The Heart of Mid-Lothian, Complete
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Title: The Heart of Mid-Lothian, Complete
Author: Walter Scott
Release date: August 21, 2004 [eBook #6944]
Most recently updated: June 11, 2021
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN, COMPLETE ***
The Heart of Mid-Lothian
By Walter Scott
TALES OF MY LANDLORD
COLLECTED AND ARRANGED
BY JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM,
SCHOOLMASTER AND PARISH CLERK
OF GANDERCLEUGH.
SECOND SERIES.
[Illustration: Titlepage]
THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN.
Hear, Land oí Cakes and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groatís,
If thereís a hole in aí your coats,
I rede ye tent it;
A chielís amang you takiní notes,
Aní faith heíll prent it!
Burns.
EDITORíS INTRODUCTION TO THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN.
SCOTT began to work on “The Heart of Mid-Lothian” almost before he had
completed “Rob Roy.” On Nov. 10, 1817, he writes to Archibald Constable
announcing that the negotiations for the sale of the story to Messrs.
Longman have fallen through, their firm declining to relieve the
Ballantynes of their worthless “stock.” “So you have the staff in your
own hands, and, as you are on the spot, can manage it your own way.
Depend on it that, barring unforeseen illness or death, these will be the
best volumes which have appeared. I pique myself on the first tale, which
is called ëThe Heart of Mid-Lothian.í” Sir Walter had thought of adding a
romance, “The Regalia,” on the Scotch royal insignia, which had been
rediscovered in the Castle of Edinburgh. This story he never wrote. Mr.
Cadell was greatly pleased at ousting the Longmans--“they have themselves
to blame for the want of the Tales, and may grumble as they choose: we
have Taggy by the tail, and, if we have influence to keep the best author
of the day, we ought to do it.”--[Archibald Constable, iii. 104.]
Though contemplated and arranged for, “The Heart of Mid-Lothian” was not
actually taken in hand till shortly after Jan. 15, 1818, when Cadell
writes that the tracts and pamphlets on the affair of Porteous are to be
collected for Scott. “The author was in great glee . . . he says that he
feels very strong with what he has now in hand.” But there was much
anxiety concerning Scottís health. “I do not at all like this illness of
Scottís,” said James Ballantyne to Hogg. “I have eften seen him look
jaded of late, and am afraid it is serious.” “Hand your tongue, or Iíll
gar you measure your length on the pavement,” replied Hogg. “You fause,
down-hearted loon, that ye are, you daur to speak as if Scott were on his
death-bed! It cannot be, it must not be! I will not suffer you to speak
that gait.” Scott himself complains to Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe of
“these damned spasms. The merchant Abudahís hag was a henwife to them
when they give me a real night of it.”
“The Heart of Mid-Lothian,” in spite of the authorís malady, was
published in June 1818. As to its reception, and the criticism which it
received, Lockhart has left nothing to be gleaned. Contrary to his
custom, he has published, but without the writerís name, a letter from
Lady Louisa Stuart, which really exhausts what criticism can find to say
about the new novel. “I have not only read it myself,” says Lady Louisa,
“but am in a house where everybody is tearing it out of each otherís
hands, and talking of nothing else.” She preferred it to all but
“Waverley,” and congratulates him on having made “the perfectly good
character the most interesting. . . . Had this very story been conducted
by a common hand, Effie would have attracted all our concern and
sympathy, Jeanie only cold approbation. Whereas Jeanie, without youth,
beauty, genius, warns passions, or any other novel-perfection, is here
our object from beginning to end.” Lady Louisa, with her usual frankness,
finds the Edinburgh lawyers tedious, in the introduction, and thinks that
Mr. Saddletree “will not entertain English readers.” The conclusion
“flags”; “but the chief fault I have to find relates to the reappearance
and shocking fate of the boy. I hear on all sides ëOh, I do not like
that!í I cannot say what I would have had instead, but I do not like it
either; it is a lame, huddled conclusion. I know you so well in it,
by-the-by! You grow tired yourself, want to get rid of the story, and
hardly care how.” Lady Lousia adds that Sir George Staunton would never
have hazarded himself in the streets of Edinburgh. “The end of poor Madge
Wildfire is most pathetic. The meeting at Muschatís Cairn tremendous.
Dumbiedikes and Rory Beau are delightful. . . . I dare swear many of your
readers never heard of the Duke of Argyle before.” She ends: “If I had
known nothing, and the whole world had told me the contrary, I should
have found you out in that one parenthesis, ëfor the man was mortal, and
had been a schoolmaster.í”
Lady Louisa omits a character who was probably as essential to Scottís
scheme as any--Douce Davie Deans, the old Cameronian. He had almost been
annoyed by the criticism of his Covenanters in “Old Mortality,” “the
heavy artillery out of the Christian Instructor or some such obscure
field work,” and was determined to “tickle off” another. There are signs
of a war between literary Cavaliers and literary Covenanters at this
time, after the discharge of Dr. McCrieís “heavy artillery.” Charles
Kirkpatrick Sharpe was presented by Surtees of Mainsforth with a
manuscript of Kirktonís unprinted “History of the Church of Scotland.”
This he set forth to edite, with the determination not to “let the Whig
dogs have the best of it.” Every Covenanting scandal and absurdity, such
as the old story of Mess David Williamson--“Dainty Davie”--and his
remarkable prowess, and presence of mind at Cherrytrees, was raked up,
and inserted in notes to Kirkton. Scott was Sharpeís ally in this
enterprise. “I had in the persons of my forbears a full share, you see,
of religious persecution . . . for all my greatgrandfathers were under
the ban, and I think there were hardly two of them out of jail at once.”
“I think it would be most scandalous to let the godly carry it oft thus.”
“It” seems to have been the editing of Kirkton. “It is very odd the
volume of Wodrow, containing the memoir of Russell concerning the murder,
is positively vanished from the library” (the Advocatesí Library).
“Neither book nor receipt is to be found: surely they have stolen it in
the fear of the Lord.” The truth seems to have been that Cavaliers and
Covenanters were racing for the manuscripts wherein they found smooth
stones of the brook to pelt their opponents withal. Soon after Scott
writes: “It was not without exertion and trouble that I this day detected
Russellís manuscript (the account of the murder of Sharpe by one of the
murderers), also Kirkton and one or two others, which Mr. McCrie had
removed from their place in the library and deposited in a snug and
secret corner.” The Covenanters had made a raid on the ammunition of the
Cavaliers. “I have given,” adds Sir Walter, “an infernal row on the
subject of hiding books in this manner.” Sharpe replies that the
“villainous biographer of John Knox” (Dr. McCrie), “that canting rogue,”
is about to edite Kirkton. Sharpe therefore advertised his own edition at
once, and edited Kirkton by forced marches as it were. Scott reviewed the
book in the Quarterly (Jan. 1818). He remarked that Sharpe “had not
escaped the censure of these industrious literary gentlemen of opposite
principles, who have suffered a work always relied upon as one of their
chief authorities to lie dormant for a hundred and forty years.” Their
“querulous outcries” (probably from the field-work of the Christian
Instructor) he disregards. Among the passions of this literary “bicker,”
which Scott allowed to amuse him, was Davie Deans conceived. Scott was
not going to be driven by querulous outcries off the Covenanting field,
where he erected another trophy. This time he was more friendly to the
“True Blue Presbyterians.” His Scotch patriotism was one of his most
earnest feelings, the Covenanters, at worst, were essentially Scotch, and
he introduced a new Cameronian, with all the sterling honesty, the
Puritanism, the impracticable ideas of the Covenant, in contact with
changed times, and compelled to compromise.
He possessed a curious pamphlet, Haldaneís “Active Testimony of the true
blue Presbyterians” (12mo, 1749). It is a most impartial work,
“containing a declaration and testimony against the late unjust invasion
of Scotland by Charles, Pretended Prince of Wales, and William, Pretended
Duke of Cumberland.” Everything and everybody not Covenanted, the House
of Stuart, the House of Brunswick, the House of Hapsburg, Papists,
Prelatists and Turks, are cursed up hill and down dale, by these worthy
survivors of the Auld Leaven. Everybody except the authors, Haldane and
Leslie, “has broken the everlasting Covenant.” The very Confession of
Westminster is arraigned for its laxity. “The whole Civil and Judicial
Law of God,” as given to the Jews (except the ritual, polygamy, divorce,
slavery, and so forth), is to be maintained in the law of Scotland.
Sins are acknowledged, and since the Covenant every political
step--Cromwellís Protectorate, the Restoration, the Revolution, the
accession of the “Dukes of Hanover”--has been a sin. A Court of Elders
is to be established to put in execution the Law of Moses. All offenders
against the Kirk are to be “capitally punished.” Stage plays are to be
suppressed by the successors of the famous convention at Lanark, Anno
1682. Toleration of all religions is “sinful,” and “contrary to the word
of God.” Charles Edward and the Duke of Cumberland are cursed. “Also we
reckon it a great vice in Charles, his foolish Pity and Lenity, in
sparing these profane, blasphemous Redcoats, that Providence delivered
into his hand, when, by putting them to death, this poor land might have
been eased of the heavy burden of these vermin of Hell.” The Auld Leaven
swore terribly in Scotland. The atrocious cruelties of Cumberland after
Culloden are stated with much frankness and power. The German soldiers
are said to have carried off “a vast deal of Spoil and Plunder into
Germany,” and the Redcoats had Plays and Diversions (cricket, probably)
on the Inch of Perth, on a Sabbath. “The Hellish, Pagan, Juggler plays
are set up and frequented with more impudence and audacity than ever.”
Only the Jews, “our elder Brethren,” are exempted from the curses of
Haldane and Leslie, who promise to recover for them the Holy Land. “The
Massacre in Edinburgh” in 1736, by wicked Porteous, calls for vengeance
upon the authors and abettors thereof. The army and navy are “the most
wicked and flagitious in the Universe.” In fact, the True Blue Testimony
is very active indeed, and could be delivered, thanks to hellish
Toleration, with perfect safety, by Leslie and Haldane. The candour of
their eloquence assuredly proves that Davie Deans is not overdrawn;
indeed, he is much less truculent than those who actually were
testifying even after his decease.
In “The Heart of Mid-Lothian” Scott set himself to draw his own people at
their best. He had a heroine to his hand in Helen Walker, “a character so
distinguished for her undaunted love of virtue,” who, unlike Jeanie
Deans, “lived and died in poverty, if not want.” In 1831 he erected a
pillar over her grave in the old Covenanting stronghold of Irongray. The
inscription ends--
Respect the Grave of Poverty,
When combined with Love of Truth
And Dear Affection.
The sweetness, the courage, the spirit, the integrity of Jeanie Deans
have made her, of all Scottís characters, the dearest to her countrymen,
and the name of Jeanie was given to many children, in pious memory of the
blameless heroine. The foil to her, in the person of Effie, is not less
admirable. Among Scottís qualities was one rare among modern authors: he
had an affectionate toleration for his characters. If we compare Effie
with Hetty in “Adam Bede,” this charming and genial quality of Scottís
becomes especially striking. Hetty and Dinah are in very much the same
situation and condition as Effie and Jeanie Deans. But Hetty is a
frivolous little animal, in whom vanity and silliness do duty for
passion: she has no heart: she is only a butterfly broken on the wheel of
the world. Doubtless there are such women in plenty, yet we feel that her
creator persecutes her, and has a kind of spite against her. This was
impossible to Scott. Effie has heart, sincerity, passion, loyalty,
despite her flightiness, and her readiness, when her chance comes, to
play the fine lady. It was distasteful to Scott to create a character not
human and sympathetic on one side or another. Thus his robber “of milder
mood,” on Jeanieís journey to England, is comparatively a good fellow,
and the scoundrel Ratcliffe is not a scoundrel utterly. “ëTo make a Lang
tale short, I canna undertake the job. It gangs against my conscience.í
ëYour conscience, Rat?í said Sharpitlaw, with a sneer, which the reader
will probably think very natural upon the occasion. ëOu ay, sir,í
answered Ratcliffe, calmly, ëjust my conscience; a body has a conscience,
though it may be ill wunnin at it. I think mineís as weel out oí the gate
as maist folkís are; and yet itís just like the noop of my elbow, it
whiles gets a bit dirl on a corner.í” Scott insists on leaving his worst
people in possession of something likeable, just as he cannot dismiss
even Captain Craigengelt without assuring us that Bucklaw made a
provision for his necessities. This is certainly a more humane way of
writing fiction than that to which we are accustomed in an age of
humanitarianism. Nor does Scottís art suffer from his kindliness, and
Effie in prison, with a heart to be broken, is not less pathetic than the
heartless Hetty, in the same condemnation.
As to her lover, Robertson, or Sir George Staunton, he certainly verges
on the melodramatic. Perhaps we know too much about the real George
Robertson, who was no heir to a title in disguise, but merely a “stabler
in Bristol” accused “at the instance of Duncan Forbes, Esq. of Culloden,
his Majestyís advocate, for the crimes of Stouthrieff, Housebreaking, and
Robbery.” Robertson “kept an inn in Bristo, at Edinburgh, where the
Newcastle carrier commonly did put up,” and is believed to have been a
married man. It is not very clear that the novel gains much by the
elevation of the Bristo innkeeper to a baronetcy, except in so far as
Effieís appearance in the character of a great lady is entertaining and
characteristic, and Jeanieís conquest of her own envy is exemplary. The
change in social rank calls for the tragic conclusion, about which almost
every reader agrees with the criticism of Lady Louisa Stuart and her
friends. Thus the novel “filled more pages” than Mr. Jedediah
Cleishbotham had “opined,” and hence comes a languor which does not beset
the story of “Old Mortality.” Scottís own love of adventure and of
stirring incidents at any cost is an excellent quality in a novelist, but
it does, in this instance, cause him somewhat to dilute those immortal
studies of Scotch character which are the strength of his genius.
The reader feels a lack of reality in the conclusion, the fatal encounter
of the father and the lost son, an incident as old as the legend of
Odysseus. But this is more than atoned for by the admirable part of Madge
Wildfire, flitting like a _feu follet_ up and down among the douce
Scotch, and the dour rioters. Madge Wildfire is no repetition of Meg
Merrilies, though both are unrestrained natural things, rebels against
the settled life, musical voices out of the past, singing forgotten songs
of nameless minstrels. Nowhere but in Shakspeare can we find such a
distraught woman as Madge Wildfire, so near akin to nature and to the
moods of “the bonny lady Moon.” Only he who created Ophelia could have
conceived or rivalled the scene where Madge accompanies the hunters of
Staunton on the moonlit hill and sings her warnings to the fugitive.
When the gledeís in the blue cloud,
The lavrock lies still;
When the houndís in the green-wood,
The hind keeps the hill.
Thereís a bloodhound ranging Tinwald wood,
Thereís harness glancing sheen;
Thereís a maiden sits on Tinwald brae,
And she sings loud between.
O sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said,
When ye suld rise and ride?
Thereís twenty men, wií bow and blade,
Are seeking where ye hide.
The madness of Madge Wildfire has its parallel in the wildness of
Goetheís Marguerite, both of them lamenting the lost child, which, to
Madgeís fancy, is now dead, now living in a dream. But the gloom that
hangs about Muschatís Cairn, the ghastly vision of “crying up Ailie
Muschat, and she and I will hae a grand bouking-washing, and bleach our
claise in the beams of the bonny Lady Moon,” have a terror beyond the
German, and are unexcelled by Webster or by Ford. “But the moon, and the
dew, and the night-wind, they are just like a caller kail-blade laid on
my brow; and whiles I think the moon just shines on purpose to pleasure
me, when naebody sees her but mysell.” Scott did not deal much in the
facile pathos of the death-bed, but that of Madge Wildfire has a grace of
poetry, and her latest song is the sweetest and wildest of his lyrics,
the most appropriate in its setting. When we think of the contrasts to
her--the honest, dull good-nature of Dumbiedikes; the common-sense and
humour of Mrs. Saddletree; the pragmatic pedantry of her husband;
the Highland pride, courage, and absurdity of the Captain of
Knockdander--when we consider all these so various and perfect
creations, we need not wonder that Scott was “in high glee” over “The
Heart of Mid-Lothian,” “felt himself very strong,” and thought that
these would be “the best volumes that have appeared.” The difficulty, as
usual, is to understand how, in all this strength, he permitted himself
to be so careless over what is really by far the easiest part of the
novelistís task--the construction. But so it was; about “The Monastery”
he said, “it was written with as much care as the rest, that is, with no
care at all.” His genius flowed free in its own unconscious abundance:
where conscious deliberate workmanship was needed, “the forthright
craftsmanís hand,” there alone he was lax and irresponsible. In
Shakspeareís case we can often account for similar incongruities by the
constraint of the old plot which he was using; but Scott was making his
own plots, or letting them make themselves. “I never could lay down a
plan, or, having laid it down, I never could adhere to it; the action of
composition always diluted some passages and abridged or omitted others;
and personages were rendered important or insignificant, not according
to their agency in the original conception of the plan, but according to
the success or otherwise with which I was able to bring them out. I only
tried to make that which I was actually writing diverting and
interesting, leaving the rest to fate. . . When I chain my mind to ideas
which are purely imaginative--for argument is a different thing--it
seems to me that the sun leaves the landscape, that I think away the
whole vivacity and spirit of my original conception, and that the
results are cold, tame, and spiritless.”
In fact, Sir Walter was like the Magician who can raise spirits that,
once raised, dominate him. Probably this must ever be the case, when an
authorís characters are not puppets but real creations. They then have a
will and a way of their own; a free-will which their creator cannot
predetermine and correct. Something like this appears to have been
Scottís own theory of his lack of constructive power. No one was so
assured of its absence, no one criticised it more severely than he did
himself. The Edinburgh Review about this time counselled the “Author of
Waverley” to attempt a drama, doubting only his powers of compression.
Possibly work at a drama might have been of advantage to the genius of
Scott. He was unskilled in selection and rejection, which the drama
especially demands. But he detested the idea of writing for actors, whom
he regarded as ignorant, dull, and conceited. “I shall not fine and renew
a lease of popularity upon the theatre. To write for low, ill-informed,
and conceited actors, whom you must please, for your success is
necessarily at their mercy, I cannot away with,” he wrote to Southey.
“Avowedly, I will never write for the stage; if I do, ëcall me horse,í”
he remarks to Terry. He wanted “neither the profit nor the shame of it.”
“I do not think that the character of the audience in London is such that
one could have the least pleasure in pleasing them.” He liked helping
Terry to “Terryfy” “The Heart of Mid-Lothian,” and his other novels, but
he had no more desire than a senator of Rome would have had to see his
name become famous by the Theatre. This confirmed repulsion in one so
learned in the dramatic poets is a curious trait in Scottís character.
He could not accommodate his genius to the needs of the stage, and that
crown which has most potently allured most men of genius he would have
thrust away, had it been offered to him, with none of Caesarís
reluctance. At the bottom of all this lay probably the secret conviction
that his genius was his master, that it must take him where it would, on
paths where he was compelled to follow. Terse and concentrated, of set
purpose, he could not be. A notable instance of this inability occurs in
the Introductory Chapter to “The Heart of Mid-Lothian,” which has
probably frightened away many modern readers. The Advocate and the Writer
to the Signet and the poor Client are persons quite uncalled for, and
their little adventure at Gandercleugh is unreal. Oddly enough, part of
their conversation is absolutely in the manner of Dickens.
“ëI think,í said I, . . . ëthe metropolitan county may, in that case, be
said to have a sad heart.í
“ëRight as my glove, Mr. Pattieson,í added Mr. Hardie; ëand a close
heart, and a hard heart--Keep it up, Jack.í
“ëAnd a wicked heart, and a poor heart,í answered Halkit, doing his best.
“ëAnd yet it may be called in some sort a strong heart, and a high
heart,í rejoined the advocate. ëYou see I can put you both out of
heart.í”
Fortunately we have no more of this easy writing, which makes such very
melancholy reading.
The narrative of the Porteous mob, as given by the novelist, is not, it
seems, entirely accurate. Like most artists, Sir Walter took the liberty
of “composing” his picture. In his “Illustrations of the Author of
Waverley” (1825) Mr. Robert Chambers records the changes in facts made by
Scott. In the first place, Wilson did not attack his guard, and enable
Robertson to escape, after the sermon, but as soon as the criminals took
their seats in the pew. When fleeing out, Robertson tripped over “the
plate,” set on a stand to receive alms and oblations, whereby he hurt
himself, and was seen to stagger and fall in running down the stairs
leading to the Cowgate. Mr. McQueen, Minister of the New Kirk, was coming
up the stairs. He conceived it to be his duty to set Robertson on his
feet again, “and covered his retreat as much as possible from the pursuit
of the guard.” Robertson ran up the Horse Wynd, out at Potter Row Port,
got into the Kingís Park, and headed for the village of Duddingston,
beside the loch on the south-east of Arthurís Seat. He fainted after
jumping a dyke, but was picked up and given some refreshment. He lay in
hiding till he could escape to Holland.
