=Heart of Mid-Lothian.=
THE PORTEOUS MOB.
We shall mention a few inaccuracies in the account given of the
Porteous mob in “The Heart of Midlothian,” assigning, at the same time,
precise dates to all the incidents.
On the morning of the 11th of April, 1736, Wilson and Robertson were
conducted to the Tolbooth Church, for the purpose of hearing their
last sermon, their execution being to happen on Wednesday following.
The custom of conducting criminals under sentence of death to a
place of public worship, and suffering them again to mix with their
fellow-men, from whom they were so shortly to be cut off for ever, was
a beautiful trait of the devotional and merciful feelings of the people
of Scotland, which has since this incident been unhappily disused. In
the Tale, the escape of Robertson is said to have happened after the
sermon; but this statement, evidently made by the novelist for the sake
of effect, is incorrect. The criminals had scarcely seated themselves
in the pew, when Wilson committed the daring deed. Robertson tripped up
the fourth soldier himself, and jumped out of the pew with incredible
agility. In hurrying out at the door of the church, he tumbled over
the collection money, by which he was probably hurt; for, in running
across the Parliament Square, he was observed to stagger much, and,
in going down the stairs which lead to the Cowgate, actually fell. In
this dangerous predicament he was protected by Mr. M‘Queen, minister
of the New Kirk, who was coming up the stair on his way to church at
the moment. This kind-hearted gentleman is said to have set him again
on his feet, and to have covered his retreat as much as possible from
the pursuit of the guard. Robertson passed down to the Cowgate, ran
up the Horse Wynd, and out at the Potterrow Port, the crowd all the
way closing behind him, so that his pursuers could not by any means
overtake him. In the wynd he made up to a saddled horse, and would have
mounted him, but was prevented by the owner. Passing the Crosscauseway,
he got into the King’s Park, and made the way for Duddingstone,
under the basaltic rocks which overhang the path to that village. On
jumping a dyke near Clearburn, he fainted away, but was revived by a
refreshment which he there received.
Upon Robertson’s escape, Wilson was immediately taken back to prison,
and put in close custody. He was executed, under the dreadful
circumstances so well known, on the 14th of April. The story of a
“young fellow, with a sailor’s cap slouched over his face,” having
cut him down from the gibbet, on the rising of the mob, is perfectly
unfounded. The executioner was at the top of the ladder, performing
that part of his office, at the time Porteous fired.
Though the author of the Tale has chosen George Robertson for his hero,
and invested him with many attributes worthy of that high character,
historical accuracy obliges us to record that he was merely a stabler;
and, what must at once destroy all romantic feelings concerning him in
the light of a hero, tradition informs us that he was a married man
at the time of his imprisonment. He kept an inn in Bristo Street, and
was a man of rather dissipated habits, though the exculpatory evidence
produced upon his trial represents him as in the habit of being much
intrusted by the carriers who lodged at his house. After his escape, he
was known to have gone to Holland, and to have resided there many years.
The most flagrant aberration from the truth committed by the novelist,
is in the opening of the Tale, where the crowd is represented as
awaiting the execution of Captain Porteous, in the Grassmarket, on the
7th of September. The whole scene is described in the most admirable
manner; and the interesting objects of the gallows, the filled windows,
and the crowd upon the street, form, I have no doubt, the faithful
outline of what the scene would have been, had it existed.[29]
But however ably the Author of “Waverley” has delineated this imaginary
scene, it is unfortunate that his account does not agree either with
truth, or, what was to him ten times more important, _vraisemblance_.
He has no doubt handled the fictitious incident of the abortive
preparations for the execution, and the expressions of the disappointed
multitude on the occasion, in his usual masterly manner, and heightened
the _effect_ of his own story not a little by the use he has made of
history; but it must at the same time strike every reader that the
whole affair is extremely improbable. It seems scarcely possible that a
conspiracy of such a deep and well-planned nature as the Porteous mob
could have been laid and brought to issue in a single afternoon. Not
even the most romantic reader of novels, supposing him to understand
the case to its full extent, would deceive himself with so incredible
an absurdity; but would think with us that, according to the natural
course of things, it would take _all the time it did take_, (five
days,) before so well-laid and eventually so successful a scheme could
be projected, organized, and accomplished.
The plain statement of the facts is to the following effect.
