[Illustration: _Originally Eng^d. by A. Wilson Edin^r._
“EO MAGIS PRÆFULGIT, QUOD NON VIDETUR”
_Tacit_
PUBLISHED BY JOHN ANDERSON JUN^R. 55, NORTH BRIDGE STREET &c. EDIN^R.
AND SUBSEQUENTLY BY W. & R. CHAMBERS, 339, HIGH STREET, EDIN^R.]
Illustrations
OF THE
AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY
BEING
_Notices and Anecdotes_
OF
REAL CHARACTERS, SCENES, AND INCIDENTS
Supposed to be described in his Works.
BY
ROBERT CHAMBERS.
Third Edition.
W. & R. CHAMBERS,
_LONDON AND EDINBURGH._
1884.
[Illustration]
YE LEADENHALLE PRESSE, LONDON, E.C.
T. 3253.
[Illustration]
_Preface by Author._
This Work first appeared in November, 1822. It was a juvenile
production, and, of course, deformed with all the faults and
extravagances of nineteen. The Public, however, received it with
some degree of encouragement; and, a second edition being now called
for, I have gladly seized the opportunity of repairing early errors,
by greater correctness of language and more copious information.
The present volume will be found to contain thrice the quantity of
letterpress, and a much greater variety of interesting details.
R. C.
_EDINBURGH, INDIA PLACE, 8th March, 1825._
[Illustration]
_Addendum_
BY AUTHOR’S SON.
In the belief that there are many admirers of Sir Walter Scott who
would gladly welcome the reappearance of a work which many years ago
was, in connection with his novels, eagerly perused, the “Illustrations
of the Author of Waverley” have been again printed.
R. C. (Secundus).
EDINBURGH, 339, HIGH STREET, 1884.
[Illustration]
_Contents._
Waverley.
PAGE
HIGHLAND FAITH AND HONOUR 1
BRADWARDINE 4
SCOTTISH FOOLS (DAVIE GELLATLEY) 6
RORY DALL, THE HARPER 23
“CLAW FOR CLAW, AS CONAN SAID TO SATAN” 23
TULLY-VEOLAN (TRAQUAIR HOUSE) 24
THE BODACH GLAS 25
Guy Mannering.
CURIOUS PARTICULARS OF SIR ROBERT MAXWELL OF ORCHARDSTON 29
ANDREW CROSBIE, ESQ. (COUNSELLOR PLEYDELL) 32
DRIVER 41
SOUTH COUNTRY FARMERS (DANDIE DINMONT) 50
A SCOTTISH PROBATIONER (DOMINIE SAMPSON) 53
JEAN GORDON (MEG MERRILIES) 55
The Antiquary.
ANDREW GEMMELS (EDIE OCHILTREE) 60
Rob Roy.
ANECDOTES OF ROBERT MACGREGOR (ROB ROY) 65
PARALLEL PASSAGES 73
The Black Dwarf.
LANG SHEEP AND SHORT SHEEP 76
DAVID RITCHIE (ELSHENDER THE RECLUSE) 77
Old Mortality.
DESERTED BURYING-GROUND 88
VALE OF GANDERCLEUGH 89
HISTORY OF THE PERIOD 90
ADDITIONAL NOTICES RELATIVE TO THE INSURRECTION OF 1679 103
The Heart of Mid-Lothian.
THE PORTEOUS MOB 109
THE CITY GUARD 113
JEANIE DEANS 117
PATRICK WALKER 119
PARTICULARS REGARDING SCENERY, ETC. 124
Bride of Lammermoor.
THE PLOT, AND CHIEF CHARACTERS OF THE TALE 128
LUCY ASHTON AND BUCKLAW 133
A COUNTRY INNKEEPER (CALEB BALDERSTONE) 136
Legend of Montrose.
PLOT OF THE TALE 139
THE GREAT MONTROSE 142
* * * * *
PHILIPHAUGH 154
CUSTOMER-WARK 158
The Monastery.
A VILLAGE ANTIQUARY (CAPT. CLUTTERBUCK) 164
SCENERY 170
HILLSLOP TOWER 173
SMAILHOLM TOWER 174
The Romances.
MATCH OF ARCHERY AT ASHBY—IVANHOE 179
KENILWORTH CASTLE—KENILWORTH 180
DAVID RAMSAY—NIGEL 182
THE REDGAUNTLET FAMILY—REDGAUNTLET 182
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Illustrations
OF
The Author of Waverley.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
=Waverley.=
HIGHLAND FAITH AND HONOUR.
(_The Plot of the Novel._)
“When the Highlanders, upon the morning of the battle of Prestonpans,
made their memorable attack, a battery of four field-pieces was
stormed and carried by the Camerons and Stuarts of Appine. The late
Alexander Stuart of Invernahyle was one of the foremost in the charge,
and observed an officer of the king’s forces, who, scorning to join
the flight of all around, remained with his sword in his hand, as
if determined to the very last to defend the post assigned to him.
The Highland gentleman commanded him to surrender, and received for
reply a thrust, which he caught in his target. The officer was now
defenceless, and the battle-axe of a gigantic Highlander (the miller
of Invernahyle’s mill), was uplifted to dash his brains out, when
Mr. Stuart with difficulty prevailed on him to surrender. He took
charge of his enemy’s property, protected his person, and finally
obtained him liberty on parole. The officer proved to be Colonel Allan
Whiteford, of Ballochmyle, in Ayrshire, a man of high character and
influence, and warmly attached to the House of Hanover; yet such was
the confidence existing between these two honourable men, though of
different political principles, that, while the civil war was raging,
and straggling officers from the Highland army were executed without
mercy, Invernahyle hesitated not to pay his late captive a visit, as
he went back to the Highlands to raise fresh recruits, when he spent a
few days among Colonel Whiteford’s whig friends as pleasantly and good
humouredly as if all had been at peace around him.
“After the battle of Culloden, it was Colonel Whiteford’s turn to
strain every nerve to obtain Mr. Stuart’s pardon. He went to the Lord
Justice Clerk, to the Lord Advocate, and to all the officers of State,
and each application was answered by the production of a list, in which
the name of Invernahyle appeared ‘marked with the sign of the beast!’
At length Colonel Whiteford went to the Duke of Cumberland. From him
also he received a positive refusal. He then limited his request,
for the present, to a protection for Stuart’s house, wife, children,
and property. This was also refused by the Duke; on which Colonel
Whiteford, taking his commission from his bosom, laid it on the table
before his Royal Highness, and asked permission to retire from the
service of a king who did not know how to spare a vanquished enemy.
The Duke was struck, and even affected. He bade the Colonel take up
his commission, and granted the protection he requested with so much
earnestness. It was issued just in time to save the house, corn, and
cattle at Invernahyle from the troops who were engaged in laying waste
what it was the fashion to call ‘the country of the enemy.’ A small
encampment was formed on Invernahyle’s property, which they spared
while plundering the country around, and searching in every direction
for the leaders of the insurrection, and for Stuart in particular.
He was much nearer them than they suspected; for, hidden in a cave,
(like the Baron of Bradwardine,) he lay for many days within hearing
of the sentinels as they called their watchword. His food was brought
him by one of his daughters, a child of eight years old, whom Mrs.
Stuart was under the necessity of trusting with this commission, for
her own motions and those of all her inmates were closely watched.