The conspiracy to hang Porteous did not, in fact, develop in a few hours,
after his failure to appear on the scaffold. The Queenís pardon (or a
reprieve) reached Edinburgh on Thursday, Sept. 2; the Riot occurred on
the night of Sept. 7. The council had been informed that lynching was
intended, thirty-six hours before the fatal evening, but pronounced the
reports to be “caddiesí clatters.” Their negligence, of course, must have
increased the indignation of the Queen. The riot, according to a very old
man, consulted by Mr. Chambers, was headed by two butchers, named
Cumming, “tall, strong, and exceedingly handsome men, who dressed in
womenís clothes as a disguise.” The rope was tossed out of a window in a
“small wares shop” by a woman, who received a piece of gold in exchange.
This extravagance is one of the very few points which suggest that people
of some wealth may have been concerned in the affair. Tradition,
according to Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, believed in noble leaders of the
riot. It is certain that several witnesses of good birth and position
testified very strongly against Porteous, at his trial.
According to Hogg, Scottís “fame was now so firmly established that he
cared not a fig for the opinion of his literary friends beforehand.” He
was pleased, however, by the notice of “Ivanhoe,” “The Heart of
Mid-Lothian,” and “The Bride of Lammermoor” in the Edinburgh Review of
1820, as he showed by quoting part of its remarks. The Reviewer frankly
observed “that, when we began with one of these works, we were conscious
that we never knew how to leave off. The Porteous mob is rather heavily
described, and the whole part of George Robertson, or Staunton, is
extravagant and displeasing. The final catastrophe is needlessly
improbable and startling.” The critic felt that he must be critical, but
his praise of Effie and Jeanie Deans obviously comes from his heart.
Jeanieís character “is superior to anything we can recollect in the
history of invention . . . a remarkable triumph over the greatest of all
difficulties in the conduct of a fictitious narrative.” The critique
ends with “an earnest wish that the Author would try his hand in the
lore of Shakspeare”; but, wiser than the woers of Penelope, Scott
refused to make that perilous adventure.
ANDREW LANG.
An essay by Mr. George Ormond, based on manuscripts in the Edinburgh
Record office (Scottish Review, July, 1892), adds little to what is known
about the Porteous Riot. It is said that Porteous was let down alive, and
hanged again, more than once, that his arm was broken by a Lochaber axe,
and that a torch was applied to the foot from which the shoe had fallen.
A pamphlet of 1787 says that Robertson became a spy on smugglers in
Holland, returned to London, procured a pardon through the Butcher
Cumberland, and “at last died in misery in London.” It is plain that
Colonel Moyle might have rescued Porteous, but he was naturally cautious
about entering the city gates without a written warrant from the civil
authorities.
TO THE BEST OF PATRONS,
A PLEASED AND INDULGENT READER
JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM
WISHES HEALTH, AND INCREASE, AND CONTENTMENT.
Courteous Reader,
If ingratitude comprehendeth every vice, surely so foul a stain worst of
all beseemeth him whose life has been devoted to instructing youth in
virtue and in humane letters. Therefore have I chosen, in this
prolegomenon, to unload my burden of thanks at thy feet, for the favour
with which thou last kindly entertained the Tales of my Landlord. Certes,
if thou hast chuckled over their factious and festivous descriptions, or
hadst thy mind filled with pleasure at the strange and pleasant turns of
fortune which they record, verily, I have also simpered when I beheld a
second storey with attics, that has arisen on the basis of my small
domicile at Gandercleugh, the walls having been aforehand pronounced by
Deacon Barrow to be capable of enduring such an elevation. Nor has it
been without delectation that I have endued a new coat (snuff-brown, and
with metal buttons), having all nether garments corresponding thereto. We
do therefore lie, in respect of each other, under a reciprocation of
benefits, whereof those received by me being the most solid (in respect
that a new house and a new coat are better than a new tale and an old
song), it is meet that my gratitude should be expressed with the louder
voice and more preponderating vehemence. And how should it be so
expressed?--Certainly not in words only, but in act and deed. It is with
this sole purpose, and disclaiming all intention of purchasing that
pendicle or poffle of land called the Carlinescroft, lying adjacent to my
garden, and measuring seven acres, three roods, and four perches, that I
have committed to the eyes of those who thought well of the former tomes,
these four additional volumes of the Tales of my Landlord. Not the less,
if Peter Prayfort be minded to sell the said poffle, it is at his own
choice to say so; and, peradventure, he may meet with a purchaser: unless
(gentle reader) the pleasing pourtraictures of Peter Pattieson, now given
unto thee in particular, and unto the public in general, shall have lost
their favour in thine eyes, whereof I am no way distrustful. And so much
confidence do I repose in thy continued favour, that, should thy lawful
occasions call thee to the town of Gandercleugh, a place frequented by
most at one time or other in their lives, I will enrich thine eyes with a
sight of those precious manuscripts whence thou hast derived so much
delectation, thy nose with a snuff from my mull, and thy palate with a
dram from my bottle of strong waters, called by the learned of
Gandercleugh, the Dominieís Dribble oí Drink.
It is there, O highly esteemed and beloved reader, thou wilt be able to
bear testimony, through the medium of thine own senses, against the
children of vanity, who have sought to identify thy friend and servant
with I know not what inditer of vain fables; who hath cumbered the world
with his devices, but shrunken from the responsibility thereof. Truly,
this hath been well termed a generation hard of faith; since what can a
man do to assert his property in a printed tome, saving to put his name
in the title-page thereof, with his description, or designation, as the
lawyers term it, and place of abode? Of a surety I would have such
sceptics consider how they themselves would brook to have their works
ascribed to others, their names and professions imputed as forgeries, and
their very existence brought into question; even although, peradventure,
it may be it is of little consequence to any but themselves, not only
whether they are living or dead, but even whether they ever lived or no.
Yet have my maligners carried their uncharitable censures still farther.
These cavillers have not only doubted mine identity, although thus
plainly proved, but they have impeached my veracity and the authenticity
of my historical narratives! Verily, I can only say in answer, that I
have been cautelous in quoting mine authorities. It is true, indeed, that
if I had hearkened with only one ear, I might have rehearsed my tale with
more acceptation from those who love to hear but half the truth. It is,
it may hap, not altogether to the discredit of our kindly nation of
Scotland, that we are apt to take an interest, warm, yea partial, in the
deeds and sentiments of our forefathers. He whom his adversaries describe
as a perjured Prelatist, is desirous that his predecessors should be held
moderate in their power, and just in their execution of its privileges,
when truly, the unimpassioned peruser of the annals of those times shall
deem them sanguinary, violent, and tyrannical. Again, the representatives
of the suffering Nonconformists desire that their ancestors, the
Cameronians, shall be represented not simply as honest enthusiasts,
oppressed for conscienceí sake, but persons of fine breeding, and valiant
heroes. Truly, the historian cannot gratify these predilections. He must
needs describe the cavaliers as proud and high-spirited, cruel,
remorseless, and vindictive; the suffering party as honourably tenacious
of their opinions under persecution; their own tempers being, however,
sullen, fierce, and rude; their opinions absurd and extravagant; and
their whole course of conduct that of persons whom hellebore would better
have suited than prosecutions unto death for high-treason. Natheless,
while such and so preposterous were the opinions on either side, there
were, it cannot be doubted, men of virtue and worth on both, to entitle
either party to claim merit from its martyrs. It has been demanded of me,
Jedediah Cleishbotham, by what right I am entitled to constitute myself
an impartial judge of their discrepancies of opinions, seeing (as it is
stated) that I must necessarily have descended from one or other of the
contending parties, and be, of course, wedded for better or for worse,
according to the reasonable practice of Scotland, to its dogmata, or
opinions, and bound, as it were, by the tie matrimonial, or, to speak
without metaphor, _ex jure sanguinis,_ to maintain them in preference to
all others.
But, nothing denying the rationality of the rule, which calls on all now
living to rule their political and religious opinions by those of their
great-grandfathers, and inevitable as seems the one or the other horn of
the dilemma betwixt which my adversaries conceive they have pinned me to
the wall, I yet spy some means of refuge, and claim a privilege to write
and speak of both parties with impartiality. For, O ye powers of logic!
when the Prelatists and Presbyterians of old times went together by the
ears in this unlucky country, my ancestor (venerated be his memory!) was
one of the people called Quakers, and suffered severe handling from
either side, even to the extenuation of his purse and the incarceration
of his person.
Craving thy pardon, gentle Reader, for these few words concerning me and
mine, I rest, as above expressed, thy sure and obligated friend,*
J. C.
GANDERCLEUGH,
this 1st of April, 1818.
* Note A. Authorís connection with Quakerism.
INTRODUCTION TO THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN--(1830).
The author has stated, in the preface to the Chronicles of the Canongate,
1827, that he received from an anonymous correspondent an account of the
incident upon which the following story is founded. He is now at liberty
to say, that the information was conveyed to him by a late amiable and
ingenious lady, whose wit and power of remarking and judging of character
still survive in the memory of her friends. Her maiden name was Miss
Helen Lawson, of Girthhead, and she was wife of Thomas Goldie, Esq. of
Craigmuie, Commissary of Dumfries.
Her communication was in these words:--
“I had taken for summer lodgings a cottage near the old Abbey of
Lincluden. It had formerly been inhabited by a lady who had pleasure in
embellishing cottages, which she found perhaps homely and even poor
enough; mine, therefore, possessed many marks of taste and elegance
unusual in this species of habitation in Scotland, where a cottage is
literally what its name declares.
“From my cottage door I had a partial view of the old Abbey before
mentioned; some of the highest arches were seen over, and some through,
the trees scattered along a lane which led down to the ruin, and the
strange fantastic shapes of almost all those old ashes accorded
wonderfully well with the building they at once shaded and ornamented.
“The Abbey itself from my door was almost on a level with the cottage;
but on coming to the end of the lane, it was discovered to be situated on
a high perpendicular bank, at the foot of which run the clear waters of
the Cluden, where they hasten to join the sweeping Nith,
ëWhose distant roaring swells and faís.í
As my kitchen and parlour were not very far distant, I one day went in to
purchase some chickens from a person I heard offering them for sale. It
was a little, rather stout-looking woman, who seemed to be between
seventy and eighty years of age; she was almost covered with a tartan
plaid, and her cap had over it a black silk hood, tied under the chin, a
piece of dress still much in use among elderly women of that rank of life
in Scotland; her eyes were dark, and remarkably lively and intelligent; I
entered into conversation with her, and began by asking how she
maintained herself, etc.
“She said that in winter she footed stockings, that is, knit feet to
country-peopleís stockings, which bears about the same relation to
stocking-knitting that cobbling does to shoe-making, and is of course
both less profitable and less dignified; she likewise taught a few
children to read, and in summer she whiles reared a few chickens.
“I said I could venture to guess from her face she had never been
married. She laughed heartily at this, and said, ëI maun hae the queerest
face that ever was seen, that ye could guess that. Now, do tell me,
madam, how ye cam to think sae?í I told her it was from her cheerful
disengaged countenance. She said, ëMem, have ye na far mair reason to be
happy than me, wií a gude husband and a fine family oí bairns, and plenty
oí everything? for me, Iím the puirest oí aí puir bodies, and can hardly
contrive to keep mysell alive in aí the wee bits oí ways I hae tellít
ye.í After some more conversation, during which I was more and more
pleased with the old womans sensible conversation, and the _naivete_ of
her remarks, she rose to go away, when I asked her name. Her countenance
suddenly clouded, and she said gravely, rather colouring, ëMy name is
Helen Walker; but your husband kens weel about me.í
“In the evening I related how much I had been pleased, and inquired what
was extraordinary in the history of the poor woman. Mr. ---- said, there
were perhaps few more remarkable people than Helen Walker. She had been
left an orphan, with the charge of a sister considerably younger than
herself, and who was educated and maintained by her exertions. Attached
to herby so many ties, therefore, it will not be easy to conceive her
feelings, when she found that this only sister must be tried by the laws
of her country for child-murder, and upon being called as principal
witness against her. The counsel for the prisoner told Helen, that if she
could declare that her sister had made any preparations, however slight,
or had given her any intimation on the subject, that such a statement
would save her sisterís life, as she was the principal witness against
her. Helen said, ëIt is impossible for me to swear to a falsehood; and,
whatever may be the consequence, I will give my oath according to my
conscience.í
“The trial came on, and the sister was found guilty and condemned; but in
Scotland six weeks must elapse between the sentence and the execution,
and Helen Walker availed herself of it. The very day of her sisterís
condemnation she got a petition drawn, stating the peculiar circumstances
of the case, and that very night set out on foot to London.
“Without introduction or recommendation, with her simple (perhaps
ill-expressed) petition, drawn up by some inferior clerk of the court,
she presented herself, in her tartan plaid and country attire, to the
late Duke of Argyle, who immediately procured the pardon she petitioned
for, and Helen returned with it on foot just in time to save her sister.
“I was so strongly interested by this narrative, that I determined
immediately to prosecute my acquaintance with Helen Walker; but as I was
to leave the country next day, I was obliged to defer it till my return
in spring, when the first walk I took was to Helen Walkerís cottage.
“She had died a short time before. My regret was extreme, and I
endeavoured to obtain some account of Helen from an old woman who
inhabited the other end of her cottage. I inquired if Helen ever spoke of
her past history--her journey to London, etc., ëNa,í the old woman said,
ëHelen was a wily body, and wheneíer ony oí the neebors asked anything
about it, she aye turned the conversation.í
“In short, every answer I received only tended to increase my regret, and
raise my opinion of Helen Walker, who could unite so much prudence with
so much heroic virtue.”
This narrative was inclosed in the following letter to the author,
without date or signature--
“Sir,--The occurrence just related happened to me twenty-six years ago.
Helen Walker lies buried in the churchyard of Irongray, about six miles
from Dumfries. I once proposed that a small monument should have been
erected to commemorate so remarkable a character, but I now prefer
leaving it to you to perpetuate her memory in a more durable manner.”
The reader is now able to judge how far the author has improved upon, or
fallen short of, the pleasing and interesting sketch of high principle
and steady affection displayed by Helen Walker, the prototype of the
fictitious Jeanie Deans. Mrs. Goldie was unfortunately dead before the
author had given his name to these volumes, so he lost all opportunity of
thanking that lady for her highly valuable communication. But her
daughter, Miss Goldie, obliged him with the following additional
information:--
“Mrs. Goldie endeavoured to collect further particulars of Helen Walker,
particularly concerning her journey to London, but found this nearly
impossible; as the natural dignity of her character, and a high sense of
family respectability, made her so indissolubly connect her sisterís
disgrace with her own exertions, that none of her neighbours durst ever
question her upon the subject. One old woman, a distant relation of
Helenís, and who is still living, says she worked an harvest with her,
but that she never ventured to ask her about her sisterís trial, or her
journey to London; ëHelen,í she added, ëwas a lofty body, and used a high
style oí language.í The same old woman says, that every year Helen
received a cheese from her sister, who lived at Whitehaven, and that she
always sent a liberal portion of it to herself, or to her fatherís
family. This fact, though trivial in itself, strongly marks the affection
subsisting between the two sisters, and the complete conviction on the
mind of the criminal that her sister had acted solely from high
principle, not from any want of feeling, which another small but
characteristic trait will further illustrate. A gentleman, a relation of
Mrs. Goldieís, who happened to be travelling in the North of England, on
coming to a small inn, was shown into the parlour by a female servant,
who, after cautiously shutting the door, said, ëSir, Iím Nelly Walkerís
sister.í Thus practically showing that she considered her sister as
better known by her high conduct than even herself by a different kind of
celebrity.
“Mrs. Goldie was extremely anxious to have a tombstone and an inscription
upon it erected in Irongray Churchyard; and if Sir Walter Scott will
condescend to write the last, a little subscription could be easily
raised in the immediate neighbourhood, and Mrs. Goldieís wish be thus
fulfilled.”
It is scarcely necessary to add that the request of Miss Goldie will be
most willingly complied with, and without the necessity of any tax on the
public.* Nor is there much occasion to repeat how much the author
conceives himself obliged to his unknown correspondent, who thus supplied
him with a theme affording such a pleasing view of the moral dignity of
virtue, though unaided by birth, beauty, or talent. If the picture has
suffered in the execution, it is from the failure of the authorís powers
to present in detail the same simple and striking portrait exhibited in
Mrs. Goldieís letter.
Abbotsford, April 1, 1830.
* [Note B. Tombstone to Helen Walker.]
POSTSCRIPT.
Although it would be impossible to add much to Mrs. Goldieís picturesque
and most interesting account of Helen Walker, the prototype of the
imaginary Jeanie Deans, the Editor may be pardoned for introducing two or
three anecdotes respecting that excellent person, which he has collected
from a volume entitled, _Sketches from Nature,_ by John MíDiarmid, a
gentleman who conducts an able provincial paper in the town of Dumfries.
Helen was the daughter of a small farmer in a place called Dalwhairn, in
the parish of Irongray; where, after the death of her father, she
continued, with the unassuming piety of a Scottish peasant, to support
her mother by her own unremitted labour and privations; a case so common,
that even yet, I am proud to say, few of my countrywomen would shrink
from the duty.
Helen Walker was held among her equals _pensy,_ that is, proud or
conceited; but the facts brought to prove this accusation seem only to
evince a strength of character superior to those around her. Thus it was
remarked, that when it thundered, she went with her work and her Bible to
the front of the cottage, alleging that the Almighty could smite in the
city as well as in the field.
Mr. MíDiarmid mentions more particularly the misfortune of her sister,
which he supposes to have taken place previous to 1736. Helen Walker,
declining every proposal of saving her relationís life at the expense of
truth, borrowed a sum of money sufficient for her journey, walked the
whole distance to London barefoot, and made her way to John Duke of
Argyle. She was heard to say, that, by the Almighty strength, she had
been enabled to meet the Duke at the most critical moment, which, if
lost, would have caused the inevitable forfeiture of her sisterís life.
Isabella, or Tibby Walker, saved from the fate which impended over her,
was married by the person who had wronged her (named Waugh), and lived
happily for great part of a century, uniformly acknowledging the
extraordinary affection to which she owed her preservation.
Helen Walker died about the end of the year 1791, and her remains are
interred in the churchyard of her native parish of Irongray, in a
romantic cemetery on the banks of the Cairn. That a character so
distinguished for her undaunted love of virtue, lived and died in
poverty, if not want, serves only to show us how insignificant, in the
sight of Heaven, are our principal objects of ambition upon earth.
INTRODUCTORY
So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourn, glides
The Derby dilly, carrying six insides.
Frere.
The times have changed in nothing more (we follow as we were wont the
manuscript of Peter Pattieson) than in the rapid conveyance of
intelligence and communication betwixt one part of Scotland and another.
It is not above twenty or thirty years, according to the evidence of many
credible witnesses now alive, since a little miserable horse-cart,
performing with difficulty a journey of thirty miles _per diem,_ carried
our mails from the capital of Scotland to its extremity. Nor was Scotland
much more deficient in these accommodations than our rich sister had been
about eighty years before. Fielding, in his Tom Jones, and Farquhar, in a
little farce called the Stage-Coach, have ridiculed the slowness of these
vehicles of public accommodation. According to the latter authority, the
highest bribe could only induce the coachman to promise to anticipate by
half-an-hour the usual time of his arrival at the Bull and Mouth.
But in both countries these ancient, slow, and sure modes of conveyance
are now alike unknown; mail-coach races against mail-coach, and
high-flyer against high-flyer, through the most remote districts of
Britain. And in our village alone, three post-coaches, and four coaches
with men armed, and in scarlet cassocks, thunder through the streets each
day, and rival in brilliancy and noise the invention of the celebrated
tyrant:--
Demens, qui nimbos et non imitabile fulmen,
AEre et cornipedum pulsu, simularat, equorum.
Now and then, to complete the resemblance, and to correct the presumption
of the venturous charioteers, it does happen that the career of these
dashing rivals of Salmoneus meets with as undesirable and violent a
termination as that of their prototype. It is on such occasions that the
Insides and Outsides, to use the appropriate vehicular phrases, have
reason to rue the exchange of the slow and safe motion of the ancient
Fly-coaches, which, compared with the chariots of Mr. Palmer, so ill
deserve the name. The ancient vehicle used to settle quietly down, like a
ship scuttled and left to sink by the gradual influx of the waters, while
the modern is smashed to pieces with the velocity of the same vessel
hurled against breakers, or rather with the fury of a bomb bursting at
the conclusion of its career through the air. The late ingenious Mr.