The Queen’s pardon reached Edinburgh so early as Thursday, the 2nd of
September. The riot happened on the night of Tuesday, the 7th—the
night previous to the day on which the execution was to have taken
place, and after a sufficient time had elapsed for the preparation of
the scheme. Many of the rioters came from counties so distant, that the
news of the reprieve could not have reached them in a less space; and
perhaps the intelligence would not have been so speedily communicated
in those postless and coachless days, had not the popular interest in
the matter been so universal. Taking every thing into consideration, it
may indeed astonish us that the conspiracy was so rapidly matured as
it _was_, not to speak of a single afternoon! It may be noticed, that
some papers have lately come to light, by which it appears the plot
was not of that dark and mysterious character which the accounts of
the times and the Author of “Waverley” make it. Information had been
given to the council at least _thirty-six hours_ before the tumult
burst forth; and at a meeting late on the previous evening, when the
information was taken into consideration, the council pronounced the
reports in circulation to be merely _cadies’ clatters_, (gossip of
street-porters,) unworthy of regard.
The incidents of the riot, from the mob’s entering the city at the
West Port to Butler’s desertion of the scene at midnight, are all
given very correctly by the novelist. It is said to be absolutely true
that the rioters seized and detained a person of Butler’s profession,
for the purpose related in the novel. This happened, however, when
they had got half way to the gallows, at the head of the West Bow.
Porteous was twice drawn up and let down again before the deed was
accomplished—first, to bind his hands, and secondly, in order to put
something over his face. In the morning his body was found hanging, by
the public functionaries of the city, and was buried the same day in
the neighbouring churchyard of Greyfriars. It was on the south side of
the Grassmarket that he was hanged.
Arnot observes, after relating the incidents of the Porteous mob, in
his History of Edinburgh, that though it was then forty years after
that occurrence, no person had ever been found out upon whom an
accession to the murder could be charged. Nevertheless, the writer of
the present narrative has been informed by a very old man, who was an
apprentice in the Fleshmarket of Edinburgh about fifty years ago, that
in his younger days it was well known among the butchers, though only
whispered secretly among themselves, that the leaders of this singular
riot were two brothers of the name of Cumming, who were, for many years
after, fleshers in the Low Market, and died unmolested, at advanced
ages. They were tall, strong, and exceedingly handsome men, had been
dressed in women’s clothes on the occasion, and were said to have been
the first to jump through the flames that burnt down the prison-door,
in eagerness to seize their unfortunate victim.
A few more scraps of private information have also been communicated to
the world by one who was instrumental and active in the riot. We give
them from the authority of “The Beauties of Scotland.”
“On the day preceding that of Porteous’ death, a whisper went through
the country, upon what information or authority this person knew not,
that an attempt was to be made, on the succeeding evening, to put
Captain Porteous to death. To avenge the blood of a relation who had
been killed at the execution of Wilson, he conceived himself bound in
duty to share the risk of the attempt. Wherefore, upon the following
day, he proceeded to Edinburgh, and towards the evening stopped in the
suburb of Portsburgh, which he found crowded with country people; all
of whom, however, kept aloof from each other, so that there was no
conversation about the purpose of their assembling. At a later hour,
he found the inferior sort of inns in the Grassmarket full of people,
and saw many persons, apparently strangers, lurking in the different
houses. About eleven at night, the streets became crowded with men,
who, having in some measure organized their body, by beating a drum and
marching in order, immediately proceeded to secure the gates and make
for the prison.”
* * * * *
“As the multitude proceeded with Porteous down the West Bow, some of
their number knocked at the door of a shop and demanded ropes.[30]
A woman, apparently a maid-servant, thrust a coil of ropes out of a
window, without opening the door, and a person wearing a white apron,
which seemed to be assumed for disguise, gave in return a piece of gold
as the price,” etc.
THE CITY GUARD.
The City Guard, of which so much mention is made in the Tale before
us, was originally instituted in 1648. Previous to that period, the
City had been watched during the night by the personal duty of the
inhabitants, a certain number of whom were obliged to undertake the
office by rotation. In order to relieve the inconveniency of this
service, a body of sixty men was first appointed, with a captain, two
lieutenants, two sergeants, and three corporals; but no regular funds
being provided for the support of the establishment, it was speedily
dissolved. However, about thirty years thereafter, the necessity of a
regular police was again felt; and forty men were raised. These, in the
year 1682, were augmented, at the instigation of the Duke of York, to
108 men; and, to defray the expense of the company, a tax was imposed
upon the citizens. At the Revolution, the Town Council represented
to the Estates of Parliament, that the burden was a grievance to the
City; and their request to have it removed was granted. So speedily,
however, did they repent this second dismissal of their police, that
the very next year they applied to Parliament for authority to raise a
body of no fewer than 126 men, and to assess the inhabitants for the
expense. Since that period the number of the Town Guard had been very
fluctuating, and, before its late final dissolution, amounted only to
about 75 men. For many years previous to this event, they had been
found quite inadequate to the protection of the City. Riots seemed to
be in some measure encouraged by the ridicule in which the venerable
corps was held; and from their infirmities and other circumstances, as
well as from their scantiness, the more distant parts of the rapidly
increasing capital were left defenceless and open to the attacks of
nightly depredators. Their language, their manners, and their tempers,
so uncongenial with those of the citizens whom they protected, were
also found to be almost inapplicable to the purposes for which they
served, and, of course, operated as causes of their being disbanded.