With ingenuity beyond her years, the child used to stray out among the
soldiers, who were rather kind to her, and watch the moment when she
was unobserved, to steal into the thicket, when she deposited whatever
small store of provisions she had in charge, at some marked spot, where
her father might find it. Invernahyle supported life for several weeks
by means of these precarious supplies; and, as he had been wounded in
the battle of Culloden, the hardships which he endured were aggravated
by great bodily pain. After the soldiers had removed their quarters,
he had another remarkable escape. As he now ventured to the house at
night, and left it in the morning, he was espied during the dawn by a
party who pursued and fired at him. The fugitive being fortunate enough
to escape their search, they returned to the house, and charged the
family with harbouring one of the proscribed traitors. An old woman
had presence of mind enough to maintain that the man they had seen was
the shepherd. “Why did he not stop when we called to him?” said the
soldiers. “He is as deaf, poor man, as a peat-stack,” answered the
ready-witted domestic. “Let him be sent for directly.” The real
shepherd accordingly was brought from the hill, and, as there was time
to tutor him by the way, he was as deaf, when he made his appearance,
as was necessary to maintain his character. Stuart of Invernahyle was
afterwards pardoned under the act of indemnity.
“He was a noble specimen of the old Highlander, far-descended, gallant,
courteous, and brave even to chivalry. He had been _out_ in 1715 and
1745; was an active partaker in all the stirring scenes which passed in
the Highlands between these memorable eras; and was remarkable, among
other exploits, for having fought with and vanquished Rob Roy, in a
trial of skill at the broadsword, a short time previous to the death of
that celebrated hero, at the clachan of Balquhidder. He chanced to be
in Edinburgh when Paul Jones came into the Firth of Forth, and, though
then an old man, appeared in arms, and was heard to exult (to use his
own words) in the prospect of ‘drawing his claymore once more before he
died.’”
This pleasing anecdote is given in a critique upon the first series
of the “Tales of my Landlord,” (supposed to be written by Sir Walter
Scott,) in the thirty-second number of the _Quarterly Review_; and we
heartily concur with the learned Baronet in thinking it the groundwork
of “Waverley.”
Yet it is somewhat remarkable that the name of a Major Talbot, as
well as that of Lieutenant-Colonel Whiteford, occurs in the list of
prisoners published by the Highland army, after their victory at
Prestonpans.
The late Alexander Campbell, author of the “History of Poetry in
Scotland,” and editor of “Albyn’s Anthology,” a gentleman whose
knowledge of his native Highlands was at once extensive and accurate,
used to assert that it was the _younger sister_, not the _daughter_
of Mr. Stuart, that brought his food. He had heard an account of the
affecting circumstance from her own mouth.
Stuart of Invernahyle marked his attachment to the cause of the exiled
Prince by the composition of a beautiful song, which is to be found in
Mr. Hogg’s “Jacobite Relics.”
BRADWARDINE.
Of the genus of Bradwardine, Colonel Stewart gives the following
account:—
“The armies of Sweden, Holland, and France gave employment to the
younger sons of the Highland gentry, who were educated abroad in the
seminaries of Leyden and Douay. Many of these returned with a competent
knowledge of modern languages added to their classical education—often
speaking Latin with more purity than Scotch, which, in many cases,
they only learned after leaving their native homes. The race of
Bradwardine is not long extinct. In my own time, several veterans might
have sat for the picture of that most honourable, brave, learned, and
kind-hearted personage. These gentlemen returned from the continent
full of warlike Latin, French phrases, and inveterate broad Scotch.
One of the last of these, Colonel Alexander Robertson, of the Scotch
Brigade, uncle of the present” (now late) “Strowan, I well remember.
“Another of the Bradwardine character is still remembered by the
Highlanders with a degree of admiration bordering on enthusiasm. This
was John Stewart, of the family of Kincardine, in Strathspey, known to
the country by the name of John Roy Stewart, an accomplished gentleman,
an elegant scholar, a good poet, and a brave officer. He composed
with equal facility in English, Latin and Gaelic; but it was chiefly
by his songs, epigrams, and descriptive pieces, that he attracted the
admiration of his countrymen. He was an active leader in the rebellion
of 1745, and, during his ‘hiding’ of many months, he had more leisure
to indulge his taste for poetry and song. The country traditions are
full of his descriptive pieces, eulogies and laments on friends, or in
allusion to the events of that unfortunate period. He had been long
in the service of France and Portugal, and had risen to the rank of
colonel. He was in Scotland in 1745, and commanded a regiment, composed
of the tenants of his family and a considerable number of the followers
of Sir George Stewart of Grandtully, who had been placed under him.
With these, amounting in all to 400 men, he joined the rebel army, and
proved one of its ablest partizans.”—_Sketches, vol._ ii. _notes_.
Diligent research, however, has enabled us to point out a much nearer
original.
The person who held the situation in the rebel army which in the
novel has been assigned to the Baron, namely, the command of their
few cavalry, was Alexander, fourth Lord Forbes of Pitsligo. This
nobleman, who possessed but a moderate fortune, was so much esteemed
for his excellent qualities of temper and understanding, that when,
after the battle of Prestonpans, he declared his purpose of joining
Prince Charles, most of the gentlemen in that part of the country put
themselves under his command, thinking they could not follow a better
or safer example than the conduct of Lord Pitsligo. He thus commanded
a body of 150 well mounted gentlemen in the subsequent scenes of the
rebellion, at the fatal close of which he escaped to France, and was
attainted, in the following month, by the title of _Lord Pitsligo_,
his estate and honours being of course forfeited to the crown. After
this he claimed the estate before the Court of Session, on account of
the misnomer, his title being properly _Lord Forbes of Pitsligo_; and
that Court gave judgment in his favour, 16th November, 1749; but on an
appeal it was reversed by the House of Lords, 1750.
Like Bradwardine, Lord Pitsligo had been _out_ in 1715 also—though it
does not appear that much notice was then taken of his defection. His
opposition to the whiggery of modern times had been equally constant,
and of long standing; for he was one of those staunch and honourable
though mistaken patriots of the last Scottish Parliament, who had
opposed the Union.
He could also boast of a smattering of the _belles lettres_; and
probably plumed himself upon his literary attainments as much as the
grim old pedant, his counterpart. In 1734, he published “Essays, Moral
and Philosophical;” and something of the same sort appeared in 1761,
when he seems to have been in the near prospect of a conclusion to his
earthly trials. He died at Auchiries, in Aberdeenshire, December 21,
1762, at an advanced age, after having possessed his title, counting
from his accession in 1691, during a period of seventy-one years.
It is not unworthy of remark, that the supporters of Lord Pitsligo’s
arms were two bears proper; which circumstance, connected with the
great favour in which these animals were held by Bradwardine, brings
the relation between the real and the fictitious personages very close.
SCOTTISH FOOLS.
(_Davie Gellatley._)
It appears that licensed fools were customary appendages of the
Scottish Court at a very early period; and the time is not long gone by
when such beings were retained at the table and in the halls of various
respectable noblemen. The absence of more refined amusements made them
become as necessary a part of a baronial establishment as horses and
hounds still continue to be in the mansions of many modern squires.
When as yet the pursuits of literature were not, and ere gaming had
become vicious enough to be fashionable, the rude humours of the jester
could entertain a pick-tooth hour; and, what walnuts now are to wine,
and enlightened conversation to the amusements of the drawing-room,
the boisterous bacchanalianism of our ancestors once found in coarse
buffooneries and the alternate darkness and radiance of a foolish mind.