Pennant, whose humour it was to set his face in stern opposition to these
speedy conveyances, had collected, I have heard, a formidable list of
such casualties, which, joined to the imposition of innkeepers, whose
charges the passengers had no time to dispute, the sauciness of the
coachman, and the uncontrolled and despotic authority of the tyrant
called the guard, held forth a picture of horror, to which murder, theft,
fraud, and peculation, lent all their dark colouring. But that which
gratifies the impatience of the human disposition will be practised in
the teeth of danger, and in defiance of admonition; and, in despite of
the Cambrian antiquary, mail-coaches not only roll their thunders round
the base of Penman-Maur and Cader-Idris, but
Frighted Skiddaw hears afar
The rattling of the unscythed car.
And perhaps the echoes of Ben Nevis may soon be awakened by the bugle,
not of a warlike chieftain, but of the guard of a mail-coach.
It was a fine summer day, and our little school had obtained a
half-holiday, by the intercession of a good-humoured visitor.*
* His honour Gilbert Goslinn of Gandercleugh; for I love to be precise in
matters of importance.--J. C.
I expected by the coach a new number of an interesting periodical
publication, and walked forward on the highway to meet it, with the
impatience which Cowper has described as actuating the resident in the
country when longing for intelligence from the mart of news.--
The grand debate,
The popular harangue,--the tart reply,--
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh,--I long to know them all;--
I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance again.
It was with such feelings that I eyed the approach of the new coach,
lately established on our road, and known by the name of the Somerset,
which, to say truth, possesses some interest for me, even when it conveys
no such important information. The distant tremulous sound of its wheels
was heard just as I gained the summit of the gentle ascent, called the
Goslin-brae, from which you command an extensive view down the valley of
the river Gander. The public road, which comes up the side of that
stream, and crosses it at a bridge about a quarter of a mile from the
place where I was standing, runs partly through enclosures and
plantations, and partly through open pasture land. It is a childish
amusement perhaps,--but my life has been spent with children, and why
should not my pleasures be like theirs?--childish as it is then, I must
own I have had great pleasure in watching the approach of the carriage,
where the openings of the road permit it to be seen. The gay glancing of
the equipage, its diminished and toy-like appearance at a distance,
contrasted with the rapidity of its motion, its appearance and
disappearance at intervals, and the progressively increasing sounds that
announce its nearer approach, have all to the idle and listless
spectator, who has nothing more important to attend to, something of
awakening interest. The ridicule may attach to me, which is flung upon
many an honest citizen, who watches from the window of his villa the
passage of the stage-coach; but it is a very natural source of amusement
notwithstanding, and many of those who join in the laugh are perhaps not
unused to resort to it in secret.
On the present occasion, however, fate had decreed that I should not
enjoy the consummation of the amusement by seeing the coach rattle past
me as I sat on the turf, and hearing the hoarse grating voice of the
guard as he skimmed forth for my grasp the expected packet, without the
carriage checking its course for an instant. I had seen the vehicle
thunder down the hill that leads to the bridge with more than its usual
impetuosity, glittering all the while by flashes from a cloudy tabernacle
of the dust which it had raised, and leaving a train behind it on the
road resembling a wreath of summer mist. But it did not appear on the top
of the nearer bank within the usual space of three minutes, which
frequent observation had enabled me to ascertain was the medium time for
crossing the bridge and mounting the ascent. When double that space had
elapsed, I became alarmed, and walked hastily forward. As I came in sight
of the bridge, the cause of delay was too manifest, for the Somerset had
made a summerset in good earnest, and overturned so completely, that it
was literally resting upon the ground, with the roof undermost, and the
four wheels in the air. The “exertions of the guard and coachman,” both
of whom were gratefully commemorated in the newspapers, having succeeded
in disentangling the horses by cutting the harness, were now proceeding
to extricate the insides by a sort of summary and Caesarean process of
delivery, forcing the hinges from one of the doors which they could not
open otherwise. In this manner were two disconsolate damsels set at
liberty from the womb of the leathern conveniency. As they immediately
began to settle their clothes, which were a little deranged, as may be
presumed, I concluded they had received no injury, and did not venture to
obtrude my services at their toilette, for which, I understand, I have
since been reflected upon by the fair sufferers. The _outsides,_ who must
have been discharged from their elevated situation by a shock resembling
the springing of a mine, escaped, nevertheless, with the usual allowance
of scratches and bruises, excepting three, who, having been pitched into
the river Gander, were dimly seen contending with the tide like the
relics of AEneasís shipwreck,--
Rari apparent mantes in gurgite vasto.
I applied my poor exertions where they seemed to be most needed, and with
the assistance of one or two of the company who had escaped unhurt,
easily succeeded in fishing out two of the unfortunate passengers, who
were stout active young fellows; and, but for the preposterous length of
their greatcoats, and the equally fashionable latitude and longitude of
their Wellington trousers, would have required little assistance from any
one. The third was sickly and elderly, and might have perished but for
the efforts used to preserve him.
When the two greatcoated gentlemen had extricated themselves from the
river, and shaken their ears like huge water-dogs, a violent altercation
ensued betwixt them and the coachman and guard, concerning the cause of
their overthrow. In the course of the squabble, I observed that both my
new acquaintances belonged to the law, and that their professional
sharpness was likely to prove an overmatch for the surly and official
tone of the guardians of the vehicle. The dispute ended in the guard
assuring the passengers that they should have seats in a heavy coach
which would pass that spot in less than half-an-hour, provided it were
not full. Chance seemed to favour this arrangement, for when the expected
vehicle, arrived, there were only two places occupied in a carriage which
professed to carry six. The two ladies who had been disinterred out of
the fallen vehicle were readily admitted, but positive objections were
stated by those previously in possession to the admittance of the two
lawyers, whose wetted garments being much of the nature of well-soaked
sponges, there was every reason to believe they would refund a
considerable part of the water they had collected, to the inconvenience
of their fellow-passengers. On the other hand, the lawyers rejected a
seat on the roof, alleging that they had only taken that station for
pleasure for one stage, but were entitled in all respects to free egress
and regress from the interior, to which their contract positively
referred. After some altercation, in which something was said upon the
edict _Nautae caupones stabularii,_ the coach went off, leaving the
learned gentlemen to abide by their action of damages.
They immediately applied to me to guide them to the next village and the
best inn; and from the account I gave them of the Wallace Head, declared
they were much better pleased to stop there than to go forward upon the
terms of that impudent scoundrel the guard of the Somerset. All that they
now wanted was a lad to carry their travelling bags, who was easily
procured from an adjoining cottage; and they prepared to walk forward,
when they found there was another passenger in the same deserted
situation with themselves. This was the elderly and sickly-looking
person, who had been precipitated into the river along with the two young
lawyers. He, it seems, had been too modest to push his own plea against
the coachman when he saw that of his betters rejected, and now remained
behind with a look of timid anxiety, plainly intimating that he was
deficient in those means of recommendation which are necessary passports
to the hospitality of an inn.
I ventured to call the attention of the two dashing young blades, for
such they seemed, to the desolate condition of their fellow-traveller.
They took the hint with ready good-nature.
“O, true, Mr. Dunover,” said one of the youngsters, “you must not remain
on the paveí here; you must go and have some dinner with us--Halkit and I
must have a post-chaise to go on, at all events, and we will set you down
wherever suits you best.”
The poor man, for such his dress, as well as his diffidence, bespoke him,
made the sort of acknowledging bow by which says a Scotsman, “Itís too
much honour for the like of me;” and followed humbly behind his gay
patrons, all three besprinkling the dusty road as they walked along with
the moisture of their drenched garments, and exhibiting the singular and
somewhat ridiculous appearance of three persons suffering from the
opposite extreme of humidity, while the summer sun was at its height, and
everything else around them had the expression of heat and drought. The
ridicule did not escape the young gentlemen themselves, and they had made
what might be received as one or two tolerable jests on the subject
before they had advanced far on their peregrination.
“We cannot complain, like Cowley,” said one of them, “that Gideonís
fleece remains dry, while all around is moist; this is the reverse of the
miracle.”
“We ought to be received with gratitude in this good town; we bring a
supply of what they seem to need most,” said Halkit.
“And distribute it with unparalleled generosity,” replied his companion;
“performing the part of three water-carts for the benefit of their dusty
roads.”
“We come before them, too,” said Halkit, “in full professional
force--counsel and agent”--
“And client,” said the young advocate, looking behind him; and then
added, lowering his voice, “that looks as if he had kept such dangerous
company too long.”
It was, indeed, too true, that the humble follower of the gay young men
had the threadbare appearance of a worn-out litigant, and I could not but
smile at the conceit, though anxious to conceal my mirth from the object
of it.
When we arrived at the Wallace Inn, the elder of the Edinburgh gentlemen,
and whom I understood to be a barrister, insisted that I should remain
and take part of their dinner; and their inquiries and demands speedily
put my landlord and his whole family in motion to produce the best cheer
which the larder and cellar afforded, and proceed to cook it to the best
advantage, a science in which our entertainers seemed to be admirably
skilled. In other respects they were lively young men, in the hey-day of
youth and good spirits, playing the part which is common to the higher
classes of the law at Edinburgh, and which nearly resembles that of the
young Templars in the days of Steele and Addison. An air of giddy gaiety
mingled with the good sense, taste, and information which their
conversation exhibited; and it seemed to be their object to unite the
character of men of fashion and lovers of the polite arts. A fine
gentleman, bred up in the thorough idleness and inanity of pursuit, which
I understand is absolutely necessary to the character in perfection,
might in all probability have traced a tinge of professional pedantry
which marked the barrister in spite of his efforts, and something of
active bustle in his companion, and would certainly have detected more
than a fashionable mixture of information and animated interest in the
language of both. But to me, who had no pretensions to be so critical, my
companions seemed to form a very happy mixture of good-breeding and
liberal information, with a disposition to lively rattle, pun, and jest,
amusing to a grave man, because it is what he himself can least easily
command.
The thin pale-faced man, whom their good-nature had brought into their
society, looked out of place as well as out of spirits; sate on the edge
of his seat, and kept the chair at two feet distance from the table; thus
incommoding himself considerably in conveying the victuals to his mouth,
as if by way of penance for partaking of them in the company of his
superiors. A short time after dinner, declining all entreaty to partake
of the wine, which circulated freely round, he informed himself of the
hour when the chaise had been ordered to attend; and saying he would be
in readiness, modestly withdrew from the apartment.
“Jack,” said the barrister to his companion, “I remember that poor
fellowís face; you spoke more truly than you were aware of; he really is
one of my clients, poor man.”
“Poor man!” echoed Halkit--“I suppose you mean he is your one and only
client?”
“Thatís not my fault, Jack,” replied the other, whose name I discovered
was Hardie. “You are to give me all your business, you know; and if you
have none, the learned gentleman here knows nothing can come of nothing.”
“You seem to have brought something to nothing though, in the case of
that honest man. He looks as if he were just about to honour with his
residence the Heart of Mid-Lothian.”
“You are mistaken--he is just delivered from it.--Our friend here looks
for an explanation. Pray, Mr. Pattieson, have you been in Edinburgh?”
I answered in the affirmative.
“Then you must have passed, occasionally at least, though probably not so
faithfully as I am doomed to do, through a narrow intricate passage,
leading out of the north-west corner of the Parliament Square, and
passing by a high and antique building with turrets and iron grates,
Making good the saying odd,
ëNear the church and far from Godí”--
Mr. Halkit broke in upon his learned counsel, to contribute his moiety to
the riddle--“Having at the door the sign of the Red man”--
“And being on the whole,” resumed the counsellor interrupting his friend
in his turn, “a sort of place where misfortune is happily confounded with
guilt, where all who are in wish to get out”--
“And where none who have the good luck to be out, wish to get in,” added
his companion.
“I conceive you, gentlemen,” replied I; “you mean the prison.”
“The prison,” added the young lawyer--“You have hit it--the very reverend
Tolbooth itself; and let me tell you, you are obliged to us for
describing it with so much modesty and brevity; for with whatever
amplifications we might have chosen to decorate the subject, you lay
entirely at our mercy, since the Fathers Conscript of our city have
decreed that the venerable edifice itself shall not remain in existence
to confirm or to confute its.”
“Then the Tolbooth of Edinburgh is called the Heart of Mid-Lothian?” said
I.
“So termed and reputed, I assure you.”
“I think,” said I, with the bashful diffidence with which a man lets slip
a pun in presence of his superiors, “the metropolitan county may, in that
case, be said to have a sad heart.”
“Right as my glove, Mr. Pattieson,” added Mr. Hardie; “and a close heart,
and a hard heart--Keep it up, Jack.”
“And a wicked heart, and a poor heart,” answered Halkit, doing his best.
“And yet it may be called in some sort a strong heart, and a high heart,”
rejoined the advocate. “You see I can put you both out of heart.”
“I have played all my hearts,” said the younger gentleman.
“Then weíll have another lead,” answered his companion.--“And as to the
old and condemned Tolbooth, what pity the same honour cannot be done to
it as has been done to many of its inmates. Why should not the Tolbooth
have its ëLast Speech, Confession, and Dying Words?í The old stones would
be just as conscious of the honour as many a poor devil who has dangled
like a tassel at the west end of it, while the hawkers were shouting a
confession the culprit had never heard of.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “if I might presume to give my opinion, it would
be a tale of unvaried sorrow and guilt.”
“Not entirely, my friend,” said Hardie; “a prison is a world within
itself, and has its own business, griefs, and joys, peculiar to its
circle. Its inmates are sometimes short-lived, but so are soldiers on
service; they are poor relatively to the world without, but there are
degrees of wealth and poverty among them, and so some are relatively rich
also. They cannot stir abroad, but neither can the garrison of a besieged
fort, or the crew of a ship at sea; and they are not under a dispensation
quite so desperate as either, for they may have as much food as they have
money to buy, and are not obliged to work, whether they have food or
not.”
“But what variety of incident,” said I (not without a secret view to my
present task), “could possibly be derived from such a work as you are
pleased to talk of?”
“Infinite,” replied the young advocate. “Whatever of guilt, crime,
imposture, folly, unheard-of misfortunes, and unlooked-for change of
fortune, can be found to chequer life, my Last Speech of the Tolbooth
should illustrate with examples sufficient to gorge even the publicís
all-devouring appetite for the wonderful and horrible. The inventor of
fictitious narratives has to rack his brains for means to diversify his
tale, and after all can hardly hit upon characters or incidents which
have not been used again and again, until they are familiar to the eye of
the reader, so that the development, _enleívement,_ the desperate wound
of which the hero never dies, the burning fever from which the heroine is
sure to recover, become a mere matter of course. I join with my honest
friend Crabbe, and have an unlucky propensity to hope, when hope is lost,
and to rely upon the cork-jacket, which carries the heroes of romance
safe through all the billows of affliction.” He then declaimed the
following passage, rather with too much than too little emphasis:--
Much have I feared, but am no more afraid,
When some chaste beauty by some wretch betrayed,
Is drawn away with such distracted speed,
That she anticipates a dreadful deed.
Not so do I--Let solid walls impound
The captive fair, and dig a moat around;
Let there be brazen locks and bars of steel,
And keepers cruel, such as never feel;
With not a single note the purse supply,
And when she begs, let men and maids deny;
Be windows there from which she dare not fall,
And help so distant, ëtis in vain to call;
Still means of freedom will some Power devise,
And from the baffled ruffian snatch his prize.
“The end of uncertainty,” he concluded, “is the death of interest; and
hence it happens that no one now reads novels.”
“Hear him, ye gods!” returned his companion. “I assure you, Mr.
Pattieson, you will hardly visit this learned gentleman, but you are
likely to find the new novel most in repute lying on his table,--snugly
intrenched, however, beneath Stairís Institutes, or an open volume of
Morrisonís Decisions.”
“Do I deny it?” said the hopeful jurisconsult, “or wherefore should I,
since it is well known these Delilahs seduce my wisers and my betters?
May they not be found lurking amidst the multiplied memorials of our most
distinguished counsel, and even peeping from under the cushion of a
judgeís arm-chair? Our seniors at the bar, within the bar, and even on
the bench, read novels; and, if not belied, some of them have written
novels into the bargain. I only say, that I read from habit and from
indolence, not from real interest; that, like ancient Pistol devouring
his leek, I read and swear till I get to the end of the narrative. But
not so in the real records of human vagaries--not so in the State Trials,
or in the Books of Adjournal, where every now and then you read new pages
of the human heart, and turns of fortune far beyond what the boldest
novelist ever attempted to produce from the coinage of his brain.”
“And for such narratives,” I asked, “you suppose the History of the
Prison of Edinburgh might afford appropriate materials?”
“In a degree unusually ample, my dear sir,” said Hardie--“Fill your
glass, however, in the meanwhile. Was it not for many years the place in
which the Scottish parliament met? Was it not Jamesís place of refuge,
when the mob, inflamed by a seditious preacher, broke, forth, on him with
the cries of ëThe sword of the Lord and of Gideon--bring forth the wicked
Haman?í Since that time how many hearts have throbbed within these walls,
as the tolling of the neighbouring bell announced to them how fast the
sands of their life were ebbing; how many must have sunk at the
sound--how many were supported by stubborn pride and dogged
resolution--how many by the consolations of religion? Have there not
been some, who, looking back on the motives of their crimes, were scarce
able to understand how they should have had such temptation as to seduce
them from virtue; and have there not, perhaps, been others, who,
sensible of their innocence, were divided between indignation at the
undeserved doom which they were to undergo, consciousness that they had
not deserved it, and racking anxiety to discover some way in which they
might yet vindicate themselves? Do you suppose any of these deep,
powerful, and agitating feelings, can be recorded and perused without
exciting a corresponding depth of deep, powerful, and agitating
interest?--Oh! do but wait till I publish the _Causes Ceíleíbres_ of
Caledonia, and you will find no want of a novel or a tragedy for some
time to come. The true thing will triumph over the brightest inventions
of the most ardent imagination. _Magna est veritas, et praevalebit._”
“I have understood,” said I, encouraged by the affability of my rattling
entertainer, “that less of this interest must attach to Scottish
jurisprudence than to that of any other country. The general morality of
our people, their sober and prudent habits”--
“Secure them,” said the barrister, “against any great increase of
professional thieves and depredators, but not against wild and wayward
starts of fancy and passion, producing crimes of an extraordinary
description, which are precisely those to the detail of which we listen
with thrilling interest. England has been much longer a highly civilised
country; her subjects have been very strictly amenable to laws
administered without fear or favour, a complete division of labour has
taken place among her subjects, and the very thieves and robbers form a
distinct class in society, subdivided among themselves according to the
subject of the depredations, and the mode in which they carry them on,
acting upon regular habits and principles, which can be calculated and
anticipated at Bow Street, Hatton Garden, or the Old Bailey. Our sister
kingdom is like a cultivated field,--the farmer expects that, in spite of
all his care, a certain number of weeds will rise with the corn, and can
tell you beforehand their names and appearance. But Scotland is like one
of her own Highland glens, and the moralist who reads the records of her
criminal jurisprudence, will find as many curious anomalous facts in the
history of mind, as the botanist will detect rare specimens among her
dingles and cliffs.”
“And thatís all the good you have obtained from three perusals of the
Commentaries on Scottish Criminal Jurisprudence?” said his companion. “I
suppose the learned author very little thinks that the facts which his
erudition and acuteness have accumulated for the illustration of legal
doctrines, might be so arranged as to form a sort of appendix to the
half-bound and slip-shod volumes of the circulating library.”
“Iíll bet you a pint of claret,” said the elder lawyer, “that he will not
feel sore at the comparison. But as we say at the bar, ëI beg I may not
be interrupted;í I have much more to say, upon my Scottish collection of
_Causes Ceíleíbres._ You will please recollect the scope and motive given
for the contrivance and execution of many extraordinary and daring
crimes, by the long civil dissensions of Scotland--by the hereditary
jurisdictions, which, until 1748, rested the investigation of crises in
judges, ignorant, partial, or interested--by the habits of the gentry,
shut up in their distant and solitary mansion-houses, nursing their
revengeful Passions just to keep their blood from stagnating--not to
mention that amiable national qualification, called the _perfervidum
ingenium Scotorum,_ which our lawyers join in alleging as a reason for
the severity of some of our enactments. When I come to treat of matters
so mysterious, deep, and dangerous, as these circumstances have given
rise to, the blood of each reader shall be curdled, and his epidermis
crisped into goose skin.--But, hist!--here comes the landlord, with
tidings, I suppose, that the chaise is ready.”