Besides, a few years before their dismissal, a regular police, similar
to that of London, had been established in Edinburgh; which soon
completely set aside all necessity of their services. The Town Guard
were therefore convoked for the last time, we believe, in February,
1817; and, after receiving some small gratuity from the magistrates,
and having a pension settled upon them still more trifling than their
trifling pay, proportioned to the rank they held in the corps, were
finally disbanded. The police of Edinburgh is now almost unrivalled in
Britain for vigilance and activity—how different from the unruly and
intemperate times when magisterial authority could be successfully set
at defiance, when mobs could unite into such a system of co-operation
as even to beard royalty itself, when (in 1812) a scene of violence
could be exhibited that would not have disgraced the middle ages, and
when, still more to be lamented, the protection of property was so
uncertain, that, according to the city-arms, it was but too literally
true that—
“Unless the _Lord_ the City kept,
The _watchmen_ watched in vain!”
Another event occurred about the same time in Edinburgh, which
was appropriately contemporaneous with the abolition of the City
Guard,—namely, the demolishment and final removal of the Tolbooth.
This building, which makes so conspicuous a figure in the present Tale,
was originally the Town-house of Edinburgh, and afterwards afforded
accommodation for the Scottish Parliament and Courts of Justice, and
for the confinement of debtors and malefactors. It had been used
solely as a jail since 1640. It was not deficient in other interesting
recollections, besides being the scene of the Porteous mob. Here Queen
Mary delivered, what are termed by John Knox her _Painted Orations_;
and on its dreary summits had been successively displayed the heads of
a Morton, a Gowrie, a Huntly, a Montrose, and an Argyll,—besides those
of many of inferior note.
A part of this edifice had been devoted to the use of the City Guard,
ever since the removal of their former rendezvous in the High Street.
Many will still remember of seeing a veteran or two leaning over
a half-door in the north side of the Jail. Could their eyes have
penetrated farther into the gloomy interior, a few more indistinct
figures might have been perceived smoking round a fire, or reading
an old newspaper, while the unintelligible language which they spoke
might aid the idea of their resemblance to a convocation of infernals
in some of the cinder-holes of Tartarus. In fine weather, a few of the
venerable corps might be seen crawling about the south front of the
prison, with Lochaber axes over their shoulders, or reposing lazily
on a form with the white-haired keeper of the Tolbooth door, and
basking in the sun, in all the lubber luxury of mental and corporeal
abandonment. But now (_sic transit gloria mundi!_) their ancient
Capitol is levelled with the dust, and they themselves are only to be
ranked among the “things that were.” All trace of their existence is
dispersed over a waste of visioned recollection; and future generations
will think of the City Guard, as they think of _the forty-five_, of
_the Friends of the People_,—or of the last year’s snow!
It is said, in the “Heart of Midlothian,” that “a phantom of former
days,” in the shape of “an old worn-out Highlander, dressed in a
cocked hat, bound with white tape instead of silver lace, and in coat,
waistcoat and breeches, of a muddy-coloured red,” (the costume of _the
Guard_,) “still creeps around the statue of Charles the Second, in the
Parliament Square, as if the image of a Stuart were the last refuge
for any memorial of our ancient manners.” This venerable spectre is
neither more nor less than the goodly flesh and blood figure of John
Kennedy, who served in the corps ever since the American war, and who
is now employed by Mr. Rae, keeper of the Parliament House, to sweep
the arcade, and to prevent little ragged urchins from disturbing by
their noisy sports the weightier business of the law. John Kennedy was
one of the band; and was well known to the heroes of the High School
forty years ago. Like him, the greater part of his surviving brethren
have changed into new shapes. One or two may be observed now and then,
staggering about the outskirts of the town, or dozing away the last
years of life upon the seats in the Meadow Walk and the King’s Park.
Their old musty coats, in such instances, are dyed in some colour less
military than red, and generally otherwise modernized by abscission of
the skirts. A pair of their original spatterdashers still case their
legs,—but which still less scarcely fend than formerly
“——to keep
Frae weet and weary plashes
O’ dirt, thir days.”
