These gnarled, stunted, useless old bones, were all that David Ritchie,
the original of the Black Dwarf, had for left _femur_ and _tibia_, and
we have merely to look at them and add poverty, to know the misery
summed up in their possession. They seem to have been blighted and
rickety. The thigh-bone is very short and slight, and singularly loose
in texture; the leg-bone is dwarfed, but dense and stout. They were
given to me many years ago by the late Andrew Ballantyne, Esq. of
Woodhouse (the Wudess, as they call it on Tweedside), and their
genuineness is unquestionable.
As anything must be interesting about one once so forlorn and miserable,
and whom our great wizard has made immortal, I make no apology for
printing the following letters from my old friend Mr. Craig, long
surgeon in Peebles, and who is now spending his evening, after a long,
hard, and useful day's work, in the quiet vale of Manor, within a mile
or two of "Cannie Elshie's" cottage. The picture he gives is very
affecting, and should make us all thankful that we are "wiselike." There
is much that is additional to Sir Walter's account, in his "Author's
Edition" of the Waverley Novels.
"HALL MANOR, _Thursday, May 20, 1858._
"MY DEAR SIR,--David Ritchie, _alias_ Bowed Davie, was born at
Easter Happrew, in the parish of Stobo, in the year 1741. He was
brought to Woodhouse, in the parish of Manor, when very young.
His father was a laborer, and occupied a cottage on that farm;
his mother, Anabel Niven, was a delicate woman, severely
afflicted with rheumatism, and could not take care of him when
an infant. To this cause he attributed his deformity, and this,
if added to imperfect clothing, and bad food, and poverty, will
account for the grotesque figure which he became. He never was
at school, but could read tolerably; had many books; was fond of
poetry, especially Allan Ramsay; he hated Burns. His father and
mother both died early, and poor Davie became a homeless
wanderer; he was two years at Broughton Mill, employed in
stirring the husks of oats, which were used for drying the corn
on the kiln, and required to be kept constantly in motion; he
boasted, with a sort of rapture, of his doings there. From
thence he went to Lyne's Mill, near his birth-place, where he
continued one year at the same employment, and from thence he
was sent to Edinburgh to learn brush-making, but made no
progress in his education there; was annoyed by the wicked boys,
or _keelies_, as he called them, and found his way back to Manor
and Woodhouse. The farm now possessed by Mr. Ballantyne, was
then occupied by four tenants, among whom he lived; but his
house was at Old Woodhouse, where the late Sir James Nasmyth
built him a house with two apartments, and separate outer doors,
one for himself exactly his own height when standing upright in
it; and this stands as it was built, exactly four feet. A Mr.
Ritchie, the father of the late minister of Athelstaneford, was
then tenant; his wife and Davie could not agree, and she
repeatedly asked her husband to put him away, by making the
highest stone of his house the lowest. Ritchie left, his house
was pulled down, and Davie triumphed in having the stones of his
chimney-top made a step to his door, when this new house was
built. He was not a little vindictive at times when irritated,
especially when any allusion was made to his deformity. On one
occasion, he and some other boys were stealing pease in Mr.
Gibson's field, who then occupied Woodhouse; all the others took
_leg-bail_, but Davie's locomotion being tardy, he was caught,
shaken, and scolded by Gibson for all the rest. This he never
forgot, and vowed to be avenged on the "auld sinner and deevil;"
and one day when Gibson was working about his own door, Davie
crept up to the top of the house, which was low, and threw a
large stone down on his head, which brought the old man to the
ground. Davie crept down the other side of the house, got into
bed beside his mother, and it was never known where the stone
came from, till he boasted of it long afterwards. He only prayed
that it might sink down through his "_harn-pan_" (his skull).
His personal appearance seems to have been almost indescribable,
not bearing any likeness to anything in this upper world. But as
near as I can learn, his forehead was very narrow and low,
sloping upwards and backward, something of the hatchet shape;
his eyes deep set, small, and piercing; his nose straight, thin
as the end of a cut of cheese, sharp at the point, nearly
touching his fearfully projecting chin; and his mouth formed
nearly a straight line; his shoulders rather high, but his body
otherwise the size of ordinary men; his arms were remarkably
strong. With very little aid he built a high garden wall, which
still stands, many of the stones of huge size; these the
shepherds laid to his directions. His legs beat all power of
description; they were bent in every direction, so that Mungo
Park, then a surgeon at Peebles, who was called to operate on
him for strangulated hernia, said he could compare them to
nothing but a pair of corkscrews; but the principal turn they
took was from the knee outwards, so that he rested on his inner
ankles, and the lower part of his tibias.
