purse-keeper for the night, as the “_bairns_”
would soon be home. The poor farmer made a virtue of necessity, told
his story, and surrendered his gold to Jean’s custody. She made him put
a few shillings in his pocket, observing, it would excite suspicion,
were he found travelling altogether penniless. This arrangement being
made, the farmer lay down on a sort of shake-down, upon some straw,
but, as will easily be believed, slept not. About midnight the gang
returned with various articles of plunder, and talked over their
exploits in language which made the farmer tremble. They were not long
in discovering their guest, and demanded of Jean whom she had there?
“E’en the winsome gudeman o’ Lochside, poor body,” replied Jean; “he’s
been at Newcastle seeking for siller to pay his rent, honest man,
but de’il-be-licket he’s been able to gather in, and sae he’s gaun
e’en hame wi’ a toom purse and a sair heart.” “That may be, Jean,”
said one of the banditti, “but we maun rip his pouches a bit, and see
if it be true or no.” Jean set up her throat in exclamation against
this breach of hospitality, but without producing any change in their
determination. The farmer soon heard their stifled whispers and light
steps by his bed-side, and understood they were rummaging his clothes.
When they found the money which the providence of Jean Gordon had made
him retain, they held a consultation if they should take it or no; but
the smallness of the booty, and the vehemence of Jean’s remonstrances,
determined them in the negative. They caroused and went to rest. So
soon as day dawned, Jean roused her guest, produced his horse, which
she had accommodated behind the _hallan_, and guided him for some miles
till he was on the high-road to Lochside. She then restored his whole
property, nor could his earnest entreaties prevail on her to accept so
much as a single guinea.

It is related that all Jean’s sons were condemned to die at Jedburgh on
the same day. It is said the jury were equally divided; but a friend to
justice, who had slept during the discussion, waked suddenly, and gave
his word for condemnation, in the emphatic words, “HANG THEM A’.” Jean
was present, and only said, “The Lord help the innocent in a day like
this!”

Her own death was accompanied with circumstances of brutal outrage, of
which Jean was in many respects wholly undeserving. Jean had, among
other merits or demerits, that of being a staunch Jacobite. She chanced
to be at Carlisle upon a fair or market-day, soon after the year 1746,
where she gave vent to her political partiality, to the great offence
of the rabble of that city. Being zealous of their loyalty, when
there was no danger, in proportion to the tameness with which they
surrendered to the Highlanders in 1745, they inflicted upon poor Jean
Gordon no slighter penalty than that of ducking her to death in the
Eden. It was an operation of some time; for Jean Gordon was a stout
woman, and, struggling hard with her murderers, often got her head
above water, and while she had voice left, continued to exclaim, at
such intervals, “_Charlie yet! Charlie yet!_”

Her propensities were exactly the same as those of the fictitious
character of Meg Merrilies. She possessed the same virtue of fidelity,
spoke the same language, and in appearance there was little difference;
yet Madge Gordon, her grand-daughter, was said to have had the same
resemblance. She was descended from the Faas by the mother’s side, and
was married to a Young. She had a large aquiline nose; penetrating
eyes, even in her old age; bushy hair, that hung around her shoulders
from beneath a gipsy bonnet of straw; a short cloak, of a peculiar
fashion; and a long staff, nearly as tall as herself. When she spoke
vehemently (for she had many complaints), she used to strike her
staff upon the floor, and throw herself into an attitude which it was
impossible to regard with indifference.

From these traits of the manners of Jean and Madge Gordon, it may be
perceived that it would be difficult to determine which of the two
Meg Merrilies was intended for; it may therefore, without injustice,
be divided between both. So that if Jean was the prototype of her
_character_, it is very probable that Madge must have sat to the
anonymous author of “Guy Mannering” as the representative of her
_person_.

To the author whose duty leads him so low in the scale of nature, that
the manners and the miseries of a vicious and insubordinate race,
prominent in hideous circumstances of unvarnished reality, are all he
is permitted to record, it must ever be gratifying to find traits of
such fine enthusiasm, such devoted fidelity, as the conduct of Jean
Gordon exhibits in the foregoing incidents. _They_ stand out with
a delightful and luminous effect from the gloomy canvas of guilt,
atoning for its errors and brightening its darkness. To trace further,
as others have done, the disgusting peculiarities of a people so
abandoned to all sense of moral propriety, would only serve to destroy
the effect already created by the redeeming characters of Jean Gordon
and her nobler sister, and more extensively to disgrace the general
respectability of human nature.


FOOTNOTES:

[10] From which all the works of the author of “Waverley,” besides many
other publications of the highest character, have issued. It is perhaps
worth while to record, that “Peveril of the Peak” was the last work of
the author of “Waverley’s” that appeared here—its successor, “Quentin
Durward,” being published (May, 1823) a few days after Constable and
Co. had forsaken the High Street for the genteeler air of the New Town.

[11] Even when the judges lived in the distant suburb of George’s
Square, they did not give up this practice. Old Braxfield used always
to put on his wig and gown at home, and walk to the Parliament House,
_via_ Bristo Street, Society, Scott’s Close, and the Back Stairs. One
morning his barber, old Kay, since the well-known limner, was rather
late in taking his Lordship’s wig to George’s Square. Braxfield was too
impatient to wait; so he ran off with only his night-cap on his head,
and was fortunate enough to meet his tardy barber in Scott’s Close,
when he seized his wig with one hand, took off his night-cap with the
other, and adjusting the whole matter himself, sent Kay back with the
undignified garment exued. This is a picture of times gone by never
to return; yet, as if to show how long traces of former manners will
survive their general decay, Lord Glenlee, who continues to live in
Brown’s Square, still dresses at home, and walks to court in the style
of his predecessors.

[12] The _Peter Peebles_ of “Redgauntlet.”

[13]

    “Newhaven, Leith, and Canonmills
    Supply them wi’ their Sunday gills:
    There writers aften spend their pence,
    And stock their heads wi’ drink and sense.”

            _Robert Fergusson._


[14] The juvenile mob of Edinburgh was in the habit of dressing up
an effigy of this hero of liberty, which they treated in the most
ignominious manner, every 4th of June—a relic of the odium excited by
the publication of the _North Briton_, No. 45.

[15] H—— died in the month of May, 1808, and was buried on the
Edinburgh fast-day of that year. He was interred in the Calton Hill
burying-ground; but his grave cannot now be pointed out, as the spot
was removed in 1816, along with about half of the ground, when the
great London road was brought through it.

[16] He died January 2, 1820.




CHAPTER III.

=The Antiquary.=


ANDREW GEMMELS.

(_Edie Ochiltree._)

ANDREW GEMMELS or GEMBLE, a wandering _blue-gown_ of the south of
Scotland, is supposed to have been the _original_ of Edie Ochiltree.
The latter, as represented in the novel, bears, it is true, a much more
amiable aspect, and exhibits greater elevation of character, than the
rude old soldier in whom the public has recognised his prototype. Yet,
as we believe there exists a considerable degree of resemblance between
them, a sketch of old Andrew, who was a very singular personage, will
not prove unsatisfactory.

Andrew Gemmels was well known over all the Border districts as a
wandering beggar, or _gaberlunzie_, for the greater part of half a
century. He had been a soldier in his youth; and the entertaining
stories which he told of his campaigns, and the adventures he had
encountered in foreign countries, united with his shrewdness, drollery,
and other agreeable qualities, rendered him a general favourite, and
secured him a cordial welcome and free quarters at every shepherd’s cot
or farm-steading that lay in the range of his extensive wanderings.
He kept a horse in his latter days; and, so doing, set the proverb at
naught. On arriving at a place of call, he usually put up his horse
in some stable or outhouse, without the ceremony of asking his host’s
permission, and then came into the house, where he stamped and swore
till room was made for him at the fireside. Andrew was not like those
degenerate modern beggars, who implore a coin as for God’s sake, and
shelter themselves in the first hole they can find open to receive
them,—but ordered and commanded, like the master himself, and only
accepted of his alms by way of obliging his friends. He presumed even
to choose his own bed, and was not pleased unless the utmost attention
was shown to his comfort. He preferred sleeping in an outhouse, and, if
possible, in any place where horses and cattle were kept. The reasons
he might be supposed to have for such a preference are obvious. In an
outhouse he was less exposed in undressing to the curious eyes of the
people, who always suspected him of having treasure concealed in his
clothes; and the company of the animals beneath his bed was preferable
to utter solitude, and, moreover, tended to keep the premises
comfortably warm. He used such art in the matters of his toilette that
no person ever saw him undressed, or made any discovery prejudicial to
his character of poverty.

Andrew was a tall, sturdy, old man, with a face in which the fierceness
and austerity of his character strove for mastery with the expression
of a shrewd and keen intellect. He was usually dressed in the blue
gown or surtout described in “The Antiquary” as the habiliment of Edie
Ochiltree, and his features were shaded with a broad slouched hat,
which had been exchanged at an earlier period for a lowland bonnet. His
feet and ankles were shod with strong iron-soled shoes and _gamashins_,
or _stocking-boots_. He always carried a stout walking-staff, which was
nearly as tall as himself, that is to say, not much less than six feet.

“Though free and unceremonious,[17] Andrew was never burdensome or
indiscreet in his visits, returning only once or twice a year, and
generally after pretty regular intervals. He evidently seemed to
prosper in his calling; for, though hung around with rags of every
shape and hue, he commonly possessed a good horse, and used to attend
the country fairs and race-courses, where he would bet and dispute
with the farmers and gentry with the most independent and resolute
pertinacity. He allowed that begging had been a good trade in his time,
but used to complain sadly that times were daily growing worse.[18]
A person remembers seeing Gemmels travelling about on a blood-mare,
with a foal after her, and a gold watch in his pocket. On one occasion,
at Rutherford in Tiviotdale, he had dropped a clue of yarn, and Mr.
Mather, his host, finding him searching for it, assisted in the search,
and, having got hold of it, persisted, notwithstanding Andrew’s
opposition, in unrolling the yarn till he came to the _kernel_, which,
much to his surprise and amusement, he found to consist of about twenty
guineas in gold.”

“My grandfather,” continues this writer, “was exceedingly fond of
Andrew’s company; and, though a devout and strict Cameronian, and
occasionally somewhat scandalized at his rough and irreverent style
of language, was nevertheless so much attracted by his conversation,
that he never failed to spend the evenings of his sojourn in listening
to his entertaining narrations and ‘auld-warld stories,’ with the old
shepherds, hinds, and children seated around them, beside the blazing
turf ingle in ‘the farmer’s ha’.’ These conversations generally took
a polemical turn, and not unfrequently ended in violent disputes—my
ancestor’s hot and impatient temper blazing forth in collision with
the dry and sarcastic humour of his ragged guest. Andrew was never
known to yield his point on these occasions; but he usually had the
address, when matters grew too serious, to give the conversation a more
pleasant turn, by some droll remark or unexpected stroke of humour,
which convulsed the rustic group, and the grave gudeman himself, with
unfailing and irresistible merriment.”

“Many curious anecdotes of Andrew’s sarcastic wit and eccentric manners
are current in the Borders. I shall for the present content myself with
one specimen, illustrative of Andrew’s resemblance to his celebrated
representative. The following is given as commonly related with much
good humour by the late Mr. Dodds of the War Office, the person to whom
it chiefly refers:—Andrew happened to be present at a fair or market
somewhere in Tiviotdale (St. Boswell’s, if I mistake not), where Dodds,
at that time a non-commissioned officer in his Majesty’s service,
happened also to be with a military party recruiting. It was some
time during the American War, when they were eagerly beating up for
fresh men—to teach passive obedience to the obdurate and ill-mannered
Columbians; and it was then the practice for recruiting sergeants after
parading for a due space, with all the warlike pageantry of drums,
trumpets, ‘glancing blades, and gay cockades,’ to declaim in heroic
strains of the delights of a soldier’s life—of glory, patriotism,
plunder—the prospect of promotion for the bold and the young, and
his Majesty’s munificent pension for the old and the wounded, etc.,
etc. Dodds, who was a man of much natural talent, and whose abilities
afterwards raised him to an honourable rank and independent fortune,
had made one of his most brilliant speeches on this occasion. A
crowd of ardent and active rustics were standing round, gaping with
admiration at the imposing mien, and kindling at the heroic eloquence
of the manly soldier, whom many of them had known a few years before
as a rude tailor boy; the sergeant himself, already leading in idea a
score of new recruits, had just concluded, in a strain of more than
usual elevation, his oration in praise of the military profession,
when Gemmels, who, in tattered guise, was standing close behind him,
reared aloft his _meal-pocks_ on the end of his _kent_ or pike-staff,
and exclaimed, with a tone and aspect of the most profound derision,
‘_Behold the end o’t!_’ The contrast was irresistible—the _beau idéal_
of Sergeant Dodds, and the ragged reality of Andrew Gemmels, were
sufficiently striking; and the former, with his red-coat followers,
beat a retreat in some confusion, amidst the loud and universal
laughter of the surrounding multitude.”

Andrew Gemmels was remarkable for being perhaps the best player at
draughts in Scotland; and in that amusement, which, we may here
observe, is remarkably well adapted for bringing out and employing
the cool, calculating, and shrewd genius of the Scottish nation, he
frequently spent the long winter nights. Many persons still exist who
were taught the mysteries of the _dambrod_[19] by him, and who were
accustomed to hold a serious contention with him every time he passed
the night in their houses. He was the preceptor of the gudewife of
Newby in Peebles-shire, the grandmother of the present narrator, whose
hospitable mansion was one of his chief resorts. In teaching her, as
he said, he had only “cut a stick to break his ain head”; for she soon
became equally expert with himself, and in the regular _set-to’s_
which took place between them, did not show either the deference
to his master-skill, or the fear of his resentment, with which he
was usually treated by more timorous competitors. He could never be
brought, however, to acknowledge heartily her rival pretensions, nor
would he, upon any account, come to such a trial as might have decided
the palm of merit either in his favour or hers. Whenever he saw the
tide of success running on her side, he got dreadfully exasperated, and
ordinarily, before the stigma of defeat could be decidedly inflicted
upon him, rose up, seized _the brod_, and threw _the men_ into the
fire,—accompanying the action with some of his most terrific and
blasphemous imprecations.

The late Lord Elibank, while living at Darnhall, once ordered one of
his cast-off suits to be given to Andrew—the which Andrew thankfully
accepted, and then took his departure. Through the course of the same
day, his lordship, in taking a ride a few miles from home, came up with
Andrew, and was not a little surprised to see him dragging the clothes
behind him along the road, “through dub and mire.” On being asked his
reason for such strange conduct, he replied that he would have “to
trail the duds that way for twa days, to mak them _fit for use_!”

In one circumstance Andrew coincides with his supposed archetype:
Andrew had been at Fontenoy, and made frequent allusions to that
disastrous field.

Andrew died in 1793, at Roxburgh-Newton, near Kelso, being, according
to his own account, 105 years of age. His wealth was the means of
enriching a nephew in Ayrshire, who is now a considerable landholder
there, and belongs to a respectable class of society.


FOOTNOTES:

[17] From the _Edinburgh Magazine_, 1817.

[18] His expression was, that “begging was a worse trade by twenty
pounds a year than when he knew it first.”

[19] This word is of Danish origin.




CHAPTER IV.

=Rob Roy.=


ANECDOTES OF ROBERT MACGREGOR.

(_Rob Roy._)

We derive the following interesting narrative from Colonel Stewart’s
admirable work on the Highlands.

“The father of the present Mr. Stewart of Ardvorlich knew Rob Roy
intimately, and attended his funeral in 1736—the last at which a
piper officiated in the Highlands of Perthshire. The late Mr. Stewart
of Bohallie, Mr. M‘Nab of Inchewan, and several gentlemen of my
acquaintance, also knew Rob Roy and his family. Alexander Stewart,
one of his followers, afterwards enlisted in the Black Watch. He was
wounded at Fontenoy, and discharged with a pension in 1748. Some time
after this period he was engaged by my grandmother, then a widow,
as a _grieve_, to direct and take charge of the farm-servants. In
this situation he proved a faithful, trustworthy servant, and was by
my father continued in his situation till his death. He told many
anecdotes of Rob Roy and his party, among whom he was distinguished by
the name of the Bailie, a title which he ever after retained. It was
before him that people were sworn when it was necessary to bind them to
secrecy.

“Robert Macgregor Campbell was a younger son of Donald Macgregor of
Glengyle, in Perthshire, by a daughter of Campbell of Glenlyon, sister
of the individual who commanded at the massacre of Glenco. He was
born some time between 1657 and 1660, and married Helen Campbell, of
the family of Glenfalloch. As cattle was at that period the principal
marketable produce of the hills, the younger sons of gentlemen had few
other means of procuring an independent subsistence than by engaging
in this sort of traffic. At an early period Rob Roy was one of the
most respectable and successful drovers in his district. Before the
year 1707 he had purchased of the family of Montrose the lands of
Craigrostane, on the banks of Lochlomond, and had relieved some heavy
debts on his nephew’s estate of Glengyle. While in this prosperous
state, he continued respected for his honourable dealings both in
the Lowlands and Highlands. Previous to the Union no cattle had been
permitted to pass the English border. As a boon or encouragement,
however, to conciliate the people to that measure, a free intercourse
was allowed. The Marquis of Montrose, created a Duke the same year, and
one of the most zealous partisans of the Union, was the first to take
advantage of this privilege, and immediately entered into partnership
with Rob Roy, who was to purchase the cattle and drive them to England
for sale—the Duke and he advancing an equal sum, 10,000 merks each
(a large sum in those days, when the price of the best ox or cow was
seldom twenty shillings); all the transactions beyond this amount to
be on credit. The purchases having been completed, Macgregor then went
to England; but so many people had entered into a similar speculation,
that the market was completely overstocked, and the cattle sold for
much less than prime cost. Macgregor returned home, and went to the
Duke to settle the account of their partnership, and to pay the money
advanced, with the deduction of the loss. The Duke, it is said, would
consent to no deduction, but insisted on principal and interest. ‘In
that case, my Lord,’ said Macgregor, ‘if these be your principles, I
shall not make it my principle to pay the interest, nor my interest the
principal; so if your Grace do not stand your share of the loss, you
shall have no money from me.’ On this they separated. No settlement of
accounts followed—the one insisting on retaining the money, unless the
other would consent to bear his share of the loss. Nothing decisive
was done till the rebellion of 1715, when Rob Roy ‘was out,’—his
nephew Glengyle commanding a numerous body of the Macgregors, but under
the control of his uncle’s superior judgment and experience. On this
occasion the Duke of Montrose’s share of the cattle speculation was
expended. The next year his Grace took legal means to recover his
money, and got possession of the lands of Craigrostane on account
of his debt. This rendered Macgregor desperate. Determined that his
Grace should not enjoy his lands with impunity, he collected a band of
about twenty followers, declared open war against him, and gave up his
old course of regular droving—declaring that the estate of Montrose
should in future supply him with cattle, and he would make the Duke
rue the day in which he quarrelled with him. He kept his word, and for
nearly twenty years, that is, till the day of his death, levied regular
contributions on the Duke and his tenants, not by nightly depredations
and robberies, but in broad day, and in a systematic manner—at an
appointed time making a complete sweep of all the cattle of a district,
always passing over those not belonging to the Duke’s estate, as well
as the estates of his friends and adherents; and having previously
given notice where he was to be by a certain day with his cattle, he
was met there by people from all parts of the country, to whom he sold
them publicly. These meetings, or trystes, as they were called, were
held in different parts of the country; sometimes the cattle were
driven south, but oftener to the north-west, where the influence of his
friend the Duke of Argyll protected him.

“When the cattle were in this manner driven away, the tenants paid no
rent, so that the Duke was the ultimate sufferer. But he was made to
suffer in every way. The rents of the lower farms were partly paid
in grain and meal, which was generally lodged in a storehouse or
granary, called a girnel, near the Loch of Monteith. When Macgregor
wanted a supply of meal, he sent notice to a certain number of the
Duke’s tenants to meet him at the girnel on a certain day, with
their horses, to carry home the meal. They met accordingly, when he
ordered the horses to be loaded, and, giving a regular receipt to the
Duke’s storekeeper for the quantity taken, he marched away—always
entertaining the people very handsomely, and careful never to take the
meal till it had been lodged in the Duke’s storehouse in payment of
rent. When the money rents were paid, Macgregor frequently attended. On
one occasion, when Mr. Graham of Killearn (the factor) had collected
the tenants to pay their rents, all Rob Roy’s men happened to be absent
except Alexander Stewart, ‘the Bailie,’ whom I have already mentioned.
With his single attendant he descended to Chapellairoch, where the
factor and the tenants were assembled. He reached the house after it
was dark, and, looking in at the window, saw Killearn, surrounded
by a number of the tenants, with a bag full of money which he had
received, and was in the act of disposing in a press or cupboard, at
the same time saying that he would cheerfully give all in the bag for
Rob Roy’s head. This notification was not lost on the outside auditor,
who instantly gave orders, in a loud voice, to place two men at each
window, two at each corner, and four at each of the two doors—thus
appearing to have twenty men. Immediately the door opened, and he
walked in with his attendant close behind, each armed with a sword in
his right hand and a pistol in his left, and with dirks and pistols
slung in their belts.

“The company started up, but he requested them to sit down, as his
business was only with Killearn, whom he ordered to hand down the bag
and put it on the table. When this was done, he desired the money to be
counted, and proper receipts to be drawn out, certifying that he had
received the money from the Duke of Montrose’s agent, as the Duke’s
property, the tenants having paid their rents, so that no after-demand
could be made against them on account of this transaction; and finding
that some of the people had not obtained receipts, he desired the
factor to grant them immediately, ‘to show his Grace,’ said he, ‘that
it is from him I take the money, and not from these honest men who have
paid him.’ After the whole was concluded, he ordered supper, saying,
that as he had got the purse, it was proper he should pay the bill; and
after they had drunk heartily together for several hours, he called his
Bailie to produce his dirk, and lay it naked on the table. Killearn was
then sworn that he would not move, nor direct any one else to move,
from that spot for an hour after the departure of Macgregor, who thus
cautioned him—‘If you break your oath, you know what you are to expect
in the next world—and in this,’ pointing to his dirk. He then walked
away, and was beyond pursuit before the hour expired.

“At another collecting of rents by the same gentleman, Macgregor made
his appearance, and carried him away, with his servant, to a small
island in the west end of Loch Cathrine, and having kept him there
for several days, entertaining him in the best manner, as a duke’s
representative ought to be, he dismissed him, with the usual receipts
and compliments to his Grace. In this manner did this extraordinary man
live, in open violation and defiance of the laws, and died peaceably
in his bed when nearly eighty years of age. His funeral was attended
by all the country round, high and low—the Duke of Montrose and his
immediate friends only excepted.

“How such things could happen, at so late a period, must appear
incredible; and this, too, within thirty miles of the garrisons of
Stirling and Dumbarton, and the populous city of Glasgow, and, indeed,
with a small garrison stationed at Inversnaid, in the heart of the
country, and on the estate which belonged to Macgregor, for the
express purpose of checking his depredations. The truth is, the thing
could not have happened had it not been the peculiarity of the man’s
character; for, with all his lawless spoliations and unremitted acts
of vengeance and robbery against the Montrose family, he had not an
enemy in the country beyond the sphere of their influence. He never
hurt or meddled with the property of a poor man, and, as I have stated,
was always careful that his great enemy should be the principal, if
not the only sufferer. Had it been otherwise, it was quite impossible
that, notwithstanding all his enterprise, address, intrepidity, and
vigilance, he could have long escaped in a populous country, with a
warlike people, well qualified to execute any daring exploit, such as
the seizure of this man, had they been his enemies, and willing to
undertake it. Instead of which, he lived socially among them—that is,
as social as an outlaw, always under a certain degree of alarm, could
do—giving the education of gentlemen to his sons, frequenting the most
populous towns, and, whether in Edinburgh, Perth, or Glasgow, equally
safe, at the same time that he displayed great and masterly address in
avoiding or calling for public notice.

“The instances of his address struck terror into the minds of the
troops, whom he often defeated and out-generalled. One of these
instances occurred in Breadalbane, in the case of an officer and forty
chosen men sent after him. The party crossed through Glenfalloch to
Tyndrum; and Macgregor, who had correct information of all their
movements, was with a party in the immediate neighbourhood. He put
himself in the disguise of a beggar, with a bag of meal on his back
(in those days alms were always bestowed in produce), went to the inn
at Tyndrum, where the party was quartered, walked into the kitchen with
great indifference, and sat down among the soldiers. They soon found
the beggar a lively sarcastic fellow, when they began to attempt some
practical jokes upon him.

“He pretended to be very angry, and threatened to inform Rob Roy, who
would quickly show them they were not to give with impunity such usage
to a poor and harmless person. He was immediately asked if he knew Rob
Roy, and if he could tell where he was? On his answering that he knew
him well, and where he was, the sergeant informed the officer, who
immediately sent for him.

“After some conversation, the beggar consented to accompany them to
Creanlarich, a few miles distant, where he said Rob Roy and his men
were, and that he believed their arms were lodged in one house, while
they were sitting in another. He added that Roy was very friendly,
and sometimes joked with him, and put him at the head of the table;
and ‘when it is dark,’ said he, ‘I will go forward—you will follow
in half an hour—and, when near the house, rush on, place your men at
the back of the house, ready to seize on the arms of the Highlanders,
while you shall go round with the sergeant and two men, walk in, and
call out the whole are your prisoners; and don’t be surprised though
you should see me at the head of the company.’ As they marched on they
had to pass a rapid stream at Dabrie, a spot celebrated on account of
the defeat of Robert Bruce by Macdougal of Lorn, in the year 1306. Here
the soldiers asked their merry friend the beggar to carry them through
on his back. This he did, sometimes taking two at a time, till he took
the whole over, demanding a penny from each for his trouble. When it
was dark they pushed on (the beggar having gone before), the officer
following the directions of his guide, and darting into the house with
the sergeant and three soldiers. They had hardly time to look to the
end of the table, where they saw the beggar standing, when the door was
shut behind them, and they were instantly pinioned, two men standing on
each side holding pistols to their ears, and declaring that they were
dead men if they uttered a word. The beggar then went out, and called
in two more men, who were instantly secured, and in the same manner
with the whole party. Having been disarmed, they were placed under a
strong guard till morning, when he gave them a plentiful breakfast and
released them on parole (the Bailie attending with his dirk, over which
the officer gave his parole) to return immediately to their garrison
without attempting anything more at this time. This promise Rob Roy
made secure, by keeping their arms and ammunition as lawful prize of
war.

“Some time after, the same officer was again sent after this noted
character, probably to retrieve his former mishap. In this expedition
he was more fortunate, for he took three of the freebooters prisoners
in the higher parts of Breadalbane, near the scene of the former
exploit—but the conclusion was nearly similar. He lost no time in
proceeding in the direction of Perth, for the purpose of putting his
prisoners in gaol; but Rob Roy was equally alert in pursuit. His men
marched in a parallel line with the soldiers, who kept along the bottom
of the valley, on the south side of Loch Tay, while the others kept
close up the side of the hill, anxiously looking for an opportunity to
dash down and rescue their comrades, if they saw any remissness or want
of attention on the part of the soldiers. Nothing of this kind offered,
and the party had passed Tay Bridge, near which they halted and slept.
Macgregor now saw that something must soon be done or never, as they
would speedily gain the low country, and be out of his reach. In the
course of the night he procured a number of goat-skins and cords, with
which he dressed himself and his party in the wildest manner possible,
and, pushing forward, before daylight took post near the roadside,
in a thick wood below Grandtully Castle. When the soldiers came in a
line with the party in ambush, the Highlanders, with one leap, darted
down upon them, uttering such yells and shouts as, along with their
frightful appearance, so confounded the soldiers, that they were
overpowered and disarmed without a man being hurt on either side. Rob
Roy kept the arms and ammunition, released the soldiers, and marched
away in triumph with his men.

“The terror of his name was much increased by exploits like these,
which, perhaps, lost nothing by the telling, as the soldiers would not
probably be inclined to diminish the danger and fatigues of a duty in
which they were so often defeated. But it is unnecessary to repeat the
stories preserved and related of this man and his actions, which were
always daring and well contrived, often successful, but never directed
against the poor, nor prompted by revenge, except against the Duke of
Montrose, and without any instance of murder or bloodshed committed
by any of his party, except in their own defence. In the war against
Montrose he was supported and abetted by the Duke of Argyll, from whom
he always received shelter when hard pressed; or, to use a hunting
term, when he was in danger of being earthed by the troops. These
two powerful families were still rivals, although Montrose had left
the Tories and joined Argyll and the Whig interest. It is said that
Montrose reproached Argyll in the House of Peers with protecting the
robber Rob Roy; when the latter, with his usual eloquence and address,
parried off the accusation (which he could not deny) by jocularly
answering, that if he protected a robber, the other supported him.”

We can only add to this animated history of Rob Roy one circumstance;
which, though accredited in the Highlands, has never been noticed in
the popular accounts of our hero. In whatever degree his conduct was to
be attributed to his own wrongs, or those of his clan, the disposition
which prompted and carried him through in his daring enterprises, could
be traced to the family temper of his mother, who came of the Campbells
of Glenlyon—a peculiarly wild, bold, and wicked race.

The mode of escape adopted by Rob Roy in crossing the Avon-dhu, so
finely described in the third volume of the novel, seems to have been
suggested by the following traditionary anecdote, which is preserved
in the neighbourhood of the spot where the exploit took place:—A
Cameronian, in the district of Galloway, flying from two dragoons, who
pursued him hotly, came to a precipice which overhung a lake. Seeing
no other means of eluding his enemies, he plunged into the water, and
attempted to swim to the other side. In the meantime the troopers came
up, and fired at him; when he, with an astonishing presence of mind,
parted with his plaid, and swam below the water to a safe part of the
shore. His enemies fired repeatedly at the plaid, till they supposed
him slain or sunk, and then retired.


PARALLEL PASSAGES.

A resemblance will be discovered between the following passages—one
being part of Bailie Jarvie’s conversation with Owen, in “Rob Roy,”
and the other an extract from a work entitled, “A Tour through Great
Britain, &c., by a Gentleman, 4th ed. 1748”—a curious book, of which
the first edition was written by the celebrated De Foe:—

“We found the liquor exceedingly palatable, and it led to a long
conversation between Owen and our host, on the opening which the
Union had afforded to trade between Glasgow and the British colonies
in America and the West Indies, and on the facilities which Glasgow
possessed of making up _sortable_ cargoes for that market. Mr. Jarvie
answered some objection which Owen made on the difficulty of sorting
a cargo for America, without buying from England, with vehemence and
volubility.