We once stumbled upon a veteran snugly bedded in a stall of about three
feet square, crammed into the internal space of an outside stair in
the West Bow. In this den he exercised the calling of a cobbler. Like
all shoemakers, he was an earnest politician, and read the _Scotsman_
every week in the second month of its age, after it had made the
tour of _the Bow_;—“being determined,” he said, “to _stick by the
nation_!” We have also sometimes found occasion to recognise the nose
of an old acquaintance, under the disguise of a circulator of bills,
at the doors of certain haberdashers on the South Bridge. We have a
peculiar veneration for a puff given forth from the paw of an _old
Town-Guardsman_; and seldom find it in our heart to put such a document
to a death of candle-ends.
One of the principal reasons which David Deans assigned to Saddletree,
for not employing counsel in the cause of his daughter Effie, was the
notorious Jacobitism of the faculty, who, he said, had received into
their library the medals which that Moabitish woman, the Duchess of
Gordon, had sent to them. This was a true and, moreover, a curious
case. In 1711, the great-grandmother of the present Duke of Gordon
excited no small attention by presenting to the Faculty of Advocates
a silver medal, with a head of the Pretender on one side, and, on the
other, the British isles, with the word _Reddite_.[31] The Dean having
presented the medal to the faculty at the next meeting, a debate ensued
about the propriety of admitting it into their repositories. It was
carried 63 to 12 to admit the medal, and return thanks to the duchess
for her present. Two advocates, delegated for that purpose, waited
upon her grace, and expressed their hopes that she would soon have an
opportunity of complimenting the faculty with a second medal on the
_Restoration_.
This lady was the wife of George, first Duke of Gordon, who held out
Edinburgh Castle for King James, in 1689.
JEANIE DEANS.
The plot of this tale, besides bearing some resemblance to that of The
Exiles of Siberia, finds a counterpart in the story of Helen Walker.
When the following account of this person was taken down, in 1786,
she was a little stout-looking woman, between 70 and 80 years of
age, dressed in a long tartan plaid, and having over her white cap,
(_Scottice_, TOY,) a black silk hood tied under her chin. She lived
in the neighbourhood of Dumfries, on the romantic banks of the
immortalized Clouden, a little way above the bridge by which the road
from Dumfries to Sanquhar crosses that beautiful stream. She lived
by the humblest means of subsistence,—working stockings, teaching
a few children, and rearing now and then a small brood of chickens.
Her countenance was remarkably lively and intelligent, her eyes were
dark and expressive, and her conversation was marked by a naïveté and
good sense that seemed to fit her for a higher sphere in life. When
any question was asked concerning her earlier life, her face became
clouded, and she generally contrived to turn the conversation to a
different topic.
Her story, so far as it was ever known, bore that she had been early
left an orphan, with the charge of a younger sister, named _Tibby_,
(Isabella,) whom she endeavoured to maintain and educate by her own
exertions. It will not be easy to conceive her feelings when her sister
was apprehended on a charge of child-murder, and herself called on as a
principal witness against her. The counsel for the prisoner told Helen,
that if she could declare that her sister had made any preparation,
however slight, or had communicated any notice of her situation, such
a statement would save her sister’s life. But, from the very first,
this high-souled woman determined against such a perjury, and avowed
her resolution to give evidence according to her conscience. Isabella
was of course found guilty and condemned; and, in removing her from the
bar, she was heard to say to her sister, “Oh, Nelly! ye’ve been the
cause of my death!”
Helen Walker, however, was as remarkable for her dauntless perseverance
in a good cause as for her fortitude in resisting the temptations of a
bad one. She immediately procured a petition to be drawn up, stating
the peculiar circumstances of the case, and that very night of her
sister’s condemnation set out from Dumfries for London. She travelled
on foot, and was neither possessed of introduction nor recommendation.
She presented herself in her tartan plaid and country attire before
John Duke of Argyll, after having watched three days at his door, just
as he was stepping into his carriage, and delivered her petition.
Herself and her story interested him so much, that he immediately
procured the pardon she solicited, which was forwarded to Dumfries, and
Helen returned on foot, having performed her meritorious journey in the
course of a few weeks.
After her liberation, Isabella was married to the father of her child,
and retired to some distance in the north of England, where Helen used
occasionally to visit her.
Helen Walker, whom every one will be ready to acknowledge as the
_Original_ of Jeanie Deans, died in the spring of 1787; and her remains
lie in the Churchyard of Irongray, without a stone to mark the place
where they are deposited.
PATRICK WALKER.
The objurgatory exhortation which David Deans delivers to his
daughters, on suddenly overhearing the word “_dance_” pronounced
in their conversation, will be remembered by our readers. He there
“blesses God, (with that singular worthy, Patrick Walker the packman at
Bristo-port,) that ordered his lot in his dancing days, so that fear of
his head and throat, cauld and hunger, wetness and weariness, stopped
the lightness of his head and the wantonness of his feet.” Almost the
whole of David’s speech is to be found at the 59th page of Patrick
Walker’s “Life of Cameron,” with much more curious matter.