It was no such thing--the tidings bore, that no chaise could be had that
evening, for Sir Peter Plyem had carried forward my landlordís two pairs
of horses that morning to the ancient royal borough of Bubbleburgh, to
look after his interest there. But as Bubbleburgh is only one of a set of
five boroughs which club their shares for a member of parliament, Sir
Peterís adversary had judiciously watched his departure, in order to
commence a canvass in the no less royal borough of Bitem, which, as all
the world knows, lies at the very termination of Sir Peterís avenue, and
has been held in leading-strings by him and his ancestors for time
immemorial. Now Sir Peter was thus placed in the situation of an
ambitious monarch, who, after having commenced a daring inroad into his
enemyís territories, is suddenly recalled by an invasion of his own
hereditary dominions. He was obliged in consequence to return from the
half-won borough of Bubbleburgh, to look after the half-lost borough of
Bitem, and the two pairs of horses which had carried him that morning to
Bubbleburgh were now forcibly detained to transport him, his agent, his
valet, his jester, and his hard-drinker, across the country to Bitem. The
cause of this detention, which to me was of as little consequence as it
may be to the reader, was important enough to my companions to reconcile
them to the delay. Like eagles, they smelled the battle afar off, ordered
a magnum of claret and beds at the Wallace, and entered at full career
into the Bubbleburgh and Bitem politics, with all the probable “Petitions
and complaints” to which they were likely to give rise.
In the midst of an anxious, animated, and, to me, most unintelligible
discussion, concerning provosts, bailies, deacons, sets of boroughs,
leets, town-clerks, burgesses resident and non-resident, all of a sudden
the lawyer recollected himself. “Poor Dunover, we must not forget him;”
and the landlord was despatched in quest of the _pauvre honteux,_ with an
earnestly civil invitation to him for the rest of the evening. I could
not help asking the young gentlemen if they knew the history of this poor
man; and the counsellor applied himself to his pocket to recover the
memorial or brief from which he had stated his cause.
“He has been a candidate for our _remedium miserabile,_” said Mr. Hardie,
“commonly called a _cessio bonorum._ As there are divines who have
doubted the eternity of future punishments, so the Scotch lawyers seem to
have thought that the crime of poverty might be atoned for by something
short of perpetual imprisonment. After a monthís confinement, you must
know, a prisoner for debt is entitled, on a sufficient statement to our
Supreme Court, setting forth the amount of his funds, and the nature of
his misfortunes, and surrendering all his effects to his creditors, to
claim to be discharged from prison.”
“I had heard,” I replied, “of such a humane regulation.”
“Yes,” said Halkit, “and the beauty of it is, as the foreign fellow said,
you may get the _cessio,_ when the _bonorums_ are all spent--But what,
are you puzzling in your pockets to seek your only memorial among old
play-bills, letters requesting a meeting of the Faculty, rules of the
Speculative Society,* syllabusí of lectures--all the miscellaneous
contents of a young advocateís pocket, which contains everything but
briefs and bank-notes?
* [A well-known debating club in Edinburgh.]
Can you not state a case of _cessio_ without your memorial? Why, it is
done every Saturday. The events follow each other as regularly as
clock-work, and one form of condescendence might suit every one of them.”
“This is very unlike the variety of distress which this gentleman stated
to fall under the consideration of your judges,” said I.
“True,” replied Halkit; “but Hardie spoke of criminal jurisprudence, and
this business is purely civil. I could plead a _cessio_ myself without
the inspiring honours of a gown and three-tailed periwig--Listen.--My
client was bred a journeyman weaver--made some little money--took a
farm--(for conducting a farm, like driving a gig, comes by nature)--late
severe times--induced to sign bills with a friend, for which he received
no value--landlord sequestrates--creditors accept a composition--pursuer
sets up a public-house--fails a second time--is incarcerated for a debt
of ten pounds seven shillings and sixpence--his debts amount to
blank--his losses to blank--his funds to blank--leaving a balance of blank
in his favour. There is no opposition; your lordships will please grant
commission to take his oath.”
Hardie now renounced this ineffectual search, in which there was perhaps
a little affectation, and told us the tale of poor Dunoverís distresses,
with a tone in which a degree of feeling, which he seemed ashamed of as
unprofessional, mingled with his attempts at wit, and did him more
honour. It was one of those tales which seem to argue a sort of ill-luck
or fatality attached to the hero. A well-informed, industrious, and
blameless, but poor and bashful man, had in vain essayed all the usual
means by which others acquire independence, yet had never succeeded
beyond the attainment of bare subsistence. During a brief gleam of hope,
rather than of actual prosperity, he had added a wife and family to his
cares, but the dawn was speedily overcast. Everything retrograded with
him towards the verge of the miry Slough of Despond, which yawns for
insolvent debtors; and after catching at each twig, and experiencing the
protracted agony of feeling them one by one elude his grasp, he actually
sunk into the miry pit whence he had been extricated by the professional
exertions of Hardie.
“And, I suppose, now you have dragged this poor devil ashore, you will
leave him half naked on the beach to provide for himself?” said Halkit.
“Hark ye,”--and he whispered something in his ear, of which the
penetrating and insinuating words, “Interest with my Lord,” alone reached
mine.
“It is _pessimi exempli,_” said Hardie, laughing, “to provide for a
ruined client; but I was thinking of what you mention, provided it can be
managed--But hush! here he comes.”
The recent relation of the poor manís misfortunes had given him, I was
pleased to observe, a claim to the attention and respect of the young
men, who treated him with great civility, and gradually engaged him in a
conversation, which, much to my satisfaction, again turned upon the
_Causes Ceíleíbres_ of Scotland. Imboldened by the kindness with which he
was treated, Mr. Dunover began to contribute his share to the amusement
of the evening. Jails, like other places, have their ancient traditions,
known only to the inhabitants, and handed down from one set of the
melancholy lodgers to the next who occupy their cells. Some of these,
which Dunover mentioned, were interesting, and served to illustrate the
narratives of remarkable trials, which Hardie had at his finger-ends, and
which his companion was also well skilled in. This sort of conversation
passed away the evening till the early hour when Mr. Dunover chose to
retire to rest, and I also retreated to take down memorandums of what I
had learned, in order to add another narrative to those which it had been
my chief amusement to collect, and to write out in detail. The two young
men ordered a broiled bone, Madeira negus, and a pack of cards, and
commenced a game at picquet.
Next morning the travellers left Gandercleugh. I afterwards learned from
the papers that both have been since engaged in the great political cause
of Bubbleburgh and Bitem, a summary case, and entitled to particular
despatch; but which, it is thought, nevertheless, may outlast the
duration of the parliament to which the contest refers. Mr. Halkit, as
the newspapers informed me, acts as agent or solicitor; and Mr. Hardie
opened for Sir Peter Plyem with singular ability, and to such good
purpose, that I understand he has since had fewer play-bills and more
briefs in his pocket. And both the young gentlemen deserve their good
fortune; for I learned from Dunover, who called on me some weeks
afterwards, and communicated the intelligence with tears in his eyes,
that their interest had availed to obtain him a small office for the
decent maintenance of his family; and that, after a train of constant and
uninterrupted misfortune, he could trace a dawn of prosperity to his
having the good fortune to be flung from the top of a mail-coach into the
river Gander, in company with an advocate and a writer to the Signet. The
reader will not perhaps deem himself equally obliged to the accident,
since it brings upon him the following narrative, founded upon the
conversation of the evening.
THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN
CHAPTER FIRST.
Whoeíerís been at Paris must needs know the Greíve,
The fatal retreat of the unfortunate brave,
Where honour and justice most oddly contribute,
To ease heroesí pains by an halter and gibbet.
There death breaks the shackles which force had put on,
And the hangman completes what the judge but began;
There the squire of the poet, and knight of the post,
Find their pains no more baulked, and their hopes no more
crossed.
Prior.
In former times, England had her Tyburn, to which the devoted victims of
justice were conducted in solemn procession up what is now called Oxford
Street. In Edinburgh, a large open street, or rather oblong square,
surrounded by high houses, called the Grassmarket, was used for the same
melancholy purpose. It was not ill chosen for such a scene, being of
considerable extent, and therefore fit to accommodate a great number of
spectators, such as are usually assembled by this melancholy spectacle.
On the other hand, few of the houses which surround it were, even in
early times, inhabited by persons of fashion; so that those likely to be
offended or over deeply affected by such unpleasant exhibitions were not
in the way of having their quiet disturbed by them. The houses in the
Grassmarket are, generally speaking, of a mean description; yet the place
is not without some features of grandeur, being overhung by the southern
side of the huge rock on which the Castle stands, and by the moss-grown
battlements and turreted walls of that ancient fortress.
It was the custom, until within these thirty years or thereabouts, to use
this esplanade for the scene of public executions. The fatal day was
announced to the public by the appearance of a huge black gallows-tree
towards the eastern end of the Grassmarket. This ill-omened apparition
was of great height, with a scaffold surrounding it, and a double ladder
placed against it, for the ascent of the unhappy criminal and
executioner. As this apparatus was always arranged before dawn, it seemed
as if the gallows had grown out of the earth in the course of one night,
like the production of some foul demon; and I well remember the fright
with which the schoolboys, when I was one of their number, used to regard
these ominous signs of deadly preparation. On the night after the
execution the gallows again disappeared, and was conveyed in silence and
darkness to the place where it was usually deposited, which was one of
the vaults under the Parliament House, or courts of justice. This mode of
execution is now exchanged for one similar to that in front of
Newgate,--with what beneficial effect is uncertain. The mental
sufferings of the convict are indeed shortened. He no longer stalks
between the attendant clergymen, dressed in his grave-clothes, through a
considerable part of the city, looking like a moving and walking corpse,
while yet an inhabitant of this world; but, as the ultimate purpose of
punishment has in view the prevention of crimes, it may at least be
doubted, whether, in abridging the melancholy ceremony, we have not in
part diminished that appalling effect upon the spectators which is the
useful end of all such inflictions, and in consideration of which alone,
unless in very particular cases, capital sentences can be altogether
justified.
On the 7th day of September 1736, these ominous preparations for
execution were descried in the place we have described, and at an early
hour the space around began to be occupied by several groups, who gazed
on the scaffold and gibbet with a stern and vindictive show of
satisfaction very seldom testified by the populace, whose good nature, in
most cases, forgets the crime of the condemned person, and dwells only on
his misery. But the act of which the expected culprit had been convicted
was of a description calculated nearly and closely to awaken and irritate
the resentful feelings of the multitude. The tale is well known; yet it
is necessary to recapitulate its leading circumstances, for the better
understanding what is to follow; and the narrative may prove long, but I
trust not uninteresting even to those who have heard its general issue.
At any rate, some detail is necessary, in order to render intelligible
the subsequent events of our narrative.
Contraband trade, though it strikes at the root of legitimate government,
by encroaching on its revenues,--though it injures the fair trader, and
debauches the mind of those engaged in it,--is not usually looked upon,
either by the vulgar or by their betters, in a very heinous point of
view. On the contrary, in those countries where it prevails, the
cleverest, boldest, and most intelligent of the peasantry, are uniformly
engaged in illicit transactions, and very often with the sanction of the
farmers and inferior gentry. Smuggling was almost universal in Scotland
in the reigns of George I. and II.; for the people, unaccustomed to
imposts, and regarding them as an unjust aggression upon their ancient
liberties, made no scruple to elude them whenever it was possible to do
so.
The county of Fife, bounded by two firths on the south and north, and by
the sea on the east, and having a number of small seaports, was long
famed for maintaining successfully a contraband trade; and, as there were
many seafaring men residing there, who had been pirates and buccaneers in
their youth, there were not wanting a sufficient number of daring men to
carry it on. Among these, a fellow called Andrew Wilson, originally a
baker in the village of Pathhead, was particularly obnoxious to the
revenue officers. He was possessed of great personal strength, courage,
and cunning,--was perfectly acquainted with the coast, and capable of
conducting the most desperate enterprises. On several occasions he
succeeded in baffling the pursuit and researches of the kingís officers;
but he became so much the object of their suspicions and watchful
attention, that at length he was totally ruined by repeated seizures. The
man became desperate. He considered himself as robbed and plundered; and
took it into his head that he had a right to make reprisals, as he could
find opportunity. Where the heart is prepared for evil, opportunity is
seldom long wanting. This Wilson learned that the Collector of the
Customs at Kirkcaldy had come to Pittenweem, in the course of his
official round of duty, with a considerable sum of public money in his
custody. As the amount was greatly within the value of the goods which
had been seized from him, Wilson felt no scruple of conscience in
resolving to reimburse himself for his losses, at the expense of the
Collector and the revenue. He associated with himself one Robertson, and
two other idle young men, whom, having been concerned in the same illicit
trade, he persuaded to view the transaction in the same justifiable light
in which he himself considered it. They watched the motions of the
Collector; they broke forcibly into the house where he lodged,--Wilson,
with two of his associates, entering the Collectorís apartment, while
Robertson, the fourth, kept watch at the door with a drawn cutlass in his
hand. The officer of the customs, conceiving his life in danger, escaped
out of his bedroom window, and fled in his shirt, so that the plunderers,
with much ease, possessed themselves of about two hundred pounds of
public money. The robbery was committed in a very audacious manner, for
several persons were passing in the street at the time. But Robertson,
representing the noise they heard as a dispute or fray betwixt the
Collector and the people of the house, the worthy citizens of Pittenweem
felt themselves no way called on to interfere in behalf of the obnoxious
revenue officer; so, satisfying themselves with this very superficial
account of the matter, like the Levite in the parable, they passed on the
opposite side of the way. An alarm was at length given, military were
called in, the depredators were pursued, the booty recovered, and Wilson
and Robertson tried and condemned to death, chiefly on the evidence of an
accomplice.
Many thought that, in consideration of the menís erroneous opinion of the
nature of the action they had committed, justice might have been
satisfied with a less forfeiture than that of two lives. On the other
hand, from the audacity of the fact, a severe example was judged
necessary; and such was the opinion of the Government. When it became
apparent that the sentence of death was to be executed, files, and other
implements necessary for their escape, were transmitted secretly to the
culprits by a friend from without. By these means they sawed a bar out of
one of the prison-windows, and might have made their escape, but for the
obstinacy of Wilson, who, as he was daringly resolute, was doggedly
pertinacious of his opinion. His comrade, Robertson, a young and slender
man, proposed to make the experiment of passing the foremost through the
gap they had made, and enlarging it from the outside, if necessary, to
allow Wilson free passage. Wilson, however, insisted on making the first
experiment, and being a robust and lusty man, he not only found it
impossible to get through betwixt the bars, but, by his struggles, he
jammed himself so fast, that he was unable to draw his body back again.
In these circumstances discovery became unavoidable, and sufficient
precautions were taken by the jailor to prevent any repetition of the
same attempt. Robertson uttered not a word of reflection on his companion
for the consequences of his obstinacy; but it appeared from the sequel,
that Wilsonís mind was deeply impressed with the recollection that, but
for him, his comrade, over whose mind he exercised considerable
influence, would not have engaged in the criminal enterprise which had
terminated thus fatally; and that now he had become his destroyer a
second time, since, but for his obstinacy, Robertson might have effected
his escape. Minds like Wilsonís, even when exercised in evil practices,
sometimes retain the power of thinking and resolving with enthusiastic
generosity. His whole thoughts were now bent on the possibility of saving
Robertsonís life, without the least respect to his own. The resolution
which he adopted, and the manner in which he carried it into effect, were
striking and unusual.
Adjacent to the tolbooth or city jail of Edinburgh, is one of three
churches into which the cathedral of St. Giles is now divided, called,
from its vicinity, the Tolbooth Church. It was the custom that criminals
under sentence of death were brought to this church, with a sufficient
guard, to hear and join in public worship on the Sabbath before
execution. It was supposed that the hearts of these unfortunate persons,
however hardened before against feelings of devotion, could not but be
accessible to them upon uniting their thoughts and voices, for the last
time, along with their fellow-mortals, in addressing their Creator. And
to the rest of the congregation, it was thought it could not but be
impressive and affecting, to find their devotions mingling with those,
who, sent by the doom of an earthly tribunal to appear where the whole
earth is judged, might be considered as beings trembling on the verge of
eternity. The practice, however edifying, has been discontinued, in
consequence of the incident we are about to detail.
The clergyman, whose duty it was to officiate in the Tolbooth Church, had
concluded an affecting discourse, part of which was particularly directed
to the unfortunate men, Wilson and Robertson, who were in the pew set
apart for the persons in their unhappy situation, each secured betwixt
two soldiers of the city guard. The clergyman had reminded them, that the
next congregation they must join would be that of the just, or of the
unjust; that the psalms they now heard must be exchanged, in the space of
two brief days, for eternal hallelujahs, or eternal lamentations; and
that this fearful alternative must depend upon the state to which they
might be able to bring their minds before the moment of awful
preparation: that they should not despair on account of the suddenness of
the summons, but rather to feel this comfort in their misery, that,
though all who now lifted the voice, or bent the knee in conjunction with
them, lay under the same sentence of certain death, _they_ only had the
advantage of knowing the precise moment at which it should be executed
upon them. “Therefore,” urged the good man, his voice trembling with
emotion, “redeem the time, my unhappy brethren, which is yet left; and
remember, that, with the grace of Him to whom space and time are but as
nothing, salvation may yet be assured, even in the pittance of delay
which the laws of your country afford you.”
Robertson was observed to weep at these words; but Wilson seemed as one
whose brain had not entirely received their meaning, or whose thoughts
were deeply impressed with some different subject;--an expression so
natural to a person in his situation, that it excited neither suspicion
nor surprise.
The benediction was pronounced as usual, and the congregation was
dismissed, many lingering to indulge their curiosity with a more fixed
look at the two criminals, who now, as well as their guards, rose up, as
if to depart when the crowd should permit them. A murmur of compassion
was heard to pervade the spectators, the more general, perhaps, on
account of the alleviating circumstances of the case; when all at once,
Wilson, who, as we have already noticed, was a very strong man, seized
two of the soldiers, one with each hand, and calling at the same time to
his companion, “Run, Geordie, run!” threw himself on a third, and
fastened his teeth on the collar of his coat. Robertson stood for a
second as if thunderstruck, and unable to avail himself of the
opportunity of escape; but the cry of “Run, run!” being echoed from many
around, whose feelings surprised them into a very natural interest in his
behalf, he shook off the grasp of the remaining soldier, threw himself
over the pew, mixed with the dispersing congregation, none of whom felt
inclined to stop a poor wretch taking his last chance for his life,
gained the door of the church, and was lost to all pursuit.
The generous intrepidity which Wilson had displayed on this occasion
augmented the feeling of compassion which attended his fate. The public,
where their own prejudices are not concerned, are easily engaged on the
side of disinterestedness and humanity, admired Wilsonís behaviour, and
rejoiced in Robertsonís escape. This general feeling was so great, that
it excited a vague report that Wilson would be rescued at the place of
execution, either by the mob or by some of his old associates, or by some
second extraordinary and unexpected exertion of strength and courage on
his own part. The magistrates thought it their duty to provide against
the possibility of disturbance. They ordered out, for protection of the
execution of the sentence, the greater part of their own City Guard,
under the command of Captain Porteous, a man whose name became too
memorable from the melancholy circumstances of the day, and subsequent
events. It may be necessary to say a word about this person, and the
corps which he commanded. But the subject is of importance sufficient to
deserve another chapter.
CHAPTER SECOND.
And thou, great god of aquavitae!
Wha sways the empire of this city
(When fou weíre sometimes capernoity),
Be thou prepared,
To save us frae that black banditti,
The City Guard!
Fergussonís _Daft Days._
Captain John Porteous, a name memorable in the traditions of Edinburgh,
as well as in the records of criminal jurisprudence, was the son of a
citizen of Edinburgh, who endeavoured to breed him up to his own
mechanical trade of a tailor. The youth, however, had a wild and
irreclaimable propensity to dissipation, which finally sent him to serve
in the corps long maintained in the service of the States of Holland, and
called the Scotch Dutch. Here he learned military discipline; and,
returning afterwards, in the course of an idle and wandering life, to his
native city, his services were required by the magistrates of Edinburgh
in the disturbed year 1715, for disciplining their City Guard, in which
he shortly afterwards received a captainís commission. It was only by his
military skill and an alert and resolute character as an officer of
police, that he merited this promotion, for he is said to have been a man
of profligate habits, an unnatural son, and a brutal husband. He was,
however, useful in his station, and his harsh and fierce habits rendered
him formidable to rioters or disturbers of the public peace.