'An' his knotted knees play'd aye knoit between.'
"He had never a shoe on his feet; the parts on which he walked
were rolled in rags, old stockings, &c., but the toes always
bare, even in the most severe weather. His mode of progressing
was as extraordinary as his shape. He carried a long pole, or
'kent,' like the Alpenstock, tolerably polished, with a turned
top on it, on which he rested, placed it before him, he then
lifted one leg, something in the manner that the oar of a boat
is worked, and then the other, next advanced his staff, and
repeated the operation, by diligently doing which he was able to
make not very slow progress. He frequently walked to Peebles,
four miles, and back again, in one day. His arms had no motion
at the elbow-joints, but were active enough otherwise. He was
not generally ill-tempered, but furious when roused.
"ROBERT CRAIG."
"HALL MANOR, _June 15, 1858._
"MY DEAR SIR,--I have delayed till now to finish Bowed Davie, in
the hope of getting more information, and to very little
purpose. His contemporaries are now so few, old, and widely
scattered, that they are difficult to be got at, and when come
at, their memories are failed, like their bodies. I have
forgotten at what stage of his history I left off; but if I
repeat, you can omit the repetitions. Sir James Nasmyth, late of
Posso, took compassion on the houseless, homeless _lusus
naturae_, and had a house built for him to his own directions;
the door, window, and everything to suit his diminished,
grotesque form; the door four feet high, the window twelve by
eighteen inches, without glass, closed by a wooden board, hung
on leathern hinges, which he used to keep shut. Through it he
reconnoitred all visitors, and only admitted ladies and
particular favorites; he was very superstitious; ghosts,
fairies, and robbers he dreaded most. I have forgotten if I
mentioned how he contrived to be fed and warmed. He had a small
allowance from the parish poor-box, about fifty shillings; this
was eked out by an annual peregrination through the parish, when
some gave him food, others money, wool, &c., which he hoarded
most miserly. How he cooked his food I have not been able to
learn, for his sister, who lived in the same cottage with him,
was separated by a stone and lime wall, and had a separate door
of the usual size, and window to match, and was never allowed to
enter his dwelling; but he brought home such loads, that the
shepherds had to be on the lookout for him, when on his annual
eleemosynary expeditions, to carry home part of his spoil. On
one occasion a servant was ordered to give him some salt, for
containing which he carried a long stocking; he thought the
damsel had scrimped him in quantity, and he sat and distended
the stocking till it appeared less than half full, by pressing
down the salt, and then called for the gudewife, showed it her,
and asked if she had ordered Jenny only to give him that wee
pickle saut; the maid was scolded, and the stocking filled. He
spent all his evenings at the back of the Woodhouse kitchen
fire, and got at least one meal every day, where he used to make
the rustics gape and stare at the many ghost, fairy, and robber
stories which he had either heard of or invented, and poured out
with unceasing volubility, and so often that he believed them
all true. But the Ballantyne family had no great faith in his
veracity, when it suited his convenience to fib, exaggerate, or
prevaricate, particularly when excited by his own lucubrations,
or the waggery of his more intellectual neighbors and
companions. He had a seat in the centre, which he always
occupied, and a stool for his deformed feet and legs; they all
rose at times, asking Davie to do likewise, and when he got upon
his pins, he was shorter than when sitting, his body being of
the ordinary length, and the deficiency all in his legs. On one
occasion, a wag named Elder put up a log of wood opposite his
loophole, made a noise, and told Davie that the robbers he
dreaded so much were now at his house, and would not go away; he
peeped out, and saw the log, exclaimed, 'So he is, by the Lord
God and my soul; Willie Elder, gi'e me the gun, and see that she
is weel charged.' Elder put in a very large supply of powder
without shot, rammed it hard, got a stool, which Davie mounted,
Elder handing him the gun, charging him to take time, and aim