This “Patrick Walker” was a person who had suffered for the good cause
in his youth, along with many others of the “singular worthies” of
the times. After the Revolution, it appears that he exercised the
profession of a pedlar. He probably dealed much in those pamphlets
concerning the sufferings and the doctrines of the “_Martyrs_,” which
were so widely diffused throughout Scotland, in the years subsequent
to the Revolution. In the process of time he set up his staff of rest
in a small shop at the head of Bristo Street, opposite to the entrance
of a court entitled “Society.” Here Patrick flourished about a century
ago, and published several works, now very scarce and curious, of
“Remarkable Passages in the Lives and Deaths of those famous worthies,
signal for piety and zeal, _viz._ Mr. John Semple, Mr. Wellwood, Mr.
Cameron, Mr. Peden, etc.; who were all shining lights in the Land, and
gave light to many, in which they rejoiced for a season.” For this
sort of biography Patrick seems to have been excellently adapted;
for he had not only been witness to many of the incidents which
he describes, but, from his intimate personal friendship with the
subjects of his narratives, he was also a complete adept in all their
intricate polemics and narrow superstitions. These he accordingly
gives in such a style of length, strength, and volubility, as leaves
us weltering in astonishment at the extensive range of expression of
which Cant was susceptible. Take the following, for instance, from the
rhapsodies of Peden. “A bloody sword, a bloody sword, a bloody sword
for thee, O Scotland! Many miles shall ye travel and shall see nothing
but desolation and ruinous wastes in thee, O Scotland! The fertilest
places shall be desert as the mountains in thee, O Scotland! Oh the
Monzies, the Monzies, see how they run! how long will they run? Lord,
cut their houghs and stay their running. The women with child shall be
ript up and dashed in pieces. Many a preaching has God waired (_spent_)
on thee, O Scotland! But now He will come forth with the fiery brand
of His wrath, and then He will preach to thee by conflagration, since
words winna do! O Lord, Thou hast been baith good and kind to auld
Sandy, thorow a long tract of time, and given him many years in Thy
Service which have been but like as many months. But now he is tired
of the warld, and sae let him away with the honesty he has, for he
will gather no more!” We will also extract Patrick’s own account of
an incident which is related upon his authority in the “Heart of
Midlothian,” at the 54th page of the second volume. It is a good
specimen of his style:—
“One time, among many, he[32] designed to administrate the Sacrament
of the Lord’s Supper; and before the time cam, he assured the people
that the devil would be envious of the good work they were to go
about,—that he was afraid he would be permitted to raise a storm in
the air with a speat of rain, to raise the water, designing to drown
some of them; but it will not be within the compass of his power to
drown any of you, no not so much as a dog. Accordingly it came to pass,
on _Monday_, when they were dismissing, they saw a man all in black,
entering the water to wade, a little above them; they were afraid, the
water being big; immediately he lost his feet, (as they apprehended,)
and came down lying on his back, and waving his hand. The people ran
and got ropes, and threw in to him; and tho’ there were ten or twelve
men upon the ropes, they were in danger of being drowned into the
water: Mr. Semple, looking on, cryed, ‘Quit the ropes and let him go,
(he saw who it was,) ’tis the devil, ’tis the devil; he will burn, but
not drown; and, by drowning you, would have God dishonoured, because
He hath gotten some glory to His free grace, in being kind to mony of
your souls at this time. Oh! he is a subtile wylie devil, that lies
at the catch, waiting his opportunity, that now, when ye have heard
all ye will get at this occasion, his design is to raise a confusion
among you, to get all out of your minds that ye have heard, and off
your spirits that ye have felt.’ He earnestly exhorted them all to
keep in mind what they had heard and seen, and to retain what they had
attained, and to go home blessing God for all, and that the devil was
disappointed of his hellish design. All search was made in the country,
to find out if any man was lost, but none could be heard of; from
whence all concluded that it was the devil.”
According to Patrick, this same Mr. Semple was remarkable for much
discernment and sagacity, besides that which was necessary for the
detection of devils. From the following “passage,” the reader will
observe that he was equally acute in the detection of witches. “While
a neighbouring minister was distributing tokens before the sacrament,
Mr. Semple standing by, and seeing him reaching a token to a woman,
said, ‘Hold your hand; that Woman hath got too many tokens already, for
she is a witch;’ of which none suspected her then: yet afterwards she
confessed herself to be a witch, and was put to death for the same.”