“‘Na, na, sir; we stand on our ain bottom—we pickle in our ain
pock-neuk. We ha’e our Stirling serges, Musselburgh stuffs, Aberdeen
hose, Edinburgh shalloons, and the like, for our woollen and worsted
goods, and we ha’e linens of a’ kinds, better and cheaper than you
ha’e in London itsel’; and we can buy your north o’ England wares,—as
Manchester wares, Sheffield wares, and Newcastle earthenware—as cheap
as you can, at Liverpool; and we are making a fair spell at cottons and
muslins.’”—_Rob Roy_, vol. ii., p. 267.

“Glasgow is a city of business, and has the face of foreign as well as
domestic trade,—nay, I may say it is the only city in Scotland that
apparently increases in both. The Union has indeed answered its end to
them, more than to any other part of the kingdom, their trade being
new-formed by it; for as the Union opened the door to the Scots into
our American colonies, the Glasgow merchants presently embraced the
opportunity; and though, at its first concerting, the rabble of the
city made a formidable attempt to prevent it, yet afterwards they knew
better, when they found the great increase of their trade by it, for
they now send fifty sail of ships every year to Virginia, New England,
and other English colonies in America.

“The share they have in the herring-fishery is very considerable; and
they cure their herrings so well and so much better than they are done
in any other part of Great Britain, that a Glasgow herring is esteemed
as good as a Dutch one.

“I have no room to enlarge upon the home-trade of this city, which is
very considerable in many things. I shall, therefore, touch at some few
particulars:—

“1. Here there are two very handsome sugar-baking houses, carried on by
skilful persons, with large stocks, and to very great perfection. Here
is likewise a large distillery for distilling spirits from the molasses
drawn from sugars, by which they enjoyed a vast advantage for a time,
by a reserved article in the Union, freeing them from English duties.

“2. Here is a manufacture of plaiding, a stuff crossed with yellow,
red, and other mixtures, for the plaids or veils worn by the women of
Scotland.

“3. Here is a manufacture of muslins, which they make so good and fine
that great quantities of them are sent into England, and to the British
plantations, where they sell at a good price. They are generally
striped, and are very much used for aprons by the ladies, and sometimes
in head-clothes by the meaner sort of Englishwomen.

“4. Here is also a linen manufacture; but as that is in common with
all parts of Scotland, which improve in it daily, I will not insist
upon it as a peculiar here, though they make a very great quantity of
it, and send it to the plantations as their principal merchandise. Nor
are the Scots without a supply of goods for sorting their cargoes to
the English colonies, without sending to England for them; and it is
necessary to mention it here, because it has been objected by some that
the Scots could not send a sortable cargo to America without buying
from England, which, coming through many hands, and by a long carriage,
must consequently be so dear, that the English merchants can undersell
them.

“It is very probable, indeed, that some things cannot be had here
so well as from England, so as to make out such a sortable cargo
as the Virginia merchants in London ship off, whose entries at the
custom-house consist sometimes of two hundred particulars, as tin,
turnery, millinery, upholstery, cutlery, and other _Crooked-Lane_
wares—in short, somewhat of everything, either for wearing or house
furniture, building houses or ships.

“But though the Scots cannot do all this, we may reckon up what they
can furnish, which they have not only in sufficient quantities, but
some in greater perfection than England itself.

“1. They have woollen manufactories of their own,—such as Stirling
serges, Musselburgh stuffs, Aberdeen stockens, Edinburgh shalloons,
blankets, etc.

“2. Their trade with England being open, they have now all the
Manchester, Sheffield, and Birmingham wares, and likewise the cloths,
kerseys, half-thicks, duffels, stockens and coarse manufactures of the
north of England, brought as cheap or cheaper to them by horse-packs as
they are carried to London, it being at a less distance.

“3. They have linens of most kinds, especially diapers and
table-linens, damasks, and many other sorts not known in England, and
cheaper than there, because made at their own doors.

“4. What linens they want from Holland or Hamburgh, they import from
thence as cheap as the English can do; and for muslins, their own are
very acceptable, and cheaper than in England.

“5. Gloves they make cheaper and better than in England, for they send
great quantities thither.

“6. * * * * * *

“I might mention many other particulars, but this is sufficient to show
that the Scots merchants are not at a loss how to make up sortable
cargoes to send to the plantations; and that if we can outdo them in
some things, they are able to outdo us in others.”—_Tour_, vol. iv.,
p. 124.

Though only the latter part of the preceding description of Glasgow
trade refers to the passage from “Rob Roy,” we have extracted it all
for various reasons. First, because it gives, independent of allusion
to the novel, a very distinct and simple account of trade in Scotland
forty years after the Union, when the reaction consequent upon that
event was beginning to be felt in the country. Secondly, because it
details at full length the sketch of the rise and progress of Glasgow,
which Mr. Francis Osbaldistone gives in the sixth chapter of the
second volume of “Rob Roy,” on his approach to the mercantile capital.
Thirdly, for the sake of presenting the reader with a very fair
specimen of the use which the Author of “Waverley” makes of old books
in his fictitious narratives.




CHAPTER V.

=The Black Dwarf.=


LANG SHEEP AND SHORT SHEEP.

Our readers will readily remember the curious explanation which takes
place between Bauldy, the old-world shepherd, in the Introduction to
this tale, and Mr. Peter Pattieson, respecting the difference between
_lang_ sheep and _short_ sheep. We can attest, from unexceptionable
authority, that a conversation once actually took place between Sir
Walter Scott, James Hogg, and Mr. Laidlaw, the _factor_ of the former,
in which the same disquisition and nearly the same words occurred.
Messrs. H. and L. began the dispute about the various merits of the
different sheep; and many references being made to the respective
_lengths_ of the animals, Sir Walter became quite tired of their
unintelligible technicals, and very simply asked them how sheep came
to be distinguished by longitude, having, he observed, never perceived
any remarkable difference between one sheep and another in that
particular. It was then that an explanation took place, very like that
of Bauldy in the Introduction; and we think there can be no doubt that
the fictitious incident would never have taken place but for the real
circumstance we have related.

The dispute with Christy Wilson, butcher in Gandercleugh, which it
was the object of Bauldy’s master to settle, and in consequence of
which being amicably adjusted, the convivialities that brought out
from the shepherd the materials of the tale were entered into, has, we
understand, its origin in a process once before the Court of Session,
respecting what is termed a _luck-penny_ on a bargain.


DAVID RITCHIE.

(_Elshender the Recluse._)

The particulars of David Ritchie’s life, which are in themselves
sufficiently meagre, have been more than once already laid before
the public. In _Blackwood’s Monthly Magazine_ for June, and in the
_Edinburgh Magazine_ for October, 1817, accounts of the supposed
original of the Black Dwarf are given, evidently from no mean
authority, if we may judge from the style in which these narratives are
written. A separate production, also, of a very interesting nature,
embellished with a striking and singularly correct likeness of the
dwarf, appeared in 1820, and comprised every anecdote of this singular
being previously uncollected. It is therefore conceived totally
unnecessary to detail at any length a subject which, independent of
its want of elegance and interest, has been already so completely
exhausted. To give a few sketches of the character and habits of David
Ritchie, and contrast them with those of the more sublime Elshender,
will, it is hoped, prove a more grateful entertainment.

David Ritchie was a pauper, who lived the greater part of a long life,
and finally died so late as the year 1811, in a solitary cottage
situated in the romantic glen of Manor in Peebles-shire. This vale, now
rendered classic ground by the abode of the Black Dwarf, was otherwise
formerly remarkable as having been the retirement of the illustrious
and venerable Professor Ferguson.[20]

His person coincided singularly well with the description of the
fictitious recluse. He had been deformed and horrible since his birth
in no ordinary degree, which was probably the cause of the analogous
peculiarities of his temper. His countenance, of the darkest of dark
complexions, was half covered with a long grisly black beard, and bore,
as the centre of its system of terrors, two eyes of piercing black,
which were sometimes, in his excited moments, lighted up with wild and
supernatural lustre. His head was of a singular shape, conical and
oblong, and might now form no unworthy subject for the studies of the
Phrenological Society. To speak in their language, he must have had few
of the moral or intellectual faculties developed in any perfection; for
his brow retreated immediately above the eyebrows, and threw nearly the
whole of his head, which was large, behind the ear, where, it is said,
the meaner organs of the brain are situated—giving immense scope to
cruelty, obstinacy, self-esteem, etc. His nose was long and aquiline;
his mouth wide and contemptuously curled upward; and his chin protruded
from the visage in a long grisly peak. His body, short and muscular,
was thicker than that of most ordinary men, and, with his arms,
which were long and of great power, might have formed the parts of a
giant, had not nature capriciously curtailed his form of other limbs
conformable to these proportions. His arms had the same defect with
those of the celebrated Betterton, and he could not lift them higher
than his breast; yet such was their strength, that he has been known
to tear up a tree by the roots, which had baffled the united efforts
of two labourers, who had striven by digging to eradicate it. His legs
were short, fin-like, and bent outwards, with feet totally inapplicable
to the common purposes of walking. These he constantly endeavoured to
conceal from sight by wrapping them up in immense masses of rags. This
ungainly part of his figure is remarkable as the only one which differs
materially from the description of “Cannie Elshie,” whose “body, thick
and square, was mounted upon two large feet.”

He was the son of very poor parents, who, at an early period of his
life, endeavoured to place him with a tradesman in the metropolis to
learn the humble art of brushmaking; which purpose he however soon
deserted in disgust, on account of the insupportable notice which
his uncouth form attracted in the streets. His spirit, perhaps, also
panted for the seclusion of his native hills, where he might have ease
to indulge in that solitude so appropriate to the outcast ugliness of
his person, and free from the insulting gaze of vulgar curiosity. Here,
in the valley of his birth, he formed the romantic project of building
a small hut for himself, in which, like the Recluse of the tale, he
might live for ever retired from the race for whose converse he was
unfitted, and give unrestrained scope to the moods of his misanthropy.
He constructed this hermitage in precisely the same manner with the
Black Dwarf of Mucklestane Moor. Huge rocks, which he had rolled down
from the neighbouring hill, formed the foundation and walls, to which
an alternate layer of turf, as is commonly used in cottages, gave
almost the consistency and fully the comfort of mortar. He is said
to have evinced amazing bodily strength in moving and placing these
stones, such as the strongest men, with all the advantages of stature
and muscular proportion, could hardly have equalled. This corporeal
energy, which lay chiefly in his arms, will remind the reader of the
exertions of the Black Dwarf, as witnessed by Hobbie Elliot and young
Earnscliff, on the morning after his first appearance, when employed
in arranging the foundations of his hermitage out of the Grey Geese of
Mucklestane Moor.—_See_ pp. 78, 79.

When the young hermit had finished his hut, and succeeded in furnishing
it with a few coarse household utensils, framed chiefly by his own
hands, he began to form a garden. In the cultivation and adornment
of this spot, he displayed a degree of natural taste and ingenuity
that might have fitted him for a higher fate than the seclusion of a
hermitage. In a short time he had stocked it with such a profusion
of fruit-trees, herbs, vegetables, and flowers, that it seemed a
little forest of beauty—a shred of Eden, fit to redeem the wilderness
around from its character of desolation—a gem on the swarth brow of
the desert. Not only did it exhibit the finest specimens of flowers
indigenous to this country, but he had also contrived to procure a
number of exotics, whose Linnæan names he would roll forth to the
friends whom he indulged with an admission within its precincts, with
a pomposity of voice that never failed to enhance their admiration. It
soon came to be much resorted to by visitors, being accounted, with
_the genius of the place_, one of the most remarkable curiosities
of the county. Dr. Ferguson used sometimes to visit the eccentric
solitary, as an amusement in that retired spot; and Sir Walter Scott,
who was a frequent guest at the house of that venerable gentleman, is
said to have often held long communings with him; likewise several
other individuals of literary celebrity.

There is something more peculiarly romantic and poetical in the
circumstance of the Misanthrope’s attachment to his garden than can
be found in any of the other habits and qualities attributed to him.
The care of that beautiful spot was his chief occupation, and may be
said to have been the only pleasure his life was ever permitted to
experience. On it alone he could employ that _faculty_ of affection
with which every heart, even that of the cynic, is endowed. Shut out
from the correspondence and sympathy of his own fellow-creatures by the
insurmountable pale of his own ugliness, there existed, in the whole
circle of nature, no other object that could receive his affections, or
reply to the feelings he had to impart. In flowers alone, those lineal
and undegenerate descendants of Paradise, the Solitary found an object
of attachment that could do equal honour to his feelings and to his
taste. His garden was a perfect seraglio of vegetable beauties, and
_there_ he could commune with a thousand objects of affection, that
never shrunk from the touch which threatened horror and pollution to
all the world beside.

By the peculiarities of his person, as well as by the other abject
circumstances of his condition, it may be easily supposed that the
Hermit of Manor was entirely excluded from that great solace of the
miseries of man, the sympathy to be derived from the tenderness and
affections of woman. He was irredeemably condemned, as it were, to a
dreary bachelorhood of the heart, which knew that there was for it
no hope, no possibility of enjoyment. Perhaps the constant sense of
loathsomeness in the eyes of the fair part of creation might help to
increase the natural wretchedness of his existence. The misanthropy of
Elshender is pathetically represented in the tale as springing chiefly
from sources of disappointment like this. It happens, also, that his
humble prototype once ventured to express the sensibilities of the
common delirium of man, and that he was rejected by the object of his
affection. This insult, though it sprung from a very natural feeling
on the part of the woman, sunk deep into his heart; and thus was he
debarred from what would have been the only means of sweetening the
bitter lot of solitary poverty and decrepitude,—dashed back with scorn
from the general draught at which even his inferiors were liberally
indulged. This circumstance forms another trait of resemblance between
the Black Dwarf and David Ritchie; and, by a happy consonance never
before discovered, confirms their identity.

“His habits were, in many respects, singular, and indicated a mind
sufficiently congenial with its uncouth tabernacle. A jealous,
misanthropical, and irritable temper was his most prominent
characteristic. The sense of his deformity haunted him like a phantom;
and the insults and scorn to which this exposed him had poisoned his
heart with fierce and bitter feelings, which, from other traits in
his character, do not appear to have been more largely infused into
his original temperament than that of his fellow-men. He detested
children, on account of their propensity to insult and persecute
him. To strangers he was generally reserved, crabbed, and surly; and
even towards persons who had been his greatest benefactors, and who
possessed the greatest share of his good-will, he frequently betrayed
much caprice and jealousy. A lady, who knew him from his infancy,
says, that, although he showed as much attachment and respect for her
father’s family as it was in his nature to show for any, yet they were
always obliged to be very cautious in their deportment towards him. One
day, having gone to visit him with another lady, he took them through
his garden, and was showing them, with much pride and good-humour, all
his rich and tastefully assorted borders, here picking up with his
long staff some insidious weed, and there turning to digress into the
history of some mysterious exotic, when they happened to stop near a
plot of cabbages, which had been somewhat injured by the caterpillars.
Davie, observing one of the ladies smile, instantly assumed a savage
scowling aspect, rushed among the cabbages, and dashed them to pieces
with his _kent_, exclaiming, ‘I hate the worms, for they mock me!’”

When he visited the neighbouring metropolis of the county, which
happened very seldom towards the latter part of his life, he was
generally followed by crowds of boys, who hooted and insulted him,
with all that disregard of feeling and insolence of wickedness so often
to be observed in children of the lower ranks in Scottish villages.
On these occasions he was wont to give his persecutors the “length of
his _kent_,” as he called it, when he could reach them; but they being
generally too nimble for his crippled evolutions, he had often to vent
his revenge in the more harmless form of curses. These were frequently
of the most terrific and unusual kind. He is even said to have evinced
something like _genius_ in the invention of his imprecations, some of
which far surpassed Gray’s celebrated

    “Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!”

He would swear he would “cleave them to the _harn-pans_, if he had but
his _cran_ fingers on them;” that he “could pour seething lead down
their throats;” that “hell would never be full till they were in it;”
and frequently exclaimed that there was nothing he would “like so well
as to see their souls girnin’ for a thousand eternities on the red-het
brander o’ the de’il!”

Among the traits of his character, there is none reminds us so strongly
of the Misanthrope of the tale as this propensity to execration. The
same style of discourse, and almost the same terms of imprecation,
are common to both. The _Mighty Unknown_ has put expressions into the
mouth of this character which, as specimens of the grand and sublime,
are altogether unequalled in the whole circle of English poetry—not
even excepting the magnificent thunders of Byron’s muse. Now, his
prototype is well remembered, by those who have conversed with him, to
have frequently used language which, sometimes sinking to delicacy and
even elegance, and at others rising to a very tempest of execration
and diabolical expression, might have been deemed almost miraculous
from _his_ mouth, could it not have been attributed partly to the
impassioned inspiration that naturally flowed from his consciousness
of deformity, from keen resentment of insult, and from the despairing,
loveless sterility of his heart.

The history of his death-bed furnishes us with an anecdote of a
beautiful and atoning character.

He had always through life expressed the utmost abhorrence of being
buried among what he haughtily termed the “_common brush_” in
the parish churchyard, and pointed out a particular spot, in the
neighbourhood of his cottage, where he had been frequently known to
lie dreaming or reading for long summer days, as a more agreeable
place of interment. It is remarked by a former biographer, that he has
displayed no small portion of taste in the selection of this spot. It
is the summit of a small rising ground, called the Woodhill, situated
nearly in the centre of the parish of Manor, covered with green fern,
and embowered on the top by a circle of _rowan-trees_ planted by the
Dwarf’s own hand, for the double purpose of serving as a mausoleum or
monument to his memory, and keeping away, by the charm of consecration
supposed to be vested in their nature, the influence of witchcraft and
other unhallowed powers from the grave.

All around this romantic spot the waste features of a mountainous
country bound the horizon, presenting a striking contrast to the
fertile beauty of the intermediate valley, and withal capable of
suggesting to the enthusiastic and imaginative mind of the Solitary,
the idea of _this_ scene being a more desirable grave, sacred as it
was in the grandeur of Nature, than the merely _Christian_ ground of a
country churchyard. “What!” the proud unsocial soul of the misanthrope
might perhaps think—

              “What! to be decently interred
    In a churchyard, and mingle my brave dust
    With stinking rogues, that rot in winding-sheets,
    Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o’ th’ soil!”

Nevertheless, whatever might have been his sentiments regarding the
dead among whom, during his days of health, he loathed to be placed,
certain it is, that, when brought within view and feeling of the
awful close of mortal existence, his heart was softened towards his
fellow-men, his antipathies relaxed, and he died with a wish upon his
lips to be buried among his fathers.

In 1820, the writer of the present narrative visited the deserted hut
of “Bowed Davie,” actuated by a sort of pilgrim-respect for scenes
hallowed by genius. The little mansion at present existing is not
that built by the Dwarf’s own hands, but one of later date, erected
by the charity of a neighbouring gentleman in the year 1802. A small
tablet of freestone, bearing this date below the letters D. R. was
still to be seen in the western gable. The eastern division of the
cottage, separated from the other by a partition of stone and lime, and
entering by a different door, was still inhabited by his sister. It is
remarkable that even with that near relation he was never on terms of
any affection; an almost complete estrangement having subsisted between
these two lonely beings for many years. Agnes had been a servant in
the earlier part of her life; but having of late years become subject
to a degree of mental aberration, she had retired from every sort of
employment to her brother’s habitation, where she subsisted on the
charity of the poor’s funds.

On entering the cottage with my guide, we found her seated on a low
settle before the fire, her hands reclined upon her lap, and her eyes
gazing unmeaningly on a small turf fire, which died away in a perfect
wilderness of chimney. Her whole figure and situation reminded me
strongly of the inimitable description of the lone Highland woman
in Hogg’s “Winter Evening Tales,” who sat singing by the light of a
moss-lamp in expectation of the apparition of her son. The scene was
nearly as wild and picturesque, the wretched inmate of the hut was as
lonely and helpless, and there was an air of desolate imbecility about
her that rendered her almost as interesting. It seemed surprising,
indeed, how a person apparently so abandoned by her own energies
and the care of her fellow-creatures, could at all exist in such a
solitude. She neither moved nor looked up on our entrance; but a few
minutes after we had seated ourselves, which we did with silence and
awe, she lifted her eyes, and thereby gave us a fuller view of her
countenance. She much resembled her brother in features, but was not
deformed. Her face was dark with age and wretchedness, and her aspect,
otherwise somewhat appalling, was rendered almost unearthly by two
large black eyes, the lustre of which was not the less horrible by the
imbecility of their gaze. I have been thus particular in describing
her person and circumstances, because I do not judge it impossible
that she may have suggested the original idea of Elspeth Cheyne, the
superannuated dependant of Glenallan, in the “Antiquary.”

Through the medium of my guide, a sagacious country lad, I contrived
to ask her a number of questions concerning her brother; but she was
extremely shy in answering them, and expressed her jealousy of my
intentions by saying, “she wondered why so many grand people had come
from distant parts to inquire after her family—she was sure there was
naething _ill_ anent them.” Little did she, poor soul, understand the
cause of this curiosity, or the honour conferred upon her family by the
attention of the great _hermit-author_, in whose works the very mention
of a name confers immortality.

She showed us her brother’s Bible. It was of Kincaid’s fine quarto
edition, and had been bought in 1773 by the Dwarf himself. His name was
written with his own hand on a blank leaf, and it was with something
like transport that I drew a fac-simile of the autograph into my
pocket-book, which I still preserve.

Agnes Ritchie died in December, 1821, ten years after the decease of
her brother, and was buried in the same grave, in Manor churchyard, on
which occasion the deformed bones of Bowed Davie were found, to the
utter disproof of a vulgar report, that they had suffered resurrection
at the hands of certain anatomists in the College of Glasgow.

I found the part of the house which had been inhabited by the Dwarf
himself deserted as he had left it at his death. Its furniture had been
all dispersed among the curious or the friendly; and a host of poultry
were now suffered to roost on the rafters where only soot formerly
dared to hang. His seat of divination before the door had been suffered
to remain. It was covered very rurally with a ruinous _door of a cart_.
There seemed no precise window in the hut, but it contained numerous
holes and bores all round, some of which were built up with turf. I
drew a pair of rusty nails from a joist near the door, and, wrapping
them up in a piece of paper, brought them away.

We stole a look at the garden, by climbing up the high wall. Some
care has been taken by the neighbouring peasants to preserve it in
good order; but, alas! it is scarcely the ghost of what it was: “Cum
Troja fuit,” there was not a weed to be seen over its whole surface,
nor durst a single _kail-worm_ intrude its unhallowed nose within the
precincts; an hundred mountain-ashes, displaying their red, sour fruit
to the temptation of the passing urchin, stood around like a guard, to
preserve from the influence of witchcraft the richer treasures that lay
within,—

    “Fair as the gardens of _Gul_ in their bloom”;

but now weeds and kail-worms were abundant, the rowan-trees had
been all cut down, and Bowed Davie’s garden, that once might have
rivalled Milton’s imagination of Paradise, now lay stale, flat, and
unprofitable—like a buxom cheek deprived of its blushes, or Greece
deserted by the liberty that once, according to Byron, _inspired_ its
beauty. A few _skeps_, however, still remained, which the neighbouring
Hobbie Elliots had _not_ taken away.

It was a curious trait in the character of David Ritchie, that he was
very superstitious. Not only had he planted his house, his garden, and
even his intended grave, all round with the mountain-ash, but it is
also well authenticated that he never went abroad without a branch of
this singular antidote, tied round with a _red thread_, in his pocket,
to prevent the effects of the _evil eye_. When the _sancta sanctorum_
of his domicile were so sacrilegiously ransacked after his death, there
was found an elf-stone, or small round pebble, bored in the centre,
hung by a cord of hair passed through the hole to the head of his bed!

After taking the foregoing view of the Wizard’s fairy bower, I was
next conducted to his grave, which lies in the immediate vicinity. A
slip of his favourite rowan-tree marked the spot. It had been planted
several years after his death by some kindly hand, and, in the absence
of a less perishable monument, seemed a wonderful act of delicacy
and attention. It spoke a pathos to the feelings that the finest
inscription could not have excited,—it was so consonant with the
former desires of “the poor inhabitant below!”

In allusion to the foregoing circumstances, the following verses were
composed, and inserted in a periodical publication:—

    I sat upon the Wizard’s grave,—
      ’Twas on a smiling summer day,
    When all around the desert spot
      Bloomed in the young delights of May.
    In undistinguished lowliness
      I found the little mound of earth,
    And bitter weeds o’ergrew the place,
      As if his heart had given them birth,
    And they from thence their nurture drew,—
    In such luxuriancy they grew.

    No friendship to his grave had lent
    Such rudely-sculptured monument
      As marked the peasant’s place of rest;
    For he, the latest of his race,
    Had left behind no friend to trace
      Such frail memorial o’er his breast.
    But o’er his head a sapling waved
      The honours of its slender form,
    And in its loneliness had braved
      The autumn’s blast—the winter’s storm.
    Some friendly hand the tribute gave,
    To mark the undistinguished grave,
    That, drooping o’er that sod, it might
      Repay a world’s neglectful scorn,
    And, catching sorrow from the night,
      There weep a thousand tears at morn.

    It was an emblem of himself—
      A widowed, solitary thing,
    To which no circling season might
      An hour of greener gladness bring;
    A churchyard desert was its doom,
    Its parent soil a darkling tomb;
    Such was the Solitary’s fate,
    So joyless and so desolate;
    For, blasted soon as it was given,
      His was the life that knew no hope,
    His was the soul that knew no heaven—
      Then, stranger, by one pitying drop,
      Forgive, forgive the Misanthrope!


FOOTNOTES:

[20] Dr. Ferguson lived for some time at Neidpath Castle, from whence
he removed to Hallyards, in Manor parish. He was a most devoted and
enthusiastic snuff-taker. An amusing anecdote is preserved of the
good old man’s simplicity of character and love of snuff. One day,
on his son’s arrival from Edinburgh, he begged a pinch from young
Adam’s box, which, on receiving, he declared to be exceedingly good,
and, of course, he inquired where that delightful mixture was to be
procured. “I got it from Traquair,” answered his son, alluding to
a tobacconist of that name, who dwelt at the corner of the piazzas
leading into the Parliament Square in Edinburgh. This the old gentleman
did not comprehend, but thought that his son meant Traquair, a little
village about seven miles down Tweed, beyond Peebles: and he actually
despatched a man on horseback to that place to procure some of the
snuff which had so taken his fancy.




CHAPTER VI.

=Old Mortality.=


DESERTED BURYING-GROUND.

There exists, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, a scene nearly
resembling that described in the beautiful preliminary to this Tale,
as the burying-ground of the Covenanters. It is commonly called St.
Catherine’s Kirkyard, and is all that remains of the chapel and
cemetery of the once celebrated _St. Catherine’s in the Hopes_.[21]
The situation is particularly pastoral, beautiful, and interesting. It
is placed where the narrow ravine, down which Glencorse burn descends,
opens up into an expanse considerably wider. Rullion Green, where
the Covenanters were defeated by the troops of Charles II. in 1665,
was in the immediate vicinity; and tradition still points out in St.
Catherine’s the graves of several of the insurgents, who were killed
either in the battle or near this spot in the pursuit. If the latter
be the most probable fact, no other circumstance would be required to
establish the identity of the two scenes.

St. Catherine’s Churchyard, lying among the wildest solitudes of the
Pentland Hills, is an object of beautiful and interesting desolation,
almost equal to the scene of Peter Pattieson’s meeting with Old
Mortality. There does not now remain the least trace of a place of
worship within its precincts; and it seems to have been long disused as
a place of interment. A slight mark of an inclosure, nearly level with
the sward, and one overgrown gravestone, itself almost in the grave,
are all that point out the spot.

The ground in which St. Catherine’s is situated agrees in certain
general circumstances with the author’s Vale of Gandercleugh. The
horrific “_dry-stane dike_” projected by “his honour the Laird of
Gusedub,” does not, it is true, appear to have ever substituted its
rectilinear deformity for the graceful winding of the natural boundary,
as the too-poetical Peter Pattieson apprehended. But a circumstance has
taken place by which the romantic has been sacrificed to the useful
as completely as if “his honour” had fulfilled his intention. The
ravine, at the head of which St. Catherine’s is situated, has lately
been embanked, and laid completely under water, as a compensation-pond
for the mills upon the Crawley Burn, of which the more legitimate
supplies were cut off, and turned towards a different direction and
very different purpose, by being carried to Edinburgh for the use of
the inhabitants.

Besides being _possibly_ the original scene of the Deserted
Burying-Ground, this spot is not otherwise destitute of the
qualification of _classic_. At no great distance stands Logan House,
the supposed mansion of _Sir William Worthy_ of the “Gentle Shepherd”;
and at the head of the glen lies what has generally been considered the
“_Habbie’s How_” of that drama.

In the leading article of the _Scotsman_, September 3, 1823, the writer
endeavours to trace a similarity between the Vale of Glencorse and the
description of Glendearg in the Monastery.


VALE OF GANDERCLEUGH.

The Vale of Gandercleugh may perhaps have been suggested by Lesmahagow,
a village and parish in the west country, not far from Drumclog. In the
churchyard are interred several of the Covenanters,—in particular,
David Steel, who was slain by Captain Crichton, the cavalier whose life
was written by Swift—in a note to which Sir Walter Scott mentions Old
Mortality as having for a long time preserved Steel’s grave-stone from
decay.