fair, for if he missed him, he would be mad at being shot at, be
sure to come in, take everything in the house, cut their
throats, and burn the house after. Davie tremblingly obeyed,
presented the gun slowly and cautiously, drew the trigger; off
went the shot, the musket rebounded, and back went Davie with a
rattle on the floor. Some accomplice tumbled the log; Davie at
length was encouraged to look out, and actually believed that he
had shot the robber; said he had done for him now, 'that ane wad
plague him nae mair at ony rate.' He took it into his head at
one time that he ought to be married, and having got the consent
of a haverel wench to yoke with him in the silken bonds of
matrimony, went to the minister several times, and asked him to
perform the ceremony. At length the minister sent him away,
saying that he could not and would not accommodate him in the
matter. Davie swung himself out at the door on his kent, much
crestfallen, and in great wrath, shutting the door with a bang
behind him, but opening it again, he shook his clenched fist in
the parson's face, and said, 'Weel, weel, ye'll no let decent,
honest folk marry; but, 'od, lad, I'se plenish your parish wi'
bastards, to see what ye'll mak o' that,' and away he went. He
read Hooke's _Pantheon_, and made great use of the heathen
deities. He railed sadly at the taxes; some one observed that he
need not grumble at them as he had none to pay. 'Hae I no'?' he
replied, 'I can neither get a pickle snuff to my neb, nor a
pickle tea to my mouth, but they maun tax 't.' His sister and he
were on very unfriendly terms. She was ill on one occasion; Miss
Ballantyne asked how she was to-day. He replied, 'I dinna ken, I
ha'na been in, for I hate folk that are aye gaun to dee and
never do't,' In 1811 he was seized with obstruction of the
bowels and consequent inflammation; blisters and various
remedies were applied for three days without effect. Some one
came to Mrs. Ballantyne and said that it was 'just about a' owre
wi' Davie noo.' She went, and he breathed his last almost
immediately. His sister without any delay, got his keys, and
went to his secret repository, Mrs. Ballantyne thought to get
dead-clothes, but instead, to the amazement of all present, she
threw three money-bags, one after another, into Mrs.
Ballantyne's lap, telling her to count that, and that, and that.
Mrs. B. was annoyed and astonished at the multitude of
half-crowns and shillings, all arranged according to value. He
hated sixpences, and had none, but the third contained four
guineas in gold. Mrs. B. was disgusted with the woman's greed,
and put them all up, saying, what would anybody think if they
came in and found them counting the man's money and his breath
scarcely out,--took it all home to her husband, who made out L4
2_s._ in gold, L10 in a bank receipt, and L7 18_s._ in
shillings and half-crowns, in all L22. How did he get this? He
had many visitors, the better class of whom gave him
half-crowns, others shillings and sixpences; the latter he never
kept, but converted them into shillings and half-crowns whenever
he got an opportunity. I asked the wright how he got him into a
coffin. He replied, 'Easily; they made it deeper than ordinary,
and wider, so as to let in his distorted legs, as it was
impossible to streek him like others.' He often expressed a
resolve to be buried on the Woodhill top, three miles up the
water from the church-yard, as he could never 'lie amang the
common trash;' however, this was not accomplished, as his
friend, Sir James Nasmyth, who had promised to carry this wish
into effect, was on the Continent at the time. When Sir James
returned, he spoke of having his remains lifted and buried where
he had wished; but this was never done, and the expense of a
railing and plantation of rowan-trees (mountain ash), his
favorite prophylactic against the spells of witches and fairies,
was abandoned. The Woodhill is a romantic, green little mount,
situated at the west side of the Manor, which washes its base on
the east, and separates it from Langhaugh heights, part of a
lofty, rocky, and heathery mountain range, and on the west is
the ruin of the ancient peel-house of old Posso, long the
residence of the Nasmyth family. And now that we have the Dwarf
dead and buried, comes the history of his resurrection in 1821.