In later times, when all taste for such diversion had gone out, the
madman of the country-side frequently found shelter and patronage under
the roofs of neighbouring gentlemen; but though the _good things_ of
_Daft Jamie_ and _Daft Wattie_ were regularly listened to by the laird,
and preserved in the traditions of the household, the encouragement
given to them was rather extended out of a benevolent compassion for
their helpless condition than from any desire to make their talents
a source of entertainment. Such was the motive of Bradwardine in
protecting Davie Gellatley; and such was also that of the late Earl of
Wemyss, in the support which he gave to the renowned Willie Howison,
a personage of whom many anecdotes are yet told in Haddingtonshire,
and whose services at Gosford House were not unlike those of Davie at
Tully-Veolan.
Till within the last few years, these unfortunate persons were more
frequently to be found in their respective villages throughout the
country than now; and it is not long since even Edinburgh could boast
of her “_Daft Laird_,” her “_Bailie Duff_,” and her “_Madam Bouzie_.”
Numerous charitable institutions now seclude most of them from the
world. Yet, in many retired districts, where delicacy is not apt to be
shocked by sights so common, the blind, the dumb, and the insane are
still permitted to mix indiscriminately with their fellow-creatures.
Poverty compels many parents to take the easiest method of supporting
their unfortunate offspring—that of bringing them up with the rest
of the family; the decent pride of the Scottish peasant also makes
an application to charity, even in such a case as this, a matter of
very rare occurrence; and while superstition points out that those
whom God has sent into the world with less than the full share of
mental faculties are always made most peculiarly the objects of this
care, thus rendering the possession of such a child rather a medium
through which the blessings of heaven are diffused than a burden or
a curse, the affectionate desire of administering to them all those
tender offices which their unhappy situation so peculiarly requires,
of tending them with their own eyes, and nursing them with their own
hands, that large and overflowing, but not supererogatory share of
tenderness with which the darkened and destitute objects are constantly
regarded by parents—altogether make their domestication a matter of
strong, and happily not unpleasing necessity.
The rustic idiots of Scotland are also in general blessed with a few
peculiarities, which seldom fail to make them objects of popular esteem
and affection. Many of them exhibit a degree of sagacity or cunning,
bearing the same relation to the rest of their intellectual faculties
which, in the ruins of a Grecian temple, the coarse and entire
foundations bear to the few and scattered but beautiful fragments of
the superstructure. This humble qualification, joined sometimes to the
more agreeable one of a shrewd and sly humour, while it enables them
to keep their own part, and occasionally to baffle sounder judgments,
proves an engaging subject of amusement and wonder to the cottage
fireside. A wild and wayward fancy, powers of song singularly great,
together with a full share of the above qualifications, formed the
chief characteristics of Daft Jock Gray of Gilmanscleugh, whom we are
about to introduce to the reader as the counterpart of Davie Gellatley.
JOHN GRAY is a native of Gilmanscleugh, a farm in the parish of
Ettrick, of which his father was formerly the shepherd, and from which,
according to Border custom, he derives his popular designation or title
“OF GILMANSCLEUGH.” Jock is now above forty years of age, and still
wanders through the neighbouring counties of Roxburgh, Selkirk, and
Peebles, in a half minstrel, half mendicant manner, finding, even after
the fervour of youth is past, no pleasure in a sedentary or domestic
life.
Many months, many weeks, had not elapsed after Jock came into the
world, before all the old women of the _Faculty_ in the parish
discovered that “he had a want.” As he grew up, it was found that he
had no capacity for the learning taught at the parish school, though,
in receiving various other sorts of lore, he showed an aptitude far
surpassing that of more highly gifted children. Thus, though he had not
steadiness of mind to comprehend the alphabet, and Barrie’s smallest
primer was to him as a fountain closed and a book sealed, he caught, at
a wonderfully early age, and with a rapidity almost incredible, many
fragments of Border song, which he could repeat, with the music, in the
precise manner of those who instructed him; and indeed he discovered
an almost miraculous power of giving utterance to sounds, in all their
extensive and intricate varieties.
All endeavours on the part of his parents to communicate to his mind
the seeds of written knowledge having failed, Jock was abandoned to the
oral lore he loved so much; and of this he soon possessed himself of an
immense stock. His boyhood was passed in perfect idleness; yet if it
could have been proved upon him that he had the smallest glimmering of
sense, his days would not have been so easy. In Jock’s native district
there are just two ways for a boy to spend his time; either he must
go to school, or he must tend the cows; and it generally happens that
he goes to school in summer and tends the cows in winter. But Jock’s
idiocy, like Caleb Balderstone’s “fire,” was an excuse for every duty.
As to the first employment, his friend the Dominie bore him out with
flying colours; for the second, the question was set for ever at rest
by a _coup de main_ achieved by the rascal’s own happy fancy. “John,”
says the minister of Yarrow to him one day, “you are the idlest boy in
the parish; you do nothing all day but go about from house to house;
you might at least herd a few cows.” “Me, sir!” says Jock, with the
most stolid stare imaginable, “how could I herd the kye? Losh, sir,
_I disna ken corn by garse_!”—This happy bit was enough to keep Jock
comfortable all the rest of his life.
Yet though Jock did not like to be tied down to any regular task, and
heartily detested both learning and herding, it could never be said
of him that he was sunk in what the country people call _even-down
idleset_. He sometimes condescended to be useful in running errands,
and would not grudge the tear and wear of his legs upon a seven-mile
journey, when he had the prospect of a halfpenny for his pains; for,
like all madmen, he was not insensible, however stupid in every other
thing, to the value of money, and knew a bawbee from a button with the
sharpest boy in the clachan. It is recorded to his credit, that in all
his errands he was ever found scrupulously honest. He was sometimes
sent to no less a distance than Innerleithen, which must be at least
seven miles from Gilmanscleugh, to procure small grocery articles for
his neighbours. Here an old woman, named Nelly Bathgate, kept the
metropolitan grocery shop of the parish, forming a sort of cynosure to
a district extending nearly from Selkirk to Peebles. This was in the
days before _St. Ronan’s Well_ had drawn so many fashionables around
that retired spot; and as yet Nelly flourished in her little shop,
undisturbed by opposition, like the moon just before the creation
of the stars. Rivals innumerable have now sprung up around honest
Nelly; and her ancient and respectable, but unpretending sign-board,
simply importing, “N. BATHGATE, GROCER,” quails under the glowing and
gilt-lettered rubrics of “—— ——, FROM EDINBURGH,” etc., etc., etc.,
who specify that they import their own teas and wines, and deal both
_en gros et en petit_.
For a good while Jock continued to do business with Nelly Bathgate,
unannoyed, as the honest dame herself, by any other grocery shop; and
indeed how there could be such a thing as another grocery shop in the
whole world besides Nelly’s, was quite incomprehensible to Jock. But at
length the distracting object arose. A larger shop than Nelly’s, with
larger windows, and a larger sign-board, was opened; the proprietor had
a son in Edinburgh with a great wholesale grocer in Nicolson Street;
and was supplied with a great quantity of goods, at cheap prices,
of a more flashy nature than any that had ever before been dreamt
of, smelt, or eaten in the village. Here a strange grocery article,
called pearl ashes, was sold; and being the first time that such a
thing was ever heard of, Innerleithen was just in a ferment about it.