HISTORY OF THE PERIOD.[22]

       *       *       *       *       *

“We have observed the early antipathy mutually entertained by the
Scottish Presbyterians and the House of Stuart. It seems to have
glowed in the breast even of the good-natured Charles II. He might
have remembered that, in 1651, the Presbyterians had fought, bled,
and ruined themselves in his cause. But he rather recollected their
early faults than their late repentance; and even their services
were combined with the recollection of the absurd and humiliating
circumstances of personal degradation,[23] to which their pride
had subjected him, while they professed to espouse his cause. As
a man of pleasure, he hated their stern inflexible rigour, which
stigmatized follies even more deeply than crimes; and he whispered to
his confidants, that, ‘therefore, it was not wonderful that, in the
first year of his restoration, he formally re-established prelacy in
Scotland.’ But it is surprising that, with his father’s example before
his eyes, he should not have been satisfied to leave at freedom the
consciences of those who could not reconcile themselves to the new
system. The religious opinions of sectaries have a tendency, like the
water of some springs, to become soft and mild when freely exposed to
open day. Who can recognise, in the decent and industrious Quakers and
Anabaptists, the wild and ferocious tenets which distinguished their
sects while yet they were honoured with the distinction of the scourge
and the pillory? Had the system of coercion against the Presbyterians
been continued until our day, Blair and Robertson would have preached
in the wilderness, and only discovered their powers of eloquence and
composition, by rolling along a deeper torrent of gloomy fanaticism.

“The western counties distinguished themselves by their opposition to
the prelatic system. Three hundred and fifty ministers, ejected from
their churches and livings, wandered through the mountains, sowing the
seeds of covenanted doctrine, while multitudes of fanatical followers
pursued them, to reap the forbidden crop. These Conventicles, as they
were called, were denounced by the law, and their frequenters dispersed
by military force. The genius of the persecuted became stubborn,
obstinate, and ferocious; and, although Indulgences were tardily
granted to some Presbyterian ministers, few of the true Covenanters,
or Whigs, as they were called, would condescend to compound with a
prelatic government, or to listen even to their own favourite doctrine
under the auspices of the King. From Richard Cameron, their apostle,
this rigid sect acquired the name of Cameronians. They preached and
prayed against the Indulgence, and against the Presbyterians who
availed themselves of it, because their accepting of this royal boon
was a tacit acknowledgment of the King’s supremacy in ecclesiastical
matters.

“Upon these bigoted and persecuted fanatics, and by no means upon
the Presbyterians at large, are to be charged the wild anarchical
principles of anti-monarchy and assassination which polluted the period
when they flourished.

“The Conventicles were now attended by armed crowds; and a formidable
insurrection took place in the west, and rolled on towards the capital.
It was terminated by a defeat at the Pentland Hills, where General
Dalziel routed the insurgents with great loss, 28th November, 1666.

“The Whigs, now become desperate, adopted the most desperate
principles; and retaliating, as far as they could, the intolerating
persecution which they endured, they openly disclaimed allegiance
to any monarch who should not profess presbytery and subscribe the
covenant. These principles were not likely to conciliate the favour
of government, and, as we wade onward in the history of the times, the
scenes become yet darker. At length, one would imagine the parties
had agreed to divide the kingdom of vice between them,—the hunters
assuming to themselves open profligacy and legalized oppression,
and the hunted the opposite attributes of hypocrisy, fanaticism,
disloyalty, and midnight assassination. The troopers and cavaliers
became enthusiasts in the pursuit of the Covenanters. If Messrs. Kid,
King, Cameron, Peden, etc., boasted of prophetic powers, and were often
warned of the approach of the soldiers by supernatural impulse, Captain
John Crichton, on the other side, dreamed dreams and saw visions,
(chiefly, indeed, after having drunk hard,) in which the lurking-holes
of the rebels were discovered to his imagination.[24]

“Our ears are scarcely more shocked with the profane execration of the
persecutors[25] than with the strange and insolent familiarity used
towards the Deity by the persecuted fanatics. Their indecent modes of
prayer, their extravagant expectations of miraculous assistance, and
their supposed inspirations, might easily furnish out a tale, at which
the good would sigh and the gay would laugh.[26]

“The militia and standing army soon became unequal to the task of
enforcing conformity and suppressing Conventicles. In their aid, and
to force compliance with a test proposed by government, the Highland
clans were raised, and poured down into Ayrshire; and armed hosts
of undisciplined mountaineers, speaking a different language, and
professing, many of them, another religion, were let loose to ravage
and plunder this unfortunate country; and it is truly astonishing to
find how few acts of cruelty they perpetrated, and how seldom they
added murder to pillage. Additional levies of horse were also raised,
under the name of independent troops, and great part of them placed
under the command of James Grahame of Claverhouse, a man well known
to fame by his subsequent title of Viscount of Dundee, but better
remembered in the western shires under the designation of the bloody
Clavers.

“In truth, he appears to have combined the virtues and vices of a
savage chief. Fierce, unbending, and rigorous, no emotion of compassion
prevented his commanding and witnessing every detail of military
execution against the Nonconformists. Undoubtedly brave, and steadily
faithful to his prince, he sacrificed himself in the cause of James
when he was deserted by all the world. The Whigs whom he persecuted,
daunted by his ferocity and courage, conceived him to be impassive to
their bullets, and that he had sold himself, for temporal greatness,
to the seducer of mankind. It is still believed, that a cup of wine,
presented to him by his butler, changed into clotted blood; and that,
when he plunged his feet into cold water, their touch caused it to
boil. The steed which bore him was supposed to be the gift of Satan;
and precipices are shown where a fox could hardly keep his feet, down
which the infernal charger conveyed him safely in pursuit of the
wanderers. It is remembered with terror that Claverhouse was successful
in every engagement with the Whigs, except that at Drumclog, or Loudon
Hill. The history of Burly will bring us immediately to the causes and
circumstances of that event.

“JOHN BALFOUR of Kinloch, commonly called BURLY, was one of the
fiercest of the proscribed sect. A gentleman by birth, he was, says
his biographer, ‘zealous and honest-hearted, courageous in every
enterprise, and a brave soldier—seldom any escaping that came into his
hands.’

“Crichton says that he was once chamberlain to Archbishop Sharpe,
and, by negligence or dishonesty, had incurred a large arrear, which
occasioned his being active in his master’s assassination. But of
this I know no other evidence than Crichton’s assertion and a hint in
Wodrow. Burly, for that is his common designation, was brother-in-law
to Hackston of Rathillet, a wild, enthusiastic character, who joined
daring courage and skill in the sword to the fiery zeal of his sect.
Burly himself was less eminent for religious fervour than for the
active and violent share which he had in the most desperate enterprises
of his party. His name does not appear among the Covenanters who
were denounced for the affair at Pentland. But, in 1677, Robert
Hamilton, afterwards commander of the insurgents at Loudon Hill and
Bothwell Bridge, with several other Nonconformists, were assembled
at this Burly’s house, in Fife. There they were attacked by a party
of soldiers, commanded by Captain Carstairs, whom they beat off, and
wounded desperately one of his party. For this resistance to authority
they were declared rebels.

“The next exploit in which Burly was engaged was of a bloodier
complexion and more dreadful celebrity. It was well known that
James Sharpe, Archbishop of St. Andrew’s, was regarded by the rigid
Presbyterians not only as a renegade, who had turned back from the
spiritual plough, but as the principal author of the rigours exercised
against their sect. He employed, as an agent of his oppression,
one Carmichael, a decayed gentleman. The industry of this man in
procuring information, and in enforcing the severe penalties against
Conventiclers, having excited the resentment of the Cameronians, nine
of their number, of whom Burly and his brother-in-law, Hackston, were
the leaders, assembled, with the purpose of waylaying and murdering
Carmichael; but, while they searched for him in vain, they received
tidings that the Archbishop himself was at hand. The party resorted
to prayer, after which they agreed, unanimously, that the Lord had
delivered the wicked Haman into their hands. In the execution of the
supposed will of heaven, they agreed to put themselves under the
command of a leader, and they requested Hackston of Rathillet to accept
the office; which he declined, alleging, that, should he comply with
their request, the slaughter might be imputed to a private quarrel
which existed betwixt him and the Archbishop. The command was then
offered to Burly, who accepted it without scruple; and they galloped
off in pursuit of the Archbishop’s carriage, which contained himself
and his daughter. Being well mounted, they easily overtook and disarmed
the prelate’s attendants. Burly, crying out, ‘Judas, be taken!’ rode
up to the carriage, wounded the postilion, and hamstrung one of the
horses. He then fired into the coach a piece, charged with several
bullets, so near, that the Archbishop’s gown was set on fire. The rest,
coming up, dismounted, and dragged him out of the carriage, when,
frightened and wounded, he crawled towards Hackston, who still remained
on horseback, and begged for mercy. The stern enthusiast contented
himself with answering, that he would not himself lay a hand on him.
Burly and his men again fired a volley upon the kneeling old man, and
were in the act of riding off, when one, who remained to fasten the
girth of his horse, unfortunately heard the daughter of their victim
call to the servant for help, exclaiming that his master was still
alive. Burly then again dismounted, struck off the prelate’s hat with
his foot, and cleft his skull with his shable, (broadsword,) although
one of the party (probably Rathillet,) exclaimed, ‘Spare these grey
hairs!’ The rest pierced him with repeated wounds. They plundered
the carriage, and rode off, leaving, beside the mangled corpse, the
daughter, who was herself wounded in her pious endeavour to interpose
betwixt her father and his murderers. The murder is accurately
represented in bas-relief, upon a beautiful monument, erected to
the memory of Archbishop Sharpe, in the metropolitan church of St.
Andrew’s. This memorable example of fanatic revenge was acted upon
Magus Muir, near St. Andrew’s, 3rd May, 1679.

“Burly was of course obliged to leave Fife; and, upon the 25th of
the same month, he arrived in Evandale, in Lanarkshire, along with
Hackston, and a fellow called Dingwall, or Daniel, one of the same
bloody band. Here he joined his old friend Hamilton, already mentioned;
and, as they resolved to take up arms, they were soon at the head of
such a body of the ‘chased-and-tossed western men’ as they thought
equal to keep the field. They resolved to commence their exploits upon
29th May, 1674, being the anniversary of the Restoration, appointed
to be kept a holiday by Act of Parliament—an institution which
they esteemed a presumptuous and unholy solemnity. Accordingly, at
the head of eighty horse, tolerably appointed, Hamilton, Burly, and
Hackston entered the royal burgh of Rutherglen, extinguished the
bonfires made in honour of the day, burned at the cross the Acts of
Parliament in favour of prelacy and suppression of Conventicles, as
well as those acts of council which regulated the Indulgence granted
to Presbyterians. Against all these acts they entered their solemn
protest, or testimony, as they called it; and, having affixed it to the
cross, concluded with prayer and psalms. Being now joined by a large
body of foot, so that their strength seems to have amounted to five or
six hundred men, though very indifferently armed, they encamped upon
Loudon Hill. Claverhouse, who was in the garrison of Glasgow, instantly
marched against the insurgents, at the head of his own troop of cavalry
and others, amounting to about one hundred and fifty men. He arrived
at Hamilton, on the 1st of June, so unexpectedly, as to make prisoner
John King, a famous preacher among the wanderers, and rapidly continued
his march, carrying his captive along with him, till he came to the
village of Drumclog, about a mile east of Loudon Hill, and twelve miles
south-west of Hamilton. At the same distance from this place, the
insurgents were skilfully posted in a boggy strait, almost inaccessible
to cavalry, having a broad ditch in their front. Claverhouse’s dragoons
discharged their carbines, and made an attempt to charge. Burly, who
commanded the handful of horse belonging to the Whigs, instantly led
them down on the disordered squadrons of Claverhouse, who were, at the
same time, vigorously assaulted by the foot, headed by the gallant
Cleland and the enthusiastic Hackston. Claverhouse himself was forced
to fly, and was in the utmost danger of being taken, his horse’s belly
being cut open by the stroke of a scythe, so that the poor animal
trailed his bowels for more than a mile. In this flight he passed King,
the minister, lately his prisoner, but now deserted by his guard in
the general confusion. The preacher hallooed to the flying commander
‘to halt and take his prisoner with him;’ or, as others say, ‘to stay
and take the afternoon’s preaching.’ Claverhouse, at length remounted,
continued his retreat to Glasgow. He lost in the skirmish about twenty
of his troopers, and his own cornet and kinsman, Robert Grahame. Only
four of the other side were killed, among whom was Dingwall, or Daniel,
an associate of Burly in Sharpe’s murder. ‘The rebels,’ says Crichton,
‘finding the cornet’s body, and supposing it to be that of Clavers,
because the name of Grahame was wrought in the shirt-neck, treated
it with the utmost inhumanity—cutting off his nose, picking out his
eyes, and stabbing it through in a hundred places.’ The same charge is
brought by Guild, in his _Bellum Bothwellianum_, in which occurs the
following account of the skirmish at Drumclog:—

“‘Although Burly was among the most active leaders in the action,
he was not the commander-in-chief. That honour belonged to Robert
Hamilton, brother of Sir William Hamilton of Preston, a gentleman who,
like most of those at Drumclog, had imbibed the very wildest principles
of fanaticism. The Cameronian account of the insurrection states, that
“Mr. Hamilton discovered a great deal of bravery and valour, both
in the conflict with, and pursuit of, the enemy; but when he and some
others were pursuing the enemy, others flew too greedily upon the
spoil, small as it was, instead of pursuing the victory; and some,
without Mr. Hamilton’s knowledge, and against his strict command, gave
five of these bloody enemies quarter, and let them go. This greatly
grieved Mr. Hamilton, when he saw some of Babel’s brats spared, after
the Lord had delivered them into their hands, that they might dash them
against the stones (Psalm cxxxvii. 9). In his own account of this, he
reckons the sparing of these enemies, and letting them go, to be among
their first steppings aside, for which he feared that the Lord would
not honour them to do much more for them, and says that he was neither
for taking favours from, nor giving favours to, the Lord’s enemies.”
Burly was not a likely man to fall into this sort of backsliding. He
disarmed one of the Duke of Hamilton’s servants in the action, and
desired him to tell his master he would keep, till meeting, the pistols
he had taken from him. The man described Burly to the Duke as a little
stout man, squint-eyed, and of a most ferocious aspect; from which it
appears that Burly’s figure corresponded to his manners, and perhaps
gave rise to his nickname, _Burly_ signifying _strong_. He was with
the insurgents till the battle of Bothwell Bridge, and afterwards fled
to Holland. He joined the Prince of Orange, but died at sea during the
passage. The Cameronians still believe he had obtained liberty from the
Prince to be avenged of those who had persecuted the Lord’s people;
but, through his death, the laudable design of purging the land with
their blood is supposed to have fallen to the ground.’

“It has often been remarked, that the Scottish, notwithstanding
their national courage, were always unsuccessful when fighting for
their religion. The cause lay not in the principle, but in the mode
of its application. A leader, like Mahomet, who is, at the same time,
the prophet of his tribe, may avail himself of religious enthusiasm,
because it comes to the aid of discipline, and is a powerful means of
attaining the despotic command essential to the success of a general.
But among the insurgents in the reign of the last Stuarts, were mingled
preachers, who taught different shades of the Presbyterian doctrine;
and, minute as these shades sometimes were, neither the several
shepherds nor their flocks could unite in a common cause. This will
appear from the transactions leading to the battle of Bothwell Bridge.

“We have seen that the party which defeated Claverhouse at Loudon Hill
were Cameronians, whose principles consisted in disowning all temporal
authority which did not flow from and through the Solemn League and
Covenant. This doctrine, which is still retained by a scattered remnant
of the sect in Scotland, is in theory, and would be in practice,
inconsistent with the safety of any well-regulated government, because
the Covenanters deny to their governors that toleration which was
iniquitously refused to themselves.

“In many respects, therefore, we cannot be surprised at the anxiety
and vigour with which the Cameronians were persecuted, although we may
be of opinion that milder means would have induced a melioration of
their principles. These men, as already noticed, excepted against such
Presbyterians as were contented to exercise their worship under the
Indulgence granted by government, or, in other words, who would have
been satisfied with toleration for themselves, without insisting on a
revolution in the state, or even in the Church government.

“When, however, the success at Loudon Hill was spread abroad, a number
of preachers, gentlemen, and common people, who had embraced the more
moderate doctrine, joined the army of Hamilton, thinking that the
difference in their opinions ought not to prevent their acting in the
common cause. The insurgents were repulsed in an attack upon the town
of Glasgow, which, however, Claverhouse shortly afterwards thought it
necessary to evacuate. They were now nearly in full possession of the
west of Scotland, and pitched their camp at Hamilton, where, instead of
modelling and disciplining their army, the Cameronians and Erastians
(for so the violent insurgents chose to call the more moderate
Presbyterians) only debated, in council of war, the real cause of their
being in arms. Hamilton, their general, was the leader of the first
party; Mr. John Welsh, a minister, headed the Erastians. The latter so
far prevailed as to get a declaration drawn up, in which they owned the
King’s government; but the publication of it gave rise to new quarrels.
Each faction had its own set of leaders, all of whom aspired to be
officers; and there were actually two councils of war, issuing contrary
orders and declarations, at the same time—the one owning the King, and
the other designating him a malignant, bloody, and perjured tyrant.

“Meanwhile, their numbers and zeal were magnified at Edinburgh, and
great alarm excited lest they should march eastward. Not only was the
foot militia instantly called out, but proclamations were issued,
directing all the heritors in the eastern, southern, and northern
shires, to repair to the King’s host, with their best horses, arms,
and retainers. In Fife, and other counties, where the Presbyterian
doctrines prevailed, many gentlemen disobeyed this order, and were
afterwards severely fined. Most of them alleged, in excuse, the
apprehension of disquiet from their wives. A respectable force was
soon assembled, and James Duke of Buccleuch and Monmouth, was sent
down by Charles to take the command, furnished with instructions not
unfavourable to the Presbyterians. The royal army now moved slowly
forward towards Hamilton, and reached Bothwell Moor on the 22nd of
June, 1679. The insurgents were encamped, chiefly in the Duke of
Hamilton’s park, along the Clyde, which separated the two armies.
Bothwell Bridge, which is long and narrow, had then a portal in the
middle, with gates, which the Covenanters shut, and barricadoed with
stones and logs of timber. This important post was defended by three
hundred of their best men, under Hackston of Rathillet and Hall of
Haughhead. Early in the morning, this party crossed the bridge and
skirmished with the royal vanguard, now advanced as far as the village
of Bothwell; but Hackston speedily retired to his post at the west end
of Bothwell Bridge.

“While the dispositions made by the Duke of Monmouth announced his
purpose of assailing the pass, the more moderate of the insurgents
resolved to offer terms. Ferguson of Kaitlock, a gentleman of landed
fortune, and David Hume, a clergyman, carried to the Duke of Monmouth
a supplication, demanding free exercise of their religion, a free
Parliament, and a free general assembly of the Church. The Duke heard
their demands with his natural mildness, and assured them he would
interpose with his Majesty in their behalf, on condition of their
immediately dispersing themselves, and yielding up their arms. Had
the insurgents been all of the moderate opinion, the proposal would
have been accepted, much bloodshed saved, and perhaps some permanent
advantage derived to their party; or had they been all Cameronians,
their defence would have been fierce and desperate. But, while their
motley and misassorted officers were debating upon the Duke’s proposal,
his field-pieces were already planted on the eastern side of the
river, to cover the attack of the footguards, who were led on by Lord
Livingston to force the bridge. Here Hackston maintained his post with
zeal and courage; nor was it till his ammunition was expended, and
every support denied him by the general, that he reluctantly abandoned
the important pass. When his party were drawn back, the Duke’s army
slowly, and with their cannon in front, defiled along the bridge,
and formed in line of battle as they came over the river. The Duke
commanded the foot, and Claverhouse the cavalry. It would seem that
these movements could not have been performed without at least some
loss, had the enemy been serious in opposing them. But the insurgents
were otherwise employed. With the strangest delusion that ever fell
upon devoted beings, they chose these precious moments to cashier
their officers, and elect others in their room. In this important
operation they were at length disturbed by the Duke’s cannon, at the
first discharge of which the horse of the Covenanters wheeled and
rode off, breaking and trampling down the ranks of their infantry in
their flight. The Cameronian account blames Weir of Greenridge, a
commander of the horse, who is termed a sad Achan in the camp. The more
moderate party lay the whole blame on Hamilton, whose conduct, they
say, left the world to debate whether he was most traitor, coward,
or fool. The generous Monmouth was anxious to spare the blood of
his infatuated countrymen, by which he incurred much blame among the
high-flying Royalists. Lucky it was for the insurgents that the battle
did not happen a day later, when old General Dalziel, who divided with
Claverhouse the terror and hatred of the Whigs, arrived in the camp,
with a commission to supersede Monmouth as commander-in-chief. He is
said to have upbraided the Duke publicly with his lenity, and heartily
to have wished his own commission had come a day sooner, when, as he
expressed himself, ‘these rogues should never more have troubled the
King or country.’ But, notwithstanding the merciful orders of the Duke
of Monmouth, the cavalry made great slaughter among the fugitives, of
whom four hundred were slain.

“There were two Gordons of Earlston, father and son. They were
descended of an ancient family in the west of Scotland, and their
progenitors were believed to have been favourers of the reformed
doctrine, and possessed of a translation of the Bible as early as the
days of Wickliffe. William Gordon, the father, was in 1663 summoned
before the privy council, for keeping Conventicles in his house and
woods. By another act of council he was banished out of Scotland; but
the sentence was never put into execution. In 1667, Earlston was turned
out of his house, which was converted into a garrison for the King’s
soldiers. He was not in the battle of Bothwell Bridge, but he was met
hastening towards it by some English dragoons engaged in the pursuit,
already commenced. As he refused to surrender, he was instantly slain.

“His son, Alexander Gordon of Earlston, was not a Cameronian, but one
of the more moderate class of Presbyterians, whose sole object was
freedom of conscience and relief from the oppressive laws against
Nonconformists. He joined the insurgents shortly after the skirmish
at Loudon Hill. He appears to have been active in forwarding the
supplication sent to the Duke of Monmouth. After the battle, he escaped
discovery, by flying into a house at Hamilton, belonging to one of
his tenants, and disguising himself in a female attire. His person
was proscribed, and his estate of Earlston was bestowed upon Colonel
Theophilus Ogilthorpe by the crown, first in security for £5000, and
afterwards in perpetuity.

“The same author mentions a person tried at the circuit-court,
July 10th, 1683, solely for holding intercourse with Earlston, an
intercommuned rebel. As he had been in Holland after the battle of
Bothwell, he was probably accessory to the scheme of invasion which the
unfortunate Earl of Argyll was then meditating. He was apprehended upon
his return to Scotland, tried, convicted of treason, and condemned to
die; but his fate was postponed by a letter from the King, appointing
him to be reprieved for a month, that he might, in the interim, be
tortured for the discovery of his accomplices. The council had the
unusual spirit to remonstrate against this illegal course of severity.
On November 3rd, 1683, he received a further respite, in hopes he would
make some discovery. When brought to the bar to be tortured, (for the
King had reiterated his command,) he, through fear or distraction,
roared like a bull, and laid so stoutly about him, that the hangman
and his assistant could hardly master him. At last he fell into a
swoon, and, on his recovery, charged General Dalziel and Drummond,
(violent tories,) together with the Duke of Hamilton, with being the
leaders of the fanatics. It was generally thought that he affected this
extravagant behaviour to invalidate all that agony might extort from
him concerning his real accomplices. He was sent first to Edinburgh
Castle, and afterwards to a prison upon the Bass island, although the
privy council more than once deliberated upon appointing his immediate
death. On the 22nd August, 1684, Earlston was sent for from the Bass,
and ordered for execution, 4th November, 1684. He endeavoured to
prevent his doom by escape; but was discovered and taken after he had
gained the roof of the prison. The council deliberated, whether, in
consideration of this attempt, he was not liable to instant execution.
Finally, however, they were satisfied to imprison him in Blackness
Castle, where he remained till the Revolution, when he was set at
liberty, and his doom of forfeiture reversed by Act of Parliament.”


ADDITIONAL NOTICES RELATIVE TO THE INSURRECTION OF 1679.

_From “A History of the Rencontre at Drumclog,” etc._

_By William Aiton, Esq._

“MR. DOUGLAS having agreed to preach at Hairlaw, or Glaisterlaw, about
a mile north-west of Loudon Hill, on Sabbath, June 1, 1679, the Fife
men and Mr. Hamilton, dreading the Conventicle might be attacked by the
military, collected a number of their friends on the Saturday evening,
in a house near Loudon Hill, where they lay under arms all night.
They also sent off an express to Lesmahagow, to bring forward their
friends from that quarter, and who were up just in time to join in the
skirmish. But very few of their friends from Kilmarnock came forward to
that Conventicle.

“A considerable number of people assembled at that field-meeting, and,
as usual in these times, the greater part of them came armed. Captain
Grahame of Claverhouse was, by Lord Ross, who commanded the military in
Glasgow, sent out with three troops of dragoons to attack and disperse
that Conventicle. He had seized, about two miles from Hamilton, John
King, a field-preacher, and, according to Mr. Wilson’s account,
seventeen other people, whom he bound in pairs, and drove before him
towards Loudon Hill.

“Captain Grahame and his officers eat their breakfast that day at the
principal inn, Strathaven, then kept by James Young, writer, innkeeper,
and baron-bailie of Avendale, known in that district by the name of
_Scribbie Young_. The house which he then occupied stood opposite the
entry into the churchyard, and, from its having an upper room or second
storey in the one end, with an outside stair of a curious construction,
was denominated ‘the tower.’[27] Having been informed at Strathaven
that the Conventicle was not to meet that day, Captain Grahame set out
towards Glasgow with his prisoners. But, upon obtaining more correct
information about a mile north of Strathaven, he turned round towards
Loudon Hill, by the way of Letham. On being told at Braeburn that the
Covenanters were in great force, he said that he had eleven score of
good guns under his command, and would soon disperse the Whigs.

“Soon after worship had commenced, the Covenanters were informed, by an
express from their friends at Hamilton, as well as by the watches they
had placed, that the military were approaching them; and they resolved
to fight the troops, in order, if possible, to relieve the prisoners,
or, to use the words of their historian, Dr. Wodrow, to ‘oppose the
hellish fury of their persecutors.’ Their whole force consisted of
about 50 horsemen, ill-provided with arms, 50 footmen with muskets, and
about 150 more with halberts and forks. Mr. Hamilton took the chief
command, and David Hackston, Henry Hall, John Balfour, Robert Fleming,
William Cleland, John Loudon, and John Brown, acted as subalterns under
Mr. Hamilton. Mr. Wilson says, ‘Hamilton gave out the word that no
quarter should be given to the enemy.’ The Covenanters did not wait
the arrival of the military, who could not have reached them but by a
circuitous route; neither did they take shelter in the mosses that lay
near, and into which the cavalry could not have followed them; but they
advanced eastward about two miles, singing psalms all the way.

“When Grahame reached the height at Drumclog, and saw the Whigs about
half a mile to the north of that place, near to where Stabbyside House
now stands, he placed his prisoners under a guard in the farmyard of
North Drumclog, and, having drawn up his three troops of cavalry, he
advanced to attack the Whigs. Mr. Russel says, Claverhouse gave orders
to his troops to give no quarter to the Covenanters; and that ‘there
was such a spirit given forth from the Lord, that both men and women
who had no arms faced the troops.’ The dragoons had to march down an
arable field of a very slight declivity, at the foot of which a small
piece of marshy ground (provincially termed misk or boggy land) lay
between the hostile parties. As many of the insurgents resided in that
immediate neighbourhood, they could not fail to know that this marshy
place, on the north side of which they had taken their stand, was in
some places too soft to support the feet of horses. But as this swamp
was covered with a sward of green herbage, and was but of a few yards
in breadth, and lying between two fields of arable land, the declivity
of which was on both sides towards the bog, it is evident that Grahame
did not perceive it to be a marsh; and to this, above all other
circumstances, is his defeat to be attributed.

“This ground, so favourable to the Covenanters, appears to have been
taken up more from accident than design. If it had been their wish to
have taken their station in or behind a bog, they could have found many
of them much nearer to where the congregation first met, and much more
impenetrable to cavalry than that where the rencounter happened. In
advancing from Hairlaw Hill to the place of action, they passed several
deep flow-mosses, some of them of great extent, and into which cavalry
could not have entered. Even when the hostile parties came in sight of
each other, the Covenanters were nearer to a flow-moss than they were
to the marshy ground behind which they placed themselves. Had Captain
Grahame known the ground, he could have easily avoided the marsh, and
passed the extremity of it by a public road, only about two or three
hundred yards to the westward.

“The troops fired first, and, according to tradition, the Covenanters,
at the suggestion of Balfour, evaded the fire of the military by
prostrating themselves on the ground, with the exception of John
Morton in Broomhall, who, believing in the doctrine of predestination,
refused to stoop, and was shot. The ball entered his mouth, and he
fell backward at the feet of the great-grandfather of the writer of
this account. Grahame ordered the troops to charge; but a number of
the horses having, in advancing to the Covenanters, been entangled in
the marsh, the ranks were broken, and the squadron was thrown into
disorder. The Covenanters, who had no doubt foreseen what was to
happen, seized the favourable opportunity of pouring their fire on
the disordered cavalry, and, following it up with a spirited attack,
soon completed the confusion and defeat of the troops. The commander
of the Whigs cried, ‘O’er the bog, and to them, lads!’ The order was
re-echoed, and obeyed with promptitude; and, from the involved state of
the military, the forks and halberts of the Covenanters were extremely
apt to the occasion. The rout of the cavalry was instantaneous and
complete, and achieved principally by the insurgents who were on foot,
though the horsemen soon passed the bog and joined in the pursuit. Mr.
Wilson says that Balfour and Cleland were the first persons who stepped
into the bog; but the traditionary accounts allege that it was one
Woodburn, from the Mains of Loudon, who set that example of bravery.