His sister died exactly ten years after him. A report had been
spread that he had been lifted and taken to dissecting-rooms in
Glasgow, which at that period was the fate of many a more seemly
corpse than Davie's; and the young men--for Manor had no
sexton--who dug the sister's grave in the vicinity of her
brother's, stimulated by curiosity to see if his body had really
been carried off, and if still there what his bones were like,
lifted them up, and carried them to Woodhouse, where they lay a
considerable time, till they were sent to Mr. Ballantyne, then
in Glasgow. Miss Ballantyne thinks the skull was taken away with
the other bones, but put back again. I have thus given you all
the information I can gather about the Black Dwarf that I think
worth narrating. It is reported that he sometimes sold a gill,
but if this is true the Ballantynes never knew it. Miss
Ballantyne says that he was not ill-tempered, but on the
contrary, kind, especially to children. She and her brother were
very young when she went to Woodhouse, and her father objected
to resetting the farm from Sir James, on account of the fearful
accounts of his horrid temper and barbarous deeds, and Sir James
said if he ever troubled them that he would immediately put him
away; but he was very fond of the younger ones, played with
them, and amused them, though when roused and provoked by
grown-up people, he raged, stormed, swore terrifically, and
struck with anything that was near him, in short, he had an
irritable but not a sulky, sour, misanthropic temper. The
Messrs. Chambers wrote a book about him and his doings at a very
early period of their literary history. Did I tell you of a
female relative, Niven (whom he would never see), saying that
she would come and streek him after he died? He sent word, 'that
if she offered to touch his corpse he would rive the thrapple
oot o' her--he would raither be streekit by Auld Clootie's ain
red-het hands.'--Yours, truly obliged, R. C."
This poor, vindictive, solitary, and powerful creature, was a
philocalist: he had a singular love of flowers and of beautiful women.
He was a sort of Paris, to whom the blushing Aphrodites of the glen used
to come, and his judgment is said to have been as good, as the world
generally thinks that of Oenone's handsome and faithless mate. His
garden was full of the finest flowers, and it was his pleasure, when the
young beauties
"Who bore the blue sky intermixed with flame
In their fair eyes,"
came to him for their competitive examination, to scan them well, and
then, without one word, present each with a flower, which was of a
certain fixed and well-known value in Davie's standard _calimeter_.
I have heard that there was one kind of rose, his {kallisteion}, which
he was known to have given only to three, and I remember seeing one of
the three, when she was past seventy. Margaret Murray, or Morra, was her
maiden name, and this fine old lady, whom an Oxonian would call a Double
First, grave and silent, and bent with "the pains," when asked by us
children, would, with some reluctance, and a curious grave smile,
produce out of her Bible, Bowed Davie's withered and flattened rose; and
from her looks, even then, I was inclined to affirm the decision of the
connoisseur of Manor Water. One can fancy the scene in that sweet
solitary valley, informed like its sister Yarrow with pastoral
melancholy, with a young May, bashful and eager, presenting herself for
honors, encountering from under that penthouse of eyebrows the steady
gaze of the strange eldritch creature; and then his making up his mind,
and proceeding to pluck his award and present it to her, "herself a
fairer flower," and then turning with a scowl, crossed with a look of
tenderness, crawl into his den. Poor "gloomy Dis," slinking in alone.
They say, that when the candidate came, he surveyed her from his window,
his eyes gleaming out of the darkness, and if he liked her not he
disappeared; if he would entertain her, he beckoned her into the garden.
I have often thought that the _Brownie_, of whom the south country
legends are so full, must have been some such misshapen creature,
strong, willing, and forlorn, conscious of his hideous forbidding looks,
and ready to purchase affection at any cost of labor, with a kindly
heart, and a longing for human sympathy and intercourse. Such a being
looks like the prototype of the Aiken-Drum of our infancy, and of that
"drudging goblin," of whom we all know how he
"... Sweat
To earn his cream-bowl daily set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn,
That ten day lab'rers could not end;
Then lies him down, the lubber[56] fiend,
And stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And cropful out of doors he flings,
Ere the first cock his matin rings."
[56] Lob-lye-by-the-fire.
My readers will, I am sure, more than pardon me for giving them the
following poem on Aiken-Drum, for the pleasure of first reading which,
many years ago, I am indebted to Mr. R. Chambers's _Popular Rhymes of
Scotland_, where its "extraordinary merit" is generously acknowledged.