Jock was strongly tempted to give his custom, or rather the custom of
his employers, to this shop; for really Nelly’s customary _snap_ was
growing stale upon his appetite, and he longed to taste the comfits of
the new establishment. This Nelly saw and appreciated; and, to prevent
the defection she feared, Jock’s allowance was forthwith doubled, and,
moreover, occasionally varied by a guerdon of a sweeter sort. But still
Jock hankered after the sweets of that strange forbidden shop; and, as
he passed towards Nelly’s, after a long hungry journey, could almost
have wished himself transformed into one of those yellow bees which
buzzed about in noisy enjoyment within the window and show-glasses
of the new grocer,—creatures which, to his mind, appeared to pass
the most delightful and enviable life. It is certainly much to Jock’s
credit, that, even under all these temptations, and though he had
frequently a whole sixpence to dispose of in eight or ten different
small articles, and, no less, though he had no security engaged for
intromissions, so that the whole business was nothing but a question
of character,—yea, in not so much as a farthing was he ever found
wanting.
Nelly continued to be a good friend to Jock, and Jock adhered as
stoutly to Nelly; but it was frequently observed by those who
were curious in his mad humours, that his happy conquest over the
love of comfits was not accomplished and preserved without many
struggles between his instinctive honesty and the old Adam of his
inner man. For instance, after having made all his purchases at Mrs.
Bathgate’s, when he found only a single solitary farthing remain
in his hand, which was to be his faithful companion all the way
back to Gilmanscleugh, how forcibly it must have struck his foolish
mind, that, by means of the new grocer, he had it in his power to
improve his society a thousand-fold, by the simple and easy, though
almost-as-good-as-alchymical process of converting its base brazen
form into a mass of gilt gingerbread. Such a temptation might have
staggered St. Anthony himself, and was certainly far too much for
poor Jock’s humble powers of self-denial. In this dreadful emergency,
his only means of safety lay in flight; and so it was observed by his
rustic friends, on such occasions, that, as soon as he was fairly
clear of Nelly’s door, he commenced a sort of headlong trot, as if for
the purpose of confounding all dishonourable thoughts in his mind,
and ran with all his might out of the village, without looking once
aside; for if he had trusted his eye with but one glance at that neat
whitewashed window of four panes, where two biscuits, four gingerbread
cakes, a small blue bottle of white caraways, and a variety of other
nondescript articles of village confectionery displayed their modest
yet irresistible allurements, he had been gone!
There is one species of employment in which Jock always displays the
utmost willingness to be engaged. It must be understood, that, like
many sounder men, he is a great admirer of the fair sex. He exhibits
an almost chivalrous devotion to their cause, and takes great pleasure
in serving them. Any little commission with which they may please to
honour him, he executes with alacrity, and his own expression is that
he would “jump Tweed, or dive the Wheel (a deep eddy in Tweed), for
their sakes.” He requires no reward for his services, but, like a
true knight, begs only to kiss the hand of his fair employer, and is
satisfied. It may be observed, that he is at all times fond of saluting
the hands of ladies that will permit him.
The author of “Waverley” has described Davie Gellatley as dressed in
a grey jerkin, with scarlet cuffs, and slashed sleeves, showing a
scarlet lining, a livery with which the Baron of Bradwardine indued
him, in consideration of his services and character. Daft Jock Grey has
at no period of his life exhibited so much personal magnificence. His
usual dress is a rather shabby suit of hodden grey, with _ridge and
furrow_[1] stockings; and the utmost extent of his finery is a pair of
broad red garters, bound neatly below the knee-strings of his nether
garments, of which, however, he is probably more vain than ever belted
knight was of the royal garter. But waiving the matter of dress, their
discrepance in which is purely accidental, the resemblance is complete
in every other respect. The face, mien, and gestures are exactly
the same. Jock walks with all that swing of the body and arms, that
abstracted air and sauntering pace, which figure in the description of
Davie (“Waverley,” vol i. chap. ix.), and which, it may indeed be said,
are peculiar to the whole genus and body of Scottish madmen. Jock’s
face is equally handsome in its outline with that given to the fool of
Tully-Veolan, and is no less distinguished by “that wild, unsettled,
and irregular expression, which indicated neither idiocy nor insanity,
but something resembling a compound of both, where the simplicity of
the fool was mixed with the extravagance of a crazed imagination.” Add
to this happy picture the prosaic and somewhat unromantic circumstance
of a pair of buck-teeth, and the reader has our friend Jock to a single
feature.
The Highland madman is described by his pedantic patron, to be “a poor
simpleton, neither _fatuus nec naturaliter idiota_, as is expressed in
the brieves of furiosity, but simply a cracked-brained knave, who could
execute any commission that jumped with his own humour, and made his
folly a plea for avoiding every other.” This entirely agrees with the
character of Jock, who is thought by many to possess much good common
sense, and whose talents of music and mimicry point him out as at
least ingenious. Yet to us it appears, that all Jock’s qualifications,
ingenious as they may be, are nothing but indications of a weak mind.
His great musical and mimetic powers, his talent and willingness of
errand-going, his cunning and his excessive devotion to the humours and
fancies of the fair sex, are mere caricatures of the same dispositions
and talents in other men, and point out all such qualifications, when
found in the best and wisest characters, as marks of fatuity and
weakness. Where, for instance, was the perfection of musical genius
ever found accompanied with a good understanding? Are not porters and
chairman the smallest-minded among mankind? Is not cunning the lowest
of the human faculties, and always found most active in the illiberal
mind? And what lady’s man, what _cavaliere serviente_, what squire of
dames, what man of drawing-rooms and boudoirs, ever yet exhibited the
least trace of greatness or nobility of intellect? Jock, who has all
these qualifications in himself, may be considered as outweighing at
least four other men who severally possess them.
Like Davie Gellatley, Jock “is in good earnest the half-crazed
simpleton which he appears to be, and incapable of any steady exertion.
He has just so much wild wit as saves him from the imputation of
insanity, warm affections, a prodigious memory, and an ear for music.”
This latter quality is a point of resemblance which puts all question
of their identity past the possibility of doubt. Davie it must be
well remembered by the readers of “Waverley,” is there represented as
constantly singing wild scraps of ancient songs and ballads, which,
by a beautiful fiction of the author, he is said to have received
in legacy from a poetical brother who died in a decline some years
before. His conversation was in general carried on by means of these,
to the great annoyance of young Waverley, and such as, like him, did
not comprehend the strange metaphorical meaning of his replies and
allusions. Now, Jock’s principal talent and means of subsistence
are vested in his singular and minstrel-like powers of song, there
being few of our national melodies of which he cannot chaunt forth a
verse, as the occasion may suggest to his memory. He never fails to
be a welcome guest with all the farmers he may chance to visit,[2]
on account of his faculties of entertaining them with the tender or
warlike ditties of the Border, or the more smart and vulgar songs of
the modern world. It is to be remarked, that his style of singing,
like the styles of all other great geniuses in the fine arts, is
entirely his own. Sometimes his voice soars to the ecstasy of the
highest, and sometimes descends to the melancholious grunt of the
lowest pitch; while ever and anon he throws certain wild and beautiful
variations into both the words and the music, _ad libitum_, which
altogether stamp his performances with a character of the most perfect
originality. He generally sings very much through his nose, especially
in humorous songs; and, from his making a curious hiss, or twang, on
setting off into a melody, one might almost think that he employs
his notorious buck-teeth in the capacity of what musicians term a
_pitchfork_.