“Thus far the traditionary accounts and that of Mr. Wilson have been
followed. But Mr. Russel says that Claverhouse sent two of his men to
reconnoitre, and afterwards did so himself, before he made the attack.
If he did so, it is surprising that he did not perceive the marsh,
as well as the road by which it might have been evaded. Russel also
says that Captain Grahame sent forward twelve dragoons, who fired
at the Whigs, and that as many of them turned out and fired at the
cavalry. This, he says, was twice repeated, without a person being
hurt on either side. On their firing a third time, one dragoon fell
from his horse, and seemed to rise with difficulty. Claverhouse, he
says, then ordered thirty dragoons to dismount and fire, when William
Cleland, with twelve or sixteen armed footmen, supported by twenty
or twenty-four with halberts and forks, advanced and fired at the
military. But still no one was injured, till Cleland advanced alone,
fired his piece, and killed one dragoon; and when the Whigs were
wheeling, some of the military fired, and killed one man. Claverhouse
next advanced his whole force to the stanck, and fired desperately,
‘and the honest party, having but few guns, was not able to stand, and
being very confused at coming off, one of the last party cried out,
“For the Lord’s sake, go on”; and immediately they ran violently
forward, and Claverhouse was tooming the shot all the time on them;
but the honest party’s right hand of the foot being nearest Cleland,
went on Clavers’s left flank, and all the body went on together against
Clavers’s body, and Cleland stood until the honest party was joined
among them both with pikes and swords, and William Dingwell and Thomas
Weir being on the right hand of the honest party, all the forenamed
who fired thrice before being together, and, louping ower, they got
among the enemies. William Dingwell received his wound, his horse being
dung back by the strength of the enemy, fell over and dang over James
Russel’s horse. James presently rose and mounted and pursued, calling
to a woman to take care of his dear friend William Dingwell, (for
the women ran as fast as the men,) and she did so. Thomas Weir rode
in among them, and took a standard, and he was mortally wounded and
knocked on the head, but pursued as long as he was able, and then fell.
The honest party pursued as long as their horses could trot, being
upwards of two miles. There was of the enemy killed thirty-six dead on
the ground, and by the way in the pursuit, and only five or six of the
honest party.’

“Lieutenant Robert Grahame, Cornet John Arnold, and thirty-four
privates of the King’s forces were killed on the field, and several
more wounded. Five of the military were taken prisoners, and afterwards
allowed to escape. Of the Covenanters, John Morton, Thomas Weir in
Cumberhead, William Dingwell, one of the murderers of the Bishop, James
Thomson, Stonehouse, John Gabbie in Fioch, and James Dykes in Loudon,
were all mortally wounded, and died either on the field, or soon after
the skirmish.

“The Covenanters pursued the troops to Calder Water, about three
miles from the field of action. A person of the name of Finlay, from
Lesmahagow, armed with a pitchfork, came up with Captain Grahame,
at a place called Capernaum, near Coldwakening, and would probably
have killed that officer, had not another of the Covenanters called
to Finlay to strike at the horse, and thereby secure both it and the
rider. The blow intended for the Captain was spent upon his mare, and
the Captain escaped by mounting, with great agility, the horse of his
trumpeter, who was killed by the Whigs.

“The Covenanters came up with some of the dragoons near Hillhead. The
troopers offered to surrender, and asked quarter, which some of the
Covenanters were disposed to grant; but, when their leaders came up,
they actually killed these men, in spite of every remonstrance. The men
so killed were buried like felons, on the marsh between the farms of
Hillhead and Hookhead, and their graves remained visible till the year
1750, when they were sunk in a march dyke, drawn in that direction. The
late Mr. Dykes of Fieldhead declared to the writer of this narrative,
that his grandfather, Thomas Leiper, of Fieldhead, had often told him
that he was present when these soldiers were killed, and did what he
could to save their lives, but without effect.

       *       *       *       *       *

“When the discomfited dragoons returned through Strathaven, they
were insulted and pursued by the inhabitants, down a lane called the
Hole-close, till one of the soldiers fired upon the crowd, and killed
a man, about 50 yards east from where the relief meeting-house at
Strathaven now stands.

“Captain Grahame retreated to Glasgow, and he is said to have met at
Cathkin some troops sent out to his aid; but he refused to return to
the charge, observing to his brother officer, that he had been at a
Whig meeting that day, but that he liked the lecture so ill that he
would not return to the afternoon’s service. Another account says,
that when Captain Grahame rode off the field, Mr. King, the preacher,
then a prisoner, called after him, by way of derision, to stop to the
afternoon’s preaching.[28]

“The relations of the two officers that were killed went to Drumclog
next day after the skirmish, to bury them; but the country people had
cut and mangled the bodies of the slain in such a manner that only one
of the officers could be recognised. The coffin intended for the other
was left at High Drumclog, where it remained many years in a cart-shed,
till it was used in burying a vagrant beggar that died at the Mount, in
that neighbourhood. This fact has been well attested to the writer of
this account from sources of information on which he can rely.”


FOOTNOTES:

[21] The chapel was built in the fourteenth century, by Sir William St.
Clair of Roslin, in consequence of a vow which he made in a curious
emergency. One day, hunting with King Robert I., he wagered his head
that his hounds, _Help_ and _Hold_, would kill a certain beautiful
white deer before it crossed the March burn. On approaching the
boundary, there seemed little chance of his hounds being successful;
but he went aside, and vowed a new chapel to St. Catherine if she would
intercede in his behalf; and she, graciously accepting of his offer,
inspired the hounds with supernatural vigour, so that they caught the
deer just as she was approaching the other side of the burn.

[22] This spirited article is copied (by express permission of the
Publishers,) from “The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.”

[23] Among other ridiculous occurrences, it is said that some of
Charles’s gallantries were discovered by a prying neighbour. A wily
old minister was deputed by his brethren to rebuke the King for his
heinous scandal. Being introduced into the royal presence, he limited
his commission to a serious admonition, that, upon such occasions,
his Majesty should always shut the windows. The King is said to have
recompensed this unexpected lenity after the Restoration. He probably
remembered the joke, though he might have forgotten the service.

[24] See the life of this booted apostle of prelacy, written by Swift,
who had collected all his anecdotes of persecution, and appears to have
enjoyed them accordingly.

[25] “They raved,” says Peden’s historian, “like fleshly devils, when
the mist shrouded from their pursuit the wandering Whigs. One gentleman
closed a declaration of vengeance against the conventicles with this
strange imprecation, ‘or may the devil make my ribs a gridiron to my
soul.’”—MS. Account of the Presbytery of Penpont. Our armies swore
terribly in Flanders, but nothing of this.

[26] Peden complained bitterly that, after a heavy struggle with the
devil, he had got above him, spur-galled him hard, and obtained a wind
to carry him from Ireland to Scotland—when, behold! another person had
set sail, and reaped the advantage of his prayer-wind, before he could
embark.

[27] That part of the novel which represents Claverhouse eating his
_disjeune_ in the hall of Tillietudlem and seat of “his most gracious
Majesty Charles the Second,” must therefore be considered as entirely
unfounded in truth. Could Scribbie Young’s “tower” be the Tillietudlem
of the Tale? Surely not. And, besides, we are given to understand
that a small eminence or knoll in the neighbourhood of Lanark Castle,
which has probably been at some former period surmounted by a ruin, is
popularly termed Tillietudlem.

[28] Crichton says, “King was a bra muckle carl, with a white hat and a
great bob of ribbons on the back o’t.”




CHAPTER VII.

=Heart of Mid-Lothian.=


THE PORTEOUS MOB.

We shall mention a few inaccuracies in the account given of the
Porteous mob in “The Heart of Midlothian,” assigning, at the same time,
precise dates to all the incidents.

On the morning of the 11th of April, 1736, Wilson and Robertson were
conducted to the Tolbooth Church, for the purpose of hearing their
last sermon, their execution being to happen on Wednesday following.
The custom of conducting criminals under sentence of death to a
place of public worship, and suffering them again to mix with their
fellow-men, from whom they were so shortly to be cut off for ever, was
a beautiful trait of the devotional and merciful feelings of the people
of Scotland, which has since this incident been unhappily disused. In
the Tale, the escape of Robertson is said to have happened after the
sermon; but this statement, evidently made by the novelist for the sake
of effect, is incorrect. The criminals had scarcely seated themselves
in the pew, when Wilson committed the daring deed. Robertson tripped up
the fourth soldier himself, and jumped out of the pew with incredible
agility. In hurrying out at the door of the church, he tumbled over
the collection money, by which he was probably hurt; for, in running
across the Parliament Square, he was observed to stagger much, and,
in going down the stairs which lead to the Cowgate, actually fell. In
this dangerous predicament he was protected by Mr. M‘Queen, minister
of the New Kirk, who was coming up the stair on his way to church at
the moment. This kind-hearted gentleman is said to have set him again
on his feet, and to have covered his retreat as much as possible from
the pursuit of the guard. Robertson passed down to the Cowgate, ran
up the Horse Wynd, and out at the Potterrow Port, the crowd all the
way closing behind him, so that his pursuers could not by any means
overtake him. In the wynd he made up to a saddled horse, and would have
mounted him, but was prevented by the owner. Passing the Crosscauseway,
he got into the King’s Park, and made the way for Duddingstone,
under the basaltic rocks which overhang the path to that village. On
jumping a dyke near Clearburn, he fainted away, but was revived by a
refreshment which he there received.

Upon Robertson’s escape, Wilson was immediately taken back to prison,
and put in close custody. He was executed, under the dreadful
circumstances so well known, on the 14th of April. The story of a
“young fellow, with a sailor’s cap slouched over his face,” having
cut him down from the gibbet, on the rising of the mob, is perfectly
unfounded. The executioner was at the top of the ladder, performing
that part of his office, at the time Porteous fired.

Though the author of the Tale has chosen George Robertson for his hero,
and invested him with many attributes worthy of that high character,
historical accuracy obliges us to record that he was merely a stabler;
and, what must at once destroy all romantic feelings concerning him in
the light of a hero, tradition informs us that he was a married man
at the time of his imprisonment. He kept an inn in Bristo Street, and
was a man of rather dissipated habits, though the exculpatory evidence
produced upon his trial represents him as in the habit of being much
intrusted by the carriers who lodged at his house. After his escape, he
was known to have gone to Holland, and to have resided there many years.

The most flagrant aberration from the truth committed by the novelist,
is in the opening of the Tale, where the crowd is represented as
awaiting the execution of Captain Porteous, in the Grassmarket, on the
7th of September. The whole scene is described in the most admirable
manner; and the interesting objects of the gallows, the filled windows,
and the crowd upon the street, form, I have no doubt, the faithful
outline of what the scene would have been, had it existed.[29]

But however ably the Author of “Waverley” has delineated this imaginary
scene, it is unfortunate that his account does not agree either with
truth, or, what was to him ten times more important, _vraisemblance_.
He has no doubt handled the fictitious incident of the abortive
preparations for the execution, and the expressions of the disappointed
multitude on the occasion, in his usual masterly manner, and heightened
the _effect_ of his own story not a little by the use he has made of
history; but it must at the same time strike every reader that the
whole affair is extremely improbable. It seems scarcely possible that a
conspiracy of such a deep and well-planned nature as the Porteous mob
could have been laid and brought to issue in a single afternoon. Not
even the most romantic reader of novels, supposing him to understand
the case to its full extent, would deceive himself with so incredible
an absurdity; but would think with us that, according to the natural
course of things, it would take _all the time it did take_, (five
days,) before so well-laid and eventually so successful a scheme could
be projected, organized, and accomplished.

The plain statement of the facts is to the following effect.

The Queen’s pardon reached Edinburgh so early as Thursday, the 2nd of
September. The riot happened on the night of Tuesday, the 7th—the
night previous to the day on which the execution was to have taken
place, and after a sufficient time had elapsed for the preparation of
the scheme. Many of the rioters came from counties so distant, that the
news of the reprieve could not have reached them in a less space; and
perhaps the intelligence would not have been so speedily communicated
in those postless and coachless days, had not the popular interest in
the matter been so universal. Taking every thing into consideration, it
may indeed astonish us that the conspiracy was so rapidly matured as
it _was_, not to speak of a single afternoon! It may be noticed, that
some papers have lately come to light, by which it appears the plot
was not of that dark and mysterious character which the accounts of
the times and the Author of “Waverley” make it. Information had been
given to the council at least _thirty-six hours_ before the tumult
burst forth; and at a meeting late on the previous evening, when the
information was taken into consideration, the council pronounced the
reports in circulation to be merely _cadies’ clatters_, (gossip of
street-porters,) unworthy of regard.

The incidents of the riot, from the mob’s entering the city at the
West Port to Butler’s desertion of the scene at midnight, are all
given very correctly by the novelist. It is said to be absolutely true
that the rioters seized and detained a person of Butler’s profession,
for the purpose related in the novel. This happened, however, when
they had got half way to the gallows, at the head of the West Bow.
Porteous was twice drawn up and let down again before the deed was
accomplished—first, to bind his hands, and secondly, in order to put
something over his face. In the morning his body was found hanging, by
the public functionaries of the city, and was buried the same day in
the neighbouring churchyard of Greyfriars. It was on the south side of
the Grassmarket that he was hanged.

Arnot observes, after relating the incidents of the Porteous mob, in
his History of Edinburgh, that though it was then forty years after
that occurrence, no person had ever been found out upon whom an
accession to the murder could be charged. Nevertheless, the writer of
the present narrative has been informed by a very old man, who was an
apprentice in the Fleshmarket of Edinburgh about fifty years ago, that
in his younger days it was well known among the butchers, though only
whispered secretly among themselves, that the leaders of this singular
riot were two brothers of the name of Cumming, who were, for many years
after, fleshers in the Low Market, and died unmolested, at advanced
ages. They were tall, strong, and exceedingly handsome men, had been
dressed in women’s clothes on the occasion, and were said to have been
the first to jump through the flames that burnt down the prison-door,
in eagerness to seize their unfortunate victim.

A few more scraps of private information have also been communicated to
the world by one who was instrumental and active in the riot. We give
them from the authority of “The Beauties of Scotland.”

“On the day preceding that of Porteous’ death, a whisper went through
the country, upon what information or authority this person knew not,
that an attempt was to be made, on the succeeding evening, to put
Captain Porteous to death. To avenge the blood of a relation who had
been killed at the execution of Wilson, he conceived himself bound in
duty to share the risk of the attempt. Wherefore, upon the following
day, he proceeded to Edinburgh, and towards the evening stopped in the
suburb of Portsburgh, which he found crowded with country people; all
of whom, however, kept aloof from each other, so that there was no
conversation about the purpose of their assembling. At a later hour,
he found the inferior sort of inns in the Grassmarket full of people,
and saw many persons, apparently strangers, lurking in the different
houses. About eleven at night, the streets became crowded with men,
who, having in some measure organized their body, by beating a drum and
marching in order, immediately proceeded to secure the gates and make
for the prison.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“As the multitude proceeded with Porteous down the West Bow, some of
their number knocked at the door of a shop and demanded ropes.[30]
A woman, apparently a maid-servant, thrust a coil of ropes out of a
window, without opening the door, and a person wearing a white apron,
which seemed to be assumed for disguise, gave in return a piece of gold
as the price,” etc.


THE CITY GUARD.

The City Guard, of which so much mention is made in the Tale before
us, was originally instituted in 1648. Previous to that period, the
City had been watched during the night by the personal duty of the
inhabitants, a certain number of whom were obliged to undertake the
office by rotation. In order to relieve the inconveniency of this
service, a body of sixty men was first appointed, with a captain, two
lieutenants, two sergeants, and three corporals; but no regular funds
being provided for the support of the establishment, it was speedily
dissolved. However, about thirty years thereafter, the necessity of a
regular police was again felt; and forty men were raised. These, in the
year 1682, were augmented, at the instigation of the Duke of York, to
108 men; and, to defray the expense of the company, a tax was imposed
upon the citizens. At the Revolution, the Town Council represented
to the Estates of Parliament, that the burden was a grievance to the
City; and their request to have it removed was granted. So speedily,
however, did they repent this second dismissal of their police, that
the very next year they applied to Parliament for authority to raise a
body of no fewer than 126 men, and to assess the inhabitants for the
expense. Since that period the number of the Town Guard had been very
fluctuating, and, before its late final dissolution, amounted only to
about 75 men. For many years previous to this event, they had been
found quite inadequate to the protection of the City. Riots seemed to
be in some measure encouraged by the ridicule in which the venerable
corps was held; and from their infirmities and other circumstances, as
well as from their scantiness, the more distant parts of the rapidly
increasing capital were left defenceless and open to the attacks of
nightly depredators. Their language, their manners, and their tempers,
so uncongenial with those of the citizens whom they protected, were
also found to be almost inapplicable to the purposes for which they
served, and, of course, operated as causes of their being disbanded.
Besides, a few years before their dismissal, a regular police, similar
to that of London, had been established in Edinburgh; which soon
completely set aside all necessity of their services. The Town Guard
were therefore convoked for the last time, we believe, in February,
1817; and, after receiving some small gratuity from the magistrates,
and having a pension settled upon them still more trifling than their
trifling pay, proportioned to the rank they held in the corps, were
finally disbanded. The police of Edinburgh is now almost unrivalled in
Britain for vigilance and activity—how different from the unruly and
intemperate times when magisterial authority could be successfully set
at defiance, when mobs could unite into such a system of co-operation
as even to beard royalty itself, when (in 1812) a scene of violence
could be exhibited that would not have disgraced the middle ages, and
when, still more to be lamented, the protection of property was so
uncertain, that, according to the city-arms, it was but too literally
true that—

    “Unless the _Lord_ the City kept,
    The _watchmen_ watched in vain!”

Another event occurred about the same time in Edinburgh, which
was appropriately contemporaneous with the abolition of the City
Guard,—namely, the demolishment and final removal of the Tolbooth.
This building, which makes so conspicuous a figure in the present Tale,
was originally the Town-house of Edinburgh, and afterwards afforded
accommodation for the Scottish Parliament and Courts of Justice, and
for the confinement of debtors and malefactors. It had been used
solely as a jail since 1640. It was not deficient in other interesting
recollections, besides being the scene of the Porteous mob. Here Queen
Mary delivered, what are termed by John Knox her _Painted Orations_;
and on its dreary summits had been successively displayed the heads of
a Morton, a Gowrie, a Huntly, a Montrose, and an Argyll,—besides those
of many of inferior note.

A part of this edifice had been devoted to the use of the City Guard,
ever since the removal of their former rendezvous in the High Street.
Many will still remember of seeing a veteran or two leaning over
a half-door in the north side of the Jail. Could their eyes have
penetrated farther into the gloomy interior, a few more indistinct
figures might have been perceived smoking round a fire, or reading
an old newspaper, while the unintelligible language which they spoke
might aid the idea of their resemblance to a convocation of infernals
in some of the cinder-holes of Tartarus. In fine weather, a few of the
venerable corps might be seen crawling about the south front of the
prison, with Lochaber axes over their shoulders, or reposing lazily
on a form with the white-haired keeper of the Tolbooth door, and
basking in the sun, in all the lubber luxury of mental and corporeal
abandonment. But now (_sic transit gloria mundi!_) their ancient
Capitol is levelled with the dust, and they themselves are only to be
ranked among the “things that were.” All trace of their existence is
dispersed over a waste of visioned recollection; and future generations
will think of the City Guard, as they think of _the forty-five_, of
_the Friends of the People_,—or of the last year’s snow!

It is said, in the “Heart of Midlothian,” that “a phantom of former
days,” in the shape of “an old worn-out Highlander, dressed in a
cocked hat, bound with white tape instead of silver lace, and in coat,
waistcoat and breeches, of a muddy-coloured red,” (the costume of _the
Guard_,) “still creeps around the statue of Charles the Second, in the
Parliament Square, as if the image of a Stuart were the last refuge
for any memorial of our ancient manners.” This venerable spectre is
neither more nor less than the goodly flesh and blood figure of John
Kennedy, who served in the corps ever since the American war, and who
is now employed by Mr. Rae, keeper of the Parliament House, to sweep
the arcade, and to prevent little ragged urchins from disturbing by
their noisy sports the weightier business of the law. John Kennedy was
one of the band; and was well known to the heroes of the High School
forty years ago. Like him, the greater part of his surviving brethren
have changed into new shapes. One or two may be observed now and then,
staggering about the outskirts of the town, or dozing away the last
years of life upon the seats in the Meadow Walk and the King’s Park.
Their old musty coats, in such instances, are dyed in some colour less
military than red, and generally otherwise modernized by abscission of
the skirts. A pair of their original spatterdashers still case their
legs,—but which still less scarcely fend than formerly

                    “——to keep
    Frae weet and weary plashes
                  O’ dirt, thir days.”

We once stumbled upon a veteran snugly bedded in a stall of about three
feet square, crammed into the internal space of an outside stair in
the West Bow. In this den he exercised the calling of a cobbler. Like
all shoemakers, he was an earnest politician, and read the _Scotsman_
every week in the second month of its age, after it had made the
tour of _the Bow_;—“being determined,” he said, “to _stick by the
nation_!” We have also sometimes found occasion to recognise the nose
of an old acquaintance, under the disguise of a circulator of bills,
at the doors of certain haberdashers on the South Bridge. We have a
peculiar veneration for a puff given forth from the paw of an _old
Town-Guardsman_; and seldom find it in our heart to put such a document
to a death of candle-ends.

One of the principal reasons which David Deans assigned to Saddletree,
for not employing counsel in the cause of his daughter Effie, was the
notorious Jacobitism of the faculty, who, he said, had received into
their library the medals which that Moabitish woman, the Duchess of
Gordon, had sent to them. This was a true and, moreover, a curious
case. In 1711, the great-grandmother of the present Duke of Gordon
excited no small attention by presenting to the Faculty of Advocates
a silver medal, with a head of the Pretender on one side, and, on the
other, the British isles, with the word _Reddite_.[31] The Dean having
presented the medal to the faculty at the next meeting, a debate ensued
about the propriety of admitting it into their repositories. It was
carried 63 to 12 to admit the medal, and return thanks to the duchess
for her present. Two advocates, delegated for that purpose, waited
upon her grace, and expressed their hopes that she would soon have an
opportunity of complimenting the faculty with a second medal on the
_Restoration_.

This lady was the wife of George, first Duke of Gordon, who held out
Edinburgh Castle for King James, in 1689.


JEANIE DEANS.

The plot of this tale, besides bearing some resemblance to that of The
Exiles of Siberia, finds a counterpart in the story of Helen Walker.

When the following account of this person was taken down, in 1786,
she was a little stout-looking woman, between 70 and 80 years of
age, dressed in a long tartan plaid, and having over her white cap,
(_Scottice_, TOY,) a black silk hood tied under her chin. She lived
in the neighbourhood of Dumfries, on the romantic banks of the
immortalized Clouden, a little way above the bridge by which the road
from Dumfries to Sanquhar crosses that beautiful stream. She lived
by the humblest means of subsistence,—working stockings, teaching
a few children, and rearing now and then a small brood of chickens.
Her countenance was remarkably lively and intelligent, her eyes were
dark and expressive, and her conversation was marked by a naïveté and
good sense that seemed to fit her for a higher sphere in life. When
any question was asked concerning her earlier life, her face became
clouded, and she generally contrived to turn the conversation to a
different topic.

Her story, so far as it was ever known, bore that she had been early
left an orphan, with the charge of a younger sister, named _Tibby_,
(Isabella,) whom she endeavoured to maintain and educate by her own
exertions. It will not be easy to conceive her feelings when her sister
was apprehended on a charge of child-murder, and herself called on as a
principal witness against her. The counsel for the prisoner told Helen,
that if she could declare that her sister had made any preparation,
however slight, or had communicated any notice of her situation, such
a statement would save her sister’s life. But, from the very first,
this high-souled woman determined against such a perjury, and avowed
her resolution to give evidence according to her conscience. Isabella
was of course found guilty and condemned; and, in removing her from the
bar, she was heard to say to her sister, “Oh, Nelly! ye’ve been the
cause of my death!”

Helen Walker, however, was as remarkable for her dauntless perseverance
in a good cause as for her fortitude in resisting the temptations of a
bad one. She immediately procured a petition to be drawn up, stating
the peculiar circumstances of the case, and that very night of her
sister’s condemnation set out from Dumfries for London. She travelled
on foot, and was neither possessed of introduction nor recommendation.
She presented herself in her tartan plaid and country attire before
John Duke of Argyll, after having watched three days at his door, just
as he was stepping into his carriage, and delivered her petition.
Herself and her story interested him so much, that he immediately
procured the pardon she solicited, which was forwarded to Dumfries, and
Helen returned on foot, having performed her meritorious journey in the
course of a few weeks.

After her liberation, Isabella was married to the father of her child,
and retired to some distance in the north of England, where Helen used
occasionally to visit her.

Helen Walker, whom every one will be ready to acknowledge as the
_Original_ of Jeanie Deans, died in the spring of 1787; and her remains
lie in the Churchyard of Irongray, without a stone to mark the place
where they are deposited.


PATRICK WALKER.

The objurgatory exhortation which David Deans delivers to his
daughters, on suddenly overhearing the word “_dance_” pronounced
in their conversation, will be remembered by our readers. He there
“blesses God, (with that singular worthy, Patrick Walker the packman at
Bristo-port,) that ordered his lot in his dancing days, so that fear of
his head and throat, cauld and hunger, wetness and weariness, stopped
the lightness of his head and the wantonness of his feet.” Almost the
whole of David’s speech is to be found at the 59th page of Patrick
Walker’s “Life of Cameron,” with much more curious matter.

This “Patrick Walker” was a person who had suffered for the good cause
in his youth, along with many others of the “singular worthies” of
the times. After the Revolution, it appears that he exercised the
profession of a pedlar. He probably dealed much in those pamphlets
concerning the sufferings and the doctrines of the “_Martyrs_,” which
were so widely diffused throughout Scotland, in the years subsequent
to the Revolution. In the process of time he set up his staff of rest
in a small shop at the head of Bristo Street, opposite to the entrance
of a court entitled “Society.” Here Patrick flourished about a century
ago, and published several works, now very scarce and curious, of
“Remarkable Passages in the Lives and Deaths of those famous worthies,
signal for piety and zeal, _viz._ Mr. John Semple, Mr. Wellwood, Mr.
Cameron, Mr. Peden, etc.; who were all shining lights in the Land, and
gave light to many, in which they rejoiced for a season.” For this
sort of biography Patrick seems to have been excellently adapted;
for he had not only been witness to many of the incidents which
he describes, but, from his intimate personal friendship with the
subjects of his narratives, he was also a complete adept in all their
intricate polemics and narrow superstitions. These he accordingly
gives in such a style of length, strength, and volubility, as leaves
us weltering in astonishment at the extensive range of expression of
which Cant was susceptible. Take the following, for instance, from the
rhapsodies of Peden. “A bloody sword, a bloody sword, a bloody sword
for thee, O Scotland! Many miles shall ye travel and shall see nothing
but desolation and ruinous wastes in thee, O Scotland! The fertilest
places shall be desert as the mountains in thee, O Scotland! Oh the
Monzies, the Monzies, see how they run! how long will they run? Lord,
cut their houghs and stay their running. The women with child shall be
ript up and dashed in pieces. Many a preaching has God waired (_spent_)
on thee, O Scotland! But now He will come forth with the fiery brand
of His wrath, and then He will preach to thee by conflagration, since
words winna do! O Lord, Thou hast been baith good and kind to auld
Sandy, thorow a long tract of time, and given him many years in Thy
Service which have been but like as many months. But now he is tired
of the warld, and sae let him away with the honesty he has, for he
will gather no more!” We will also extract Patrick’s own account of
an incident which is related upon his authority in the “Heart of
Midlothian,” at the 54th page of the second volume. It is a good
specimen of his style:—

“One time, among many, he[32] designed to administrate the Sacrament
of the Lord’s Supper; and before the time cam, he assured the people
that the devil would be envious of the good work they were to go
about,—that he was afraid he would be permitted to raise a storm in
the air with a speat of rain, to raise the water, designing to drown
some of them; but it will not be within the compass of his power to
drown any of you, no not so much as a dog. Accordingly it came to pass,
on _Monday_, when they were dismissing, they saw a man all in black,
entering the water to wade, a little above them; they were afraid, the
water being big; immediately he lost his feet, (as they apprehended,)
and came down lying on his back, and waving his hand. The people ran
and got ropes, and threw in to him; and tho’ there were ten or twelve
men upon the ropes, they were in danger of being drowned into the
water: Mr. Semple, looking on, cryed, ‘Quit the ropes and let him go,
(he saw who it was,) ’tis the devil, ’tis the devil; he will burn, but
not drown; and, by drowning you, would have God dishonoured, because
He hath gotten some glory to His free grace, in being kind to mony of
your souls at this time. Oh! he is a subtile wylie devil, that lies
at the catch, waiting his opportunity, that now, when ye have heard
all ye will get at this occasion, his design is to raise a confusion
among you, to get all out of your minds that ye have heard, and off
your spirits that ye have felt.’ He earnestly exhorted them all to
keep in mind what they had heard and seen, and to retain what they had
attained, and to go home blessing God for all, and that the devil was
disappointed of his hellish design. All search was made in the country,
to find out if any man was lost, but none could be heard of; from
whence all concluded that it was the devil.”

According to Patrick, this same Mr. Semple was remarkable for much
discernment and sagacity, besides that which was necessary for the
detection of devils. From the following “passage,” the reader will
observe that he was equally acute in the detection of witches. “While
a neighbouring minister was distributing tokens before the sacrament,
Mr. Semple standing by, and seeing him reaching a token to a woman,
said, ‘Hold your hand; that Woman hath got too many tokens already, for
she is a witch;’ of which none suspected her then: yet afterwards she
confessed herself to be a witch, and was put to death for the same.”

We also find John Semple, of Carsphearn, introduced into that
well-known irreverent work, “Scots Presbyterian Eloquence”; where an
humorous burlesque of his style of expression is given in the following
words: “In the day of judgment the Lord will say, ‘Who’s that there?’
John will answer, ‘It’s e’en poor auld John Semple, Lord.’ ‘Who are
these with you, John?’ ‘It’s a few poor honest bonneted men.’ ‘Strange,
John! where’s all your folks with their hats and silk hoods?’ ‘I
invited them, Lord; but they would not come.’ ‘It’s not your fault,
John; come forward, ye are very welcome, and these few with you!’”