The corps in which he held his command is, or perhaps we should rather
say _was,_ a body of about one hundred and twenty soldiers divided into
three companies, and regularly armed, clothed, and embodied. They were
chiefly veterans who enlisted in this cogs, having the benefit of working
at their trades when they were off duty. These men had the charge of
preserving public order, repressing riots and street robberies, acting,
in short, as an armed police, and attending on all public occasions where
confusion or popular disturbance might be expected.*
* The Lord Provost was ex-officio commander and colonel of the corps,
which might be increased to three hundred men when the times required it.
No other drum but theirs was allowed to sound on the High Street between
the Luckenbooths and the Netherbow.
Poor Fergusson, whose irregularities sometimes led him into unpleasant
rencontres with these military conservators of public order, and who
mentions them so often that he may be termed their poet laureate,* thus
admonishes his readers, warned doubtless by his own experience:--
* [Robert Fergusson, the Scottish Poet, born 1750, died 1774.]
“Gude folk, as ye come frae the fair,
Bide yont frae this black squad:
Thereís nae sic savages elsewhere
Allowed to wear cockad.”
In fact, the soldiers of the City Guard, being, as we have said, in
general discharged veterans, who had strength enough remaining for this
municipal duty, and being, moreover, for the greater part, Highlanders,
were neither by birth, education, nor former habits, trained to endure
with much patience the insults of the rabble, or the provoking petulance
of truant schoolboys, and idle debauchees of all descriptions, with whom
their occupation brought them into contact. On the contrary, the tempers
of the poor old fellows were soured by the indignities with which the mob
distinguished them on many occasions, and frequently might have required
the soothing strains of the poet we have just quoted--
“O soldiers! for your ain dear sakes,
For Scotlandís love, the Land oí Cakes,
Gie not her bairns sic deadly paiks,
Nor be sae rude,
Wií firelock or Lochaber-axe,
As spill their bluid!”
On all occasions when a holiday licensed some riot and irregularity, a
skirmish with these veterans was a favourite recreation with the rabble
of Edinburgh. These pages may perhaps see the light when many have in
fresh recollection such onsets as we allude to. But the venerable corps,
with whom the contention was held, may now be considered as totally
extinct. Of late the gradual diminution of these civic soldiers reminds
one of the abatement of King Learís hundred knights. The edicts of each
succeeding set of magistrates have, like those of Goneril and Regan,
diminished this venerable band with the similar question, “What need we
five-and-twenty?--ten?--or five?” And it is now nearly come to, “What
need one?” A spectre may indeed here and there still be seen, of an old
grey-headed and grey-bearded Highlander, with war-worn features, but bent
double by age; dressed in an old fashioned cocked-hat, bound with white
tape instead of silver lace; and in coat, waistcoat, and breeches, of a
muddy-coloured red, bearing in his withered hand an ancient weapon,
called a Lochaber-axe; a long pole, namely, with an axe at the extremity,
and a hook at the back of the hatchet.*
* This hook was to enable the bearer of the Lochaber-axe to scale a
gateway, by grappling the top of the door, and swinging himself up by the
staff of his weapon.
Such a phantom of former days still creeps, I have been informed, round
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; and one or two others are supposed to glide around the door of
the guardhouse assigned to them in the Luckenbooths, when their ancient
refuge in the High Street was laid low.*
* This ancient corps is now entirely disbanded. Their last march to do
duty at Hallowfair had something in it affecting. Their drums and fifes
had been wont on better days to play, on this joyous occasion, the lively
tune of “Jockey to the fair;” but on his final occasion the afflicted
veterans moved slowly to the dirge of
“The last time I came ower the muir.”
But the fate of manuscripts bequeathed to friends and executors is so
uncertain, that the narrative containing these frail memorials of the old
Town Guard of Edinburgh, who, with their grim and valiant corporal, John
Dhu (the fiercest-looking fellow I ever saw), were, in my boyhood, the
alternate terror and derision of the petulant brood of the High School,
may, perhaps, only come to light when all memory of the institution has
faded away, and then serve as an illustration of Kayís caricatures, who
has preserved the features of some of their heroes. In the preceding
generation, when there was a perpetual alarm for the plots and activity
of the Jacobites, some pains were taken by the magistrates of Edinburgh
to keep this corps, though composed always of such materials as we have
noticed, in a more effective state than was afterwards judged necessary,
when their most dangerous service was to skirmish with the rabble on the
kingís birthday. They were, therefore, more the objects of hatred, and
less that of scorn, than they were afterwards accounted.
To Captain John Porteous, the honour of his command and of his corps
seems to have been a matter of high interest and importance. He was
exceedingly incensed against Wilson for the affront which he construed
him to have put upon his soldiers, in the effort he made for the
liberation of his companion, and expressed himself most ardently on the
subject. He was no less indignant at the report, that there was an
intention to rescue Wilson himself from the gallows, and uttered many
threats and imprecations upon that subject, which were afterwards
remembered to his disadvantage. In fact, if a good deal of determination
and promptitude rendered Porteous, in one respect, fit to command guards
designed to suppress popular commotion, he seems, on the other, to have
been disqualified for a charge so delicate, by a hot and surly temper,
always too ready to come to blows and violence; a character void of
principle; and a disposition to regard the rabble, who seldom failed to
regale him and his soldiers with some marks of their displeasure, as
declared enemies, upon whom it was natural and justifiable that he should
seek opportunities of vengeance. Being, however, the most active and
trustworthy among the captains of the City Guard, he was the person to
whom the magistrates confided the command of the soldiers appointed to
keep the peace at the time of Wilsonís execution. He was ordered to guard
the gallows and scaffold, with about eighty men, all the disposable force
that could be spared for that duty.
But the magistrates took farther precautions, which affected Porteousís
pride very deeply. They requested the assistance of part of a regular
infantry regiment, not to attend upon the execution, but to remain drawn
up on the principal street of the city, during the time that it went
forward, in order to intimidate the multitude, in case they should be
disposed to be unruly, with a display of force which could not be
resisted without desperation. It may sound ridiculous in our ears,
considering the fallen state of this ancient civic corps, that its
officer should have felt punctiliously jealous of its honour. Yet so it
was. Captain Porteous resented, as an indignity, the introducing the
Welsh Fusileers within the city, and drawing them up in the street where
no drums but his own were allowed to be sounded without the special
command or permission of the magistrates. As he could not show his
ill-humour to his patrons the magistrates, it increased his indignation
and his desire to be revenged on the unfortunate criminal Wilson, and all
who favoured him. These internal emotions of jealousy and rage wrought a
change on the manís mien and bearing, visible to all who saw him on the
fatal morning when Wilson was appointed to suffer. Porteousís ordinary
appearance was rather favourable. He was about the middle size, stout,
and well made, having a military air, and yet rather a gentle and mild
countenance. His complexion was brown, his face somewhat fretted with the
sears of the smallpox, his eyes rather languid than keen or fierce. On
the present occasion, however, it seemed to those who saw him as if he
were agitated by some evil demon. His step was irregular, his voice
hollow and broken, his countenance pale, his eyes staring and wild, his
speech imperfect and confused, and his whole appearance so disordered,
that many remarked he seemed to be _fey,_ a Scottish expression, meaning
the state of those who are driven on to their impending fate by the
strong impulse of some irresistible necessity.
One part of his conduct was truly diabolical, if indeed it has not been
exaggerated by the general prejudice entertained against his memory. When
Wilson, the unhappy criminal, was delivered to him by the keeper of the
prison, in order that he might be conducted to the place of execution,
Porteous, not satisfied with the usual precautions to prevent escape,
ordered him to be manacled. This might be justifiable from the character
and bodily strength of the malefactor, as well as from the apprehensions
so generally entertained of an expected rescue. But the handcuffs which
were produced being found too small for the wrists of a man so big-boned
as Wilson, Porteous proceeded with his own hands, and by great exertion
of strength, to force them till they clasped together, to the exquisite
torture of the unhappy criminal. Wilson remonstrated against such
barbarous usage, declaring that the pain distracted his thoughts from the
subjects of meditation proper to his unhappy condition.
“It signifies little,” replied Captain Porteous; “your pain will soon be
at an end.”
“Your cruelty is great,” answered the sufferer. “You know not how soon
you yourself may have occasion to ask the mercy which you are now
refusing to a fellow-creature. May God forgive you!”
These words, long afterwards quoted and remembered, were all that passed
between Porteous and his prisoner; but as they took air, and became known
to the people, they greatly increased the popular compassion for Wilson,
and excited a proportionate degree of indignation against Porteous;
against whom, as strict, and even violent in the discharge of his
unpopular office, the common people had some real, and many imaginary
causes of complaint.
When the painful procession was completed, and Wilson, with the escort,
had arrived at the scaffold in the Grassmarket, there appeared no signs
of that attempt to rescue him which had occasioned such precautions. The
multitude, in general, looked on with deeper interest than at ordinary
executions; and there might be seen, on the countenances of many, a stern
and indignant expression, like that with which the ancient Cameronians
might be supposed to witness the execution of their brethren, who
glorified the Covenant on the same occasion, and at the same spot. But
there was no attempt at violence. Wilson himself seemed disposed to
hasten over the space that divided time from eternity. The devotions
proper and usual on such occasions were no sooner finished than he
submitted to his fate, and the sentence of the law was fulfilled.
He had been suspended on the gibbet so long as to be totally deprived of
life, when at once, as if occasioned by some newly received impulse,
there arose a tumult among the multitude. Many stones were thrown at
Porteous and his guards; some mischief was done; and the mob continued to
press forward with whoops, shrieks, howls, and exclamations. A young
fellow, with a sailorís cap slouched over his face, sprung on the
scaffold, and cut the rope by which the criminal was suspended. Others
approached to carry off the body, either to secure for it a decent grave,
or to try, perhaps, some means of resuscitation. Captain Porteous was
wrought, by this appearance of insurrection against his authority, into a
rage so headlong as made him forget, that, the sentence having been fully
executed, it was his duty not to engage in hostilities with the misguided
multitude, but to draw off his men as fast as possible. He sprung from
the scaffold, snatched a musket from one of his soldiers, commanded the
party to give fire, and, as several eye-witnesses concurred in swearing,
set them the example, by discharging his piece, and shooting a man dead
on the spot. Several soldiers obeyed his command or followed his example;
six or seven persons were slain, and a great many were hurt and wounded.
After this act of violence, the Captain proceeded to withdraw his men
towards their guard-house in the High Street. The mob were not so much
intimidated as incensed by what had been done. They pursued the soldiers
with execrations, accompanied by volleys of stones. As they pressed on
them, the rearmost soldiers turned, and again fired with fatal aim and
execution. It is not accurately known whether Porteous commanded this
second act of violence; but of course the odium of the whole transactions
of the fatal day attached to him, and to him alone. He arrived at the
guard-house, dismissed his soldiers, and went to make his report to the
magistrates concerning the unfortunate events of the day.
Apparently by this time Captain Porteous had began to doubt the propriety
of his own conduct, and the reception he met with from the magistrates
was such as to make him still more anxious to gloss it over. He denied
that he had given orders to fire; he denied he had fired with his own
hand; he even produced the fusee which he carried as an officer for
examination; it was found still loaded. Of three cartridges which he was
seen to put in his pouch that morning, two were still there; a white
handkerchief was thrust into the muzzle of the piece, and re-turned
unsoiled or blackened. To the defence founded on these circumstances it
was answered, that Porteous had not used his own piece, but had been seen
to take one from a soldier. Among the many who had been killed and
wounded by the unhappy fire, there were several of better rank; for even
the humanity of such soldiers as fired over the heads of the mere rabble
around the scaffold, proved in some instances fatal to persons who were
stationed in windows, or observed the melancholy scene from a distance.
The voice of public indignation was loud and general; and, ere menís
tempers had time to cool, the trial of Captain Porteous took place before
the High Court of Justiciary. After a long and patient hearing, the jury
had the difficult duty of balancing the positive evidence of many
persons, and those of respectability, who deposed positively to the
prisonerís commanding his soldiers to fire, and himself firing his piece,
of which some swore that they saw the smoke and flash, and beheld a man
drop at whom it was pointed, with the negative testimony of others, who,
though well stationed for seeing what had passed, neither heard Porteous
give orders to fire, nor saw him fire himself; but, on the contrary,
averred that the first shot was fired by a soldier who stood close by
him. A great part of his defence was also founded on the turbulence of
the mob, which witnesses, according to their feelings, their
predilections, and their opportunities of observation, represented
differently; some describing as a formidable riot, what others
represented as a trifling disturbance such as always used to take place
on the like occasions, when the executioner of the law, and the men
commissioned to protect him in his task, were generally exposed to some
indignities. The verdict of the jury sufficiently shows how the evidence
preponderated in their minds. It declared that John Porteous fired a gun
among the people assembled at the execution; that he gave orders to his
soldiers to fire, by which many persons were killed and wounded; but, at
the same time, that the prisoner and his guard had been wounded and
beaten, by stones thrown at them by the multitude. Upon this verdict, the
Lords of Justiciary passed sentence of death against Captain John
Porteous, adjudging him, in the common form, to be hanged on a gibbet at
the common place of execution, on Wednesday, 8th September 1736, and all
his movable property to be forfeited to the kingís use, according to the
Scottish law in cases of wilful murder.*
* The signatures affixed to the death-warrant of Captain Porteous were--
Andrew Fletcher of Milton, Lord Justice-Clerk.
Sir James Mackenzie, Lord Royston.
David Erskine, Lord Dun.
Sir Walter Pringle, Lord Newhall.
Sir Gilbert Elliot, Lord Minto.
CHAPTER THIRD.
“The hourís come, but not the man.” *
* There is a tradition, that while a little stream was swollen into a
torrent by recent showers, the discontented voice of the Water Spirit was
heard to pronounce these words. At the some moment a man, urged on by his
fate, or, in Scottish language, _fey,_ arrived at a gallop, and prepared
to cross the water. No remonstrance from the bystanders was of power to
stop him--he plunged into the stream, and perished.
Kelpie.
On the day when the unhappy Porteous was expected to suffer the sentence
of the law, the place of execution, extensive as it is, was crowded
almost to suffocation. There was not a window in all the lofty tenements
around it, or in the steep and crooked street called the Bow, by which
the fatal procession was to descend from the High Street, that was not
absolutely filled with spectators. The uncommon height and antique
appearance of these houses, some of which were formerly the property of
the Knights Templars, and the Knights of St. John, and still exhibit on
their fronts and gables the iron cross of these orders, gave additional
effect to a scene in itself so striking. The area of the Grassmarket
resembled a huge dark lake or sea of human heads, in the centre of which
arose the fatal tree, tall, black, and ominous, from which dangled the
deadly halter. Every object takes interest from its uses and
associations, and the erect beam and empty noose, things so simple in
themselves, became, on such an occasion, objects of terror and of solemn
interest.
Amid so numerous an assembly there was scarcely a word spoken, save in
whispers. The thirst of vengeance was in some degree allayed by its
supposed certainty; and even the populace, with deeper feeling than they
are wont to entertain, suppressed all clamorous exultation, and prepared
to enjoy the scene of retaliation in triumph, silent and decent, though
stern and relentless. It seemed as if the depth of their hatred to the
unfortunate criminal scorned to display itself in anything resembling the
more noisy current of their ordinary feelings. Had a stranger consulted
only the evidence of his ears, he might have supposed that so vast a
multitude were assembled for some purpose which affected them with the
deepest sorrow, and stilled those noises which, on all ordinary
occasions, arise from such a concourse; but if he had gazed upon their
faces, he would have been instantly undeceived. The compressed lip, the
bent brow, the stern and flashing eye of almost everyone on whom he
looked, conveyed the expression of men come to glut their sight with
triumphant revenge. It is probable that the appearance of the criminal
might have somewhat changed the temper of the populace in his favour, and
that they might in the moment of death have forgiven the man against whom
their resentment had been so fiercely heated. It had, however, been
destined, that the mutability of their sentiments was not to be exposed
to this trial.
The usual hour for producing the criminal had been past for many minutes,
yet the spectators observed no symptom of his appearance. “Would they
venture to defraud public justice?” was the question which men began
anxiously to ask at each other. The first answer in every case was bold
and positive,--“They dare not.” But when the point was further canvassed,
other opinions were entertained, and various causes of doubt were
suggested. Porteous had been a favourite officer of the magistracy of the
city, which, being a numerous and fluctuating body, requires for its
support a degree of energy in its functionaries, which the individuals
who compose it cannot at all times alike be supposed to possess in their
own persons. It was remembered, that in the Information for Porteous (the
paper, namely, in which his case was stated to the Judges of the criminal
court), he had been described by his counsel as the person on whom the
magistrates chiefly relied in all emergencies of uncommon difficulty. It
was argued, too, that his conduct, on the unhappy occasion of Wilsonís
execution, was capable of being attributed to an imprudent excess of zeal
in the execution of his duty, a motive for which those under whose
authority he acted might be supposed to have great sympathy. And as these
considerations might move the magistrates to make a favourable
representation of Porteousís case, there were not wanting others in the
higher departments of Government, which would make such suggestions
favourably listened to.
The mob of Edinburgh, when thoroughly excited, had been at all times one
of the fiercest which could be found in Europe; and of late years they
had risen repeatedly against the Government, and sometimes not without
temporary success. They were conscious, therefore, that they were no
favourites with the rulers of the period, and that, if Captain Porteousís
violence was not altogether regarded as good service, it might certainly
be thought, that to visit it with a capital punishment would render it
both delicate and dangerous for future officers, in the same
circumstances, to act with effect in repressing tumults. There is also a
natural feeling, on the part of all members of Government, for the
general maintenance of authority; and it seemed not unlikely, that what
to the relatives of the sufferers appeared a wanton and unprovoked
massacre, should be otherwise viewed in the cabinet of St. Jamesís. It
might be there supposed, that upon the whole matter, Captain Porteous was
in the exercise of a trust delegated to him by the lawful civil
authority; that he had been assaulted by the populace, and several of his
men hurt; and that, in finally repelling force by force, his conduct
could be fairly imputed to no other motive than self-defence in the
discharge of his duty.
These considerations, of themselves very powerful, induced the spectators
to apprehend the possibility of a reprieve; and to the various causes
which might interest the rulers in his favour, the lower part of the
rabble added one which was peculiarly well adapted to their
comprehension. It was averred, in order to increase the odium against
Porteous, that while he repressed with the utmost severity the slightest
excesses of the poor, he not only overlooked the license of the young
nobles and gentry, but was very willing to lend them the countenance of
his official authority, in execution of such loose pranks as it was
chiefly his duty to have restrained. This suspicion, which was perhaps
much exaggerated, made a deep impression on the minds of the populace;
and when several of the higher rank joined in a petition, recommending
Porteous to the mercy of the Crown, it was generally supposed he owed
their favour not to any conviction of the hardship of his case, but to
the fear of losing a convenient accomplice in their debaucheries. It is
scarcely necessary to say how much this suspicion augmented the peopleís
detestation of this obnoxious criminal, as well as their fear of his
escaping the sentence pronounced against him.
While these arguments were stated and replied to, and canvassed and
supported, the hitherto silent expectation of the people became changed
into that deep and agitating murmur, which is sent forth by the ocean
before the tempest begins to howl. The crowded populace, as if their
motions had corresponded with the unsettled state of their minds,
fluctuated to and fro without any visible cause of impulse, like the
agitation of the waters, called by sailors the ground-swell. The news,
which the magistrates had almost hesitated to communicate to them, were
at length announced, and spread among the spectators with a rapidity like
lightning. A reprieve from the Secretary of Stateís office, under the
hand of his Grace the Duke of Newcastle, had arrived, intimating the
pleasure of Queen Caroline (regent of the kingdom during the absence of
George II. on the Continent), that the execution of the sentence of death
pronounced against John Porteous, late Captain-Lieutenant of the City
Guard of Edinburgh, present prisoner in the Tolbooth of that city, be
respited for six weeks from the time appointed for his execution.
The assembled spectators of almost all degrees, whose minds had been
wound up to the pitch which we have described, uttered a groan, or rather
a roar of indignation and disappointed revenge, similar to that of a
tiger from whom his meal has been rent by his keeper when he was just
about to devour it. This fierce exclamation seemed to forbode some
immediate explosion of popular resentment, and, in fact, such had been
expected by the magistrates, and the necessary measures had been taken to
repress it. But the shout was not repeated, nor did any sudden tumult
ensue, such as it appeared to announce. The populace seemed to be ashamed
of having expressed their disappointment in a vain clamour, and the sound
changed, not into the silence which had preceded the arrival of these
stunning news, but into stifled mutterings, which each group maintained
among themselves, and which were blended into one deep and hoarse murmur
which floated above the assembly.