We also find John Semple, of Carsphearn, introduced into that
well-known irreverent work, “Scots Presbyterian Eloquence”; where an
humorous burlesque of his style of expression is given in the following
words: “In the day of judgment the Lord will say, ‘Who’s that there?’
John will answer, ‘It’s e’en poor auld John Semple, Lord.’ ‘Who are
these with you, John?’ ‘It’s a few poor honest bonneted men.’ ‘Strange,
John! where’s all your folks with their hats and silk hoods?’ ‘I
invited them, Lord; but they would not come.’ ‘It’s not your fault,
John; come forward, ye are very welcome, and these few with you!’”
In the _reekit_ and mutilated volume of “Lives” before us, we have
found a considerable number of passages which are alluded to in the
narratives of My Landlord—more indeed than it would be interesting
to point out. The use which the Author makes of the information he
derives from them is by no means dishonourable, except perhaps in one
instance, vol. iv., page 134, where it must be allowed he is rather
waggish upon Patrick, besides corrupting the truth of his text. This
instance relates to the murder of a trooper named Francis Gordon, said
to have been committed by the Cameronians. Patrick denies the charge
of murder, and calls it only killing in self-defence. His own account
is as follows: “It was then commonly said, that Mr. Francis Gordon was
a Volunteer out of Wickedness of Principles, and could not stay with
the Troops, but must alwaies be raging and ranging to catch hiding
suffering people. Meldrum and Airly’s Troops, lying at Lanark upon the
first Day of March, 1682, Mr. Gordon and another Comrade, with their
two Servants and four Horses, came to Kilcaigow, two Miles from Lanark,
searching for William Caigow and others under Hiding. Mr. Gordon,
rambling thorow the Town, offered to abuse the women. At night they
came a mile further to the Easterseat, to Robert Muir’s, he being also
under hiding. Gordon’s comrade and the two servants went to bed, but
he could sleep none, roaring all the night for women. When day came,
he took his sword in his hand, and came to Moss-Platt; and some men,
(who had been in the fields all night,) seeing him, they fled, and
he pursued. James Wilson, Thomas Young, and myself, having been in a
meeting all night, were lying down in the morning. We were alarmed,
thinking there were many more than one. He pursued hard and overtook
us. Thomas Young said, ‘Sir, what do you pursue us for?’ He said, he
was come to send us to Hell. James Wilson said, ‘That shall not be, for
we will defend ourselves.’ He answered that either he or we should go
to it now, and then ran his sword furiously thorow James Wilson’s coat.
James fired upon him, but missed him. All the time he cried, ‘damn his
soul!’ He got a shot in his head out of a pocket pistol, rather fit
for diverting a boy than for killing such a furious, mad, brisk man;
which notwithstanding killed him dead.” Patrick does not mention who it
was that shot him; and from his obscurity on this point, we are led
to suspect that it was no other than himself; for had it been Thomas
Young, it is probable that he would have mentioned it. In the ‘Tale,’
David Deans is mentioned as being among them, and half confesses to the
merit of having killed Mr. Gordon; but our venerable biographer is also
made to prefer a sort of a half claim to the honour, while neither of
them dared utterly to avow it; ‘there being some wild cousins of the
deceased about Edinburgh who might have been yet addicted to revenge.’”
The “worthy John Livingston, a sailor in Borrowstownness,” who is
quoted for a saying at the 37th page of the fourth volume, will be
found at 107th page of Patrick’s “Life of Cameron,” with the words
ascribed to him at full length. Borrowstownness seems to have been a
somewhat holy place in its day; for, besides this worthy, we learn from
the same authority that it also produced “Skipper William Horn, that
singular, solid, serious, old exercised, self-denied, experienced,
confirmed, established, tender Christian,” and another tar of the name
of Alexander Stewart, who “suffered at the Cross” for a cause in which
few of his profession have ever since thought of suffering,—together
with two other worthies named Cuthel, one of whom was beheaded along
with Mr. Cargill.
At the 40th page of the same fourth volume, David Deans declares
himself to have been the person “of whom there was some sport at
the Revolution, when he noited thegither the heads of the twa false
prophets, their ungracious Graces the Prelates, as they stood on the
High Street, after being expelled from the Convention-parliament.”
The source of this story is also to be found in the works of Patrick
Walker. This sage historian relates the circumstance in a manner rather
too facetious to be altogether consistent with his habitual gravity.
“Fourteen Bishops,” says he, “were expelled at once, and stood in a
cloud, with pale faces, in the Parliament Close. James Wilson, Robert
Neilson, Francis Hislop, and myself, were standing close by them.