In the _reekit_ and mutilated volume of “Lives” before us, we have
found a considerable number of passages which are alluded to in the
narratives of My Landlord—more indeed than it would be interesting
to point out. The use which the Author makes of the information he
derives from them is by no means dishonourable, except perhaps in one
instance, vol. iv., page 134, where it must be allowed he is rather
waggish upon Patrick, besides corrupting the truth of his text. This
instance relates to the murder of a trooper named Francis Gordon, said
to have been committed by the Cameronians. Patrick denies the charge
of murder, and calls it only killing in self-defence. His own account
is as follows: “It was then commonly said, that Mr. Francis Gordon was
a Volunteer out of Wickedness of Principles, and could not stay with
the Troops, but must alwaies be raging and ranging to catch hiding
suffering people. Meldrum and Airly’s Troops, lying at Lanark upon the
first Day of March, 1682, Mr. Gordon and another Comrade, with their
two Servants and four Horses, came to Kilcaigow, two Miles from Lanark,
searching for William Caigow and others under Hiding. Mr. Gordon,
rambling thorow the Town, offered to abuse the women. At night they
came a mile further to the Easterseat, to Robert Muir’s, he being also
under hiding. Gordon’s comrade and the two servants went to bed, but
he could sleep none, roaring all the night for women. When day came,
he took his sword in his hand, and came to Moss-Platt; and some men,
(who had been in the fields all night,) seeing him, they fled, and
he pursued. James Wilson, Thomas Young, and myself, having been in a
meeting all night, were lying down in the morning. We were alarmed,
thinking there were many more than one. He pursued hard and overtook
us. Thomas Young said, ‘Sir, what do you pursue us for?’ He said, he
was come to send us to Hell. James Wilson said, ‘That shall not be, for
we will defend ourselves.’ He answered that either he or we should go
to it now, and then ran his sword furiously thorow James Wilson’s coat.
James fired upon him, but missed him. All the time he cried, ‘damn his
soul!’ He got a shot in his head out of a pocket pistol, rather fit
for diverting a boy than for killing such a furious, mad, brisk man;
which notwithstanding killed him dead.” Patrick does not mention who it
was that shot him; and from his obscurity on this point, we are led
to suspect that it was no other than himself; for had it been Thomas
Young, it is probable that he would have mentioned it. In the ‘Tale,’
David Deans is mentioned as being among them, and half confesses to the
merit of having killed Mr. Gordon; but our venerable biographer is also
made to prefer a sort of a half claim to the honour, while neither of
them dared utterly to avow it; ‘there being some wild cousins of the
deceased about Edinburgh who might have been yet addicted to revenge.’”

The “worthy John Livingston, a sailor in Borrowstownness,” who is
quoted for a saying at the 37th page of the fourth volume, will be
found at 107th page of Patrick’s “Life of Cameron,” with the words
ascribed to him at full length. Borrowstownness seems to have been a
somewhat holy place in its day; for, besides this worthy, we learn from
the same authority that it also produced “Skipper William Horn, that
singular, solid, serious, old exercised, self-denied, experienced,
confirmed, established, tender Christian,” and another tar of the name
of Alexander Stewart, who “suffered at the Cross” for a cause in which
few of his profession have ever since thought of suffering,—together
with two other worthies named Cuthel, one of whom was beheaded along
with Mr. Cargill.

At the 40th page of the same fourth volume, David Deans declares
himself to have been the person “of whom there was some sport at
the Revolution, when he noited thegither the heads of the twa false
prophets, their ungracious Graces the Prelates, as they stood on the
High Street, after being expelled from the Convention-parliament.”
The source of this story is also to be found in the works of Patrick
Walker. This sage historian relates the circumstance in a manner rather
too facetious to be altogether consistent with his habitual gravity.
“Fourteen Bishops,” says he, “were expelled at once, and stood in a
cloud, with pale faces, in the Parliament Close. James Wilson, Robert
Neilson, Francis Hislop, and myself, were standing close by them.
Francis Hislop, with force, thrust Robert Neilson upon them, and their
heads went hard upon each other. Their graceless Graces went quickly
off; and in a short time neither Bishop nor Curate were to be seen
in the streets. This was a sudden and surprising change, not to be
forgotten. But some of us would have rejoiced still more to have seen
the whole cabalzie sent legally down the Bow, that they might have
found the weight of their tails in a tow, to dry their stocking-soles,
and let them know what hanging was.”[33]


PARTICULARS REGARDING SCENERY, ETC.

SAINT LEONARD’S CRAGS, the scene of David Deans’s residence, are an
irregular ridge, with a slight vegetation, situated in the south-west
boundary of the King’s Park, at Edinburgh. Adjacent to them, and
bearing their name, there exists a sort of village, now almost inclosed
by the approaching suburbs of the city. The neighbouring extremity
of the Pleasance, with this little place, seem to have formed at
one period the summer residences or villas of the inhabitants of
Edinburgh, some of the houses even yet bearing traces of little garden
plots before the door, and other peculiarities of what is still the
prevailing taste in the fitting up of _boxes_. None of these may,
however, have existed in the time of David Deans. In former times, St.
Leonard’s Crags and the adjoining valley used to be much resorted to by
duellists. This part of their history is, however, to be found at full
length in the “Heart of Midlothian.” There is a case of duel on record,
in which a barber challenged a citizen, and fought him with swords. It
happened in the year 1600. The citizen was slain; and his antagonist,
being instantly apprehended, was tried, and, by the order of the King,
executed, for having presumed to take the revenge of a gentleman.[34]

MUSCHAT’S CAIRN, so conspicuously introduced into this Tale, was a heap
of stones placed upon the spot where a barbarous murder was committed
in the year 1720. The murderer was descended of a respectable family
in the county of Angus, and had been educated to the profession of a
surgeon. When in Edinburgh, in the course of his education, it appears
that he made an imprudent match with a woman in humble life, named
Margaret Hall. He shortly repented of what he had done, and endeavoured
by every means to shake himself free of his wife. The attempts
which he made to divorce, to forsake, and to poison her, proved all
unsuccessful; till at length he resolved, in the distraction caused
by his frequent disappointments, to rid himself of his incumbrance
by the surest method, that of cutting her throat. The day before the
perpetration of this deed, he pretended a return of affection to the
unfortunate woman, and in the evening took her to walk with him, in
the direction of Duddingston. The unhappy creature was averse to the
expedition, and intreated her husband to remain in Edinburgh; but he
persisted, in spite of her tears, in his desire of taking her with him
to that village. When they had got nearly to the extremity of the path
which is called the Duke’s Walk, (having been the favourite promenade
of the Duke of York, afterwards King James II.,) Muschat threw her
upon the ground, and immediately proceeded to cut her throat. During
her resistance he wounded her hand and chin, which she held down,
endeavouring to intercept the knife; and he declared in his confession,
afterwards taken, that, but for her long hair, with which he pinned her
to the earth, he could not have succeeded in his purpose, her struggles
being so great. Immediately after the murder, he went and informed
some of his accomplices, and took no pains to evade apprehension. He
was tried and found guilty upon his own confession, and, after being
executed in the Grassmarket, was hung in chains upon the Gallowlee.[35]
A cairn of stones was erected upon the spot where the murder took
place, in token of the people’s abhorrence and reprobation of the deed.
It was removed several years since, when the Duke’s Walk was widened
and levelled by Lord Adam Gordon.

ST. ANTHONY’S CHAPEL, among the ruins of which Robertson found means to
elude the pursuit of Sharpitlaw, is an interesting relic of antiquity,
situated on a level space about half-way up the north-west side of the
mountain called Arthur’s Seat. It lies in a westerly direction from
Muschat’s Cairn, at about the distance of a furlong; and the Hunter’s
Bog, also mentioned in this Tale, occupies a valley which surrounds all
that side of the hill. The chapel was originally a place of worship,
annexed to a hermitage at the distance of a few yards, and both were
subservient to a monastery of the same name, which anciently flourished
on the site of St. Anthony’s Street in Leith. In the times of Maitland
and Arnot the ruin was almost entire; but now there only remain a
broken wall and a few fragments of what has once been building, but
which are now scarcely to be distinguished from the surrounding grey
rocks;—so entirely has art in this case relapsed into its primitive
nature, and lost all the characteristics of human handiwork. The
slightest possible traces of a hermitage are also to be observed,
plastered against the side of a hollow rock; and, further down the
hill, there springs from the foot of a precipice the celebrated St.
Anthony’s Well. Queen Mary is said to have visited all these scenes;
and, somehow or other, her name is always associated with them by those
who are accustomed to visit, on a Sunday afternoon, their hallowed
precincts. They are also rendered sacred in song, by their introduction
into one of the most beautiful, most plaintive, and most poetical of
all Scotland’s ancient melodies:

    “I leant my back unto an aik,
      I thought it was a trusty tree:
    But first it bowed and syne it brak,
      Sae my true love’s forsaken me.

    “Oh! Arthur’s Seat shall be my bed,
      The sheets shall ne’er be pressed by me:
    St. Anton’s well shall be my drink,
      Sin’ my true love’s forsaken me,” etc.

The situation is remarkably well adapted for a hermitage, though in
the immediate neighbourhood of a populous capital. The scene around
is as wild as a Highland desert, and gives an air of seclusion and
peacefulness as complete. If the distant din of the city at all could
reach the eremite’s ears, it would appear as insignificant as the
murmur of the waves around the base of the isolated rock, and would be
as unheeded.


FOOTNOTES:

[29] Even the loftiness of the surrounding buildings is taken into
account. “The uncommon height and antique appearance of these houses,”
says the author, “some of which were formerly the property of the
Knights Templars and the Knights of St. John, and still exhibit upon
their fronts and gables the iron cross of these orders, gave additional
effect to a scene in itself so striking.” This sentence, it is somewhat
remarkable, is also used (perhaps I should say _repeated_) by Sir
Walter Scott, when he finds occasion to describe the same scene in his
“Provincial Antiquities of Scotland.”

[30] The shop from which the rioters procured the rope, was a small
shop in the second or middle division of the West Bow (No. 69). It
was then kept by a Mrs. Jeffrey, but was not a rope-maker’s shop.
It was a shop of _huckstery_ or _small wares_, in which ropes were
then included. It seems yet to be occupied by a person of the same
profession (Mrs. Wilson).

[31] There is an engraving of this medal in Boyer’s “History of Queen
Anne,” p. 511.

[32] Mr. John Semple, of Carsphearn.

[33] We are glad to observe that the biographical works of Patrick
Walker are shortly to be reprinted by Mr. John Stevenson, Bookseller,
Prince’s Street, whose shop is well known, or ought to be so, by all
the true lovers of curious little old smoke-dried volumes.

[34] Birrel’s account of this matter is as follows:—“[1600.] The 2 of
Apryll, being the Sabbath day, Robert Auchmutie, barber, slew James
Wauchope, at the combat in St. Leonard’s Hill; and, upon the 23, the
said Rt. put in ward in the tolbuith of Edr.; and in the meine time of
his being in ward, he hang ane cloke w’t’out the window of the irone
hous, and anither w’t in the window yr.; and, saying yat he was sick,
and might not see the light, he had aquafortis continuallie seithing
at the irone window, quhill, at the last, the irone window wes eiten
throw; sua, upon a morneing, he caused his prentes boy attend quhen the
towne gaird should have dissolvit, at q’lk tyme the boy waitit one,
and gaif hes Mr ane token yat the said gaird wer gone, be the schewe
or waiff of his hand-curche. The said Robt. hung out an tow, q’ron he
thought to have cumeit doune; the said gairde espyit the waiff of the
hand-curche, and sua the said Robt was disappointit of hes intentione
and devys; and sua, on the 10 day, he wes beheidit at the Cross, upon
ane scaffold.” P. 48, 49.

[35] The Gallowlee was not the usual place of execution; but the most
flagrant criminals were generally hung there in chains. Many of the
martyrs were exhibited on its summit, which Patrick Walker records with
due horror. It ceased to be employed for any purpose of this kind about
the middle of the last century; since which period with one exception,
no criminals have been hung in chains in Scotland. Its site was a
rising ground immediately below the Botanic Garden, in Leith Walk.
When the New Town was in the progress of building, the sand used for
the composition of the mortar was procured from this spot; on which
account the miracle of a hill turned into a valley has taken place,
and it is at the present day that low beautiful esplanade of which
Eagle and Henderson’s nursery is formed. The Gallowlee turned out a
source of great emolument to the possessor, sixpence being allowed
for every cartful of sand that was taken away. But the proprietor was
never truly benefited by the circumstance. Being addicted to drinking,
he was in the habit of spending every sixpence as he received it. A
tavern was set up near the spot, which was formerly unaccommodated with
such a convenience, for the sole purpose of selling whisky to _Matthew
Richmond_,—and he was its only customer. A fortune was soon acquired of
the profits of the drink alone; and when the source of the affluence
ceased, poor Matthew was left poorer than he had originally been, after
having flung away the proffered chance of immense wealth. Never did
gamester more completely sink the last acre of his estate, than did
_muckle Matthew Richmond_ drink down the last grain of the sand-hill of
the Gallowlee!




CHAPTER VIII.

=Bride of Lammermoor.=


(_The Plot, and Chief Characters of the Tale._)[36]

John Hamilton, second son of Sir Walter Hambledon of Cadzow, ancestor
of the Dukes of Hamilton, married the heiress of Innerwick,[37] in East
Lothian, in the reign of King Robert Bruce, and was the progenitor of
“a race of powerful barons,” who flourished for about three hundred
years, and “intermarried with the Douglasses, Homes,” etc. They
possessed a great many lands on the coast of East Lothian, betwixt
Dunbar and the borders of Berwickshire, and also about Dirleton and
North Berwick. They had their residence at the Castle of Innerwick,
now in ruins. Wolff’s Crag is supposed to be the Castle of Dunglas;
and this supposition is strengthened by the retour[38] of a person of
the name of Wolff, in the year 1647, of some parts of the Barony of
Innerwick, being on record, and the castle having been blown up by
gunpowder in 1640, a circumstance slightly noticed in the Tale, but
too obvious to be mistaken.[39] Of this family the Earls of Haddington
are descended. They began to decline about the beginning of the 17th
century, when they seem to have lost the title of Innerwick[40] and
began to take their designation from other parts of the family
inheritance, such as Fenton, Lawfield, etc. The last of them was a
Colonel Alexander Hamilton, who was in life in 1670, and had been
_abroad_ for some time—thus agreeing with the Story in one particular
which had a material influence on the fortunes of the family. In him
the direct male line became extinct, and, according to the prophecy,
his name was “lost for evermore.” The circumstances of this family,
and the period of their decline, agree so exactly with the Tale, that,
unless the _local_ scene of it be altogether a fiction, it appears, at
first view, scarcely possible to doubt that the Lords of Ravenswood and
the Hamiltons of Innerwick were the same.

Taking this supposition to be correct, a conjecture might be hazarded,
in the absence of any authentic information on the subject, from the
present possessors of the domains of the family of Innerwick, who Sir
William Ashton was. Sir John Nisbet of Dirleton was Lord Advocate in
the reign of King Charles II., and afterwards a Lord of Session, at the
very time when Colonel Hamilton above mentioned was abroad. He seems
to have been the founder of his family; and in this respect, as well
as his having been a great lawyer, bears a remarkable resemblance to
Sir William Ashton. He died without male issue, (another coincidence,)
and in possession of the very estate which belonged to the Hamiltons
of Innerwick, which his posterity still enjoy. From the want, however,
of written memoirs of the family at Dirleton, or a knowledge of the
manner in which they acquired their estates, any conjecture which can
be founded on these circumstances must be entirely hypothetical.

Though silent regarding the house of Ravenswood, the subject of the
story has received considerable elucidation from a note[41] annexed
to the Review of it in the _Edinburgh Monthly Review_ for August,
1819, wherein it is stated, that Lucy Ashton was one of the daughters
of the first Lord Stair. This nobleman was certainly the only lawyer
at that period who enjoyed the power and influence said to have been
possessed by Sir William Ashton; and the circumstances mentioned in the
above note, as related in Mr. Kirkpatrick Sharpe’s edition of “Law’s
Memorialls,” particularly the expression made use of by the bride,
of “Take up your bonnie bridegroom,” may, if well authenticated, be
considered as decisive of the question. It is difficult, however, to
trace any connection between Lord Stair and the family of Innerwick,
or that he ever was in possession of their property. In this view of
the case, the parallel between Ravenswood and Hamilton of Innerwick
does not hold so well. But if the identity of Sir William Ashton with
Lord Stair be considered as established, there was another family in
more immediate contact with him, in the history of which there are
several events which seem to indicate that the Author had it in his
eye in the representation he has given of the Ravenswoods; unless,
as is very probable, he has blended the history of both together in
the manner that best suited his purpose. He indeed admits that he has
disguised facts and incidents, for the obvious purpose of making the
application less pointed to the real personages of the tale. The family
here alluded to is that of Gordon, Viscount Kenmure, in Galloway,
between which and the Lords of Ravenswood there are several points
of resemblance. For instance, the barony of Gordon, in Berwickshire,
where the Gordons had their first settlement in Scotland, and which
continued for a long time in this branch of the name, is in the
immediate vicinity of Lammermoor, and probably suggested the idea of
laying the scene in that neighbourhood. The names of the Castle (or
Barony) and of the Barons themselves, were the same. Their history was
“interwoven with that of the kingdom itself,” a well-known fact. The
Viscount of Kenmure[42] was engaged in the civil wars in the reign
of King Charles I.,[43] and was forfeited by Cromwell for his steady
adherence to that monarch. In him also the direct line of the family
suffered an interruption, the title having at his death devolved on
Gordon of Penninghame, who appears to have been much involved in
debt, and harassed with judicial proceedings against his estate. This
latter again espoused the sinking side in the Revolution of 1688, and
commanded a regiment at the battle of Killiecrankie. These coincidences
are too remarkable to be overlooked. And it may be added, in further
illustration, that Lord Stair, on being advanced to an earldom about
this period, took one of his titles from the barony of Glenluce, which
once belonged to a branch of the house of Kenmure.

It was formerly mentioned, that the Author admits his having disguised
dates and events, in order to take off the application to the real
personages of the story, which they must otherwise have pointed out.
Of this sort are several anachronisms which appear in the work, such
as a _Marquis_ of A. (evidently Athol, from the letter to Ravenswood
dated at B. or Blair), when the Tory Ministry of Queen Anne got into
power, which was only in 1710, when M. Harley succeeded Lord Godolphin
as Treasurer; whereas the nobleman here alluded to was a _Duke_ so
far back as 1703. The time at which the events really took place must
also have been long prior to this period, for Lord Stair died in 1695;
and the change in administration by which Sir William Ashton lost his
influence probably refers to Lord Stair’s removal from his office in
1682.

It may here be remarked, that the family of Stair was by no means so
obscure and insignificant as that of Sir William Ashton is represented
to have been. They possessed the barony of Dalrymple[44] in the
reign of King Alexander III.; they acquired the barony of Stair by
marriage in 1450. They made a considerable figure during the reign
of Queen Mary; and took an active part in the Reformation along with
the confederate lords who had associated in defence of the Protestant
religion. It must be admitted, however, that they made a greater figure
at this time, and during a subsequent period, than they ever did before.


_Note annexed to the Review of the Bride of Lammermoor, in the
    Edinburgh Monthly Review for August, 1819—referred to in the
    foregoing Conjectures._

“The reader will probably feel the interest of this affecting story
considerably increased, by his being informed that it is founded on
facts. The particulars, which have been variously reported, are given
in a foot-note to Mr. Sharpe’s edition of ‘Law’s Memorialls,’ p.
226; but are understood to have been sometimes told in conversation
by the celebrated Poet to whom public opinion assigns these Tales.
The ingenious author, whoever he is, has adopted that account of the
circumstances which Mr. Sharpe deems less probable. The prototype of
Lucy Ashton was one of the daughters of James, first Lord Stair, by his
wife Margaret, daughter of Ross of Balneil, County of Wigton, a lady
long reputed a witch by the country people in her neighbourhood, and
considered as the cause, _per fas et nefas_, of the prosperous fortunes
of the Dalrymple family. However this may have been, there was also
ascribed to her supposed league with Satan, or her extreme obduracy,
the miserable catastrophe now alluded to. The first version of the
story in Mr. Sharpe’s note decidedly and directly implicates the old
lady and her potent ally in the murder of her daughter on the night
of her marriage, which had been contracted against the mother’s will;
and, according to this account, it is the bridegroom who is found in
the chimney in a state of idiocy. The other edition, which is that of
the Tale, seems to require nothing beyond the agency of human passions
wrought up to derangement. According to it, the young lady, as in the
case of Lucy, was compelled to marry contrary to her inclination, her
heart having been previously engaged elsewhere. After she had retired
with her husband into the nuptial chamber, and the door, as was
customary, had been locked, she attacked him furiously with a knife,
and wounded him severely, before any assistance could be rendered.
When the door was broken open, the youth was found half dead upon the
floor, and his wife in a state of the wildest madness, exclaiming,
‘Take up your bonnie bridegroom.’ It is added, that she never regained
her senses; and that her husband, who recovered of his wound, would
bear no questions on the subject of his marriage, taking even a hint
of that nature as a mortal affront to his honour. The coincidence of
circumstances, and the identity of expression used by the bride, are
much too striking to be purely accidental, and altogether deserved to
be noticed, though at the hazard of making a long note. Lady Stair,
it may not be irrelevant to state, was conspicuous in her time for
what Mr. Sharpe denominates, ‘her violent turn towards Conventicles,
and the fostering of silenced preachers in her house,’—peculiarities
quite of a piece with the attachments and habits of Lady Ashton. Of
the prejudices and malignity of her enemies, we may form some opinion
from the satiric lines upon her long-wished-for and timely death, which
Mr. Sharpe very justly denominates most unchristian. Let the _epitaph_
contrived for her bear testimony:—

    ‘Here lyes our Auntie’s coffin, I am sure,
      But where her bodie is I cannot tell,
    Most men affirm they cannot well tell where,
      Unless both soul and body be in h——.
    It is just if all be true that’s said,
      The witch of Endor[45] was a wretched sinner,
    And if her coffin in the grave be laid,
      Her bodie’s roasted to the D——l’s dinner.’

“The author of the ‘Tales of my Landlord,’ it must be allowed, has
never showed any backwardness to join in the cry against people of her
principles, but he has never been so summary in his conclusions as to
their fate.”


LUCY ASHTON AND BUCKLAW.

We derive the following curious notices respecting the Lucy Ashton and
Bucklaw of real life, from a rare volume, entitled “Tripatriarchicon;
or, the Lives of the Three Patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
Digested into English Verse, by Mr. Andrew Symson, M.A., late Minister
of Kinkinner. Edinburgh: Printed for the Author. 1705.” The following
Poem is one of thirteen elegies found appended to some rare copies of
the book, which were withdrawn from the greater part of the edition, on
account of the offence taken against them by the Whigs. Symson seems to
have been a sincere and zealous partizan of High Church, and does not
seem to have permitted any great man of his own party to die without an
appropriate elegy, accompanied by a cutting tirade upon his enemies.

    “_On the unexpected death of the vertuous Lady_, Mrs. Janet
    Dalrymple, _Lady_ Baldone, _Younger_.
    Nupta, _Aug. 12_; Domum ducta, _Aug. 24_; Obiit, _Sept. 12_;
    Sepult. _Sept. 30, 1669_.


_Dialogus inter advenam et servum domesticum._

    ‘What means this sudden unexpected change,
    This mourning Company? Sure, sure some strange
    And uncouth thing hath happen’d. _Phœbus’s_ Head
    Hath not been resting on the wat’ry bed
    Of _Sea-green Thetis_ fourty times, since I
    _In transitu_ did cast my tender Eye
    Upon this very place, and here did view
    A Troop of Gallants: _Iris_ never knew
    The various colours which they did employ
    To manifest and represent their Joy.
    Yea more; Methinks I saw this very wall
    Adorn’d with Emblems Hieroglyphicall.
    At first; The glorious _Sun_ in lustre shine:
    Next unto it, A young and tender _Vine_
    Surround a stately _Elm_, whose tops were crown’d
    With wreaths of _Bay-tree_ reaching to the ground:
    And, to be short, methinks I did espy
    A pleasant, harmless, joyful Comedy.
    But now (sad change, I’m sure,) they all are clad
    In deepest Sable, and their Faces sad.
    The _Sun’s_ o’erclouded and the _Vine’s_ away,
    _The Elm_ is drooping, and the wreaths of Bay
    Are chang’d to Cypress, and the Comedie
    Is metamorphos’d to a Tragedie.
    I do desire you, Friend, for to unfold
    This matter to me.’ ‘Sir, ’tis truth you’ve told.
    We did enjoy great mirth, but now, ah me!
    Our joyful Song’s turned to an Elegie.
    A vertuous Lady, not long since a Bride,
    Was to a hopeful plant by marriage ty’d,
    And brought home hither. We did all rejoyce,
    Even for her sake. But presently our voice
    Was turned to mourning, for that little time
    That she’d enjoy: She wained in her prime
    For Atropus, with her impartial knife,
    Soon cut her Thread, and therewithall her Life.
    And for the time, we may it well remember,
    It being in unfortunate September,
    Just at the _Æquinox_: She was cut down
    In th’ harvest, and this day she’s to be sown,
    Where we must leave her till the Resurrection;
    ’Tis then the Saints enjoy their full perfection.’”

One of these curious pieces is “A Funeral Elegie occasioned by the
sad and much lamented Death of that worthily respected and very much
accomplished Gentleman, David Dunbar, Younger of Baldone. He departed
this life on March 21, 1682, having received a bruise by a fall, as he
was ryding the day preceding betwixt Leith and Holyroodhouse; and was
honourably interred, in the Abbey Church of Holyroodhouse, on April
4, 1682.” Symson, though a printer in 1705, had been an episcopal
clergyman: and it is amusing to observe how much of the panegyric
which he bestows upon Dunbar is to be traced to the circumstance of
that gentleman having been almost his only hearer, when, in a Whiggish
parish, his curacy had like to be a perfect sinecure, so far as
regarded that important particular—a congregation. He thus speaks of
him:—

    “He was no Schismatick, he ne’er withdrew
    Himself from th’ House of God; he with a few
    (Some two or three) came constantly to pray
    For such as had withdrawn themselves away,
    Nor did he come by fits,—foul day or fair,
    I, being in the church, was sure to see him there.
    Had he withdrawn, ’tis like these two or three,
    Being thus discouraged, had deserted me;
    So that my Muse, ’gainst Priscian, avers,
    _He_, HE alone, WERE my Parishioners,
    Yea, and my constant Hearers. O that I
    Had pow’r to eternize his Memory;
    Then (though my joy, my glory, and my crown,
    By this unhappy fall be thus cast down,)
    I’d rear an everlasting monument,
    A curious structure, of a large extent,—
    A brave and stately pile, that should outbid
    Ægyptian Cheops’ costly Pyramid,—
    A monument that should outlive the blast
    Of Time, and Malice too,—a pile should last
    Longer than hardest marble, and surpass
    The bright and durable Corinthian brass!”[46]


A COUNTRY INNKEEPER.

(_Caleb Balderston._)

The prototype of Caleb Balderstone was perhaps _Laird Bour_, a servant
of the Logans of Restalrig, in 1600. It is evident that the _character_
is just a Scottish edition of “Garrick’s Lying Valet.” We have
discovered, however, a solitary trait of Caleb, in a Scotch innkeeper
of real existence, who lived long in the south country,[47] and died
only a few years ago. We subjoin a very brief notice of this person,
whose name was Andrew Davidson.

A literary gentleman, who supplies us with information respecting him,
states that he was once possessed of a considerable estate,—that of
Green-house, in the county of Roxburgh. But being a man of great wit
and humour, his society was courted by young men of idle and dissipated
habits, who led him into such expenses as shortly proved prejudicial
to his fortunes. He was then obliged to sell off his estate and betake
himself to a humbler line of life. Keeping a small grocery and spirit
shop always presents itself to men in such circumstances as a means of
subsistence requiring the least instruction and most easily set afloat.
He accordingly commenced that line of business in Jedburgh; but,
being considered as an intruder into the burgh, and opposing certain
ancient residenters, who were supposed to be more lawfully, justly,
and canonically entitled to trade in the town than any new upstart,
he did not meet with that success which he expected. In consequence
of this illiberal treatment, he conceived the most rancorous hatred
for the inhabitants of Jedburgh, and ever after spoke of them in
the most violent terms of hatred and contempt. His common language
was, “that not an individual in the town would be judged at the last
day,—Jedburgh would be at once damned _by the slump!_”

He again resolved to commence the profession of agriculture, and took
the farm of Habton, in the neighbouring parish of Crailing. This
speculation, however, succeeded no better than the shop. By associating
himself with the opulent farmers and gentlemen of the vicinity, by whom
his company, as a man of wit and jollity, was always much sought after,
his ancient habits of extravagance returned; and, though in poorer
circumstances, being obliged to spend in equal style with these ruinous
friends, the surviving wrecks of his fortune were soon dissipated, and
he was obliged to become a bankrupt.

When a man who has freely lavished his fortune and his humour in the
entertainment of friends above his own rank becomes incapable of
further sacrifice, it is most natural for such friends to forsake and
neglect him. He is considered as no more entitled to their gratitude
than the superannuated player, after he has ceased to be supported by
the immediate exhibition of his powers. There is no Chelsea provided
for the cripples in the cause of the gay.

Mr. Davidson was, however, more fortunate in his companions. After
his misfortune, they induced him to open a house of entertainment
at Ancrum Bridge; laid in for him a stock of wines, spirits, etc.;
made parties at his house; and set him fairly a-going. This was a
line in which he was calculated both to shine and to realize profit.
His company was still as attractive as ever; and it was no longer
disgraceful to receive a solid reward for the entertainment which his
facetiousness could afford. Having also learned a little wisdom from
his former miscarriages, he proceeded with more caution, kept up the
respectability of his house, was polite and amusing to his guests, and,
above all, paid infinite attention to his business.

The peculiarity of character, for which we have placed his name against
that of Caleb Balderstone, here occurs. Whenever there alighted any
stranger of a more splendid appearance than ordinary, he was suddenly
seized with a fit of magniloquency, and, in the identical manner of
Caleb Balderstone, would call _Hostler No. 10_ down from _Hay-loft No.
15_, to conduct the gentleman’s “beast” to one of the best stalls in
the _Stable No. 20_! He would then, with a superabundance of ceremony,
show the stranger into a chamber which he would declare with the
greatest assurance to be _No. 40_; and on his guest asking perhaps
for a glass of rum, would order a waiter, whom he baptized (_nolens
volens_) _No. 15_ for the occasion, to draw it from the cask in the
bar marked 95. Then was the _twelfth_ hen-roost to be ransacked, and a
glorious fowl, the best that could be selected from a stock of about
_one thousand or so_, to be consigned to the hands of the _Head Cook_
herself, (God knows his house boasted only one, who was _Scullion_
and _Boots_ besides.) All this rhodomontade was enacted in a style
of such serious effrontery, and was accompanied by such a volubility
of talk, and flights of humour, and bustling activity, that any one
not previously acquainted with his devices, would have given him and
his house credit for ten times the size and respectability they could
actually boast of.