Yet still, though all expectation of the execution was over, the mob
remained assembled, stationary, as it were, through very resentment,
gazing on the preparations for death, which had now been made in vain,
and stimulating their feelings, by recalling the various claims which
Wilson might have had on royal mercy, from the mistaken motives on which
he acted, as well as from the generosity he had displayed towards his
accomplice. “This man,” they said,--“the brave, the resolute, the
generous, was executed to death without mercy for stealing a purse of
gold, which in some sense he might consider as a fair reprisal; while the
profligate satellite, who took advantage of a trifling tumult,
inseparable from such occasions, to shed the blood of twenty of his
fellow-citizens, is deemed a fitting object for the exercise of the royal
prerogative of mercy. Is this to be borne?--would our fathers have borne
it? Are not we, like them, Scotsmen and burghers of Edinburgh?”
The officers of justice began now to remove the scaffold, and other
preparations which had been made for the execution, in hopes, by doing
so, to accelerate the dispersion of the multitude. The measure had the
desired effect; for no sooner had the fatal tree been unfixed from the
large stone pedestal or socket in which it was secured, and sunk slowly
down upon the wain intended to remove it to the place where it was
usually deposited, than the populace, after giving vent to their feelings
in a second shout of rage and mortification, began slowly to disperse to
their usual abodes and occupations.
The windows were in like manner gradually deserted, and groups of the
more decent class of citizens formed themselves, as if waiting to return
homewards when the streets should be cleared of the rabble. Contrary to
what is frequently the case, this description of persons agreed in
general with the sentiments of their inferiors, and considered the cause
as common to all ranks. Indeed, as we have already noticed, it was by no
means amongst the lowest class of the spectators, or those most likely to
be engaged in the riot at Wilsonís execution, that the fatal fire of
Porteousís soldiers had taken effect. Several persons were killed who
were looking out at windows at the scene, who could not of course belong
to the rioters, and were persons of decent rank and condition. The
burghers, therefore, resenting the loss which had fallen on their own
body, and proud and tenacious of their rights, as the citizens of
Edinburgh have at all times been, were greatly exasperated at the
unexpected respite of Captain Porteous.
It was noticed at the time, and afterwards more particularly remembered,
that, while the mob were in the act of dispersing, several individuals
were seen busily passing from one place and one group of people to
another, remaining long with none, but whispering for a little time with
those who appeared to be declaiming most violently against the conduct of
Government. These active agents had the appearance of men from the
country, and were generally supposed to be old friends and confederates
of Wilson, whose minds were of course highly excited against Porteous.
If, however, it was the intention of these men to stir the multitude to
any sudden act of mutiny, it seemed for the time to be fruitless. The
rabble, as well as the more decent part of the assembly, dispersed, and
went home peaceably; and it was only by observing the moody discontent on
their brows, or catching the tenor of the conversation they held with
each other, that a stranger could estimate the state of their minds. We
will give the reader this advantage, by associating ourselves with one of
the numerous groups who were painfully ascending the steep declivity of
the West Bow, to return to their dwellings in the Lawnmarket.
“An unco thing this, Mrs. Howden,” said old Peter Plumdamas to his
neighbour the rouping-wife, or saleswoman, as he offered her his arm to
assist her in the toilsome ascent, “to see the grit folk at Lunnon set
their face against law and gospel, and let loose sic a reprobate as
Porteous upon a peaceable town!”
“And to think oí the weary walk they hae gien us,” answered Mrs. Howden,
with a groan; “and sic a comfortable window as I had gotten, too, just
within a penny-stane-cast of the scaffold--I could hae heard every word
the minister said--and to pay twalpennies for my stand, and aí for
naething!”
“I am judging,” said Mr. Plumdamas, “that this reprieve wadna stand gude
in the auld Scots law, when the kingdom was a kingdom.”
“I dinna ken muckle about the law,” answered Mrs. Howden; “but I ken,
when we had a king, and a chancellor, and parliament men oí our ain, we
could aye peeble them wií stanes when they werena gude bairns--But
naebodyís nails can reach the length oí Lunnon.”
“Weary on Lunnon, and aí that eíer came out oít!” said Miss Grizel
Damahoy, an ancient seamstress; “they hae taen away our parliament, and
they hae oppressed our trade. Our gentles will hardly allow that a Scots
needle can sew ruffles on a sark, or lace on an owerlay.”
“Ye may say that--Miss Damahoy, and I ken oí them that hae gotten raisins
frae Lunnon by forpits at ance,” responded Plumdamas; “and then sic an
host of idle English gaugers and excisemen as hae come down to vex and
torment us, that an honest man canna fetch sae muckle as a bit anker oí
brandy frae Leith to the Lawnmarket, but heís like to be rubbit oí the
very gudes heís bought and paid for.--Weel, I winna justify Andrew Wilson
for pitting hands on what wasna his; but if he took nae mair than his
ain, thereís an awfuí difference between that and the fact this man
stands for.”
“If ye speak about the law,” said Mrs. Howden, “here comes Mr.
Saddletree, that can settle it as weel as ony on the bench.”
The party she mentioned, a grave elderly person, with a superb periwig,
dressed in a decent suit of sad-coloured clothes, came up as she spoke,
and courteously gave his arm to Miss Grizel Damahoy.
It may be necessary to mention, that Mr. Bartoline Saddletree kept an
excellent and highly-esteemed shop for harness, saddles, &c. &c., at the
sign of the Golden Nag, at the head of Bess Wynd.*
* [Maitland calls it Bestís Wynd, and later writers Bethís Wynd. As the
name implies, it was an open thoroughfare or alley leading from the
Lawnmarket, and extended in a direct line between the old Tolbooth to
near the head of the Cowgate. It was partly destroyed by fire in 1786,
and was totally removed in 1809, preparatory to the building of the new
libraries of the Faculty of Advocates and writers to the Signet.]
His genius, however (as he himself and most of his neighbours conceived),
lay towards the weightier matters of the law, and he failed not to give
frequent attendance upon the pleadings and arguments of the lawyers and
judges in the neighbouring square, where, to say the truth, he was
oftener to be found than would have consisted with his own emolument; but
that his wife, an active painstaking person, could, in his absence, make
an admirable shift to please the customers and scold the journeymen. This
good lady was in the habit of letting her husband take his way, and go on
improving his stock of legal knowledge without interruption; but, as if
in requital, she insisted upon having her own will in the domestic and
commercial departments which he abandoned to her. Now, as Bartoline
Saddletree had a considerable gift of words, which he mistook for
eloquence, and conferred more liberally upon the society in which he
lived than was at all times gracious and acceptable, there went forth a
saying, with which wags used sometimes to interrupt his rhetoric, that,
as he had a golden nag at his door, so he had a grey mare in his shop.
This reproach induced Mr. Saddletree, on all occasions, to assume rather
a haughty and stately tone towards his good woman, a circumstance by
which she seemed very little affected, unless he attempted to exercise
any real authority, when she never failed to fly into open rebellion. But
such extremes Bartoline seldom provoked; for, like the gentle King Jamie,
he was fonder of talking of authority than really exercising it. This
turn of mind was, on the whole, lucky for him; since his substance was
increased without any trouble on his part, or any interruption of his
favourite studies.
This word in explanation has been thrown in to the reader, while
Saddletree was laying down, with great precision, the law upon Porteousís
case, by which he arrived at this conclusion, that, if Porteous had fired
five minutes sooner, before Wilson was cut down, he would have been
_versans in licito;_ engaged, that is, in a lawful act, and only liable
to be punished _propter excessum,_ or for lack of discretion, which might
have mitigated the punishment to _poena ordinaria._
“Discretion!” echoed Mrs. Howden, on whom, it may well be supposed, the
fineness of this distinction was entirely thrown away,--“whan had Jock
Porteous either grace, discretion, or gude manners?--I mind when his
father”
“But, Mrs. Howden,” said Saddletree--
“And I,” said Miss Damahoy, “mind when his mother”
“Miss Damahoy,” entreated the interrupted orator
“And I,” said Plumdamas, “mind when his wife”
“Mr. Plumdamas--Mrs. Howden--Miss Damahoy,” again implored the
orator,--“Mind the distinction, as Counsellor Crossmyloof says--ëI,í
says he, ëtake a distinction.í Now, the body of the criminal being cut
down, and the execution ended, Porteous was no longer official; the act
which he came to protect and guard, being done and ended, he was no
better than _cuivis ex populo._”
“_Quivis--quivis,_ Mr. Saddletree, craving your pardon,” said (with a
prolonged emphasis on the first syllable) Mr. Butler, the
deputy-schoolmaster of a parish near Edinburgh, who at that moment came
up behind them as the false Latin was uttered.
“What signifies interrupting me, Mr. Butler?--but I am glad to see ye
notwithstanding--I speak after Counsellor Crossmyloof, and he said
_cuivis._”
“If Counsellor Crossmyloof used the dative for the nominative, I would
have crossed his loof with a tight leathern strap, Mr. Saddletree; there
is not a boy on the booby form but should have been scourged for such a
solecism in grammar.”
“I speak Latin like a lawyer, Mr. Butler, and not like a schoolmaster,”
retorted Saddletree.
“Scarce like a schoolboy, I think,” rejoined Butler.
“It matters little,” said Bartoline; “all I mean to say is, that Porteous
has become liable to the _poena extra ordinem,_ or capital
punishment--which is to say, in plain Scotch, the gallows--simply
because he did not fire when he was in office, but waited till the body
was cut down, the execution whilk he had in charge to guard implemented,
and he himself exonered of the public trust imposed on him.”
“But, Mr. Saddletree,” said Plumdamas, “do ye really think John
Porteousís case wad hae been better if he had begun firing before ony
stanes were flung at aí?”
“Indeed do I, neighbour Plumdamas,” replied Bartoline, confidently, “he
being then in point of trust and in point of power, the execution being
but inchoat, or, at least, not implemented, or finally ended; but after
Wilson was cut down it was aí ower--he was clean exauctorate, and had nae
mair ado but to get awa wií his guard up this West Bow as fast as if
there had been a caption after him--And this is law, for I heard it laid
down by Lord Vincovincentem.”
“Vincovincentem?--Is he a lord of state, or a lord of seat?” inquired
Mrs. Howden.*
* A nobleman was called a Lord of State. The Senators of the College * of
Justice were termed Lords of Seat, or of the Session.
“A lord of seat--a lord of session.--I fash mysell little wií lords oí
state; they vex me wií a wheen idle questions about their saddles, and
curpels, and holsters and horse-furniture, and what theyíll cost, and
whan theyíll be ready--a wheen galloping geese--my wife may serve the
like oí them.”
“And so might she, in her day, hae served the best lord in the land, for
as little as ye think oí her, Mr. Saddletree,” said Mrs. Howden, somewhat
indignant at the contemptuous way in which her gossip was mentioned;
“when she and I were twa gilpies, we little thought to hae sitten doun
wií the like oí my auld Davie Howden, or you either, Mr. Saddletree.”
While Saddletree, who was not bright at a reply, was cudgelling his
brains for an answer to this homethrust, Miss Damahoy broke in on him.
“And as for the lords of state,” said Miss Damahoy, “ye suld mind the
riding oí the parliament, Mr. Saddletree, in the gude auld time before
the Union,--a yearís rent oí mony a gude estate gaed for horse-graith and
harnessing, forby broidered robes and foot-mantles, that wad hae stude by
their lane wií gold brocade, and that were muckle in my ain line.”
“Ay, and then the lusty banqueting, with sweetmeats and comfits wet and
dry, and dried fruits of divers sorts,” said Plumdamas. “But Scotland was
Scotland in these days.”
“Iíll tell ye what it is, neighbours,” said Mrs. Howden, “Iíll neíer
believe Scotland is Scotland ony mair, if our kindly Scots sit doun with
the affront they hae gien us this day. Itís not only the blude that _is_
shed, but the blude that might hae been shed, thatís required at our
hands; there was my daughterís wean, little Eppie Daidle--my oe, ye ken,
Miss Grizel--had played the truant frae the school, as bairns will do, ye
ken, Mr. Butler?”
“And for which,” interjected Mr. Butler, “they should be soundly scourged
by their well-wishers.”
“And had just cruppen to the gallowsí foot to see the hanging, as was
natural for a wean; and what for mightna she hae been shot as weel as the
rest oí them, and where wad we aí hae been then? I wonder how Queen
Carline (if her name be Carline) wad hae liked to hae had ane oí her ain
bairns in sic a venture?”
“Report says,” answered Butler, “that such a circumstance would not have
distressed her majesty beyond endurance.”
“Aweel,” said Mrs. Howden, “the sum oí the matter is, that, were I a man,
I wad hae amends oí Jock Porteous, be the upshot what like oít, if aí the
carles and carlines in England had sworn to the nay-say.”
“I would claw down the Tolbooth door wií my nails,” said Miss Grizel,
“but I wad be at him.”
“Ye may be very right, ladies,” said Butler, “but I would not advise you
to speak so loud.”
“Speak!” exclaimed both the ladies together, “there will be naething else
spoken about frae the Weigh-house to the Water-gate, till this is either
ended or mended.”
The females now departed to their respective places of abode. Plumdamas
joined the other two gentlemen in drinking their _meridian_ (a
bumper-dram of brandy), as they passed the well-known low-browed shop in
the Lawnmarket, where they were wont to take that refreshment. Mr.
Plumdamas then departed towards his shop, and Mr. Butler, who happened to
have some particular occasion for the rein of an old bridle (the truants
of that busy day could have anticipated its application), walked down the
Lawnmarket with Mr. Saddletree, each talking as he could get a word
thrust in, the one on the laws of Scotland, the other on those of syntax,
and neither listening to a word which his companion uttered.
CHAPTER FOURTH.
Elswhair he colde right weel lay down the law,
But in his house was meek as is a daw.
Davie Lindsay.
“There has been Jock Driver the carrier here, speering about his new
graith,” said Mrs. Saddletree to her husband, as he crossed his
threshold, not with the purpose, by any means, of consulting him upon his
own affairs, but merely to intimate, by a gentle recapitulation, how much
duty she had gone through in his absence.
“Weel,” replied Bartoline, and deigned not a word more.
“And the laird of Girdingburst has had his running footman here, and caíd
himsell (heís a civil pleasant young gentleman), to see when the
broidered saddle-cloth for his sorrel horse will be ready, for he wants
it agane the Kelso races.”
“Weel, aweel,” replied Bartoline, as laconically as before.
“And his lordship, the Earl of Blazonbury, Lord Flash and Flame, is like
to be clean daft, that the harness for the six Flanders mears, wií the
crests, coronets, housings, and mountings conform, are no sent hame
according to promise gien.”
“Weel, weel, weel--weel, weel, gudewife,” said Saddletree, “if he gangs
daft, weíll hae him cognosced--itís aí very weel.”
“Itís weel that ye think sae, Mr. Saddletree,” answered his helpmate,
rather nettled at the indifference with which her report was received;
“thereís mony ane wad hae thought themselves affronted, if sae mony
customers had caíd and naebody to answer them but women-folk; for aí the
lads were aff, as soon as your back was turned, to see Porteous hanged,
that might be counted upon; and sae, you no being at hame.”
“Houts, Mrs. Saddletree,” said Bartoline, with an air of consequence,
“dinna deave me wií your nonsense; I was under the necessity of being
elsewhere--_non omnia_--as Mr. Crossmyloof said, when he was called by
two macers at once--_non omnia possumus--pessimus--possimis_--I ken our
law-latin offends Mr. Butlerís ears, but it means, Naebody, an it were
the Lord President himsell, can do twa turns at ance.”
“Very right, Mr. Saddletree,” answered his careful helpmate, with a
sarcastic smile; “and nae doubt itís a decent thing to leave your wife to
look after young gentlemenís saddles and bridles, when ye gang to see a
man, that never did ye nae ill, raxing a halter.”
“Woman,” said Saddletree, assuming an elevated tone, to which the
_meridian_ had somewhat contributed, “desist,--I say forbear, from
intromitting with affairs thou canst not understand. Díye think I was
born to sit here brogging an elshin through bend-leather, when sic men as
Duncan Forbes, and that other Arniston chield there, without muckle
greater parts, if the close-head speak true, than mysell maun be
presidents and kingís advocates, nae doubt, and wha but they? Whereas,
were favour equally distribute, as in the days of the wight Wallace.”
“I ken naething we wad hae gotten by the wight Wallace,” said Mrs.
Saddletree, “unless, as I hae heard the auld folk tell, they fought in
thae days wií bend-leather guns, and then itís a chance but what, if he
had bought them, he might have forgot to pay for them. And as for the
greatness of your parts, Bartley, the folk in the close-head* maun ken
mair about them than I do, if they make sic a report of them.”
* [_Close-head,_ the entrance of a blind alley.]
“I tell ye, woman,” said Saddletree, in high dudgeon, “that ye ken
naething about these matters. In Sir William Wallaceís days there was nae
man pinned down to sic a slavish wark as a saddlerís, for they got ony
leather graith that they had use for ready-made out of Holland.”
“Well,” said Butler, who was, like many of his profession, something of a
humorist and dry joker, “if that be the case, Mr. Saddletree, I think we
have changed for the better; since we make our own harness, and only
import our lawyers from Holland.”
“Itís ower true, Mr. Butler,” answered Bartoline, with a sigh; “if I had
had the luck--or rather, if my father had had the sense to send me to
Leyden and Utrecht to learn the Substitutes and Pandex.”
“You mean the Institutes--Justinianís Institutes, Mr. Saddletree?” said
Butler.
“Institutes and substitutes are synonymous words, Mr. Butler, and used
indifferently as such in deeds of tailzie, as you may see in Balfourís
Practiques, or Dallas of St. Martinís Styles. I understand these things
pretty weel, I thank God but I own I should have studied in Holland.”
“To comfort you, you might not have been farther forward than you are
now, Mr. Saddletree,” replied Mr. Butler; “for our Scottish advocates are
an aristocratic race. Their brass is of the right Corinthian quality, and
_Non cuivis contigit adire Corinthum_--Aha, Mr. Saddletree?”
“And aha, Mr. Butler,” rejoined Bartoline, upon whom, as may be well
supposed, the jest was lost, and all but the sound of the words, “ye said
a gliff syne it was _quivis,_ and now I heard ye say _cuivis_ with my ain
ears, as plain as ever I heard a word at the fore-bar.”
“Give me your patience, Mr. Saddletree, and Iíll explain the discrepancy
in three words,” said Butler, as pedantic in his own department, though
with infinitely more judgment and learning, as Bartoline was in his
self-assumed profession of the law--“Give me your patience for a
moment--Youíll grant that the nominative case is that by which a person or
thing is nominated or designed, and which may be called the primary case,
all others being formed from it by alterations of the termination in the
learned languages, and by prepositions in our modern Babylonian
jargons--Youíll grant me that, I suppose, Mr. Saddletree?”
“I dinna ken whether I will or no--_ad avisandum,_ ye ken--naebody should
be in a hurry to make admissions, either in point of law, or in point of
fact,” said Saddletree, looking, or endeavouring to look, as if he
understood what was said.
“And the dative case,” continued Butler
“I ken what a tutor dative is,” said Saddletree, “readily enough.”
“The dative case,” resumed the grammarian, “is that in which anything is
given or assigned as properly belonging to a person or thing--You cannot
deny that, I am sure.”
“I am sure Iíll no grant it, though,” said Saddletree.
“Then, what the _deevil_ díye take the nominative and the dative cases to
be?” said Butler, hastily, and surprised at once out of his decency of
expression and accuracy of pronunciation.
“Iíll tell you that at leisure, Mr. Butler,” said Saddletree, with a very
knowing look; “Iíll take a day to see and answer every article of your
condescendence, and then Iíll hold you to confess or deny as accords.”
“Come, come, Mr. Saddletree,” said his wife, “weíll hae nae confessions
and condescendences here; let them deal in thae sort oí wares that are
paid for them--they suit the like oí us as all as a demipique saddle
would suit a draught ox.”
“Aha!” said Mr. Butler, “_Optat ephippia bos piger,_ nothing new under
the sun--But it was a fair hit of Mrs. Saddletree, however.”
“And it wad far better become ye, Mr. Saddletree,” continued his
helpmate, “since ye say ye hae skeel oí the law, to try if ye can do
onything for Effie Deans, puir thing, thatís lying up in the tolbooth
yonder, cauld, and hungry, and comfortless--A servant lass of ours, Mr.
Butler, and as innocent a lass, to my thinking, and as usefuí in the
shop--When Mr. Saddletree gangs out,--and yeíre aware heís seldom at hame
when thereís ony oí the plea-houses open,--poor Effie used to help me to
tumble the bundles oí barkened leather up and down, and range out the
gudes, and suit aí bodyís humours--And troth, she could aye please the
customers wií her answers, for she was aye civil, and a bonnier lass
wasna in Auld Reekie. And when folk were hasty and unreasonable, she
could serve them better than me, that am no sae young as I hae been, Mr.