Francis Hislop, with force, thrust Robert Neilson upon them, and their
heads went hard upon each other. Their graceless Graces went quickly
off; and in a short time neither Bishop nor Curate were to be seen
in the streets. This was a sudden and surprising change, not to be
forgotten. But some of us would have rejoiced still more to have seen
the whole cabalzie sent legally down the Bow, that they might have
found the weight of their tails in a tow, to dry their stocking-soles,
and let them know what hanging was.”[33]
PARTICULARS REGARDING SCENERY, ETC.
SAINT LEONARD’S CRAGS, the scene of David Deans’s residence, are an
irregular ridge, with a slight vegetation, situated in the south-west
boundary of the King’s Park, at Edinburgh. Adjacent to them, and
bearing their name, there exists a sort of village, now almost inclosed
by the approaching suburbs of the city. The neighbouring extremity
of the Pleasance, with this little place, seem to have formed at
one period the summer residences or villas of the inhabitants of
Edinburgh, some of the houses even yet bearing traces of little garden
plots before the door, and other peculiarities of what is still the
prevailing taste in the fitting up of _boxes_. None of these may,
however, have existed in the time of David Deans. In former times, St.
Leonard’s Crags and the adjoining valley used to be much resorted to by
duellists. This part of their history is, however, to be found at full
length in the “Heart of Midlothian.” There is a case of duel on record,
in which a barber challenged a citizen, and fought him with swords. It
happened in the year 1600. The citizen was slain; and his antagonist,
being instantly apprehended, was tried, and, by the order of the King,
executed, for having presumed to take the revenge of a gentleman.[34]
MUSCHAT’S CAIRN, so conspicuously introduced into this Tale, was a heap
of stones placed upon the spot where a barbarous murder was committed
in the year 1720. The murderer was descended of a respectable family
in the county of Angus, and had been educated to the profession of a
surgeon. When in Edinburgh, in the course of his education, it appears
that he made an imprudent match with a woman in humble life, named
Margaret Hall. He shortly repented of what he had done, and endeavoured
by every means to shake himself free of his wife. The attempts
which he made to divorce, to forsake, and to poison her, proved all
unsuccessful; till at length he resolved, in the distraction caused
by his frequent disappointments, to rid himself of his incumbrance
by the surest method, that of cutting her throat. The day before the
perpetration of this deed, he pretended a return of affection to the
unfortunate woman, and in the evening took her to walk with him, in
the direction of Duddingston. The unhappy creature was averse to the
expedition, and intreated her husband to remain in Edinburgh; but he
persisted, in spite of her tears, in his desire of taking her with him
to that village. When they had got nearly to the extremity of the path
which is called the Duke’s Walk, (having been the favourite promenade
of the Duke of York, afterwards King James II.,) Muschat threw her
upon the ground, and immediately proceeded to cut her throat. During
her resistance he wounded her hand and chin, which she held down,
endeavouring to intercept the knife; and he declared in his confession,
afterwards taken, that, but for her long hair, with which he pinned her
to the earth, he could not have succeeded in his purpose, her struggles
being so great. Immediately after the murder, he went and informed
some of his accomplices, and took no pains to evade apprehension. He
was tried and found guilty upon his own confession, and, after being
executed in the Grassmarket, was hung in chains upon the Gallowlee.[35]
A cairn of stones was erected upon the spot where the murder took
place, in token of the people’s abhorrence and reprobation of the deed.
It was removed several years since, when the Duke’s Walk was widened
and levelled by Lord Adam Gordon.
ST. ANTHONY’S CHAPEL, among the ruins of which Robertson found means to
elude the pursuit of Sharpitlaw, is an interesting relic of antiquity,
situated on a level space about half-way up the north-west side of the
mountain called Arthur’s Seat. It lies in a westerly direction from
Muschat’s Cairn, at about the distance of a furlong; and the Hunter’s
Bog, also mentioned in this Tale, occupies a valley which surrounds all
that side of the hill. The chapel was originally a place of worship,
annexed to a hermitage at the distance of a few yards, and both were
subservient to a monastery of the same name, which anciently flourished
on the site of St. Anthony’s Street in Leith. In the times of Maitland
and Arnot the ruin was almost entire; but now there only remain a
broken wall and a few fragments of what has once been building, but
which are now scarcely to be distinguished from the surrounding grey
rocks;—so entirely has art in this case relapsed into its primitive
nature, and lost all the characteristics of human handiwork. The
slightest possible traces of a hermitage are also to be observed,
plastered against the side of a hollow rock; and, further down the
hill, there springs from the foot of a precipice the celebrated St.