Mr. Davidson afterwards removed to the inn at Middleton, where he
died, in good circumstances, about sixteen years ago. He was a man of
very brilliant talents, distinguished much by that faculty entitled
by the country people _ready wit_. He had a strong memory, a lively
and fertile imagination, and possessed powers of discourse truly
astonishing. The prevailing tone of his mind was disposed to ridicule.
He had a singularly felicitous knack of giving anything improper in his
own conduct or appearance a bias in his favour, and could at all times,
as we have seen, set off his own circumstances in such a light as made
them splendid and respectable, though in reality they were vulgar and
undignified.


FOOTNOTES:

[36] We are indebted for the following ingenious and elaborate article
to the gentleman who supplied the notice respecting the “Bodach Glas,”
at page 25.

[37] Douglas’s Baronage,—Hamilton of Innerwick.

[38] A retour is a law term, signifying the report of the verdict of
a jury, which, by the law of Scotland, is the mode of proving the
propinquity of an heir, so as to entitle him to be invested in his
predecessor’s estate.

[39] Douglas’s Peerage,—Earl of Haddington.

[40] Douglas’s Baronage,—Hamilton of Innerwick.

[41] See page 6.

[42] Douglas’s Peerage,—Viscount Kenmure.

[43] A principal and conspicuous part of Lord Kenmure’s camp equipage
was a barrel of brandy, which was carried at the head of the regiment.
This was called Kenmure’s Drum.

[44] Douglas’s Peerage,—Earl of Stair.

[45] So she was styled.

[46] We are indebted to the kindness of Mr. Kirkpatrick Sharpe for this
unique copy of the “Tripatriarchicon,” from which the above extracts
were made.

[47] It is exceedingly remarkable that the greater part of the Author
of “Waverley’s” prototypes were natives of this district.




CHAPTER IX.

=Legend of Montrose.=


(_Plot of the Tale._)

There can be little doubt that the Author of “Waverley” has taken the
grounds of this Tale from the following interesting story, related in
a critique on the “Culloden Papers,” in the _Quarterly Review_, which
is said to have been written by the Great Novelist’s _other self_, Sir
Walter Scott.

“The family or sept of Macgregor is of genuine Celtic origin, great
antiquity, and, in Churchill’s phrase,

                      ‘doubtless springs
    From great and glorious, but forgotten kings.’

“They were once possessed of Glenurchy, of the castle at the head
of Lochowe, of Glendochart, Glenlyon, Finlarig, Balloch, now called
Taymouth, and of the greater part of Breadalbane. From these
territories they were gradually expelled by the increasing strength
of the Campbells, who, taking advantage of a bloody feud between the
M‘Gregors and M‘Nabs, obtained letters of fire and sword against the
former; and, about the reigns of James III. and IV., dispossessed them
of much of their property. The celebrated M‘Gregor a Rua Rua, the
heir-male of the chief, and a very gallant young man, was surprised and
slain by Colin Campbell, the Knight of Lochowe, and with him fell the
fortunes of his family. From this time, the few lands which remained
not sufficing to support so numerous a clan, the M‘Gregors became
desperate, wild, and lawless, supporting themselves either by actual
depredation, or by the money which they levied as the price of their
forbearance, and retaliating upon the more powerful clans, as well as
upon the Lowlands, the severity with which they were frequently pursued
and slaughtered. A single trait of their history will show what was the
ferocity of feud among the Scottish clans.

“The remaining settlements of the M‘Gregor tribe were chiefly
in Balquhidder, around Loch Katrine, as far as the borders of
Lochlomond. Even these lands they did not possess in property, but
by some transactions with the family of Buchanan, who were the real
landholders; but the terrors of the M‘Gregors extended far and wide,
for they were at feud with all their neighbours. In the year 1589,
a party of the M‘Gregors, belonging to a tribe called Clan-Duil a
Cheach, _i.e._ the children of Dougal of the Mist, (an appropriate
name for such a character,) met with John Drummond of Drummondernoch,
who had, in his capacity of stewart-depute, or provincial magistrate
of Strathearn, tried and executed two or three of these M‘Gregors,
for depredations committed on his chief Lord Drummond’s lands. The
Children of the Mist seized the opportunity of vengeance, slew the
unfortunate huntsman, and cut off his head. They then went to the
house of John Stewart of Ardvoirlich, whose wife was a sister of the
murdered Drummondernoch. The laird was absent, but the lady received
the unbidden and unwelcome guests with hospitality, and, according to
the Highland custom and phrase, placed before them bread and cheese,
till better food could be made ready. She left the room to superintend
the preparations, and when she returned, beheld, displayed upon the
table, the ghastly head of her brother, with a morsel of bread and
cheese in its mouth. The terrified lady rushed out of the house with
a fearful shriek, and could not be found, though her distracted
husband caused all the woods and wildernesses around to be diligently
searched. To augment the misery of Ardvoirlich, his unfortunate wife
was with child when she disappeared. She did not, however, perish. It
was harvest season, and in the woods and moors the maniac wanderer
probably found berries and other substances capable of sustaining
life; though the vulgar, fond of the marvellous, supposed that the
wild deer had pity on her misery, and submitted to be milked by her.
At length some train of former ideas began to revive in her mind. She
had formerly been very attentive to her domestic duties, and used
commonly to oversee the milking of the cows; and now the women employed
in that office in the remote upland grazings, observed with terror,
that they were regularly watched during the milking by an emaciated,
miserable-looking, female figure, who appeared from among the bushes,
but retired with great swiftness when any one approached her. The story
was told to Ardvoirlich, who, conjecturing the truth, took measures for
intercepting and recovering the unfortunate fugitive. She regained her
senses after the birth of her child; but it was remarkable, that the
son whom she bore seemed affected by the consequences of her terror.
He was of great strength, but of violent passions, under the influence
of which he killed his friend and commander, Lord Kilpont, in a manner
which the reader will find detailed in Wishart’s Memoirs of Montrose.

“The tragedy of Drummondernoch did not end with the effects of the
murder on the Lady Ardvoirlich. The clan of the M‘Gregors being
convoked in the church of Balquhidder, upon the Sunday after the act,
the bloody head was produced on the altar, when each clansman avowed
the murder to have been perpetrated by his own consent, and, laying
successively his hands on the scalp, swore to defend and protect the
authors of the deed,—‘in ethnic and barbarous manner,’ says an order
of the Lords of the Privy Council, dated 4th February, 1589, ‘in most
proud contempt of our Sovereign Lord and his authority, if this shall
remain unpunished.’ Then follows a commission to search for and pursue
Alaster M‘Gregor of Glenstrae, and all others of his name, with fire
and sword. We have seen a letter upon this subject from Patrick, Lord
Drummond, who was naturally most anxious to avenge his kinsman’s death,
to the Earl of Montrose, appointing a day in which the one shall be ‘at
the bottom of the valley of Balquhidder with his forces, and advance
upward, and the other, with his powers, shall occupy the higher outlet,
and move downwards, for the express purpose of taking _sweet revenge_
for the death of their cousin.’ Ardvoirlich assisted them with a party,
and it is said they killed thirty-seven of the clan of Dougal of the
Mist upon the single farm of Inverneuty.”—_Quarterly Review_, vol.
xiv., p. 307.


THE GREAT MONTROSE.

The illustrious personage whose fortunes form the ground-work of this
Tale, was the only son of John, fourth Earl of Montrose,[48] by Lady
Margaret Ruthven, daughter of William, first Earl of Gowrie.[49] He was
born in the year 1612, succeeded his father in 1626, and was married
soon after, while yet very young,—a circumstance which is said to
have somewhat marred his education. He travelled into foreign parts,
where he spent some years in study, and in learning the customary
accomplishments of that period, in which he excelled most men; and he
returned home in 1634.

Meeting with a cold and forbidding reception at Court, his Lordship
joined the supplicants in 1637, and became one of the most zealous
supporters of the Covenant in 1638. Next year he had the command of the
forces sent to the north against the town of Aberdeen, which he obliged
to take the Covenant; and the Marquis of Huntly, who, on his approach,
disbanded the men he had raised, was sent prisoner to Edinburgh. Lord
Aboyne appearing in arms in the north the same year, Montrose was
despatched against him, and totally routed his forces at the Bridge of
Dee. When the pacification of Berwick was concluded, Montrose was one
of the noblemen who paid their respects to Charles I. at that place in
July, 1639.

Next year, an army being raised to march into England, Montrose had two
regiments given him, one of horse and one of foot. He led the van of
that army through the Tweed on foot, and, totally routing the vanguard
of the King’s cavalry, contributed to the victory at Newburn. But, in
1643, moved with resentment against the Covenanters, who preferred to
his prompt and ardent character the wily and politic Earl of Argyll, or
seeing, perhaps, that the final views of that party were inimical to
the interests of monarchy and of the constitution, Montrose espoused
the falling cause of loyalty, and raised the Highland clans, whom he
united to a small body of Irish, commanded by Alexander Macdonald,
still renowned in the north under the title of Colkitto. With a few
troops collected in Westmoreland, he first raised the royal standard
at Dumfries in April, 1644, but was soon obliged to retire into
England; and he was excommunicated by the commission of the General
Assembly.[50] To atone, however, for so severe a denunciation, the
King, about this time, raised him to the dignity of Marquis; and he
soon after had the pleasure of routing the Parliament army at Morpeth.
He was next successful in throwing provisions into Newcastle. After
the defeat of Prince Rupert at Marston Moor in July, 1644, he left his
men with that general, and went to Scotland. At this period of his
adventures the Author of “Waverley” takes him up in his “Legend of
Montrose.”

Disguised as a groom, with only two attendants, Montrose arrived in
Strathearn, where he continued till rumour announced the approach of
1500 Irish, who, after ravaging the northern extremity of Argyllshire,
had landed in Skye, and traversed the extensive districts of Lochaber
and Badenoch. On descending into Atholl in August, 1644, they were
surprised with the unexpected appearance of their general, Montrose,
in the garb of a Highlander, with a single attendant; but his name
was sufficient to increase his army to 3000, for commanding whom he
had the King’s warrant. He attacked an army of Covenanters, amounting
to upwards of 6000 foot and horse, at Tippermuir, 1st September,
totally routed them, and took their artillery and baggage, without
losing a man. Perth immediately surrendered to the victor; but, Argyll
approaching, he abandoned that place as untenable, took all the cannon,
ammunition, and spoil of the town with him, and went north. He defeated
the Covenanters a second time at the Bridge of Dee, on the 12th of
September; and, continuing the pursuit to the gates of Aberdeen,
entered the town with the vanquished. The pillage of the ill-fated
burgh was doomed to expiate the principles which Montrose himself had
formerly imposed upon them.

Argyll came from Stirling to Perth on the 10th of September; and his
army following him in a desultory manner, is said to have taken about
a week in passing through the latter town.[51] He passed the Tay in
boats, which Montrose had left undestroyed, and pursued that general
to the north. Meanwhile, Montrose had left Aberdeen, and sought the
assistance of the Gordons; but finding the Spey well guarded, he
retreated over the mountains to Badenoch, burying his artillery in a
morass. He descended into Atholl and Angus, pursued by Argyll, but by a
sudden march repassed the Grampians, and returned to rouse the Gordons
to arms! At Fyvie, he was almost surprised by Argyll, 27th October,
1644, but maintained a situation, advantageously chosen, against the
reiterated attacks of a superior army, till night, when he made good
his retreat into Badenoch. He immediately proceeded into Argyllshire,
which he ravaged, and sentence of forfeiture was passed against him in
Parliament.

So extraordinary were the evolutions of Montrose, that on many
occasions the appearance of his army was the first notice the enemy had
of his approach; and of his retreats, the first intelligence was that
he was beyond their reach. Argyll, exasperated with the devastation
of his estates, marched against Montrose; but he, not waiting to be
attacked, marched thirty miles, by an unfrequented route, across the
mountains of Lochaber, during a heavy fall of snow, and came at night
in front of the enemy, when they believed him in a different part
of the country. This was in February, 1645, during a very inclement
season. “The moon shone so clear,” says Bishop Wishart, “that it was
almost as light as day. They lay upon their arms the whole night, and,
with the assistance of the light, so harassed each other with slight
alarms and skirmishes, that neither gave the other time to repose.
They all wished earnestly for day: only Argyll, more intent on his
own safety, conveyed himself away about the middle of the night: and,
having very opportunely got a boat, escaped the hazard of a battle,
choosing rather to be a spectator of the prowess of his men than share
in the danger himself. Nevertheless, the chiefs of the Campbells, who
were indeed a set of very brave men, and worthy of a better chief and
a better cause, began the battle with great courage. But the first
ranks discharging their muskets only once, Montrose’s men fell in upon
them furiously, sword in hand, with a great shout, and advanced with
such great impetuosity, that they routed the whole army, and put them
to flight, and pursued them for about nine miles, making dreadful
slaughter the whole way. There were 1500 of the enemy slain, among whom
were several gentlemen of distinction of the name of Campbell, who led
on the clan, and fell in the field of battle, too gallantly for their
dastardly chief. Montrose, though an enemy, pitied their fate, and used
his authority to save and give quarter to as many as he could. In this
battle Montrose had several wounded, but he had none killed but three
privates, and Sir Thomas Ogilvie, son of the Earl of Airley; whilst
Argyll lost the Lairds of Auchinbreck, Glensaddell, and Lochnell, with
his son and brother, and Barbreck, Inneraw, Lamont, Silvercraigs, and
many other prisoners.” Spalding, in his “History of the Troubles,”
states, that “there came direct from the committee of Edinburgh certain
men to see Argyll’s forwardness in following Montrose, but they saw his
flight, in manner foresaid. It is to be considered that few of this
army could have escaped if Montrose had not marched the day before the
fight thirty-three miles, (Scots miles) on little food, and crossed
sundry waters, wet and weary, and standing in wet and cold the hail
night before the fight.”

Montrose, flushed with victory, now proceeded to Moray, where
he was joined by the Gordons and Grants. He next marched to the
southward, taking Dundee by storm; but being attacked by a superior
force under Baillie and Hurry, began to retreat. Baillie and Hurry
divided their forces, to prevent his return to the north; but, by a
masterly movement, he passed between their divisions, and regained
the mountains. He defeated Hurry at Meldrum, near Nairn, on the 14th
May, 1645, by a manœuvre similar to that of Epaminondas at Leuctra and
Mantinea. In that battle, the left wing of the Royalists was commanded
by Montrose’s able auxiliary, Alister Macdonell, or Maccoul, (as he is
called in Gaelic) still celebrated in Highland tradition and song for
his chivalry and courage. An elevation of ground separated the wings.
Montrose received a report that Macdonell’s wing had given way, and
was retreating. He instantly ran along the ranks, and called out to
his men that Macdonell was driving the enemy before him, and, unless
they did the same, the other wing would carry away all the glory of the
day. His men instantly rushed forward, and charged the enemy off the
field, while he hastened with his reserve to the relief of his friend,
and recovered the fortune of the day.[52] At this battle, in which
2000 Covenanters fell, Campbell of Lawers, though upwards of seventy
years of age, fought on the Presbyterian side, with a two-handed
broadsword, till himself, and four of his six sons, who were with him,
fell on the ground on which they stood. Such was the enemy which the
genius and courage of Montrose overcame. Pursuing his victory, Montrose
encountered and defeated Baillie at Alford, on the 2nd of July; but on
this occasion his success was embittered by the loss of Lord Gordon,
who fell in the action. His victories attracted reinforcements from all
parts of the country: he marched to the southward at the head of 6000
men, and fought a bloody and decisive battle near Kilsyth, on the 15th
August, when nearly 5000 Covenanters fell under the Highland claymore.

This last and greatest of his splendid successes opened the whole
of Scotland to Montrose. He occupied Glasgow and the capital, and
marched forward to the border, not merely to complete the subjection
of the southern provinces, but with the flattering hope of pouring his
victorious army into England, and bringing to the support of Charles
the swords of his paternal tribes.

Montrose was now, however, destined to endure a reverse of his hitherto
brilliant fortune. After traversing the border counties, and receiving
little assistance or countenance from the chiefs of these districts, he
encamped on Philiphaugh, a level plain near Selkirk, extending about a
mile and a half along the banks of the rivers Tweed and Ettrick. Here
he posted his infantry, amounting to about 1500 men, while he himself
and his cavalry, to the amount of about 1000, took up their quarters in
the town of Selkirk.

Recalled by the danger[53] of the cause of the Covenant, General David
Lesly came down from England at the head of those iron squadrons
whose force had been proved in the fatal battle of Long Marston Moor.
His army consisted of from 5000 to 6000 men, chiefly cavalry. Lesly’s
first plan seems to have been to occupy the midland counties, so as
to intercept the return of Montrose’s Highlanders, and to force him
to an unequal combat. Accordingly, he marched along the eastern coast
from Berwick to Tranent; but there he suddenly altered his direction,
and, crossing through Midlothian, turned again to the southward, and,
following the course of Gala Water, arrived at Melrose the evening
before the engagement. How it is possible that Montrose should have
received no notice whatever of the march of so considerable an army
seems almost inconceivable, and proves that the country was very
disaffected to his cause or person. Still more extraordinary does it
appear, that, even with the advantage of a thick mist, Lesly should
have, the next morning, advanced towards Montrose’s encampment without
being descried by a single scout. Such, however, was the case, and it
was attended with all the consequences of a complete surprisal. The
first intimation that Montrose received of the march of Lesly was the
noise of the conflict, or rather that which attended the unresisted
slaughter of his infantry, who never formed a line of battle: the
right wing alone, supported by the thickets of Harehead-wood, and by
their entrenchments, stood firm for some time. But Lesly had detached
2000 men, who, crossing the Ettrick still higher up than his main
body, assaulted the rear of Montrose’s right wing. At this moment the
Marquis arrived, and beheld his army dispersed, for the first time,
in irretrievable rout. He had thrown himself upon a horse the instant
he heard the firing, and, followed by such of his disordered cavalry
as had gathered upon the alarm, he galloped from Selkirk, crossed the
Ettrick, and made a bold and desperate attempt to retrieve the fortune
of the day. But all was in vain; and after cutting his way, almost
singly, through a body of Lesly’s troopers, the gallant Montrose graced
by his example the retreat of the fugitives. That retreat he continued
up Yarrow, and over Minchmoor; nor did he stop till he arrived at
Traquair, 16 miles from the field of battle. He lodged the first night
at the town of Peebles.[54] Upon Philiphaugh he lost, in one defeat,
the fruit of six splendid victories; nor was he again able effectually
to make head in Scotland against the covenanted cause. The number
slain in the field did not exceed 300 or 400; for the fugitives found
refuge in the mountains, which had often been the retreat of vanquished
armies, and were impervious to the pursuer’s cavalry. Lesly abused his
victory, and disgraced his arms, by slaughtering in cold blood many of
the prisoners whom he had taken; and the court-yard of Newark Castle is
said to have been the spot upon which they were shot by his command.
Many others are said by Wishart to have been precipitated from a high
bridge over the Tweed,—a circumstance considered doubtful by Laing, as
there was then no bridge over the Tweed between Peebles and Berwick,
though the massacre might have taken place at either of the old bridges
over the Ettrick and Yarrow, which lay in the very line of flight and
pursuit. It is too certain that several of the Royalists were executed
by the Covenanters, as traitors to the King and Parliament.[55]

After this reverse of fortune,[56] Montrose retired into the north.
In 1646, he formed an association with the Earls of Sutherland and
Seaforth, and other Highland chieftains, and they laid siege to
Inverness; but General Middleton forced Montrose to retreat, with
considerable loss. Charles I. now sending orders to Montrose to disband
his forces and leave the kingdom, he capitulated with Middleton,
July, 1646, and an indemnity was granted to his followers, and he was
permitted to retire to the continent. The capitulation was ratified by
Parliament, and Montrose was permitted to remain unmolested in Scotland
for a month to settle his affairs.

He now proceeded to France, where he resided two years. He had
the offer of the appointments of general of the Scots in France,
lieutenant-general of the French army, captain of the _gens
d’armes_,[57] with an annual pension of 12,000 crowns, and a promise
of being promoted to the rank of _maréchal_, and to the captaincy of
the King’s guards, all which preferments he declined, as he wished
only to be of service to his own King. He retired privately from Paris,
in May, 1648, and went to Germany, from thence to Brussels, where he
was, at the period of the King’s execution, in 1649. He then repaired
to the Hague, where Charles II. resided, and offered to establish him
on the throne of Scotland by force. The King gave him a commission
accordingly, and invested him with the order of the garter. Montrose,
with arms supplied by the court of Sweden, and money by Denmark,
embarked at Hamburg, with 600 Germans, and landed in Orkney in spring
1650, where he got some recruits, and crossed over to Caithness with
an army of about 1400 men; and he was joined by several Royalists as
he traversed the wilds of Sutherland. But, advancing into Ross-shire,
he was surprised, and totally defeated, at Invercharron, by Colonel
Strachan, an officer of the Scottish Parliament, who afterwards became
a decided Cromwellian. Montrose’s horse was shot under him; but he was
generously remounted by his friend, Lord Frendraught. After a fruitless
resistance, he at length fled from the field, threw away his ribbon
and George, changed clothes with a countryman, and thus escaped to the
house of M‘Leod of Assint,[58] by whom he was betrayed to General Lesly.

Whatsoever indignities the bitterness of party rage or religious
hatred could suggest, were accumulated on a fallen, illustrious
enemy, formerly terrible, and still detested. He was slowly and
ostentatiously conducted through the north by the ungenerous Lesly,
in the same mean habit in which he was taken. His devastations were
not forgotten,—his splendid victories never forgiven,—and he was
exposed, by excommunication, to the abhorrence and insults of a
fanatical people. His sentence was already pronounced in Parliament, on
his former attainder, under every aggravation which brutal minds can
delight to inflict. He was received by the magistrates of Edinburgh at
the Watergate, 18th May, 1650, placed on an elevated seat in a cart,
to which he was pinioned with cords, and, preceded by his officers,
coupled together, was conducted, bareheaded, by the public executioner,
to the common jail. But his magnanimity was superior to every insult.
When produced to receive his sentence in Parliament, he was upbraided
by the Chancellor with his violation of the Covenant, the introduction
of Irish insurgents, his invasion of Scotland during a treaty with
the King; and the temperate dignity which he had hitherto sustained,
seemed, at first, to yield to indignant contempt. He vindicated his
dereliction of the Covenant, by their rebellion,—his appearance in
arms, by the commission of his Sovereign,—and declared, that as he
had formerly deposited, so he again resumed his arms, by his Majesty’s
command, to accelerate the treaty commenced with the States. A
barbarous sentence, which he received with an undaunted countenance,
was then pronounced by a Parliament who acknowledged Charles to be
their King, and whom, on that account only, Montrose acknowledged to be
a Parliament,—that he should be hanged for three hours, on a gibbet
30 feet high; that his head should be affixed to the common jail, his
limbs to the gates of the principal towns, and his body interred at the
place of execution, unless his excommunication were taken off, and then
it might be buried in consecrated ground. With dignified magnanimity,
he replied, that he was prouder to have his head affixed to the prison
walls than his picture placed in the King’s bedchamber; “and, far from
being troubled that my limbs are to be sent to your principal towns, I
wish I had flesh enough to be dispersed through Christendom, to attest
my dying attachment to my King.” It was the calm employment of his mind
that night to reduce this extravagant sentiment to verse. He appeared
next day on the scaffold, in a rich habit, with the same serene and
undaunted countenance, and addressed the people, to vindicate his dying
unabsolved by the Church, rather than to justify an invasion of the
kingdom during a treaty with the Estates. The insults of his enemies
were not yet exhausted. The history of his exploits, which had been
written in Latin by Bishop Wishart, and published all over Europe,
was attached to his neck by the executioner; but he smiled at their
inventive malice, declared that he wore it with more pride than he had
done the garter, and when his devotions were finished, demanding if any
more indignities were to be practised, submitted calmly to an unmerited
fate.[59]

Thus perished, at the age of thirty-eight, the gallant Marquis of
Montrose, with the reputation of one of the first commanders that the
civil wars had produced. He excelled in the stratagems of war; but his
talents were rather those of an active, enterprising partisan, than of
a great commander,—better fitted to excite and manage a desultory war,
than to direct the complicated operations of a regular campaign. He may
be admired for his genius, but he cannot be praised for his wisdom.
Though he excelled in the performance of rapid movements, and had the
quick eye of a serpent approaching its prey, he had not the firmness,
perseverance, and vigilance which form the necessary qualifications
of a great general. Most of his victories were gained by the celerity
of his approaches and the impetuosity of his attacks, yet he did not
prove himself any better qualified to avert the fatal consequences
of surprise than those whom his manœuvres had so often defeated. His
genius was great and romantic, in the opinion of Cardinal de Retz, no
mean judge of human nature, approaching the nearest to the ancient
heroes of Greece and Rome. But his heroism was wild and extravagant,
and was less conspicuous during his life than from the fortitude with
which he sustained an ignominious death.

Montrose’s sentence, in all circumstances, was executed _ad literam_.
His head was stuck upon the tolbooth of Edinburgh, where it remained,
blackening in the sun, when his master, Charles II., soon thereafter
arrived in the Scottish metropolis. His limbs were dispersed to Perth,
Glasgow, Stirling, and Aberdeen, and his body was buried at the place
of execution, from whence it was afterwards removed to the common
moor,[60] whence it was lifted at the Restoration. On this event, when
Charles found opportunity for testifying his respect for Montrose,
his scattered remains were collected. There was a scaffold erected
at the tolbooth, and some ceremony was used in taking down his head
from its ignominious situation. According to Kirkton,[61] some bowed
and some knelt while that relic was removed from the spike, which was
done by Montrose’s kinsman, the Laird of Gorthie, who, according to
the covenanting account, died _in consequence_, after performing his
triumphant but melancholy duty. The Laird of Pitcurre, too, who in
his joy had drunk a little too much on the occasion, was, by the same
account, found dead in his bed next morning; though we find little
hesitation in giving the brandy more of the credit due to that event
than what the Presbyterian annalist is pleased to call “the pleasure of
Heaven.” Montrose’s remains were deposited in Holyroodhouse, where they
remained some time in state; and, on the 14th of May, 1651, they were
buried, with great pomp and ceremony, in the cathedral church of St.
Giles.

       *       *       *       *       *

Such is a brief but correct historical detail of the events which the
Author of “Waverley” has confounded and misrepresented, for his own
purposes, in the “Legend of Montrose.” We have given at best but a
meagre outline of the events, but as they run in their proper series,
our narrative will serve to correct the irregularity into which the
Great Novelist has thrown them. It may here be observed, that the
last event in the Tale is the attempted murder of Lord Menteith,
which our Author has placed after the battle of Inverlochy. Now this
circumstance, which was of real occurrence, took place on the 6th of
September, 1644, a few days after the battle of Tippermuir, whereas the
battle of Inverlochy happened on the 1st of February, 1645, five months
after. We have made some collections respecting the assassination, and
give the result.

John, Lord Kinpont, the Lord Menteith of the “Legend of Montrose,”
was the eldest son of William, seventh Earl of Menteith, and first
Earl of Airth, who rendered himself remarkable in the reign of Charles
I. by saying that he had “the reddest blood in Scotland,” alluding
to his descent from Euphemia Ross, then supposed the first wife of
Robert II.,—in consequence of which expression he was disgraced and
imprisoned by his offended Sovereign. Lord Kinpont married, in 1632,
Lady Mary Keith, a daughter of Earl Marishal; consequently he could
not be the hero and lover which he is represented to have been in the
fiction, and the story of Allan Macaulay’s rivalry, which prompted
him to the wicked deed, must be entirely groundless. Kinpont joined
Montrose in August, 1644, with recruits to the amount of 400 men, and
was present at the battle of Tippermuir, immediately following. A
few days thereafter, James Stewart, of Ardvoirlich, basely murdered
his Lordship at Colace, in Perthshire. A different colour is given
to this circumstance by different narrators. A citizen of Perth,
who wrote a manuscript giving an account of some remarkable events
in his own time, (quoted in “_The Muse’s Threnodie_,”) says simply
that Stewart committed the murder “because Lord Kinpont had joined
Montrose.” But, in Guthrie’s Memoirs, we find, that “Stewart having
proposed to his Lordship a plan to assassinate Montrose, of which Lord
Kinpont signified his abhorrence, as disgraceful and devilish, the
other, without more ado, lest he should discover him, stabbed him to
the heart, and immediately fled to the Covenanters, by whom he was
pardoned and promoted.[62] The Marquis of Montrose, deeply affected
with the loss of so noble a friend, gave orders for conveying his
body in an honourable manner to Menteith, where he was interred.” In
the “Staggering State of Scots Statesmen,”[63] we find the following
passage:—“The Lord Kinpont, being with James Graham in the time of
the late troubles, was stabbed with a dirk by one Alexander Stewart,
and his lady, daughter of the Earl of Marishal, was distracted in her
wits four years after.” Here a remarkable discrepancy is observable.
The assassin is termed _Alexander_, whereas every other authority
gives _James_ as his Christian name. Yet this discordance in names is
not more worthy of remark than another of the same description, which
we are about to point out to the amateurs of the Scotch Novels, as
occurring in the Tale before us. In the first edition of this Tale
(1819) at the 321st page of the third volume, the Great Unknown, for
once, forgets the fictitious appellation Macaulay, and terms the
visionary brother Allen _Stuart_, which, we think, completely serves to
identify the above story with the dreadful one in the “Tale.”

Wishart says, that such was the friendship and familiarity of Kinpont
with his murderer, that they had slept in the same bed the night
previous to the horrid deed, which took place, it appears, in the grey
of the morning. It is true that he killed also “the centinel who stood
at the entry of the camp, it being so dark that those who pursued
him could not see the length of their pikes. Montrose was very much
afflicted with the untimely fate of this nobleman, who had been his own
special friend, and most faithful and loyal to the King his master, and
who, besides his knowledge in polite literature, philosophy, divinity,
and law, was eminent for his probity and fortitude.”—_Memoirs_, p. 84.