Jock, by means of his singing powers, was one of the first who
circulated the rising fame of his countryman, the Ettrick Shepherd,
many of whose early songs he committed to memory, and sung publicly
over all the country round. One beginning, “Oh Shepherd, the weather
is misty and changing,” and the well known lyric of “Love is like a
dizziness,” besides being the first poetical efforts of their ingenious
and wonderful author, were the earliest of Jock Gray’s favourite songs,
and perhaps became the chief means of setting him up in the trade of a
wandering minstrel. We have seen him standing upon a _dees stane_ in
the street of Peebles, entertaining upwards of a hundred people with
the latter ludicrous ditty; and many a well-told penny has he made it
squeeze from the iron purses of the inhabitants of that worthy town,
“albeit unused to the _opening_ mood.”
In singing the “Ewe-buchts, Marion,” it is remarkable that he adds a
chorus which is not found in any printed edition of the song:
“Come round about the Merry-knowes, my Marion,
Come round about the Merry-knowes wi’ me;
Come round about the Merry-knowes, my Marion,
For Whitsled is lying lea.”
Whitsled is a farm in the parish of Ashkirk, county of Selkirk, lying
upon the water of Ale; and Merry-knowes is the name of a particular
spot in the farm. This circumstance is certainly important enough to
deserve the attention of those who make Scottish song a study and
object of collection; as the verse, if authentic, would go far to prove
the locality of the “Ewe-buchts.”
In addition to his talent as a musician, Jock can also boast of a
supplementary one, by means of which, whenever memory fails in his
songs, he can supply, _currente voce_, all incidental deficiencies. He
is not only a wit and a musician, but also a _poet_! He has composed
several songs, which by no means want admirers in the country, though
the most of them scarcely deserve the praise of even mediocrity. Indeed
his poetical talents are of no higher order than what the author of
an excellent article in the “Edinburgh Annual Register” happily terms
“wonderfully well considering”; and seem to be admired by his rustic
friends only on the benevolent principle of “where little has been
given, let little be required.”
He has, however, another most remarkable gift, which the author
of “Waverley” has entirely rejected in conceiving the revised and
enlarged edition of his character,—a wonderful turn for _mimicry_.
His powers in this art are far, far indeed, from contemptible, though
it unfortunately happens that, like almost all rustic Scottish
humorists, he makes ministers and sacred things his chief and favourite
objects. He attends the preachings of all the ministers that fall
within the scope of his peregrinations, and sometimes brings away
whole _tenthlies_ of their several sermons, which he lays off to any
person that desires him, with a faithfulness of imitation, in tone and
gesture, which never fails to convulse his audience with laughter.
He has made himself master of all the twangs, _soughs_, wheezes,
coughs, _snirtles_, and bleatings, peculiar to the various parish
ministers twenty miles round; and being himself of no particular sect,
he feels not the least delicacy or compunction for any single class
of divines—all are indiscriminately familiar to the powers of the
universal Jock!
It is remarkable, that though the Scottish peasantry are almost without
exception pious, they never express, so far as we have been able to
discover, the least demur respecting the profanity and irreverence of
this exhibition. The character of the nation may appear anomalous on
this account. But we believe the mystery may be solved by supposing
them so sincerely and unaffectedly devout, in all that concerns
the sentiment of piety, that they do not suspect themselves of any
remissness, when they make the outward circumstances, and even the
ordinances of religion, the subject of wit. It is on this account,
that in no country, even the most lax in religious feeling, have the
matters of the church been discussed so freely as in Scotland; and
nowhere are there so many jokes and good things about ministers and
priests. In this case the very ministers themselves have been known
to listen to Daft Jock’s mimicries of their neighbours with unqualmed
delight,—never thinking, good souls, that the impartial rascal has
just as little mercy on themselves at the next manse he visits. It is
also to be remarked, that, in thus quizzing the worthy ministers, he
does not forget to practise what the country-people consider a piece
of exquisite satire on the habits of such as _read_ their sermons.
Whenever he imitates any of these degenerate divines, who, by their
unpopularity, form quite a sect by themselves in the country, and
are not nearly so much respected as extempore preachers,[3] he must
have either a book or a piece of paper open before him, from which he
gravely affects to read the subject of discourse; and his audience
are always trebly delighted with this species of exhibition. He was
once amusing Mrs. C——, the minister’s wife of Selkirk, with some
imitations of the neighbouring clergymen, when she at last requested
him to give her a few words in the manner of Dr. C——, who being
a notorious _reader_, “Ou, Mem,” says Jock, “ye maun bring me the
Doctor’s Bible, then, and I’ll gie ye him _in style_.” She brought the
Bible, little suspecting the purpose for which the wag intended it,
when, with the greatest effrontery, he proceeded to burlesque this
unhappy peculiarity of the worthy doctor in the presence of his own
wife.
Jock was always a privileged character in attending all sorts of
kirks, though many ministers, who dreaded a future sufferance under
his relentless caricaturing powers, would have been glad to exclude
him. He never seems to pay any attention to the sermon, or even deigns
to sit down, like other decent Christians, but wanders constantly
about from gallery to gallery, upstairs and downstairs. His erratic
habit is not altogether without its use. When he observes any person
sleeping during the sermon, he reaches over to the place, and taps him
gently on the head with his _kent_ till he awake; should he in any of
his future rounds (for he parades as regularly about as a policeman in
a large city) observe the drowsy person repeating the offence, he gives
him a tremendous thwack over the pate; and he increases the punishment
so much at every subsequent offence, that, like the military punishment
for desertion, the third infliction almost amounts to death itself. A
most laughable incident once occurred in —— church, on a drowsy summer
afternoon, when the windows were let down, admitting and emitting
a thousand flies, whose monotonous buzz, joined to the somniferous
snuffle of Dr. ——, would have been fit music for the bedchamber of
Morpheus, even though that honest god was lying ill of the toothache,
the gout, or any other equally _woukrife_ disorder. A bailie, who had
dined, as is usual in most country towns, between sermons, could not
resist the propensity of his nature, and, fairly overpowered, at last
was under the necessity of affronting the preacher to his very face,
by laying down his head upon the book-board; when his capacious, bald
round crown might have been mistaken, at first sight, for the face of
the clock placed in the front of the gallery immediately below. Jock
was soon at him with his stick, and, with great difficulty, succeeded
in rousing him. But the indulgence was too great to be long resisted,
and down again went the bailie’s head. This was not to be borne. Jock
considered his authority sacred, and feared not either the frowns of
elders, nor the more threatening scowls of kirk-officers, when his
duty was to be done. So his arm went forth, and the _kent_ descended
a second time with little reverence upon the offending sconce; upon
which the magistrate started up with an astonished stare, in which the
sentiment of surprise was as completely concentrated as in the face
of the inimitable Mackay, when he cries out, “Hang a magistrate! My
conscience!” The contrast between the bailie’s stupid and drowsy face,
smarting and writhing from the blow, which Jock had laid on pretty
soundly, and the aspect of the _natural_ himself, who still stood at
the head of the pew, shaking his stick, and looking at the magistrate
with an air in which authority, admonition, and a threat of further
punishment, were strangely mingled, altogether formed a scene of
striking and irresistible burlesque; and while the Doctor’s customary
snuffle was increased to a perfect whimper of distress, the whole
congregation showed in their faces evident symptoms of everything but
the demureness proper to a place of worship.