Butler, and a wee bit short in the temper into the bargain. For when
thereís ower mony folks crying on me at anes, and nane but ae tongue to
answer them, folk maun speak hastily, or theyíll neíer get through their
wark--Sae I miss Effie daily.”
“_De die in diem,_” added Saddletree.
“I think,” said Butler, after a good deal of hesitation, “I have seen the
girl in the shop--a modest-looking, fair-haired girl?”
“Ay, ay, thatís just puir Effie,” said her mistress. “How she was
abandoned to hersell, or whether she was sackless oí the sinful deed, God
in Heaven knows; but if sheís been guilty, sheís been sair tempted, and I
wad amaist take my Bible-aith she hasna been hersell at the time.”
Butler had by this time become much agitated; he fidgeted up and down the
shop, and showed the greatest agitation that a person of such strict
decorum could be supposed to give way to. “Was not this girl,” he said,
“the daughter of David Deans, that had the parks at St. Leonardís taken?
and has she not a sister?”
“In troth has she,--puir Jeanie Deans, ten years aulder than hersell; she
was here greeting a wee while syne about her tittie. And what could I say
to her, but that she behoved to come and speak to Mr. Saddletree when he
was at hame? It wasna that I thought Mr. Saddletree could do her or ony
ither body muckle good or ill, but it wad aye serve to keep the puir
thingís heart up for a wee while; and let sorrow come when sorrow maun.”
“Yeíre mistaen though, gudewife,” said Saddletree scornfully, “for I
could hae gien her great satisfaction; I could hae proved to her that her
sister was indicted upon the statute saxteen hundred and ninety, chapter
one--For the mair ready prevention of child-murder--for concealing her
pregnancy, and giving no account of the child which she had borne.”
“I hope,” said Butler,--“I trust in a gracious God, that she can clear
herself.”
“And sae do I, Mr. Butler,” replied Mrs. Saddletree. “I am sure I wad hae
answered for her as my ain daughter; but waeís my heart, I had been
tender aí the simmer, and scarce ower the door oí my room for twal weeks.
And as for Mr. Saddletree, he might be in a lying-in hospital, and neíer
find out what the women cam there for. Sae I could see little or naething
oí her, or I wad hae had the truth oí her situation out oí her, Iíse
warrant ye--But we aí think her sister maun be able to speak something to
clear her.”
“The haill Parliament House,” said Saddletree, “was speaking oí naething
else, till this job oí Porteousís put it out oí head--Itís a beautiful
point of presumptive murder, and thereís been nane like it in the
Justiciar Court since the case of Luckie Smith the howdie, that suffered
in the year saxteen hundred and seventy-nine.”
“But whatís the matter wií you, Mr. Butler?” said the good woman; “ye are
looking as white as a sheet; will ye tak a dram?”
“By no means,” said Butler, compelling himself to speak. “I walked in
from Dumfries yesterday, and this is a warm day.”
“Sit down,” said Mrs. Saddletree, laying hands on him kindly, “and rest
ye--yell kill yoursell, man, at that rate.--And are we to wish you joy oí
getting the scule, Mr. Butler?”
“Yes--no--I do not know,” answered the young man vaguely. But Mrs.
Saddletree kept him to point, partly out of real interest, partly from
curiosity.
“Ye dinna ken whether ye are to get the free scule oí Dumfries or no,
after hinging on and teaching it aí the simmer?”
“No, Mrs. Saddletree--I am not to have it,” replied Butler, more
collectedly. “The Laird of Black-at-the-Bane had a natural son bred to
the kirk, that the Presbytery could not be prevailed upon to license; and
so.”
“Ay, ye need say nae mair about it; if there was a laird that had a puir
kinsman or a bastard that it wad suit, thereís enough said.--And yeíre
eíen come back to Liberton to wait for dead menís shoon?--and for as
frail as Mr. Whackbairn is, he may live as lang as you, that are his
assistant and successor.”
“Very like,” replied Butler, with a sigh; “I do not know if I should wish
it otherwise.”
“Nae doubt, itís a very vexing thing,” continued the good lady, “to be in
that dependent station; and you that hae right and title to sae muckle
better, I wonder how ye bear these crosses.”
“_Quos diligit castigat,_” answered Butler; “even the pagan Seneca could
see an advantage in affliction, The Heathens had their philosophy, and
the Jews their revelation, Mrs. Saddletree, and they endured their
distresses in their day. Christians have a better dispensation than
either--but doubtless--”
He stopped and sighed.
“I ken what ye mean,” said Mrs. Saddletree, looking toward her husband;
“thereís whiles we lose patience in spite of baith book and Bible--But ye
are no gaun awa, and looking sae poorly--yeíll stay and take some kale
wií us?”
Mr. Saddletree laid aside Balfourís Practiques (his favourite study, and
much good may it do him), to join in his wifeís hospitable importunity.
But the teacher declined all entreaty, and took his leave upon the spot.
“Thereís something in aí this,” said Mrs. Saddletree, looking after him
as he walked up the street; “I wonder what makes Mr. Butler sae
distressed about Effieís misfortune--there was nae acquaintance atween
them that ever I saw or heard of; but they were neighbours when David
Deans was on the Laird oí Dumbiedikesí land. Mr. Butler wad ken her
father, or some oí her folk.--Get up, Mr. Saddletree--ye have set
yoursell down on the very brecham that wants stitching--and hereís little
Willie, the prentice.--Ye little rin-there-out deil that ye are, what
takes you raking through the gutters to see folk hangit?--how wad ye like
when it comes to be your ain chance, as I winna ensure ye, if ye dinna
mend your manners?--And what are ye maundering and greeting for, as if a
word were breaking your banes?--Gang in by, and be a better bairn another
time, and tell Peggy to gie ye a bicker oí broth, for yeíll be as gleg as
a gled, Iíse warrant ye.--Itís a fatherless bairn, Mr. Saddletree, and
motherless, whilk in some cases may be waur, and ane would take care oí
him if they could--itís a Christian duty.”
“Very true, gudewife,” said Saddletree in reply, “we are _in loco
parentis_ to him during his years of pupillarity, and I hae had thoughts
of applying to the Court for a commission as factor _loco tutoris,_
seeing there is nae tutor nominate, and the tutor-at-law declines to act;
but only I fear the expense of the procedure wad not be _in rem versam,_
for I am not aware if Willie has ony effects whereof to assume the
administration.”
He concluded this sentence with a self-important cough, as one who has
laid down the law in an indisputable manner.
“Effects!” said Mrs. Saddletree, “what effects has the puir wean?--he was
in rags when his mother died; and the blue polonie that Effie made for
him out of an auld mantle of my ain, was the first decent dress the bairn
ever had on. Poor Effie! can ye tell me now really, wií aí your law, will
her life be in danger, Mr. Saddletree, when they arena able to prove that
ever there was a bairn ava?”
“Whoy,” said Mr. Saddletree, delighted at having for once in his life
seen his wifeís attention arrested by a topic of legal discussion--“Whoy,
there are two sorts of _murdrum_ or _murdragium,_ or what you
_populariter et vulgariser_ call murther. I mean there are many sorts;
for thereís your _murthrum per vigilias et insidias,_ and your _murthrum_
under trust.”
“I am sure,” replied his moiety, “that murther by trust is the way that
the gentry murther us merchants, and whiles make us shut the booth
up--but that has naething to do wií Effieís misfortune.”
“The case of Effie (or Euphemia) Deans,” resumed Saddletree, “is one of
those cases of murder presumptive, that is, a murder of the lawís
inferring or construction, being derived from certain _indicia_ or
grounds of suspicion.”
“So that,” said the good woman, “unless poor Effie has communicated her
situation, sheíll be hanged by the neck, if the bairn was still-born, or
if it be alive at this moment?”
“Assuredly,” said Saddletree, “it being a statute made by our Sovereign
Lord and Lady, to prevent the horrid delict of bringing forth children in
secret--The crime is rather a favourite of the law, this species of
murther being one of its ain creation.”
“Then, if the law makes murders,” said Mrs. Saddletree, “the law should
be hanged for them; or if they wad hang a lawyer instead, the country wad
find nae faut.”
A summons to their frugal dinner interrupted the farther progress of the
conversation, which was otherwise like to take a turn much less
favourable to the science of jurisprudence and its professors, than Mr.
Bartoline Saddletree, the fond admirer of both, had at its opening
anticipated.
CHAPTER FIFTH.
But up then raise all Edinburgh.
They all rose up by thousands three.
Johnnie Armstrangís _Goodnight._
Butler, on his departure from the sign of the Golden Nag, went in quest
of a friend of his connected with the law, of whom he wished to make
particular inquiries concerning the circumstances in which the
unfortunate young woman mentioned in the last chapter was placed, having,
as the reader has probably already conjectured, reasons much deeper than
those dictated by mere humanity for interesting himself in her fate. He
found the person he sought absent from home, and was equally unfortunate
in one or two other calls which he made upon acquaintances whom he hoped
to interest in her story. But everybody was, for the moment, stark-mad on
the subject of Porteous, and engaged busily in attacking or defending the
measures of Government in reprieving him; and the ardour of dispute had
excited such universal thirst, that half the young lawyers and writers,
together with their very clerks, the class whom Butler was looking after,
had adjourned the debate to some favourite tavern. It was computed by an
experienced arithmetician, that there was as much twopenny ale consumed
on the discussion as would have floated a first-rate man-of-war.
Butler wandered about until it was dusk, resolving to take that
opportunity of visiting the unfortunate young woman, when his doing so
might be least observed; for he had his own reasons for avoiding the
remarks of Mrs. Saddletree, whose shop-door opened at no great distance
from that of the jail, though on the opposite or south side of the
street, and a little higher up. He passed, therefore, through the narrow
and partly covered passage leading from the north-west end of the
Parliament Square.
He stood now before the Gothic entrance of the ancient prison, which, as
is well known to all men, rears its ancient front in the very middle of
the High Street, forming, as it were, the termination to a huge pile of
buildings called the Luckenbooths, which, for some inconceivable reason,
our ancestors had jammed into the midst of the principal street of the
town, leaving for passage a narrow street on the north; and on the south,
into which the prison opens, a narrow crooked lane, winding betwixt the
high and sombre walls of the Tolbooth and the adjacent houses on the one
side, and the butresses and projections of the old Cathedral upon the
other. To give some gaiety to this sombre passage (well known by the name
of the Krames), a number of little booths, or shops, after the fashion of
cobblersí stalls, are plastered, as it were, against the Gothic
projections and abutments, so that it seemed as if the traders had
occupied with nests, bearing the same proportion to the building, every
buttress and coign of vantage, as the martlett did in Macbethís Castle.
Of later years these booths have degenerated into mere toy-shops, where
the little loiterers chiefly interested in such wares are tempted to
linger, enchanted by the rich display of hobby-horses, babies, and Dutch
toys, arranged in artful and gay confusion; yet half-scared by the cross
looks of the withered pantaloon, or spectacled old lady, by whom these
tempting stores are watched and superintended. But, in the times we write
of, the hosiers, the glovers, the hatters, the mercers, the milliners,
and all who dealt in the miscellaneous wares now termed haberdasherís
goods, were to be found in this narrow alley.
To return from our digression. Butler found the outer turnkey, a tall
thin old man, with long silver hair, in the act of locking the outward
door of the jail. He addressed himself to this person, and asked
admittance to Effie Deans, confined upon accusation of child-murder. The
turnkey looked at him earnestly, and, civilly touching his hat out of
respect to Butlerís black coat and clerical appearance, replied, “It was
impossible any one could be admitted at present.”
“You shut up earlier than usual, probably on account of Captain
Porteousís affair?” said Butler.
The turnkey, with the true mystery of a person in office, gave two grave
nods, and withdrawing from the wards a ponderous key of about two feet in
length, he proceeded to shut a strong plate of steel, which folded down
above the keyhole, and was secured by a steel spring and catch. Butler
stood still instinctively while the door was made fast, and then looking
at his watch, walked briskly up the street, muttering to himself, almost
unconsciously--
Porta adversa, ingens, solidoque adamante columnae;
Vis ut nulla virum, non ipsi exscindere ferro
Coelicolae valeant--Stat ferrea turris ad auras--etc.*
Drydenís _Virgil,_ Book vi.
* Wide is the fronting gate, and, raised on high, With adamantine columns
threats the sky; Vain is the force of man, and Heavenís as vain, To crush
the pillars which the pile sustain: Sublime on these a tower of steel is
reard.
Having wasted half-an-hour more in a second fruitless attempt to find his
legal friend and adviser, he thought it time to leave the city and return
to his place of residence, in a small village about two miles and a half
to the southward of Edinburgh. The metropolis was at this time surrounded
by a high wall, with battlements and flanking projections at some
intervals, and the access was through gates, called in the Scottish
language _ports,_ which were regularly shut at night. A small fee to the
keepers would indeed procure egress and ingress at any time, through a
wicket left for that purpose in the large gate; but it was of some
importance, to a man so poor as Butler, to avoid even this slight
pecuniary mulct; and fearing the hour of shutting the gates might be
near, he made for that to which he found himself nearest, although, by
doing so, he somewhat lengthened his walk homewards. Bristo Port was that
by which his direct road lay, but the West Port, which leads out of the
Grassmarket, was the nearest of the city gates to the place where he
found himself, and to that, therefore, he directed his course. He reached
the port in ample time to pass the circuit of the walls, and entered a
suburb called Portsburgh, chiefly inhabited by the lower order of
citizens and mechanics. Here he was unexpectedly interrupted.
He had not gone far from the gate before he heard the sound of a drum,
and, to his great surprise, met a number of persons, sufficient to occupy
the whole front of the street, and form a considerable mass behind,
moving with great speed towards the gate he had just come from, and
having in front of them a drum beating to arms. While he considered how
he should escape a party, assembled, as it might be presumed, for no
lawful purpose, they came full on him and stopped him.
“Are you a clergyman?” one questioned him.
Butler replied that “he was in orders, but was not a placed minister.”
“Itís Mr. Butler from Liberton,” said a voice from behind, “heíll
discharge the duty as weel as ony man.”
“You must turn back with us, sir,” said the first speaker, in a tone
civil but peremptory.
“For what purpose, gentlemen?” said Mr. Butler. “I live at some distance
from town--the roads are unsafe by night--you will do me a serious injury
by stopping me.”
“You shall be sent safely home--no man shall touch a hair of your
head--but you must and shall come along with us.”
“But to what purpose or end, gentlemen?” said Butler. “I hope you will be
so civil as to explain that to me.”
“You shall know that in good time. Come along--for come you must, by
force or fair means; and I warn you to look neither to the right hand nor
the left, and to take no notice of any manís face, but consider all that
is passing before you as a dream.”
“I would it were a dream I could awaken from,” said Butler to himself;
but having no means to oppose the violence with which he was threatened,
he was compelled to turn round and march in front of the rioters, two men
partly supporting and partly holding him. During this parley the
insurgents had made themselves masters of the West Port, rushing upon the
Waiters (so the people were called who had the charge of the gates), and
possessing themselves of the keys. They bolted and barred the folding
doors, and commanded the person, whose duty it usually was, to secure the
wicket, of which they did not understand the fastenings. The man,
terrified at an incident so totally unexpected, was unable to perform his
usual office, and gave the matter up, after several attempts. The
rioters, who seemed to have come prepared for every emergency, called for
torches, by the light of which they nailed up the wicket with long nails,
which, it seemed probable, they had provided on purpose.
While this was going on, Butler could not, even if he had been willing,
avoid making remarks on the individuals who seemed to lead this singular
mob. The torch-light, while it fell on their forms and left him in the
shade, gave him an opportunity to do so without their observing him.
Several of those who seemed most active were dressed in sailorsí jackets,
trousers, and sea-caps; others in large loose-bodied greatcoats, and
slouched hats; and there were several who, judging from their dress,
should have been called women, whose rough deep voices, uncommon size,
and masculine, deportment and mode of walking, forbade them being so
interpreted. They moved as if by some well-concerted plan of arrangement.
They had signals by which they knew, and nicknames by which they
distinguished each other. Butler remarked, that the name of Wildfire was
used among them, to which one stout Amazon seemed to reply.
The rioters left a small party to observe the West Port, and directed the
Waiters, as they valued their lives, to remain within their lodge, and
make no attempt for that night to repossess themselves of the gate. They
then moved with rapidity along the low street called the Cowgate, the mob
of the city everywhere rising at the sound of their drum, and joining
them. When the multitude arrived at the Cowgate Port, they secured it
with as little opposition as the former, made it fast, and left a small
party to observe it. It was afterwards remarked, as a striking instance
of prudence and precaution, singularly combined with audacity, that the
parties left to guard those gates did not remain stationary on their
posts, but flitted to and fro, keeping so near the gates as to see that
no efforts were made to open them, yet not remaining so long as to have
their persons closely observed. The mob, at first only about one hundred
strong, now amounted to thousands, and were increasing every moment. They
divided themselves so as to ascend with more speed the various narrow
lanes which lead up from the Cowgate to the High Street; and still
beating to arms as they went, an calling on all true Scotsmen to join
them, they now filled the principal street of the city.
The Netherbow Port might be called the Temple Bar of Edinburgh, as,
intersecting the High Street at its termination, it divided Edinburgh,
properly so called, from the suburb named the Canongate, as Temple Bar
separates London from Westminster. It was of the utmost importance to the
rioters to possess themselves of this pass, because there was quartered
in the Canongate at that time a regiment of infantry, commanded by
Colonel Moyle, which might have occupied the city by advancing through
this gate, and would possess the power of totally defeating their
purpose. The leaders therefore hastened to the Netherbow Port, which they
secured in the same manner, and with as little trouble, as the other
gates, leaving a party to watch it, strong in proportion to the
importance of the post.
The next object of these hardy insurgents was at once to disarm the City
Guard, and to procure arms for themselves; for scarce any weapons but
staves and bludgeons had been yet seen among them. The Guard-house was a
long, low, ugly building (removed in 1787), which to a fanciful
imagination might have suggested the idea of a long black snail crawling
up the middle of the High Street, and deforming its beautiful esplanade.
This formidable insurrection had been so unexpected, that there were no
more than the ordinary sergeantís guard of the city-corps upon duty; even
these were without any supply of powder and ball; and sensible enough
what had raised the storm, and which way it was rolling, could hardly be
supposed very desirous to expose themselves by a valiant defence to the
animosity of so numerous and desperate a mob, to whom they were on the
present occasion much more than usually obnoxious.
There was a sentinel upon guard, who (that one town-guard soldier might
do his duty on that eventful evening) presented his piece, and desired
the foremost of the rioters to stand off. The young Amazon, whom Butler
had observed particularly active, sprung upon the soldier, seized his
musket, and after a struggle succeeded in wrenching it from him, and
throwing him down on the causeway. One or two soldiers, who endeavoured
to turn out to the support of their sentinel, were in the same manner
seized and disarmed, and the mob without difficulty possessed themselves
of the Guard-house, disarming and turning out of doors the rest of the
men on duty. It was remarked, that, notwithstanding the city soldiers had
been the instruments of the slaughter which this riot was designed to
revenge, no ill usage or even insult was offered to them. It seemed as if
the vengeance of the people disdained to stoop at any head meaner than
that which they considered as the source and origin of their injuries.
On possessing themselves of the guard, the first act of the multitude was
to destroy the drums, by which they supposed an alarm might be conveyed
to the garrison in the castle; for the same reason they now silenced
their own, which was beaten by a young fellow, son to the drummer of
Portsburgh, whom they had forced upon that service. Their next business
was to distribute among the boldest of the rioters the guns, bayonets,
partisans, halberts, and battle or Lochaber axes. Until this period the
principal rioters had preserved silence on the ultimate object of their
rising, as being that which all knew, but none expressed. Now, however,
having accomplished all the preliminary parts of their design, they
raised a tremendous shout of “Porteous! Porteous! To the Tolbooth! To the
Tolbooth!”
[Illustration: Tolbooth, Cannongate]
They proceeded with the same prudence when the object seemed to be nearly
in their grasp, as they had done hitherto when success was more dubious.
A strong party of the rioters, drawn up in front of the Luckenbooths, and
facing down the street, prevented all access from the eastward, and the
west end of the defile formed by the Luckenbooths was secured in the same
manner; so that the Tolbooth was completely surrounded, and those who
undertook the task of breaking it open effectually secured against the
risk of interruption.
The magistrates, in the meanwhile, had taken the alarm, and assembled in
a tavern, with the purpose of raising some strength to subdue the
rioters. The deacons, or presidents of the trades, were applied to, but
declared there was little chance of their authority being respected by
the craftsmen, where it was the object to save a man so obnoxious. Mr.