       *       *       *       *       *


PHILIPHAUGH.[64]

Selkirk lies on the face of a long range of hills stretching from north
to south. The Ettrick water, a pretty little river, runs at their base.
A bridge of four arches crosses the stream, and carries the road from
the low, flat, and swampy plain of Philiphaugh, up the eminence, in a
gracefully winding direction, to the town. A mountain streamlet, called
the Shawburn, disembogues itself at the bridge. This in summer is
quite dry, but in winter, or during wet weather, descends in torrents,
and assists the Ettrick in overflowing the field of Philiphaugh. This
celebrated field is now partly inclosed, and bears a few patches of
turnips; but the chief produce seems to be rushes, a species of crop
which may perhaps yield little comfort to the agriculturist, but which
will give a more than proportionable pleasure to the amateur, assuring
him that the ground has lost little of its original character, and is
much the same now as when it was trod by Montrose.

The hill on which Selkirk stands is studded round with neat gentlemen’s
seats, and forms a striking contrast with those on the opposite side
of Philiphaugh, which are uniformly dark, bleak, and unproductive.
Sheltered by one of these, and situated directly south from Selkirk,
there stands, in the ravine formed by the Shawburn, a little cottage
thatched in the Scottish fashion, with the usual accompaniments of
a _kail-yard_, a _midden_[65] before the door, and a _jaw-hole_. The
inhabitants of this humble tenement, if, like us, you be driven in
by stress of weather, will be very obliging in telling all they know
about Philiphaugh, and how Montrose galloped “up the burn and away
over Minchmoor,” in his retreat before Lesly’s victorious army. They
will likewise tell an indistinct story about a division of Lesly’s
troops, which, led by a countryman, came down this way in order to cut
off his retreat. This evidently alludes to the circumstance of Lesly
despatching a body of his horse across the river to attack Montrose’s
right wing in the rear, upon which the unfortunate general, finding
himself hemmed in on all sides, cut his way through his foes, and
abandoned the field.[66] In corroboration of what we suppose, the
inhabitant of the cottage points out several _tumuli_ or mounds[67] on
a little peninsula formed by a sweep of the stream, where the conflict
had been greatest. He also speaks of having now and then dug up in his
potato-field the remains of human bones.

This _cicerone_ of Philiphaugh is a very singular-looking man, and well
merits the little attention which you may feel disposed to pay him. He
is what is called a country weaver—that is, a person who converts into
cloth the thread and yarn spun by the industrious female peasantry of
his neighbourhood. It is not perhaps generally known—at least among
our southern neighbours—that the common people of Scotland in general
manufacture their own clothes, and that from the first carding of the
wool to the induing of the garment. The assistance of the weaver and
the dyer is indeed required; but every other department of the business
they are themselves fit to undertake,[68] and sometimes the aid of the
dyer is entirely dispensed with, when the cloth, bearing the natural
colour of the wool, is termed _hodden-grey_, an expression to which
Burns has given a more than ordinary interest. The weaver is usually
a person of no little importance in a rural district; for his talents
are in universal request. The specimen of the craft now before us was
unusually poor, and, not being free of the Selkirk incorporation, was,
like the Paria of the Indian tale, obliged to fly from the customary
haunts of his brethren, and seek an asylum in this solitary place.
According to his own account of his affairs, he “daikers on here in a
very sma’ way,” but when he can get _customer-wark_, has no occasion to
complain. _Customer-wark_ is the species of employment which we have
described, and he says that he can make eighteen-pence a day by it,
which seems to him to constitute a superlative degree of prosperity.
We visited his loom, which we found half embedded in the damp earth
in a low-roofed part of the cottage, and separated from the domestic
establishment by two large wooden beds. Here he seemed engaged upon
a piece of woollen cloth at least half an inch thick, the surface of
which appeared fully as rough and unequal as the map of Selkirkshire
in our good friend Mr. John Thomson’s Scottish Atlas. One peculiarity
in his method of working is worthy of remark. Instead of impelling
the shuttle in the improved modern manner, by means of a simple piece
of mechanism, he sent it through the web by his hands, throwing it
from the right and receiving it into the left, and _vice versa_,
while the hand immediately unemployed with the shuttle, was employed
for the instant in drawing the _lay_ in upon the thread. This old
fashion, which formerly prevailed in every species of weaving, is now
disused by all the Glasgow manufacturers and others who work upon
fine materials, and is only kept up in remote parts by the coarse
country weavers. We entered into a discussion of the various merits and
demerits of different sorts of work; and found that Glasgow was blessed
with no share of the goodwill of our friend the weaver. Jaconets,
blunks, ginghams, and cambrics were alternately brought up, and each
successively declared stale, flat, and unprofitable, in comparison
with the coarse stuff upon which he was now employed. _Customer-wark_
was superior to every other work; and customer-wark was, indeed,
the very god of his divinity. _Customer-wark_ seemed to give a sort
of _character_ to his conversation, for the phrase was generally
introduced three or four times into, and formed the termination
of, every sentence. When he paused for breath, he recommenced
with “customer-wark;” and this ludicrous technical accented every
cadence. The world was to the weaver all a desert, wherein only one
resting-place existed—_customer-wark_!

The poor weaver’s workshop is a miserable-looking place, and so damp
that the walls have a yellow tinge, which also affects the three-paned
window, through which the light finds its way with difficulty. The
family pig is disposed in the same place,—an unusual mark of squalor
and poverty. The weaver tells that his loom now occupies the precise
spot on which the tent of Montrose formerly stood; but this can
scarcely be correct, as, by all accounts, the general resided, with all
his horse, in the town of Selkirk.

When we visited Philiphaugh, in September, 1824, we entered fully
into the spirit of the weaver, and on that occasion extended our
observations to his wife, who is a tall, hollow woman, with dark
eyes, and who speaks and smokes with equal assiduity. The result of
our investigation was the following versified sketch, in which we
have endeavoured to give the reader a complete idea of that hitherto
nondescript animal, a country weaver: his feelings, fortunes, family,
domestic economy, and—above all—his _customer-wark!_


FOOTNOTES:

[48] “19th January, 1595, the young Earl of Montrose fought a combat
with Sir James Sandilands, at the salt trone of Edinburgh, thinking
to have revenged the slaughter of his cousin, Mr. John Graham, who
was slain with the shot of a pistol, and four of his men slain with
swords.”—_Birrel’s Diary_, p. 34.

[49] It was reported that Montrose, while a child, swallowed a toad,
by the command and direction of his mother, in order to render
himself invulnerable. As Mr. Sharpe says, in his amusing work, “Law’s
Memorialls,” he swallowed in after-life something worse,—the Covenant.

[50] Wood’s Peerage, vol. ii.

[51] “The Muse’s Threnodie.”

[52] Stewart’s “Sketches of the Highlands,” vol. ii.

[53] “Border Minstrelsy,” vol. iii.

[54] Wishart.

[55] A covenanted minister, present at the execution of these
gentlemen, observed,—“This wark gaes bonnily on!”[A] an amiable
exclamation, equivalent to the modern _ça ira_, so often used on
similar occasions.

[A] Wishart, “Memoirs of Montrose.”

[56] Wood’s Peerage.

[57] Letter of Archibald, Lord Napier, Brussels, 14th June, 1648,
_penes_ D. Napier.

[58] M‘Leod got 400 bolls of meal from the Covenanters for his
treachery.

[59] Laing’s History, vol. i.

[60] “Law’s Memorialls.”

[61] “History of the Church of Scotland,” p. 126. In the “Mercurius
Caledonius” the place of this inhumation was “under the public gibbet,
half a mile from town.”

[62] The rescinded acts, January, 1645, contain a ratification of James
Stewart’s pardon for killing Lord Kinpont. He was made major of the
Marquis of Argyll’s regiment of foot, 24th October, 1648.—_Nisbet’s
Heraldry_, vol. ii., _App._ 77.

[63] Scott of Scottstarvet’s “Staggering State of Scots Statesmen” is a
curious memoir, written shortly after the Restoration, but not printed
till early in the year 1754, after the death of the persons whose
characters and actions are mentioned with so little respect in the
course of its satirical details. It is adverted to, as in a condition
of manuscript, at the 25th page of the 2nd volume of the “Bride of
Lammermoor”; and the Author appears to have made some use of its
informations in the construction of the subsequent Tale.

[64] This article forms part of a work which I have recently projected,
to be entitled, “Pilgrimages to the most remarkable Scenes celebrated
in Scottish History.”

[65] This ungainly word is from the Danish; and it is somewhat
remarkable, that it is also used in the county of Northumberland, the
population of which is supposed to partake with the Scotch in a Danish
extraction.

[66] Wishart, p. 200.

[67] These are the remains of the trenches which Montrose threw up to
defend the flanks of his infantry.

[68] It ought to be mentioned that the tailor is also called in. In
former times this craftsman used to visit a farmer’s or cottager’s
house, with all his train of callow apprentices, once a year; and he
lived in a family way with the inhabitants till his work was finished,
when he received twopence a-day for what he had done, and went away to
mis-shape human garments at some other house. About sixty years ago,
there was a sort of _strike_ among the tailors, for a groat instead of
twopence a day; and this mighty wage continued without further increase
till the practice of taking tailors into the family has been nearly
discontinued everywhere. It was not the wages, however, but the food
of the tailor, which constituted his chief guerdon. The tailor was
always well-fed, and if there were anything better than another in the
house it was reserved for him. When, in spring time, the gudewife’s
_mart-barrel_ was getting nearly exhausted of its savoury contents,
she would put off the family with something less substantial for a few
weeks in expectation of her annual visitors—“We maun hain a bit for the
tailyeours, ye ken!” she would say.

In support of what we advance in the text, we may observe that it
is not more than half a century since house-spinning was nearly as
prevalent in the city of Edinburgh as in the country, and it will yet
be in the recollection of the most aged of our readers, that signs were
prevalent in the streets, bearing that “Lint was given out to spin—in
here,—down this close,—through this entry,” etc., etc. In these days
the Netherbow, a mean range of buildings at the eastern extremity
of the High Street, was entirely occupied by weavers who “took in
_customer-wark_,”—in proof of which fact we may cite the multiplicity
of the windows in those houses, which are still permitted to exist.
Now, alas! the shuttles of this busy neighbourhood, are as silent as
the wheels of the spinsters, in whose hands pianofortes and Brookman’s
pencils supply the place of “rocks and reels.”




CUSTOMER-WARK.

A POETICAL SKETCH.

_With a Marginal Commentary._


=Part First.=


I.

[Sidenote: On the celebrated field of Philiphaugh, where Montrose
fought his last battle in the cause of Charles the First, there now
resides a poor weaver, who tells to strangers that his loom stands upon
the very spot which the tent of the great Marquis once occupied. The
scene of so many cares and councils has become the home of a contented
and humble mechanic, who has only to battle with poverty, and whose
whole ambition is to get a regular supply of]

    Near Selkrit, where Leslie ance met wi’ Montrose,
    And ga’e the King’s army its last bloody nose,
    There lives an auld wabster, within an auld shiel,
    As lang, and as ugly, and black as the de’il.
    He works e’en and morn for his wife and his weans,
    Till the very flesh seems to be wrought frae his banes;
    Yet canty the wabster, and blyth as a lark,
    Whene’er he gets what he ca’s customer-wark!


II.

[Sidenote: _Customer-wark_—that is, the employment of weaving the
homespun linens and woollens of the industrious country wives and
maidens, which yields a much better scale of profits than the staple
commodities of Glasgow. The superiority of customer-wark over that sent
out to the country villages by Glasgow manufacturers,—which is just
the preference of straitened poverty over utter starvation,—forms the
theme of this poem.]

    This customer-wark’s the delight o’ his soul,
    Whether blanket, or sheetin, or sarkin, or towel.
    Nae trashtrie o’ cottons frae Glasgow he cares for,—
    Their tippence the ell is a very gude wherefore;—
    But God bless the wives, wi’ their wheels and their thrift,
    That help the puir wabster to fend and mak’ shift;
    Himsel’, and his wife, and his weans might been stark,
    An it hadna been them and their customer-wark.


III.

[Sidenote: Description of the weaver’s house, which, having two
apartments, belongs to the aristocracy of country cottages.]

[Sidenote: The weaver’s neglect of cleanliness and order, not to be
attributed to laziness, but to the want of leisure, all his time being
engrossed by the important business—_customer-wark!_]

    The wabster’s auld house—it’s an unco like den,
    (Though, atweel, like its neebors, it has a ben-en’!)
    It’s roof’s just a hotter o’ divots and thack,
    Wi’ a chimley dressed up maist as big’s a wheat-stack.
    There’s a peat-ruck behind, and a midden before,
    And a jaw-hole would tak a mile race to jump o’er!
    Ye may think him negleckfu’ and lazy,—but, hark,
    He’s better employed on his customer-wark!


IV.

[Sidenote: Furniture of the cottage.]

[Sidenote: The poor weaver has to work sixteen hours a day, in order to
provide food for his children.]

    Whate’er ye may think him,—the wabster’s auld hut
    Has twa looms i’ the ben, and twa beds i’ the butt,
    A table, twa creepies, three chyres, and a kist,
    And a settle to rest on, whene’er that ye list;
    The ben has a winnock, the butt has a bole,
    Where the bairns’ parritch-luggies are set out to cool,
    In providin’ o’ whilk he has mony a day’s darque,
    O’ saxteen lang hours at the _customer-wark_!


V.

[Sidenote: The weaver’s wife a noisy scold, and appropriately named
_Bell_.]

[Sidenote: The children _wind_ the pirns.]

[Sidenote: The wife’s tongue rivals the weaver’s shuttle both in sound
and swiftness.]

[Sidenote: Worse than that, she occasionally _lays on_!]

    The wabster’s auld madam—her name it is Bell—
    Lang, ugly, and black, like the wabster himsel—
    She does nought the hale day but keeps skelpin the bairns,
    And hauds three or four o’ them tight at the pirns.
    Her tongue is as gleg and as sharp as a shuttle,
    Whilk seldom but gi’es her the best o’ the battle;
    And sometimes her neive lends the wabster a yerk,
    That he likes na sae weel as his customer-wark!


VI.

[Sidenote: The weaver given to prosing upon his traditions of the
battle.]

[Sidenote: How the inhabitants of Selkirk stood off during the
fight, not knowing, as they pretended, whether the battle was “_in
daffin_” or in earnest, till they saw Montrose’s army fly, when they
enthusiastically joined in the pursuit!!!]

[Sidenote: The wife, who has heard the story till she is sick of it,
bids him mind his work, and not take up his head with things that do
not put a penny in his purse.]

    The wabster whiles jaunders a lang winter night,
    On his ae single story—_Montrose and the fight_—
    And tells how “_the Sutors_” stood aff up the brae,
    Preservin’ their hides till the end o’ the play.
    The wife she breaks in wi’—“Dear Jamie, what ken ye
    ’Bout feghts? ’Twill be lang or they bring you a penny!
    Sic auld-warld nonsense is far frae the mark—
    I wish ye wad mind just the customer-wark!”


VII.

[Sidenote: The weaver was once told that great encouragement was given
at New Lanark to weavers with large families, and for a long time
_craiked_ to be there. But the wife, who, with all her tongue, fists,
etc., has some good sense, would not hear of removing to any such
faraway country, and at last frightened him out of the humour he had
taken, by saying that she had heard there was _nae customer-wark to be
got_ in Mr. Owen’s Utopia.]

    The wabster has heard about ane they ca’ Owen,
    That keeps twa-three toons in the wast-kintry growin’,
    Where there’s weavers that live just like beass in their sta’s,
    Without kirks or taxes, debts, hunger, or laws!
    And he whyles thinks he’d like to be there;—but the wife
    Knocks him down wi’—“Dear Jamie, man, ne’er fash your life!
    Do ye think Mr. Owen, or ony sic clerk,
    Could e’er gie ye ought like the customer-wark?”


=Part Second.=


I.

[Sidenote: Improvident domestic habits, in time of plenty,]

    The black cutty-pipe, that lies by the fireside,
    Weel kens it the day when a wab has been paid,
    For then wi’ tobacco it’s filled to the ee,—
    And the wabster sits happy as happy can be;
    For hours at a time it’s ne’er out o’ his cheek,
    Till maist feck o’ his winnings ha’e vanished in reek:
    He says that o’ life he could ne’er keep the spark,
    An it werena the pipe and the customer-wark!


II.

    Then the wife, that’s as fond o’ her pleasure as he,
    Brings out a black tea-pot and maks a drap tea;
    And they sit, and they soss, and they haud a cabal,
    And ye’d think that their slaistrie wad never divaul.
    By their wee spunk o’ ingle they keep up the bother,
    Each jeerin’, misca’in’, and scauldin’ the tother;
    While the bairns sit out by, wi cauld kale, i’ the dark—
    Nae gude comes to them o’ the customer-wark!


III.

[Sidenote: produce proportionate want and misery in the exhaustion of
their resources.]

[Sidenote: In the absence of _customer-wark_, the weaver flies to his
_dernier resort_, the loom of reserve, on which he works a web for
private sale, but which his funds will scarce allow him to carry on
upon his own foundation.]

[Sidenote: The implements of luxury thrown by neglected.]

    When the siller grows scarce and the spleuchan gets toom,
    The wabster gangs back to his treddles and loom,
    Where he jows the day lang on some wab o’ his ain,
    That’ll bring in nae cash for a twalmonth or twain;
    Then the pipe lies exhaustit o’ a but its stink,
    And the pourie is washed and set by on the bink;
    There neglected they’ll lie, like auld yads in a park,
    Till Heaven shall neist send some customer-wark!


IV.

[Sidenote: Description of a process of starvation, which reduces
the weaver from his natural and customary meagreness to a perfect
anatomization.]

[Sidenote: A simile picked up in trout fishing.]

[Sidenote: The weaver saved, in his extremity, by a supply of his
darling _customer-wark_.]

    Then the puir starvin’ wabster grows thinner and thinner,
    On a ’tatoe for breakfast, a ’tatoe for dinner,
    And vanishes veesibly, day after day,
    Just like the auld moon whan she eelies away.
    Clean purged out he looks, like a worm amang fog,
    And his face is the colour o’ sweens in a cogue.
    At last, when grown hungry and gaunt as a shark,
    He revives wi’ a mouthfu’ o’ customer-wark.


V.

[Sidenote: Arrival of a customer.]

[Sidenote: Familiar condescension of a farmer’s wife in visiting a
weaver’s.]

[Sidenote: Disappointment on finding the hopeless state of the _cutty_.]

[Sidenote: Trait of the excitement produced in the household by the
arrival of _customer-wark_.]

    A branksome gudewife, frae the neist farmer toon,
    Comes in wi’ a bundle, and clanks hersel’ down,
    “How’s a’ wi’ ye the day, Bell? Ha’ ye ought i’ the pipe?
    Come rax me a stapper? the cutty I’ll rype!
    I maun see the gudeman—bring him ben, hinney Jess!
    Tut!! the pipe’s fu’ o’ naithing but fusionless asse!”
    The wife ne’er lets on that she hears the remark,
    But cries, “Jess! do ye hear, deme?—_It’s customer-wark!!!_”


VI.

[Sidenote: Transport of the weaver himself at hearing the news.]

[Sidenote: His behaviour towards the customer.]

[Sidenote: Politeness and flattery.]

[Sidenote: Affected solicitude about his customer’s domestic welfare,
while his whole soul is in reality entranced in the contemplation of
_customer-wark_.]

    Having gotten her lick i’ the lug, Jess gangs ben,
    And tells her toom father about the God-sen’;
    Transported, he through the shop-door pops his head,
    Like a ghaist glowrin’ out frae the gates o’ the dead.
    Then, wi’ a great fraise he salutes the gudewife,—
    Says he ne’er saw her lookin’ sae weel i’ his life,—
    Spiers for the gudeman and the bairns at Glendeark,—
    While his thoughts a’ the time are on customer-wark!


VII.

[Sidenote: Makes himself immediately very busy in the delightful
details prefatory to his employment.]

[Sidenote: Praises the wife’s handiwork, for courtesy’s sake, but does
not approve of the bounds which her niggardliness has imposed upon the
possibility of _cabbage_.]

[Sidenote: Rapture of the children, which is much more disinterested,
and not less heartfelt, than the weaver’s own.]

    Then, wi’ the gudewife, he claps down on the floor,
    And they turn and they count the hale yarn o’er and o’er:
    He rooses her spinning, but canyells like daft
    ’Bout the length o’ her warp and the scrimp o’ her waft.
    At last it’s a’ settled, and promised bedeen
    To be ready on Friday or Fursday at e’en;
    And the bairns they rin out, wi’ a great skirlin’ bark,
    To tell that their dad’s got some customer-wark!


VIII.

[Sidenote: Recovery from starvation.]

[Sidenote: Revival of former domestic comfort.]

    Then it’s pleasant to see, by the vera neist ouk,
    How the wabster thowes out to his natural bouk,
    How he freshens a thought on his diet o’ brose,
    And a wee tait o’ colour comes back to his nose!
    The cutty’s new-mountit, and everything’s snug,
    And Bell’s tongue disna sing half sae loud i’ his lug;
    Abstracted and happy, and jum as a Turk,
    He sits thinking on nothing but customer-wark!


IX.

[Sidenote: Concluding benediction upon customer-wark, and
recapitulation of its virtues.]

    Oh, customer-wark! thou sublime movin’ spring!
    It’s you gars the heart o’ the wabster to sing!
    An ’twerena for you, how puir were his cheer,
    Ae meltith a day, and twa blasts i’ the year:
    It’s you that provides him the bit, brat, and beet,
    And maks the twa ends o’ the year sweetly meet,
    That pits meat in his barrel and meal in his ark!
    My blessings gang wi’ ye, dear customer-wark!




CHAPTER X.

=The Monastery.=


A VILLAGE ANTIQUARY.

(_Captain Clutterbuck._)

Captain Clutterbuck, the amusing personage who introduces “The
Monastery” and “Nigel,” and who employed himself so agreeably during
the half-pay part of his life in showing off the ruins of St. Mary’s,
finds a happy counterpart in Mr., _vulgo_ Captain O——n, a gentleman
well known in Melrose as an amateur cicerone of “_the Abbey_.” His
peculiarities and pursuits very nearly resemble those of the fictitious
Clutterbuck. He differs from him in this,—that he never was engaged
in foreign service, having merely held some rank in a provincial
corps of volunteers; but in every other respect he bears a striking
resemblance. He is a staid, elderly person, about fifty, dresses like a
gentleman,—that is, a Melrose gentleman,—and parades about his native
village with a swagger of military gentility in his air, such as the
possession of a walking-cane and the title of _Captain_ seems alone
capable of inspiring in the legs of mankind.

He possesses as much property in the neighbourhood of Melrose as would
entitle him to the honourable appellation, _Laird_; but in his case
that enviable title is merged in the more romantic and splendid one of
_Captain_, of which he is, perhaps, ambitious. He has his property in
his own hands, and by its means contrives to keep himself independent.
He thus wavers between the species of the half-pay officer and the
cock-laird, and has no particular claims upon a distinct classification
with either. He is chiefly genteel and idle, and associates a good deal
with that regular hanger-on in all country villages, the exciseman.
Having by some chance got the title of Captain affixed to his name,
(in truth, he was only sergeant of a local militia corps,) he persists
in retaining, by abstinence from personal labour, what otherwise he
would have forfeited. The dignity which he contrives to maintain in
his native town is scarcely wonderful, when we consider how few are
ever independent in such a community, and to what a degree the respect
of the illiterate is calculated to be excited by the possession of
a very little knowledge,—such as Captain O. would easily acquire
in the course of his unoccupied life, and which the opportunities
of ease did not fail to confer upon even David Ritchie. Besides, to
speak in the deferential words of Captain Clutterbuck’s Kennaquhair
Club, “The Captain has something in him after a’—few folk ken sae
mickle about the Abbey.” O.’s knowledge upon this point is indeed well
calculated to excite the astonishment and veneration of the natives.
He has not only driven the grave-digger fairly off the field, who, in
the reality of Melrose, as well as in the ideality of Kennaquhair,
was the former cicerone of the ruins,—but he is even a formidable
rival to the ingenious John Bower himself. Old David Kyle, who kept
the head inn at Melrose, and who is the _David_ of the Introduction
here illustrated, was in the frequent practice of calling upon Captain
O. for the purpose there so humorously described, namely, to press
his knowledge into the service of his guests. Upon such occasions of
importance, the Captain would, and still does, march away, with great
pomposity, at the head of his company, like a peripatetic philosopher
declaiming to a troop of disciples, and by the way _lays off_, as he
terms it, all he has ever been able to discover respecting the valuable
remains of St. Mary’s,—and sometimes more than all! How, then, will
his eloquence expand over crypts and chancels, naves and arches! With
what an important sound will the point of his walking cane ring against
the tomb of Michael Scott! And, above all, how will the surrounding
cockneys stare in admiration, when, in the course of his lecture, he
chances to emit some such grandly unintelligible word as _architrave_
or _transept_.

Captain O.’s intelligence chiefly lies among the vulgar traditionary
opinions which are entertained regarding the ruins by the country
people; and he knows comparatively little of the lore with which
written records and authentic treatises instruct the general
antiquary. Mr. Bower is a person of better authority than the Captain,
and has even published descriptions of the Abbey; but, notwithstanding,
the Captain is not without his party in the town, and it is generally
remarked that his anecdotes, if not so true, are at least as
entertaining. A sort of jealousy sometimes is observable between these
rival Ciceroni, a remarkable anecdote of which is recorded. Upon the
opening of some ancient grave within the ruins, a noseless bust of St.
Peter happened to be found, which it pleased Captain O. to take under
his immediate protection. Bower had found some other remarkable idol
in another part of the Abbey, to which he endeavoured to collect as
many votaries of curiosity as possible; but the rival statue, which the
Captain had already christened by the _taking_ name of Michael Scott,
drew off a sweeping sect from the more legitimate shrine. Bower then
endeavoured to prove that this was no statue of the wizard at all, but
merely one of the common herd of saints, who had formerly figured in
the niches of the building. Of this he at last succeeded in convincing
all concerned, to the discomfiture of his rival. But, nevertheless,
the Captain would not give up his point. He continued pertinacious in
maintaining the authenticity of his noseless _protégé_, in spite of all
detractions, in spite of all heresies; till at last finding the whole
world against him, he gave up his argument, and turned off the whole
as a joke, with the facetious observation, that “It was just as good a
Michael Scott as could have been found among the whole ruins, if they
would only have held with it!”

Sometimes, in the course of exhibition, there occur distresses nearly
resembling that which happened to Captain Clutterbuck, in the company
of the Benedictine,—that is to say, he “finds himself a scholar
when he came to teach,” by the strangers actually knowing more of
his favourite study than himself. This happens most frequently in
the case of “gentlemen from Edinburgh,”—elderly persons with black
coats and low-crowned hats, which may be called the costume of terror
to our antiquary. To these habiliments, if we add the circumstance
of hair-powder, O——n would as soon face a hyena as any person so
clothed. He is said to fly from a wig as from a pestilence.

Yet, even in these predicaments, the Captain is never entirely at a
loss. Repulsed from one stone, he can retreat to another; refuted in
any part of his intelligence, he can make an honourable stand at
another, of which his visitors had not been aware; and, even when
found to be wholly fabulous and absurd in his anecdotes, he can, as a
_dernier resort_, turn them off with some pleasantry or other, which
is, of course, irrefragable. Besides, even when he catches a complete,
resolute, ANTIQUARIAN Tartar, he generally contrives to profit by the
encounter, by picking up some new intelligence, which he adds to his
own former stock.

In describing this part of the character of a local antiquary, with all
his ignorance and all his fables, it is forced upon our observation,
how little certain information is commonly to be found, concerning
the relics of antiquity, among those who dwell in their immediate
neighbourhood. They know that there is an “_auld abbey_” or a “_queer
sort o’ stane_,” near them; but for any more particular notice of their
history, you might as well inquire in a different quarter of the globe.
We have known instances of people, whose playground in infancy, and
whose daily walks in manhood, had been among the ruins of an ancient
Collegiate Church, (not the least interesting in the kingdom,) being
yet quite ignorant of every circumstance connected with it, except that
it was “_just the auld Kirk_.”

“It not unfrequently happened,” says Captain Clutterbuck, in his
amusing account of himself, “that an acquaintance which commenced in
the Abbey concluded in the Inn, which served to relieve the solitude
as well as the monotony of my landlady’s shoulder of mutton, whether
hot, cold, or hashed.” This happened not more frequently in the case
of Captain Clutterbuck than it does in that of Captain O——n. The
latter personage, indeed, makes a constant practice of living entirely
with his _eleves_ during their stay in Melrose; and, as they have been
guests at the hospitable board of his learning and entertainment, so
he in turn becomes a guest at the parade of their “bottle of sherry,
minced collops, and fowl,” or whatever else the order upon David Kyle
may be. He is thus always ready at the elbows of their ignorance, to
explain and to exhibit the various petty curiosities of the place,
of which it is probable they might otherwise be obliged to remain
perfectly unknowing, but for the condescending attention of Captain O.
He is not destitute of other means of entertainment, besides showing
the Abbey. He can tell a good story, after a few glasses, and is an
excellent hand at a song. “The Broom of the Cowdenknows” is his
favourite and his best; but we are also tenderly attached to “The
Flowers of the Forest,” which he gives in the milkmaid style, with
much pathos. When his company is agreeable, he can (about the tenth
tumbler,) treat them with “Willie brewed a peck o’ Maut,” or “Auld Lang
Syne,” or “For a’ that and a’ that.” These infatuating lyrics he gives
in such a style of appropriate enthusiasm, that if his companions have
at all a spark of Burns’s fire in their composition, they will rise
up and join hands round the table, and, at the conclusion of every
stanza, drink down immense cups of kindness, till, in the springtide
of their glory, they imagine themselves the most jolly, patriotic, and
independent Scotsmen upon the face of the earth. Such is the deceiving
effect of a national song upon the spirits of men of sober reason when
prepared for the excitement by previous intoxication. This trait is
also not without its parallel in Clutterbuck. The reader will remember
how, in the Introduction to Nigel, he pathetically laments that since
Catalani visited the ruins, his “Poortith Cauld” has been received both
poorly and coldly, and his “Banks of Doon” been fairly coughed down,
at the Club. May the vocal exertions of Captain O——n, however, never
meet with such a scurvy reception among the cognoscenti of Melrose!