Sometimes, when in a sitting mood, Jock takes a modest seat on the
pulpit stairs, where there likewise usually roost a number of deaf
old women, who cannot hear in any other part of the church. These
old ladies, whom the reader will remember as the unfortunate persons
that Dominie Sampson sprawled over, in his premature descent from the
pulpit, when he _stickit_ his first preaching, our waggish friend would
endeavour to torment by every means which his knavish humour could
invent. He would tread upon their corns, lean amorously upon their
laps, purloin their _specks_ (spectacles), set them on a false scent
after the psalm, and, sometimes getting behind them, plant his longest
and most serious face over their black cathedral-looking bonnets, like
an owl looking over an ivied wall, while few of the audience could
contain their gravity at the extreme humour of the scene. The fun was
sometimes, as we ourselves have witnessed, not a little enhanced by
the old lady upon whom Jock was practising, turning round, in holy
dudgeon, and dealing the unlucky wag a vengeful thwack across the face
with her heavy _octavo_ Bible. We have also seen a very ludicrous scene
take place, when, on the occasion of a baptism, he refused to come
down from his citadel, and defied all the efforts which James Kerr,
the kirk-officer, made to dislodge him; while the father of the child,
waiting below to present it, stood in the most awkward predicament
imaginable, not daring to venture upon the stairs while Jock kept
possession of them. It is not probable, however, that he would have
been so obstinate on that occasion, if he had not had an ill-will at
the preserver of the peace, for his interrupting him that day in his
laudable endeavours to break the slumbers of certain persons, whose
peace (or _rest_) it was the peculiar interest of that official to
preserve.
We will conclude this sketch of _Daft Jock Gray_ with a stupendous
anecdote, which we fear, however, is not strictly canonical. Jock once
received an affront from his mother, who refused to gratify him with
an extra allowance of bannocks, at a time when he meditated a long
journey to a New Year’s Day junketing. Whereupon he seems to have felt
the yearnings of a hermit and a misanthrope within his breast, and
longed to testify to the world how much he both detested and despised
it. He withdrew himself from the society of the cottage,—was seen to
reject the addresses of his old companion and friend the cat,—and
finally, next morning, after tossing an offered cogue of _Scotia’s
halesome food_ into the fire, and breaking two of his mother’s best and
blackest _cutty pipes_, articles which she held almost in the esteem
of _penates_ or household gods,—off he went, and ascended to the top
of the highest Eildon Hill, at that time covered with deep snow. There
he wreaked out his vengeance in a tremendous and truly astonishing
exploit. He rolled a huge snow-ball, till, in its accumulation, it
became too large for his strength, and then taking it to the edge of
the declivity,
“From Eildon’s proud vermilioned brow
He dashed upon the plains below”[4]
the ponderous mass; which, increasing rapidly in its descent, became a
perfect avalanche before it reached the plain, and, when there, seemed
like a younger brother of the three Eildons, so that people thought
Michael Scott had resumed his old pranks, and added another hill to
that which he formerly “split in three.” This enormous conglomeration
of snow was found, when it fully melted away through the course of next
summer, to have licked up with its mountain tongue thirty-five clumps
of withered whin bushes, nineteen hares, three ruined cottages, and a
whole encampment of peat-stacks!
The _Naturals_, or Idiots, of Scotland, of whom the Davie Gellatley of
_fictitious_, and the Daft Jock Gray of _real_ life, may be considered
as good specimens, form a class of our countrymen which it is our
anxious desire should be kept in remembrance. Many of the anecdotes
told of them are extremely laughable, and we are inclined to prize
such things, on account of the just exhibitions they sometimes afford
of genuine human nature. The sketch we have given, and the anecdotes
which we are about to give, may perhaps be considered valuable on this
account, and also from their connection, moreover, with the manners of
rustic life in the Lowlands of Scotland.
_Daft Willie Law_[5] of Kirkaldy was a regular attendant on
_tent-preachings_, and would scour the country thirty miles round in
order to be present at “_an occasion_.”[6] One warm summer day he was
attending the preaching at Abbots Hall, when, being very near-sighted,
and having a very short neck, he stood quite close to “_the tent_”
gaping in the minister’s face, who, greatly irritated at a number of
his hearers being fast asleep, bawled out, “For shame, Christians, to
lie sleeping there, while the glad tidings of the gospel are sounding
in your ears; and here is Willie Law, a poor idiot, hearing me with
great attention!” “Eh go! sir, that’s true,” says Willie; “but if I
hadna been a puir idiot, I would have been sleeping too!”
The late John Berry, Esq., of Wester Bogie, was married to a distant
relation of Daft Willie, upon which account the poor fellow used a
little more freedom with that gentleman than with any other who was
in the habit of noticing him. Meeting Mr. Berry one day in Kirkaldy,
he cries, “God bless you, Mr. Berry! gie’s a bawbee! gie’s a bawbee!”
“There, Willie,” says Mr. Berry, giving him what he thought a
halfpenny, but which he immediately saw was a shilling. “That’s no a
gude bawbee, Willie,” continues he; “gie me’t back, and I’ll gie ye
anither ane for’t.” “Na, na,” quoth Willie, “it sets Daft Willie Law
far better to put away an ill bawbee than it wad do you, Mr. Berry.”
“Ay, but Willie, if ye dinna gie me’t back, I’ll never gie ye anither
ane.” “Deil ma care,” says the wag, “it’ll be lang or I get ither
four-and-twenty frae ye!”
Willie was descended from an ancient Scottish family, and nearly
related to John Law of Lauriston, the celebrated financier of France.
On that account he was often spoken to and noticed by gentlemen of
distinction; and he wished always to appear on the most intimate terms
with the nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood. Posting one day
through Kirkcaldy with more than ordinary speed, he was met by Mr.
Oswald of Dunnikier, who asked him where he was going in such a hurry.
“I’m gaun to my cousin Lord Elgin’s burial.” “Your cousin Lord Elgin’s
burial, you fool! Lord Elgin’s not dead!” “Ah, deil may care,” quoth
Willie; “there’s sax doctors out o’ Embro’ at him, and they’ll hae him
dead afore I win forat!”
Of _Matthew Cathie_, an East Lothian idiot, numerous characteristic
anecdotes are related. He lives by begging in the town of North
Berwick, and is well treated by the people there, on account of his
extreme inoffensiveness. Like Daft Jock Gray, he is fond of going
into churches, where his appearance does not fail to set the people
a-staring. On one occasion the minister, pointing to Matthew, said,
“That person must be put out before we can proceed.” Matthew, hearing
this, exclaimed, “Put him out wha likes, I’ll hae nae hand in’t!”
Another time, the minister said, “Matthew must be put out!” when
Matthew got up and replied, “Oh! Geordie, man, ye needna fash—Matthew
can gang out himsel’!”
The Earl of Wemyss, walking one day, found his fool, Willie Howison,
asleep upon the ground, and, rousing him, asked what he had been
dreaming about. “Ou, my lord,” says Willie, “I dreamed that I was in
hell!” “Ay, Willie, and pray what did ye observe there?” “Ou, my lord,
it’s just there as it’s here—the grit folk’s ta’en _farrest ben_!”