Anthony’s Well. Queen Mary is said to have visited all these scenes;
and, somehow or other, her name is always associated with them by those
who are accustomed to visit, on a Sunday afternoon, their hallowed
precincts. They are also rendered sacred in song, by their introduction
into one of the most beautiful, most plaintive, and most poetical of
all Scotland’s ancient melodies:
“I leant my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trusty tree:
But first it bowed and syne it brak,
Sae my true love’s forsaken me.
“Oh! Arthur’s Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne’er be pressed by me:
St. Anton’s well shall be my drink,
Sin’ my true love’s forsaken me,” etc.
The situation is remarkably well adapted for a hermitage, though in
the immediate neighbourhood of a populous capital. The scene around
is as wild as a Highland desert, and gives an air of seclusion and
peacefulness as complete. If the distant din of the city at all could
reach the eremite’s ears, it would appear as insignificant as the
murmur of the waves around the base of the isolated rock, and would be
as unheeded.
FOOTNOTES:
[29] Even the loftiness of the surrounding buildings is taken into
account. “The uncommon height and antique appearance of these houses,”
says the author, “some of which were formerly the property of the
Knights Templars and the Knights of St. John, and still exhibit upon
their fronts and gables the iron cross of these orders, gave additional
effect to a scene in itself so striking.” This sentence, it is somewhat
remarkable, is also used (perhaps I should say _repeated_) by Sir
Walter Scott, when he finds occasion to describe the same scene in his
“Provincial Antiquities of Scotland.”
[30] The shop from which the rioters procured the rope, was a small
shop in the second or middle division of the West Bow (No. 69). It
was then kept by a Mrs. Jeffrey, but was not a rope-maker’s shop.
It was a shop of _huckstery_ or _small wares_, in which ropes were
then included. It seems yet to be occupied by a person of the same
profession (Mrs. Wilson).
[31] There is an engraving of this medal in Boyer’s “History of Queen
Anne,” p. 511.
[32] Mr. John Semple, of Carsphearn.
[33] We are glad to observe that the biographical works of Patrick
Walker are shortly to be reprinted by Mr. John Stevenson, Bookseller,
Prince’s Street, whose shop is well known, or ought to be so, by all
the true lovers of curious little old smoke-dried volumes.
[34] Birrel’s account of this matter is as follows:—“[1600.] The 2 of
Apryll, being the Sabbath day, Robert Auchmutie, barber, slew James
Wauchope, at the combat in St. Leonard’s Hill; and, upon the 23, the
said Rt. put in ward in the tolbuith of Edr.; and in the meine time of
his being in ward, he hang ane cloke w’t’out the window of the irone
hous, and anither w’t in the window yr.; and, saying yat he was sick,
and might not see the light, he had aquafortis continuallie seithing
at the irone window, quhill, at the last, the irone window wes eiten
throw; sua, upon a morneing, he caused his prentes boy attend quhen the
towne gaird should have dissolvit, at q’lk tyme the boy waitit one,
and gaif hes Mr ane token yat the said gaird wer gone, be the schewe
or waiff of his hand-curche. The said Robt. hung out an tow, q’ron he
thought to have cumeit doune; the said gairde espyit the waiff of the
hand-curche, and sua the said Robt was disappointit of hes intentione
and devys; and sua, on the 10 day, he wes beheidit at the Cross, upon
ane scaffold.” P. 48, 49.
[35] The Gallowlee was not the usual place of execution; but the most
flagrant criminals were generally hung there in chains. Many of the
martyrs were exhibited on its summit, which Patrick Walker records with
due horror. It ceased to be employed for any purpose of this kind about
the middle of the last century; since which period with one exception,
no criminals have been hung in chains in Scotland. Its site was a
rising ground immediately below the Botanic Garden, in Leith Walk.
When the New Town was in the progress of building, the sand used for
the composition of the mortar was procured from this spot; on which
account the miracle of a hill turned into a valley has taken place,
and it is at the present day that low beautiful esplanade of which
Eagle and Henderson’s nursery is formed. The Gallowlee turned out a
source of great emolument to the possessor, sixpence being allowed
for every cartful of sand that was taken away. But the proprietor was
never truly benefited by the circumstance. Being addicted to drinking,
he was in the habit of spending every sixpence as he received it. A
tavern was set up near the spot, which was formerly unaccommodated with
such a convenience, for the sole purpose of selling whisky to _Matthew
Richmond_,—and he was its only customer. A fortune was soon acquired of
the profits of the drink alone; and when the source of the affluence
ceased, poor Matthew was left poorer than he had originally been, after
having flung away the proffered chance of immense wealth. Never did
gamester more completely sink the last acre of his estate, than did
_muckle Matthew Richmond_ drink down the last grain of the sand-hill of
the Gallowlee!