Lindsay, member of parliament for the city, volunteered the perilous task
of carrying a verbal message, from the Lord Provost to Colonel Moyle, the
commander of the regiment lying in the Canongate, requesting him to force
the Netherbow Port, and enter the city to put down the tumult. But Mr.
Lindsay declined to charge himself with any written order, which, if
found on his person by an enraged mob, might have cost him his life; and
the issue, of the application was, that Colonel Moyle having no written
requisition from the civil authorities, and having the fate of Porteous
before his eyes as an example of the severe construction put by a jury on
the proceedings of military men acting on their own responsibility,
declined to encounter the risk to which the Provostís verbal
communication invited him.
More than one messenger was despatched by different ways to the Castle,
to require the commanding officer to march down his troops, to fire a few
cannon-shot, or even to throw a shell among the mob, for the purpose of
clearing the streets. But so strict and watchful were the various patrols
whom the rioters had established in different parts of the streets, that
none of the emissaries of the magistrates could reach the gate of the
Castle. They were, however, turned back without either injury or insult,
and with nothing more of menace than was necessary to deter them from
again attempting to accomplish their errand.
The same vigilance was used to prevent everybody of the higher, and those
which, in this case, might be deemed the more suspicious orders of
society, from appearing in the street, and observing the movements, or
distinguishing the persons, of the rioters. Every person in the garb of a
gentleman was stopped by small parties of two or three of the mob, who
partly exhorted, partly required of them, that they should return to the
place from whence they came. Many a quadrille table was spoilt that
memorable evening; for the sedan chairs of ladies; even of the highest
rank, were interrupted in their passage from one point to another, in
spite of the laced footmen and blazing flambeaux. This was uniformly done
with a deference and attention to the feelings of the terrified females,
which could hardly have been expected from the videttes of a mob so
desperate. Those who stopped the chair usually made the excuse, that
there was much disturbance on the streets, and that it was absolutely
necessary for the ladyís safety that the chair should turn back. They
offered themselves to escort the vehicles which they had thus interrupted
in their progress, from the apprehension, probably, that some of those
who had casually united themselves to the riot might disgrace their
systematic and determined plan of vengeance, by those acts of general
insult and license which are common on similar occasions.
Persons are yet living who remember to have heard from the mouths of
ladies thus interrupted on their journey in the manner we have described,
that they were escorted to their lodgings by the young men who stopped
them, and even handed out of their chairs, with a polite attention far
beyond what was consistent with their dress, which was apparently that of
journeymen mechanics.*
* A near relation of the authorís used to tell of having been stopped by
the rioters, and escorted home in the manner described. On reaching her
own home one of her attendants, in the appearance a _baxter_, a bakerís
lad, handed her out of her chair, and took leave with a bow, which, in
the ladyís opinion, argued breeding that could hardly be learned at the
ovenís mouth.
It seemed as if the conspirators, like those who assassinated Cardinal
Beatoun in former days, had entertained the opinion, that the work about
which they went was a judgment of Heaven, which, though unsanctioned by
the usual authorities, ought to be proceeded in with order and gravity.
While their outposts continued thus vigilant, and suffered themselves
neither from fear nor curiosity to neglect that part of the duty assigned
to them, and while the main guards to the east and west secured them
against interruption, a select body of the rioters thundered at the door
of the jail, and demanded instant admission. No one answered, for the
outer keeper had prudently made his escape with the keys at the
commencement of the riot, and was nowhere to be found. The door was
instantly assailed with sledge-hammers, iron crows, and the coulters of
ploughs, ready provided for the purpose, with which they prized, heaved,
and battered for some time with little effect; for the door, besides
being of double oak planks, clenched, both endlong and athwart, with
broad-headed nails, was so hung and secured as to yield to no means of
forcing, without the expenditure of much time. The rioters, however,
appeared determined to gain admittance. Gang after gang relieved each
other at the exercise, for, of course, only a few could work at once; but
gang after gang retired, exhausted with their violent exertions, without
making much progress in forcing the prison door. Butler had been led up
near to this the principal scene of action; so near, indeed, that he was
almost deafened by the unceasing clang of the heavy fore-hammers against
the iron-bound portal of the prison. He began to entertain hopes, as the
task seemed protracted, that the populace might give it over in despair,
or that some rescue might arrive to disperse them. There was a moment at
which the latter seemed probable.
The magistrates, having assembled their officers, and some of the
citizens who were willing to hazard themselves for the public
tranquillity, now sallied forth from the tavern where they held their
sitting, and approached the point of danger. Their officers went before
them with links and torches, with a herald to read the riot-act, if
necessary. They easily drove before them the outposts and videttes of the
rioters; but when they approached the line of guard which the mob, or
rather, we should say, the conspirators, had drawn across the street in
the front of the Luckenbooths, they were received with an unintermitted
volley of stones, and, on their nearer approach, the pikes, bayonets, and
Lochaber-axes, of which the populace had possessed themselves, were
presented against them. One of their ordinary officers, a strong resolute
fellow, went forward, seized a rioter, and took from him a musket; but,
being unsupported, he was instantly thrown on his back in the street, and
disarmed in his turn. The officer was too happy to be permitted to rise
and run away without receiving any farther injury; which afforded another
remarkable instance of the mode in which these men had united a sort of
moderation towards all others, with the most inflexible inveteracy
against the object of their resentment. The magistrates, after vain
attempts to make themselves heard and obeyed, possessing no means of
enforcing their authority, were constrained to abandon the field to the
rioters, and retreat in all speed from the showers of missiles that
whistled around their ears.
The passive resistance of the Tolbooth gate promised to do more to baffle
the purpose of the mob than the active interference of the magistrates.
The heavy sledge-hammers continued to din against it without
intermission, and with a noise which, echoed from the lofty buildings
around the spot, seemed enough to have alarmed the garrison in the
Castle. It was circulated among the rioters, that the troops would march
down to disperse them, unless they could execute their purpose without
loss of time; or that, even without quitting the fortress, the garrison
might obtain the same end by throwing a bomb or two upon the street.
Urged by such motives for apprehension, they eagerly relieved each other
at the labour of assailing the Tolbooth door: yet such was its strength,
that it still defied their efforts. At length, a voice was heard to
pronounce the words, “Try it with fire.” The rioters, with an unanimous
shout, called for combustibles, and as all their wishes seemed to be
instantly supplied, they were soon in possession of two or three empty
tar-barrels. A huge red glaring bonfire speedily arose close to the door
of the prison, sending up a tall column of smoke and flame against its
antique turrets and strongly-grated windows, and illuminating the
ferocious and wild gestures of the rioters, who surrounded the place, as
well as the pale and anxious groups of those, who, from windows in the
vicinage, watched the progress of this alarming scene. The mob fed the
fire with whatever they could find fit for the purpose. The flames roared
and crackled among the heaps of nourishment piled on the fire, and a
terrible shout soon announced that the door had kindled, and was in the
act of being destroyed. The fire was suffered to decay, but, long ere it
was quite extinguished, the most forward of the rioters rushed, in their
impatience, one after another, over its yet smouldering remains. Thick
showers of sparkles rose high in the air, as man after man bounded over
the glowing embers, and disturbed them in their passage. It was now
obvious to Butler, and all others who were present, that the rioters
would be instantly in possession of their victim, and have it in their
power to work their pleasure upon him, whatever that might be.*
* Note C. The Old Tolbooth.
CHAPTER SIXTH.
The evil you teach us,
We will execute; and it shall go hard, but we will
Better the instruction.
Merchant of Venice.
The unhappy object of this remarkable disturbance had been that day
delivered from the apprehension of public execution, and his joy was the
greater, as he had some reason to question whether Government would have
run the risk of unpopularity by interfering in his favour, after he had
been legally convicted by the verdict of a jury, of a crime so very
obnoxious. Relieved from this doubtful state of mind, his heart was merry
within him, and he thought, in the emphatic words of Scripture on a
similar occasion, that surely the bitterness of death was past. Some of
his friends, however, who had watched the manner and behaviour of the
crowd when they were made acquainted with the reprieve, were of a
different opinion. They augured, from the unusual sternness and silence
with which they bore their disappointment, that the populace nourished
some scheme of sudden and desperate vengeance; and they advised Porteous
to lose no time in petitioning the proper authorities, that he might be
conveyed to the Castle under a sufficient guard, to remain there in
security until his ultimate fate should be determined. Habituated,
however, by his office, to overawe the rabble of the city, Porteous could
not suspect them of an attempt so audacious as to storm a strong and
defensible prison; and, despising the advice by which he might have been
saved, he spent the afternoon of the eventful day in giving an
entertainment to some friends who visited him in jail, several of whom,
by the indulgence of the Captain of the Tolbooth, with whom he had an old
intimacy, arising from their official connection, were even permitted to
remain to supper with him, though contrary to the rules of the jail.
It was, therefore, in the hour of unalloyed mirth, when this unfortunate
wretch was “full of bread,” hot with wine, and high in mistimed and
ill-grounded confidence, and alas! with all his sins full blown, when the
first distantí shouts of the rioters mingled with the song of merriment
and intemperance. The hurried call of the jailor to the guests, requiring
them instantly to depart, and his yet more hasty intimation that a
dreadful and determined mob had possessed themselves of the city gates
and guard-house, were the first explanation of these fearful clamours.
Porteous might, however, have eluded the fury from which the force of
authority could not protect him, had he thought of slipping on some
disguise, and leaving the prison along with his guests. It is probable
that the jailor might have connived at his escape, or even that in the
hurry of this alarming contingency, he might not have observed it. But
Porteous and his friends alike wanted presence of mind to suggest or
execute such a plan of escape. The former hastily fled from a place where
their own safety seemed compromised, and the latter, in a state
resembling stupefaction, awaited in his apartment the termination of the
enterprise of the rioters. The cessation of the clang of the instruments
with which they had at first attempted to force the door, gave him
momentary relief. The flattering hopes, that the military had marched
into the city, either from the Castle or from the suburbs, and that the
rioters were intimidated, and dispersing, were soon destroyed by the
broad and glaring light of the flames, which, illuminating through the
grated window every corner of his apartment, plainly showed that the mob,
determined on their fatal purpose, had adopted a means of forcing
entrance equally desperate and certain.
The sudden glare of light suggested to the stupified and astonished
object of popular hatred the possibility of concealment or escape. To
rush to the chimney, to ascend it at the risk of suffocation, were the
only means which seemed to have occurred to him; but his progress was
speedily stopped by one of those iron gratings, which are, for the sake
of security, usually placed across the vents of buildings designed for
imprisonment. The bars, however, which impeded his farther progress,
served to support him in the situation which he had gained, and he seized
them with the tenacious grasp of one who esteemed himself clinging to his
last hope of existence. The lurid light which had filled the apartment,
lowered and died away; the sound of shouts was heard within the walls,
and on the narrow and winding stair, which, eased within one of the
turrets, gave access to the upper apartments of the prison. The huzza of
the rioters was answered by a shout wild and desperate as their own, the
cry, namely, of the imprisoned felons, who, expecting to be liberated in
the general confusion, welcomed the mob as their deliverers. By some of
these the apartment of Porteous was pointed out to his enemies. The
obstacle of the lock and bolts was soon overcome, and from his hiding
place the unfortunate man heard his enemies search every corner of the
apartment, with oaths and maledictions, which would but shock the reader
if we recorded them, but which served to prove, could it have admitted of
doubt, the settled purpose of soul with which they sought his
destruction.
A place of concealment so obvious to suspicion and scrutiny as that which
Porteous had chosen, could not long screen him from detection. He was
dragged from his lurking-place, with a violence which seemed to argue an
intention to put him to death on the spot. More than one weapon was
directed towards him, when one of the rioters, the same whose female
disguise had been particularly noticed by Butler, interfered in an
authoritative tone. “Are ye mad?” he said, “or would ye execute an act of
justice as if it were a crime and a cruelty? This sacrifice will lose
half its savour if we do not offer it at the very horns of the altar. We
will have him die where a murderer should die, on the common gibbet--We
will have him die where he spilled the blood of so many innocents!”
A loud shout of applause followed the proposal, and the cry, “To the
gallows with the murderer!--to the Grassmarket with him!” echoed on all
hands.
“Let no man hurt him,” continued the speaker; “let him make his peace
with God, if he can; we will not kill both his soul and body.”
“What time did he give better folk for preparing their account?” answered
several voices. “Let us mete to him with the same measure he measured to
them.”
But the opinion of the spokesman better suited the temper of those he
addressed, a temper rather stubborn than impetuous, sedate though
ferocious, and desirous of colouring their cruel and revengeful action
with a show of justice and moderation.
For an instant this man quitted the prisoner, whom he consigned to a
selected guard, with instructions to permit him to give his money and
property to whomsoever he pleased. A person confined in the jail for debt
received this last deposit from the trembling hand of the victim, who was
at the same time permitted to make some other brief arrangements to meet
his approaching fate. The felons, and all others who, wished to leave the
jail, were now at full liberty to do so; not that their liberation made
any part of the settled purpose of the rioters, but it followed as almost
a necessary consequence of forcing the jail doors. With wild cries of
jubilee they joined the mob, or disappeared among the narrow lanes to
seek out the hidden receptacles of vice and infamy, where they were
accustomed to lurk and conceal themselves from justice.
Two persons, a man about fifty years old and a girl about eighteen, were
all who continued within the fatal walls, excepting two or three debtors,
who probably saw no advantage in attempting their escape. The persons we
have mentioned remained in the strong room of the prison, now deserted by
all others. One of their late companions in misfortune called out to the
man to make his escape, in the tone of an acquaintance. “Rin for it,
Ratcliffe--the roadís clear.”
“It may be sae, Willie,” answered Ratcliffe, composedly, “but I have taen
a fancy to leave aff trade, and set up for an honest man.”
“Stay there, and be hanged, then, for a donnard auld deevil!” said the
other, and ran down the prison stair.
The person in female attire whom we have distinguished as one of the most
active rioters, was about the same time at the ear of the young woman.
“Flee, Effie, flee!” was all he had time to whisper. She turned towards
him an eye of mingled fear, affection, and upbraiding, all contending
with a sort of stupified surprise. He again repeated, “Flee, Effie, flee!
for the sake of all thatís good and dear to you!” Again she gazed on him,
but was unable to answer. A loud noise was now heard, and the name of
Madge Wildfire was repeatedly called from the bottom of the staircase.
“I am coming,--I am coming,” said the person who answered to that
appellative; and then reiterating hastily, “For Godís sake--for your own
sake--for my sake, flee, or theyíll take your life!” he left the strong
room.
The girl gazed after him for a moment, and then, faintly muttering,
“Better tyne life, since tint is gude fame,” she sunk her head upon her
hand, and remained, seemingly, unconscious as a statue of the noise and
tumult which passed around her.
That tumult was now transferred from the inside to the outside of the
Tolbooth. The mob had brought their destined victim forth, and were about
to conduct him to the common place of execution, which they had fixed as
the scene of his death. The leader, whom they distinguished by the name
of Madge Wildfire, had been summoned to assist at the procession by the
impatient shouts of his confederates.
“I will insure you five hundred pounds,” said the unhappy man, grasping
Wildfireís hand,--“five hundred pounds for to save my life.”
The other answered in the same undertone, and returning his grasp with
one equally convulsive, “Five hundredweight of coined gold should not
save you.--Remember Wilson!”
A deep pause of a minute ensued, when Wildfire added, in a more composed
tone, “Make your peace with Heaven.--Where is the clergyman?”
Butler, who in great terror and anxiety, had been detained within a few
yards of the Tolbooth door, to wait the event of the search after
Porteous, was now brought forward, and commanded to walk by the
prisonerís side, and to prepare him for immediate death. His answer was a
supplication that the rioters would consider what they did. “You are
neither judges nor jury,” said he. “You cannot have, by the laws of God
or man, power to take away the life of a human creature, however
deserving he may be of death. If it is murder even in a lawful magistrate
to execute an offender otherwise than in the place, time, and manner
which the judgesí sentence prescribes, what must it be in you, who have
no warrant for interference but your own wills? In the name of Him who is
all mercy, show mercy to this unhappy man, and do not dip your hands in
his blood, nor rush into the very crime which you are desirous of
avenging!”
“Cut your sermon short--you are not in your pulpit,” answered one of the
rioters.
“If we hear more of your clavers,” said another, “we are like to hang you
up beside him.”
“Peace--hush!” said Wildfire. “Do the good man no harm--he discharges his
conscience, and I like him the better.”
He then addressed Butler. “Now, sir, we have patiently heard you, and we
just wish you to understand, in the way of answer, that you may as well
argue to the ashlar-work and iron stanchels of the Tolbooth as think to
change our purpose--Blood must have blood. We have sworn to each other by
the deepest oaths ever were pledged, that Porteous shall die the death he
deserves so richly; therefore, speak no more to us, but prepare him for
death as well as the briefness of his change will permit.”
They had suffered the unfortunate Porteous to put on his night-gown and
slippers, as he had thrown off his coat and shoes, in order to facilitate
his attempted escape up the chimney. In this garb he was now mounted on
the hands of two of the rioters, clasped together, so as to form what is
called in Scotland, “The Kingís Cushion.” Butler was placed close to his
side, and repeatedly urged to perform a duty always the most painful
which can be imposed on a clergyman deserving of the name, and now
rendered more so by the peculiar and horrid circumstances of the
criminalís case. Porteous at first uttered some supplications for mercy,
but when he found that there was no chance that these would be attended
to, his military education, and the natural stubbornness of his
disposition, combined to support his spirits.
“Are you prepared for this dreadful end?” said Butler, in a faltering
voice. “O turn to Him, in whose eyes time and space have no existence,
and to whom a few minutes are as a lifetime, and a lifetime as a minute.”
“I believe I know what you would say,” answered Porteous sullenly. “I was
bred a soldier; if they will murder me without time, let my sins as well
as my blood lie at their door.”
“Who was it,” said the stern voice of Wildfire, “that said to Wilson at
this very spot, when he could not pray, owing to the galling agony of his
fetters, that his pains would soon be over?--I say to you to take your
own tale home; and if you cannot profit by the good manís lessons, blame
not them that are still more merciful to you than you were to others.”
[Illustration: The Porteous Mob--95]
The procession now moved forward with a slow and determined pace. It was
enlightened by many blazing, links and torches; for the actors of this
work were so far from affecting any secrecy on the occasion, that they
seemed even to court observation. Their principal leaders kept close to
the person of the prisoner, whose pallid yet stubborn features were seen
distinctly by the torch-light, as his person was raised considerably
above the concourse which thronged around him. Those who bore swords,
muskets, and battle-axes, marched on each side, as if forming a regular
guard to the procession. The windows, as they went along, were filled
with the inhabitants, whose slumbers had been broken by this unusual
disturbance. Some of the spectators muttered accents of encouragement;
but in general they were so much appalled by a sight so strange and
audacious, that they looked on with a sort of stupified astonishment. No
one offered, by act or word, the slightest interruption.
The rioters, on their part, continued to act with the same air of
deliberate confidence and security which had marked all their
proceedings. When the object of their resentment dropped one of his
slippers, they stopped, sought for it, and replaced it upon his foot with
great deliberation.*
* This little incident, characteristic of the extreme composure of this
extraordinary mob, was witnessed by a lady, who, disturbed like others
from her slumbers, had gone to the window. It was told to the Author by
the ladyís daughter.
As they descended the Bow towards the fatal spot where they designed to
complete their purpose, it was suggested that there should be a rope kept
in readiness. For this purpose the booth of a man who dealt in cordage
was forced open, a coil of rope fit for their purpose was selected to
serve as a halter, and the dealer next morning found that a guinea had
been left on his counter in exchange; so anxious were the perpetrators of
this daring action to show that they meditated not the slightest wrong or
infraction of law, excepting so far as Porteous was himself concerned.
Leading, or carrying along with them, in this determined and regular
manner, the object of their vengeance, they at length reached the place
of common execution, the scene of his crime, and destined spot of his
sufferings. Several of the rioters (if they should not rather be
described as conspirators) endeavoured to remove the stone which filled
up the socket in which the end of the fatal tree was sunk when it was
erected for its fatal purpose; others sought for the means of
constructing a temporary gibbet, the place in which the gallows itself
was deposited being reported too secure to be forced, without much loss
of time. Butler endeavoured to avail himself of the delay afforded by
these circumstances, to turn the people from their desperate design. “For
Godís sake,” he exclaimed, “remember it is the image of your Creator
which you are about to deface in the person of this unfortunate man!
Wretched as he is, and wicked as he may be, he has a share in every
promise of Scripture, and you c
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