Selkirkshire boasts of several highly amusing idiots, all of whom
John Gray once made the subject of a song, in which each of them
received some complimentary mention. Himself, _Davie o’ the Inch_,
_Caleb and Robbie Scott_, and _Jamie Renwick_, are the chief heroes.
Caleb, a very stupid natural, was once engaged by a troop of wandering
showfolks to personate the character of an orang-outang at a Melrose
fair; the regular orang-outang of the establishment having recently
left his keepers in the lurch, by marrying a widow in Berwick, which
enabled him to give up business, and retire to the shades of domestic
privity. Caleb performed very well, and, being appropriately tarred and
feathered, looked the part to perfection. Amateurship alone would have
soon reconciled him to be an orang-outang all the rest of his life, and
to have left Selkirkshire behind; for, according to his own account,
he had nothing to do but hold his tongue, and sit munching apples all
day long. But his stars had not destined him for so enviable a life
of enjoyment. A drunken farmer coming in to see “the wild man of the
woods,” out of pure mischief gave Caleb a lash across the shoulders
with his whip, when the poor fellow, roaring out in his natural voice,
a mortifying _denouement_ took place; the showfolks were affronted and
hissed out of the town, and Caleb was turned off at a moment’s notice,
with all his blushing honours thick upon him!
_Jamie Renwick_ has more sense and better perceptions than Caleb
Scott, but he is much more intractable and mischievous. He is a
tall, stout, wild-looking fellow, and might perhaps make as good a
hyena as Caleb made an orang-outang. Once, being upon an excursion
along with Jock Gray, they came to a farmhouse, and, in default of
better accommodation, were lodged in the barn. They did not like this
treatment at all, and Jock, in particular, was so irritated, that he
would not rest, but got up and walked about, amusing himself with some
of his wildest and most sonorous melodies. This, of course, annoyed his
companion, who, being inclined to sleep, was making the best he could
of a blanket and a bundle of straw. “Come to your bed, ye skirlin’
deevil!” cries Jamie; “I canna get a wink o’ sleep for ye: I daursay
the folk will think us daft! Od, if ye dinna come and lie down this
instant, I’ll rise and _bring ye to your senses_ wi’ my rung!” “Faith,”
says Jock, “if ye do _that_, it will be mair than ony ither body has
ever been able to do!” It will be remembered that even the minister of
Yarrow himself failed in accomplishing this consummation so devoutly to
be wished.
The following anecdote, from Colonel Stewart’s work on the Highlands,
displays a strange instance of mingled sagacity and fidelity in a
Celtic madman; and has, we have no doubt, been made use of in the
author of “Waverley’s” examples of the fidelity of Davie Gellatley, as
exerted in behalf of his unfortunate patron on similar occasions.
“In the years 1746 and 1747, some of the gentlemen ‘_who had been out_’
in the rebellion were occasionally concealed in a deep woody den near
my grandfather’s house. A poor half-witted creature, brought up about
the house, was, along with many others, intrusted with the secret of
their concealment, and employed in supplying them with necessaries. It
was supposed that when the troops came round on their usual searches,
they would not imagine that he could be intrusted with so important a
secret, and, consequently, no questions would be asked. One day two
ladies, friends of the gentlemen, wished to visit them in their cave,
and asked Jamie Forbes to show them the way. Seeing that they came from
the house, and judging from their manner that they were friends, he did
not object to their request, and walked away before them. When they had
proceeded a short way, one of the ladies offered him five shillings.
The instant he saw the money, he put his hands behind his back, and
seemed to lose all recollection. ‘He did not know what they wanted: he
never saw the gentlemen, and knew nothing of them;’ and, turning away,
walked in a quite contrary direction. When questioned afterwards why
he ran away from the ladies, he answered, that when they had offered
him such a sum (five shillings was of some value seventy years ago, and
would have bought two sheep in the Highlands), he suspected they had no
good intention, and that their fine clothes and fair words were meant
to entrap the gentlemen.”
RORY DALL, THE HARPER.[7]
An allusion is made to this celebrated musician in the description of
Flora Mac-Ivor’s performance upon the harp in the Highland glen. “Two
paces back stood Cathleen, holding a small Scottish harp, the use of
which had been taught her by Rory Dall, one of the last harpers of the
Western Islands.” (“Wav.,” vol. i. p. 338.) _Roderick Morison_, called
_Dall_ on account of his blindness, lived in Queen Anne’s time, in the
double capacity of harper and bard to the family of Macleod of Macleod.
Many of his songs and poems are still repeated by his countrymen.
“CLAW FOR CLAW, AS CONAN SAID TO SATAN.”
When the Highlanders prepared for Prestonpans (“Wav.,” vol. ii. p.
289), Mrs. Flockhart, in great distress about the departure of her
lodgers, asks Ensign Maccombich if he would “actually face thae
tearing, swearing chields, the dragoons?” “Claw for claw,” cries the
courageous Highlander, “and the devil take the shortest nails!” This
is an old Gaelic proverb. _Conan_ was one of Fingal’s heroes—rash,
turbulent, and brave. One of his unearthly exploits is said to have
led him to Iurna, or Cold Island (similar to the Den of Hela of
Scandinavian mythology), a place only inhabited by infernal beings. On
Conan’s departure from the island, one of its demons struck him a blow,
which he instantly returned. This outrage upon immortals was fearfully
retaliated, by a whole legion setting upon poor Conan. But the warrior
was not daunted; and exclaiming, “Claw for claw, and the devil take the
shortest nails!” fought out the battle, and, it is said, ultimately
came off victorious.
TULLY-VEOLAN.
(_Traquair House._)
TULLY-VEOLAN finds a striking counterpart in Traquair House, in
Peebles-shire, the seat of the noble family whose name it bears. The
aspect of the gateway, avenue, and house itself, is precisely that of
the semi-Gothic, bear-guarded mansion of Bradwardine. It is true that,
in place of the multitudinous representations of the bear, so profusely
scattered around Tully-Veolan, we have here only a single pair, which
adorn the gate at the head of the avenue: and that the avenue itself
cannot pretend to match the broad continuous shade through which
Waverley approached the Highland castle; and also that several other
important features are wanting to complete the resemblance;—yet,
if we be not altogether imposed upon by fancy, there is a likeness
sufficiently strong to support the idea that this scene formed the
original _study_ of the more finished and bold-featured picture of
the novelist. Traquair House was finished in the reign of Charles I.
by the first Earl, who was lord high treasurer of Scotland at that
period. This date corresponds with that assigned to Tully-Veolan,
which, says the author, was built when architects had not yet abandoned
the castellated style peculiar to the preceding warlike ages, nor yet
acquired the art of constructing a baronial mansion without a view to
defence.
It is worthy of remark, that the Earl of Traquair is the only Scottish
nobleman, besides the Earl of Newburgh, who still adheres to the
Romish faith:[8] and that his antique and interesting house strongly
resembles, in its _internal economy and appearance_, Glenallan Castle,
described in the “Antiquary.”