Such are the characteristics of the prototype of Captain Clutterbuck,
as we have gathered them from persons who have been acquainted with
him, natives of the same town. We learn that there is another person of
the same description in Melrose, named Captain T——t, who was really
a Captain, but of a man-of-war, instead of a regiment. May he not have
been the _Captain Doolittle_ of “The Monastery”? The grave-digger of
Kennaquhair, who has the honour of speaking a few words in that work,
must have been John Martin, who was professor of the same trade in
Melrose. He is now dead. Mr. David Kyle, a very respectable and worthy
man, who kept the Cross Keys Inn at Melrose, is also dead. He was in
the custom of keeping an album in his house, for the amusement of his
guests; though we cannot say as to the truth of his having had a copy
of the “great Dr. Samuel Johnson’s _Tower_ to the Hebrides, in his
parlour window, wi’ the twa boards torn aff.” In the album, to which
we had access, is the following very curious document, among much
nonsense:—


EPITAPH ON MR. LITTLE,

A JOLLY FELLOW.

    “Alas! how chop-fallen now!”—_Blair._

    “Little’s the man lies buried here,
      For little was his soul;
    His belly was the warehouse vat
      Of many a flowing bowl.

    O Satan, if to thy domains
      His little soul has hoppit,
    Be sure ye guard your whiskey casks,
      Or faith, they will be toppit!

    Chain, chain him fast, the drucken loon,
      For, Satan, ye’ve nae notion
    O’ Jockey’s drouth;—if he get loose,
      By Jove! he’ll drink the ocean!”

The character of Captain Clutterbuck, taken abstractedly from all
consideration of its prototype, may be said to represent a certain
species of men to be found in almost every Scottish village of any
extent. Sergeant M‘Alpine, in the Legend of Montrose, is another
picture of them, and perhaps a more complete one than Clutterbuck. They
are the scattered wrecks of war, drifted upon the beach of retirement,
and left to waste away. They chiefly roost about little towns in
remote parts of the country, where society is not expensive, and where
half-pay procures the necessaries of life in the best possible style.
Here there always exist one or two of these individuals, rendering
the place respectable by their presence, and receiving a sort of
spontaneous homage from the people, in virtue of their independence,
their gentility, and their scars. Like the fading relics of the
City Guard, they change the most warlike of their habiliments for
others more consonant with the costumes of peace; but yet, though the
scarlet be gone from the coat and the sword from the hand, they do not
altogether shake off the airs of war. There is still something of the
parade to be observed in the small-ruffled shirt, the blue-necked coat,
and the shoe-buckles; while the starched and powdered rigidity in the
cheek is as military as before, and the walking cane is but a slight
defalcation, in either dignity or ferocity, from its predecessor,
the sword. The walk, proud, portly, and erect, is another relic of
military habit that can never be abandoned: and every other little
punctuality of life and manners, such as soldiers are accustomed to,
is equally pertinacious in clinging to the person of the disbanded
officer. Such persons have long-winded stories about Ticonderago and
Mount Abraham, which every one of their acquaintance has known by heart
these twenty years; and yet such is the respect paid to the good old
gentleman, that amazement as naturally follows the unfolding of the
story, and the laugh comes as ready on the catastrophe of the joke, as
ever. No one could be uncivil to _the Captain_. An excellent sketch
of this description of persons is to be found in the xxxth number of
_Blackwood’s Magazine_, under the title of “Lament for Captain Paton.”
To this poem we refer the reader for further particulars respecting the
character represented in Captain Clutterbuck.


SCENERY.

The first and most prominent object of attention, in the scenery of
this Romance, is the Monastery itself, which every one knows to be the
renowned Abbey of Melrose, situated upwards of thirty-five miles from
Edinburgh to the south. It is the most beautiful and correct specimen
of Gothic architecture in Scotland; and has been universally admired
for the elegance and variety of its sculpture, the beauty of its stone,
the multiplicity of its statues, and the symmetry of its parts. It
was founded, as is well known, in 1136, by the pious David I., who
dedicated it to the Virgin Mary. To attempt a minute description of it
would be unnecessary, as we presume the great bulk of our readers have
seen the venerable pile itself, and those who have not, know the many
excellent sources from which this want can be supplied. Any remarks of
ours would give no additional lustre to the magnificent ruins, or to
the knowledge of the vicissitudes which it underwent in the course of
several ages.

Less than a quarter of a mile to the west of the Abbey, there is a
green bank which reaches to the height of some hundred feet above the
level of the Tweed. It is termed the Weird Hill, from a dim tradition
of the fairy tribe having haunted the spot, and held high conclave
touching the whimsies to be practised on the wights who came under
their ire. Immediately below this bank is the weird or dam-dyke where
it is believed the poor Sacristan was ducked by the White Lady,—a
lineal descendant of the ancient inhabitants of the hill.

Following the course of the Tweed upwards—that is, towards the
west, about a mile and a half—we arrive at the ruins of the Old
Bridge, which once formed the regular communication to the Monastery.
It appears to have been constructed of timber, in the form of a
drawbridge, with three pillars, the middle pillar containing a wooden
house for the bridge-keeper. From this bridge there was a plain way to
Soutra Hill, along the northern bank of the Tweed, which was named the
_Girth-gate_,[69] from an hospital, having the privileges of Sanctuary,
which was founded at Soutra by Malcolm IV., for the relief of pilgrims
and of poor and infirm persons who journeyed southwards. This way was
so good and easy, that, as a learned divine remarked, it might strongly
remind the traveller of the paths to the cities of refuge. There were
also two hostelries or inns at that place, which could well afford,
from their stores, an elegant _dejeune_ to Sir Piercie Shafton and his
“fair Molindinara.”

A few yards from the bridge alluded to, the Elevand or Allan water
discharges itself into the Tweed. It is this little mountain brook
(rising from Allan-shaws on the boundary of Melrose parish towards the
north,) that forms the beautiful valley of Glendearg, described in
the romance. Advancing from the strath of the river in the northern
direction from Melrose, we discern the stream meandering in crystal
beauty through Langlee Wood, the property of Lord Somerville. The
serpentine turns of its course oblige the traveller frequently to pass
and repass it, in the line of the foot-track; but this is attended with
no inconvenience, from the number of rustic bridges which are thrown
over it. Emerging from the wood, the glen opens to the view. On one
side of it (to the east,) rises a precipitous bank or _scaur_,[70] of
a reddish colour, with here and there small patches of green sward.
On the opposite side the eminences do not swell so high, but form a
perfect contrast to the other. They have yielded their bosom to the
industry of man, and repay his labour with the rich fruits of autumn.
This improvement, however, is recent, as thirty years have scarcely
elapsed since they displayed an aspect almost as barren as the opposite
ridge. The little brook which runs below is not perceptible from either
height, so deeply is its channel embosomed in the narrow dell. As we
proceed onwards under a shade of alders, the glen gradually widens,
and, about 400 yards from whence it opens, a singular amphitheatre
meets the eye. It is somewhat in the shape of a crescent, through
which the water passes, leaving a pretty large channel. The opposing
precipices are thickly belted with copse-wood and several mountain
shrubs, which entwine with the branches of the beech and birch
trees. This place is called the Fairy or Nameless Dean, from some
curiously-shaped stones, which are said to be found after great falls
of rain.[71] But perhaps a better reason for the appellation arises
from the situation itself, which afforded a hidden rendezvous for the
elfin race, with which superstition peopled many parts of this district
during the grandeur of the Abbacy. No one, however, will deny that the
White Lady of Avenel might here have fixed her residence, and delivered
her responses to young Glendinning, or that it might have served as
a secluded corner for deadly strife. Though the holly bush cannot be
discovered, yet the spring of water may easily be conjectured, by the
curious observer, in the swampiness of portions of the ground now
covered with sward.

The scenery of the remainder of the glen is extremely picturesque, but
unmarked by any striking varieties. The brook, like

    “Streamlet of the mountain north,
    Now in a torrent racing forth,”

often dashes and foams over small interjecting rocks, and forms some
beautiful cascades. At other times,

    “Winding slow its silver train,
    And almost slumbering o’er the plain,”

it sends a puny rill into some of the deep recesses or ravines which
have found their way between the hills. As the top of the glen is
neared, the hills show a greater slope, till we arrive at the green
mount, on which stands


HILLSLOP TOWER,

On the property of Borthwick of Crookston, from which there is no doubt
Glendearg has been depicted. The outward walls are still entire, and,
from their thickness and oblong form, with the port-holes with which
they abound, show it to have been formerly a place of some strength.
This seems also probable from the bleakness and wildness of the
surrounding scenery. High mountainous ridges, the castles of nature,
tower on every side, whose bosoms sometimes display the naked grey rock
encircled with fern and heath, and, at other times, excellent verdure.
But no cultivated field greets the eye, and the solemn stillness which
reigns around is only broken by the gentle murmuring of the rivulet.
The situation of the old tower is well chosen, as, from the direction
in which the hills run, a sort of circle is formed, which not only
screens it from the north and east winds, but could easily debar all
intercourse with the neighbouring country.

The date of the old tower, if a sculpture on the lintel of the entrance
can be credited, is 1585; and its inhabitants seem to have been of some
consequence from its interior appearance. At the foot of the stair,
which projects almost to the door, there is a long, narrow apartment,
with an arched roof lighted by a loophole-window, which, in the olden
times, formed the pen for the proprietor’s cattle when danger was
apprehended. It would suit well for the place of concealment suggested
by the miller’s daughter for Sir Piercie, before the unbarring of the
door. The decayed stone staircase leads to a common-sized hall, with
a large chimney-piece; but from the height of the walls, and other
circumstances, there must have been another room of equal dimensions
above it. There are also the remains of some small rooms, which
complete the accommodations of the mansion.

At a little distance from the foot of the tower, the straggling ruins
of small outhouses are discerned, which have been once connected with
the principal building. A short way farther, to the north, stand the
ruins of Colmsley and Langshaw, the former of which places is alluded
to by its name in the Romance.

Leaving Glendearg, it is necessary to follow the progress of the
romance towards the Castle of Avenel, _alias_ Smailholm Tower. The
distance between the two places is nearly seven miles. There is no
regular road, but a track can be discovered, which runs eastward from
Hillslop, through the base of the Gattonside, a small chain which
runs from E. to W., in the direction of Melrose. The path is a most
unenviable one; for, besides the obstacles of ditch and furze, it is
intersected by deep morasses, which often render it quite impassable.
In threading it, we pass Threepwood and Blainslie Mosses, the favourite
resort of the Moss-troopers, who kept the peaceful inhabitants in
continual alarm. Their ravages were particularly extensive during
the usurpation of Cromwell, who allowed these depredators to scourge
Scotland unpunished.


SMAILHOLM TOWER.

We hope to be able to show, from the description of this ancient
fortress, that it agrees in the leading features with Avenel Castle;
and if the reader will carry back his imagination for two centuries,
he will be better able to minute the resemblance. Smailholm tower,
distant about seven miles from Melrose to the east, and eight from
Kelso to the west, is the most perfect relic of the feudal keep in the
south of Scotland. It stands upon a rock of considerable height, in
the centre of an amphitheatre of craggy hills, which rise many hundred
feet above the level of the fertile plains of the Merse. Between the
hills there appear ravines of some depth, which, being covered with
straggling clumps of mountain shrubs, afford an agreeable relief to
the rocks which are continually starting upon the eye. Nature indeed
seems to have destined this isolated spot for a bulwark against the
border marauders; but its strength and security was not confined to
the encircling eminences. It chiefly lay in a deep and dangerous loch,
which completely environed the castle, and extended on every side
to the hills. Of this loch only a small portion remains, it having
been drained, many years ago, for the convenience of the farmer on
whose estate it was thought a nuisance. But the fact is evident, not
only from the swampiness of the ground, which only a few years since
created a dangerous morass, but from the appearance of the remaining
pool, which has hitherto defied the efforts of the numerous drain-beds
which surround it in every direction. Some people in the neighbourhood
recollect and can mark out the extent of the large sheet of water which
gave so romantic an air to this shred of antiquity.

We cannot omit giving the following animated picture of the local
beauties, from the pencil of Sir Walter Scott.

    “—Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,
    Which charmed my fancy’s wakening hour.

           *       *       *       *       *

    It was a barren scene and wild,
    Where naked cliffs were rudely piled:
    But ever and anon between
    Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
    And well the lonely infant knew
    Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
    And honeysuckle loved to crawl
    Up the low crag and ruined wall:
    I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade
    The sun in all his round surveyed;
    And still I thought that shattered tower[72]
    The mightiest work of human power;
    And marvelled, as the aged hind
    With some strange tale bewitched my mind,
    Of forayers who, with headlong force,
    Down from that strength had spurred their horse,
    Their southern rapine to renew,
    Far in the distant Cheviots blue,
    And, home-returning, filled the hall
    With revel, wassail-rout, and ball.”

There is much feeling in this description; and so might there be, for
the early years of the bard were passed in the farmhouse of Sandy-knowe
(about a bow-shot from the tower,) with a maternal aunt, whose mind was
stored with border legends, which she related to her youthful charge.
With this instructress, and by poring incessantly for many years on
the relics of antiquity which are to be found in the neighbourhood, it
is probable that he first received the impressions that afterwards came
forward to such an illustrious maturity, and stored his imagination
with those splendid images of chivalry that have since been embodied in
imperishable song.

The external appearance of the tower may be briefly described. The
walls are of a quadrangular shape, and about nine feet in thickness.
They have none of the decorations of buttress or turret; and if
there were any ornamental carving, time has swept it away. A ruined
bartizan, which runs across three angles of the building, near the
top, is the only outward addition to the naked square _donjon_. The
tower has been entered on the _west_ side, as all the other quarters
rise perpendicularly from the lake. Accordingly, there we discern the
fragments of a causeway, and the ruins of a broad portal, whence a
drawbridge seems to have communicated with an eminence about a hundred
yards distant. On this quarter also there may be traced the site of
several small booths which contained the retainers or men-at-arms of
the feudal lord.

On the west side,[73] at a little distance from the Castle, is the
Watch Crag, a massive rock, on the top of which a fire was lit to
announce the approach of the English forayers to the neighbourhood. It
is thus described in the ballad of the Eve of St. John:

    “The bittern clamoured from the moss,
    The wind blew loud and shrill;
    Yet the craggy pathway she did cross
    To the airy beacon hill.

           *       *       *       *       *

    I watched her steps, and silent came,
    Where she sat her all alone;
    No watchman stood by the dreary flame,
    It burnèd all alone.”

The interior of the castle bespeaks the mansion of the lesser
Scottish Baron. The sunk-floor, or keep, seems, from its structure,
to have contained the cattle of the Baron during seasons of alarm
and invasion. It is vaulted in the roof, and the light is admitted
by a small outshot. Some have conjectured that this apartment was
occupied as a dungeon, or _Massy More_, where the captives taken in
war were confined; but this idea is improbable, not only from the
comfortable appearance it exhibits, but from the circumstance of every
border fortress having a place of the description formerly alluded to.
Ascending a narrow winding staircase, we arrive at a spacious hall,
with the customary distinction of a huge chimney-piece. The roof is
gone, but the stone props of it, which were of course the support of
another floor, remain. This latter would seem to have been the grand
banqueting-room, where the prodigal hospitality of our ancestors was
displayed in its usual style of extravagance. There also remain the
marks of a higher floor, thus making three storeys in all. The highest
opens by a few steps to the bartizan we have already mentioned, whence
we ascend to a grass-grown battlement, which commands a magnificent
prospect. To the east the spires of Berwick are descried, terminating
an extensive plain, beautified by the windings of the Tweed; to the
south, the conical summits of the Eildon Hills; to the north, the
Lammermoors rear their barren heads above the verdant hills of the
Merse; and on the south, the blue Cheviots are seen stretching through
a lengthened vista of smaller hills. Besides this grand outline, the
eye can take in a smaller range, beyond the rocky barrier of the
Castle,—a most cultivated dale, varied with peaceful hamlets, crystal
streams, and towering forests.

The history of the ancient possessors of the tower is involved in
obscurity. We only know that there were Barons of Smailholm, but no
memorable qualities are recorded of them. They were, as we already
observed, in the rank of the _lesser_ Barons—that is, those who had
not the patent of peerage, but who were dignified only by the extent of
their possessions. But we know that the present proprietor, Mr. Scott,
of Harden, is not a descendant of that ancient family, as we believe he
acquired the estate by purchase. This gentleman cares so little for the
antique pile within his domains, that it is not long since he intimated
his intention to raze it to the ground, and from its materials to erect
a steading to the farm of Sandy-knowe. This would have certainly taken
place, had not his poetic kinsman, Sir Walter Scott, interfered, and
averted the sacrilegious intent; and to prevent the recurrence of the
resolution, he composed the admired ballad of the Eve of St. John,
which ranks among the best in the Border Minstrelsy.

Tradition bears that it was inhabited by an aged lady at the beginning
of the last century, and several old people still alive remember of
the joists and window-frames being entire. A more interesting legend
exists, of which the purport is, that there was once a human skull
within this tower, possessed of the miraculous faculty of self-motion
to such a degree, that, if taken away to any distance, it was always
sure to have found its way back to its post by the next morning.[74]
This may perhaps remind the reader of the strange journeys performed
by the “black volume” in the Monastery, whose rambling disposition was
such a source of terror and amazement to the monks of St. Mary’s.


FOOTNOTES:

[69] _Girth_ signifies a Sanctuary or place of refuge.

[70] Broken mountain ground, without vegetation.

[71] These are found in several fantastic shapes, such as guns,
cradles, boots, etc., and are justly supposed to be the petrifactions
of some mineral spring hard by.

[72] Smailholm Tower.

[73] The entrance of Avenel was also from the west.

[74] This story is told in the _Border Antiquities_. Since we copied
it, information has been communicated, deriving the report from a
ridiculous and most unromantic incident. The skull was moved from its
place in the castle by a rat, which had found a lodgment in its cavity,
and contrived to take it back to a particular apartment on finding it
removed to any other.




CHAPTER XI.

=The Romances.=


MATCH OF ARCHERY AT ASHBY.

“IVANHOE.”

The match in which the yeoman Locksley overcomes all the antagonists
whom Prince John brings up against him, finds a parallel, and indeed we
may say foundation, in the ballad of “Adam Bell, Clym o’ the Cleugh,
and William of Cloudeslea.” The story of the ballad bears, that these
three “perilous outlaws,” having wrought great devastation among the
“foresters of the fee” and liege burghers of Carlisle, while in the act
of rescuing one of their companions from prison, “fure up to London
Town” to crave of their Sovereign a charter of peace. This, by the
intercession of the Queen, he grants them; but no sooner is the royal
word passed for their pardon, than messengers arrive from the “North
Countrye,” with the tidings of the deadly havoc. The King happens to
be quietly engaged in eating his dinner at the time, and is completely
thunderstruck at the intelligence, so that,—

    “Take up the table,” then said he,
    “For I can eat no mo’.”

He straightway assures the three offenders, that if they do not prevail
over every one of his own bowmen, their lives shall be forfeited.

    “Then they all bent their good yew bows,
      _Looked that their strings were rownd_,
    And twice or thrice they shot their shafts
      Full deftly in that stound.

    “Then out spoke William of Cloudeslea,
      ‘By him that for me died,
    I hold him not a good archer
      That shoots at butt so wide.’

    “‘Whereat, I crave,’ then said the King,
      ‘That thou wilt tell to me?’
    ‘At such a butt, sire, as we wont
      To use in our countrye.’

    “Then William, with his brethren twain,
      Stept forth upon the green,
    And there set up two hazel rods,
      Twenty score pace between.”

The reader will recollect that Locksley upbraids his adversary, after
his unsuccessful shot, for not having made an allowance for the
pressure of the breeze. Cloudeslea gives a caution to the spectators no
less minute:

    “He prayed the people that were there
      That they would all still stand;
    ‘He that for such a wager shoots,
      Has need of steady hand;’”

and, having chosen a “bearing flane,” splits the wand.


KENILWORTH CASTLE.

“KENILWORTH.”

KENILWORTH CASTLE was in former times one of the most magnificent piles
in England. In the days of its prosperity it took a military part, and
it still retains traces of a warlike character,—though the foliage
which overspreads its remains, has softened down the ruins into the
appearance of a peaceful mansion. It was first destroyed by Cromwell,
in revenge of its possessor having favoured the royal cause. Since then
it has been gradually decaying, and another century will probably bring
it to the ground.

History mentions Kenilworth so early as the reign of Henry I. At that
time it was private property, but afterwards fell into the hands of
the Crown, in which it continued till Elizabeth bestowed it upon her
favourite, Leicester. This nobleman, profuse and extravagant to the
last degree, is said to have expended upon it no less than £60,000.

One of the most remarkable events in the history of this castle is
the entertainment given by the latter proprietor to Elizabeth, which
forms the groundwork of the beautiful romance of “Kenilworth.” The
traditionary recollection of this grand festivity still lives in the
country, such having been the impression made upon the minds of the
country people by the grandeur of the occasion, that, in a lapse of 250
years, it has not decayed in their remembrance. The following is an
account, given by an eye-witness, of her Majesty’s reception:—

“On the 9th of July, 1575, in the evening, the Queen approached the
first gate of the castle. The porter, a man tall in person, and of
stern countenance, with a club and keys, accosted her Majesty in a
rough speech, full of passion, in metre, aptly made for the purpose,
and demanded the cause of all this din, and noise, and reeling about,
within the charge of his office. But upon seeing the Queen, as if he
had been struck instantaneously, and pierced, at the presence of a
personage so evidently expressing heroical sovereignty, he fell down on
his knees, humbly prays pardon for his ignorance, yields up his club
and keys, and proclaims open gates and free passage to all.

“Immediately the trumpeters, who stood on the wall, being six in
number, each eight feet high, with their silvery trumpets of five feet
long, sounded up a tune of welcome.

“Those harmonious blasters maintained their delectable music while the
Queen rode through the tilt-yard to the grand entrance of the castle,
which was washed by the lake.

“As she passed, a movable island approached, on which sat the Lady of
the Lake, who offered up her dominion to her Majesty, which she had
held since the days of King Arthur.

“This scene ended by a delectable harmony of hautbois, shalms, cornets,
with other loud musical instruments, playing while her Majesty passed
into the castle gate.

“When she entered the castle, a new scene was presented to
her.—Several of the heathen gods brought their gifts before
her—Sylvanus, god of the woods, Pomona with fruit, Ceres with corn,
Bacchus with grapes, Neptune with his trident, Mars with his arms,
Apollo with musical instruments,—all presented themselves to welcome
her Majesty in this singular place. An inscription over the gate
explained the whole.

“Her Majesty was graciously pleased to accept the gifts of these
divinities, when was struck up a concert of flutes and other soft
music. When, alighting from her palfrey, she was conveyed into her
chamber, when her arrival was announced through the country by a peal
of cannon from the ramparts, and fireworks at night.”

Here the Queen was entertained for nineteen days, at an expense of
£1000 a day. The Queen’s genius seems to have been greatly consulted
in the pomp and solemnity of the whole, to which some have added the
entertainment of bear-baiting, etc.

The great clock was stopped during her Majesty’s continuance in the
castle, as if time had stood still, waiting on the Queen, and seeing
her subjects enjoy themselves.


DAVID RAMSAY.

“NIGEL.”

“In the year 1634, Davy Ramsay, his Majesty’s clockmaker, made an
attempt to discover a precious deposit supposed to be concealed in the
cloister of Westminster Abbey, but a violent storm of wind put a stop
to his operations.”—_Lilly’s Life_, p. 47. This Ramsay, according to
Osborne, in his _Traditional Memorials_, used to deliver money and
watches, to be recompensed, with profit, when King James should sit
on the King’s chair at Rome, so near did he apprehend (by astrology,
doubtless,) the downfall of the papal power. His son wrote several
books on astrological subjects, of which his _Astrologia Restaurata_
is very entertaining. In the preface he says that his father was of an
ancient Scottish family, viz. of Eighterhouse, (Auchterhouse,) “which
had flourished in great glory for 1500 years, till these latter days,”
and derives the clan from Egypt, (it is wonderful that the idea of
gipsies did not startle him,) where the word Ramsay signifies joy and
delight. But he is extremely indignant that the world should call his
father “no better than a watchmaker,” asserting that he was, in fact,
page of the bedchamber, groom of the privy chamber, and _keeper of all
his Majestie’s clocks and watches_. “Now, how this,” quoth he to the
reader, “should prove him a watchmaker, and no other, more than the
late Earles of Pembroke ordinary chamberlains, because they bore this
office in the King’s house, do thou judge.”—_Mr. Sharp’s Notes to
Law’s Memorialls._


THE REDGAUNTLET FAMILY.

“REDGAUNTLET.”

It is supposed that the characters, if not the fortunes, of the
Redgauntlet family, are founded upon those of the Griersons of Lagg.
This celebrated, or rather notorious family, is of considerable
antiquity in Galloway,[75]—a district abounding, to a greater degree
than either Wales or the Highlands of Scotland, in families of remote
origin and honourable descent. Grierson of Lagg was one of those
border barons, whose fame and wealth the politic James V. endeavoured
to impair, by lodging himself and his whole retinue upon them during
a progress, to the irreparable ruin of their numerous flocks, and the
alienation of their broad lands. The Grierson family never recovered
the ground then lost; and has continued, down even to the present
day, to struggle with many difficulties in supporting its dignity.
Sir Robert Grierson, grandfather of the present Laird, made himself
conspicuous in the reigns of the latter Stuarts, by the high hand which
he carried in persecuting the recusant people of his own districts, and
by the oppression which the spirit of those unhappy times empowered
him to exercise upon his tenants and immediate dependants. He was
but a youth when these unhappy transactions took place, and survived
the Restoration nearly fifty years. His death, which took place in
1736, was in the remembrance of people lately alive. Many strange
traditionary stories are told about him in Dumfriesshire, and, in
particular, the groundwork of “Wandering Willie’s Tale” is quite well
known and accredited among the common people thereabouts. The popular
account of his last illness, death, and burial, are exceedingly absurd
and amusing, and we willingly give them a place in our motley record.

Sir Robert Grierson died in the town of Dumfries. The house where this
memorable incident took place is still pointed out. It is now occupied
by a decent baker, and is a house of singular construction, having a
spiral or _turnpike_ stair, like the old houses of Edinburgh, on which
account it is termed _the Turnpike House_. It is at a distance of about
two hundred yards from the river Nith; and it is said that when Sir
Robert’s feet were in their torment of heat, and caused the cold water
in which they were placed to boil, relays of men were placed between
the house and the river, to run with pails of water to supply his
bath; and still, as one pail was handed in, the preceding one was at
the height of boiling-heat, and quite intolerable to the old Laird’s
unfortunate extremities. Sir Robert at length died, and was laid in a
hearse to be taken to the churchyard, which was some miles off. But, oh
the mysterious interferences of the evil one! though six stout horses
essayed their utmost might, they could not draw the wicked persecutor’s
body along; and there stood, fixed to the spot, as though they had been
yoked to the stedfast Criffel instead of an old family hearse! In this
emergency, when the funeral company were beginning to have their own
thoughts, Sir Thomas Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, an old friend of the
Laird’s, happened to come up, with two beautiful Spanish horses, and,
seeing the distress they were in, swore an oath, and declared that he
would drive old Legg, though the devil were in him. So saying, he yoked
his Spanish barbs to the hearse, mounted the box himself, and drove
away at a gallop towards the place of interment. The horses ran with
such swiftness that their master could not restrain them, and they
stopped at the churchyard gate, not by any management or direction on
his part, but by some miraculous and supernatural agency. The company
came slowly up in the course of an hour thereafter, and Sir Robert
Grierson was, after all, properly interred, though not without the loss
of Sir Thomas Kirkpatrick’s beautiful horses, which died in consequence
of their exertions.

       *       *       *       *       *

The story of the Redgauntlet horse-shoe seems to have its foundation in
the following:—

“Major Weir’s mother appears to have set the example of witchcraft to
her children, as Jean Weir, while in prison, declared that ‘she was
persuaded that her mother was a witch; for the secretest thing that
either I myself, or any of the family, could do, when once a mark
appeared upon her brow, she could tell it them, though done at a great
distance.’ Being demanded what sort of a mark it was, she answered,
‘I have some such like mark myself, when I please, upon my forehead.’
Whereupon she offered to uncover her head, for visible satisfaction.
The minister refusing to behold it, and forbidding any discovery,
was earnestly requested by some spectators to allow the freedom. He
yielded: she put back her head-dress, and, seeming to frown, there
was an exact horse-shoe, shaped for nails, in her wrinkles, terrific
enough, I assure you, to the stoutest beholder.”—_Sinclair’s Satan’s
Invisible World Discovered._


THE END.


FOOTNOTES:

[75] “The family of Grierson is descended from Gilbert, the second son
of Malcolm, Laird of M‘Gregor, who died in 1374. His son obtained a
charter from the Douglas family of the lands and barony of Lagg, in
Nithsdale, and Little Dalton, in Annandale; since which his descendants
have continued in Nithsdale, and married into the best families in that
part of the country, namely those of Lord Maxwell, the Kirkpatricks of
Closeburn, the Charterises of Amisfield, the Fergusons of Craigdarroch,
and of the Duke of Queensberry.”—_Grose’s Antiquities of Scotland._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s Note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Frontispiece: SUBSEQUANTLY to SUBSEQUENTLY—“AND SUBSEQUENTLY BY”.

Page vi: BALDERSTON to BALDERSTONE—“(CALEB BALDERSTONE)”.

Page 6: stiil to still—“still continue to be”.

Page 17: dittograph “during during” corrected—“during the sermon”.

Page 31: boronet to baronet—“baronet of Orchardston”.

Page 56: imimmediately to immediately—“it was immediately opened”.

Page 58: Here to Her—“Her propensities”.

Page 93: Burley to Burly—“history of Burly”.

Page 118: nïaveté to naïveté—“marked by a naïveté”.

Page 120, note: Carpshearn to Carsphearn—“Semple, of Carsphearn.”

Page 136, note: Tripatiarchicon to Tripatriarchicon—“copy of the
Tripatriarchicon”.

Page 144: thefirst to the first—“the first intelligence”.

Page 147: Trament to Tranent—“Berwick to Tranent”.

Page 149, note: ca to ça—“_ça ira_”.

Page 182: decendants to descendants—“his descendants have continued”.]