Among the illustrative vignettes prefixed to a late edition of
the author of “Waverley’s” works, a view of Craig Crook Castle,
near Edinburgh, is given for Tully-Veolan; and, to complete the
_vraisemblance_, several bears have been added to the scene. It is
only necessary to assert, in general, that these bears only exist in
the imagination of the artist, and that no place has less resemblance
to the Tully-Veolan of “Waverley” than Craig Crook, which is a small
_single_ house, in a bare situation, more like the mansion of poor
Laird Dumbiedykes than the castle of a powerful feudal baron.
THE BODACH GLAS.
The original of the _Bodach Glas_, whose appearance proved so
portentous to the family of the Mac-Ivors, may probably be traced to
a legend current in the ancient family of Maclaine of Lochbuy, in the
island of Mull, noticed by Sir Walter Scott in a note to his “Lady
of the Lake.”[9] The popular tradition is, that whenever any person
descended of that family is near death, the spirit of one of them,
who was slain in battle, gives notice of the approaching event. There
is this difference between the _Bodach Glas_ and him, that the former
appeared on these solemn occasions only to the chief of the house of
Mac-Ivor, whereas the latter never misses an individual descended of
the family of Lochbuy, however obscure, or in whatever part of the
world he may be.
The manner of his showing himself is sometimes different, but he
uniformly appears on horseback. Both the horse and himself seem to be
of a very diminutive size, particularly the head of the rider, from
which circumstance he goes under the appellation of “_Eoghan a chinn
bhig_,” or “_Hugh of the little head_.” Sometimes he is heard riding
furiously round the house where the person is about to die, with an
extraordinary noise, like the rattling of iron chains. At other times
he is discovered with his horse’s head nearly thrust in at a door or
window; and, on such occasions, whenever observed, he gallops off in
the manner already described, the hooves of his steed striking fire
from the flinty rocks. The effects of such a visit on the inmates of
the dwelling may be easily conceived when it is considered that it was
viewed as an infallible prognostication of approaching death—an event
at which the stoutest heart must recoil, when the certainty is placed
before him of his hours being numbered. Like his brother spirits,
he seems destined to perform his melancholy rounds amidst nocturnal
darkness, the horrors of which have a natural tendency to increase the
consternation of a scene in itself sufficiently appalling.
The origin of the tradition is involved in the obscurity of antiquity.
It is related of him that, on the eve of a battle in which he was to
be engaged, a weird woman prophesied to him, that if his wife (who was
a daughter of Macdougall of Lorn), on the morning when he was to set
out on his expedition, had his breakfast prepared before he was ready
for it, good fortune would betide him; if, on the other hand, he had
to call for his breakfast, he would lose his life in the conflict.
It seems he was not blest with an affectionate spouse; for, on the
morning in question, after waiting a considerable time, he had at last
to call for his breakfast, not, however, without upbraiding his wife,
by informing her of what was to be the consequence of her want of
attention. The presentiment that he was to fall may have contributed to
the fulfilment of the prophecy, which was accomplished as a matter of
course. This part of the story probably refers to one of the Maclaines
of Lochbuy, who was married to a daughter of Macdougall of Lorn,
and who, with his two eldest sons, was killed in a feud with their
neighbours, the Macleans of Duart, which had nearly proved fatal to the
family of Lochbuy. This happened in the reign of King James IV.
It has not come to our knowledge for what cause the penance was imposed
on _Eoghan a chinn bhig_ of giving warning to all his clan of their
latter end—whether for deeds done in this life, or whether (as some
people imagine that departed spirits act as guardian angels to the
living) he is thus permitted to show his regard for his friends by
visiting them in their last moments, to prepare them for another
world. The latter would appear to be the most probable, from a
circumstance reported of him, which seems rather at variance with the
general character of a harbinger of death. It is said that he took a
great fancy to a near relation of the family of Lochbuy (called, by
way of patronymic, John M‘Charles), to whom he paid frequent visits,
and communicated several particulars respecting the future fate of the
family. Whenever he wished an interview with his favourite, he would
come to his door, from which he would not stir till John M‘Charles came
out; when he would pull him up behind him on his Pegasus, and ride all
night over hills, rocks, woods, and wilds, at the same time conversing
with him familiarly of several events that were to happen in the
Lochbuy family, one of which is said to have been accomplished, about
forty years ago, according to his prediction.
This tiny personage, though light of limb, has the reputation of being,
like all other unearthly beings, endued with supernatural strength, of
which his exploits with John M‘Charles afford an instance. Not many
years ago, a man in Mull, when returning home about dusk, perceived
a person on horseback coming towards him. Supposing it might be some
person whom he knew, he went up to speak to him; but the horseman
seemed determined to pass on without noticing him. Thinking he observed
something remarkable in the appearance of the rider, he approached
close to him, when he was unexpectedly seized by the collar, and
forcibly dragged about a quarter of a mile by the stranger, who at
last abandoned his hold, after several ineffectual attempts to place
his terrified victim behind him, which, being a powerful man, he
successfully resisted. He was, however, so much bruised in the scuffle,
that it was with difficulty he could make his way home, although he had
only about half a mile to go. He immediately took to his bed, which he
did not leave for some days, his friends wondering all the time what
could be the matter with him. It was not until he told the story, as
we have related it, that the adventure was known. And as, after the
strictest inquiry, it could not be ascertained that any person on
horseback had passed that way on the evening on which it took place,
it was, by the unanimous voice of all the seers and old wives in the
neighbourhood, laid down as an incontrovertible proposition, that the
equestrian stranger could be no other than “_Eoghan a chinn bhig_.”
In whatever way the tradition originated, certain it is that, at one
time, it was very generally, if not universally, received over the
island of Mull and adjacent parts. Like other superstitions of a
similar nature, it has gradually given way to the more enlightened
ideas of modern times, and the belief is now confined to the vulgar.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See introduction to “Peveril,” where the Scottish Novelist
describes himself as wearing such old-fashioned habiliments.
[2] While Sir Walter Scott resided at Ashesteil, Jock frequently
visited him, and was much noticed, on account of his strange humours
and entertaining qualities.
[3] A respectable clergyman of our acquaintance, who is in the habit
of preaching his elegant discourses with the help of M.S., was once
extremely amused with the declaration of a hearer, who professed
himself repugnant to that practice. “Doctor,” says he, “ye’re just a
slave to the bit paper, and nane o’ us ha’e that respect for ye that
we ought to ha’e; but to do ye justice, I maun confess, that since I
changed my seat in the loft, and ha’na ye now sae fair atween my een,
so that I can _hear_ without _seeing_ ye, fient a bit but I think ye’re
just as good as auld _Threshin’ Willy_ himsel’!”
[4] The Russiade, a poem, by James Hogg.
[5] We are indebted for this and the two succeeding anecdotes to the
“Scotch Haggis,” a curious collection of the pure native wit of our
country, published in 1822.
[6] The country people call a dispensation of the greater Sacrament
“_an occasion_.” It is also scoffingly termed “_the Holy Fair_.”
In Edinburgh it is called “_the Preachings_.” But, it must be
observed, these phrases are only applied in reference to the outward
circumstances, and not to the holy ceremony itself.
[7] We are indebted for this and the succeeding illustration to the
late Alexander Campbell’s edition of Macintosh’s Gaelic Proverbs.
[8] Charles, fifth Earl of Traquair, was implicated in the proceedings
of the year 1745, though he did not appear openly. See the evidence of
Secretary Murray on the trial of Lord Lovat, _Scots Magazine_ for 1747,
p. 105.
[9] Note 7 to Canto III.