CHAPTER LXV

The Paralytic Stroke--The Last Novels--Election Meetings--Disgraceful

Conduct of Radical Gangs--Scott's Journey for Health--The

Return--Collapse and Stupor--The Last Stay in Edinburgh--Death of Sir

Walter Scott

*EDINBURGH

UNDER SIR WALTER SCOTT*

*CHAPTER I*

Edinburgh in 1773--General Features of the Old City--Its Site and

Plan--Flodden Wall--Nor' Loch--'Meadows'--Old

Suburbs--Canongate--Portsburgh--'Mine own romantic Town'--College Wynd,

Birthplace of Scott--Improvements in the Old Town.

The Edinburgh of Walter Scott's infancy was still the old, romantic,

medieval city. It was almost wholly confined within the city wall, a

result of the adherence to customs sanctioned by tradition, long after

the causes which first established them have ceased to operate. The

constantly recurring danger from English invasions was, in early times,

a full and sufficient reason for dwelling inside the fortification. Of

course, from the earliest times there was a tendency, especially among

the leading and wealthy families, to build dwelling-houses and lay out

gardens among the fields. Yet, on the whole, the increasing population

sought its accommodation within the limits of the town. This is why

Edinburgh citizens, following the old fashion of Paris, built their

houses of an enormous height, some of them as high as twelve stories or

more. The ground space available was, of course, limited by the extent

of the wall, and on one side by the water of the Nor' Loch. Hence the

necessity for making good use of every possible site. Social

arrangements of a singular and quaint simplicity were the not unnatural

result. In each gigantic barrack might be found ever so many different

families, each occupying its own independent dwelling, sometimes

consisting of only two or three rooms. The social dignity of the tenant

increased with the height of his quarters. In the cellars and on the

street floor were the humble members of the business and manual-working

classes; professional persons went a story higher; and the nobility and

gentry overlooked the whole from the upper half of the mansion. In

modern times these houses, so far as they still exist, have been handed

over almost entirely to the lower orders: they are, in fact, the slums

of Edinburgh. But the quaint old arrangements had hardly been impaired

even up to the year of _Marmion_ and 'mine own romantic town.'

The site of the old city is as singular a site as could have been

chosen, but it was selected with the one view of enjoying the very

necessary protection of its citadel, the Castle. Its main street

extends over the long backbone of the famous ridge which slopes from the

Castle to Holyrood. The steep northern side of the ridge was bounded by

the long sheet of water called the Nor' Loch, which formed a natural

defence from the Castle Hill to a point called Halkerston's Wynd. The

contour of the city has been compared to the figure of a turtle, the

Castle being taken for the head, the High Street for the ridge of the

back, and the numerous wynds and closes for the ribs: the analogy being

completed by adding Canongate and Holyrood Palace for the tail. In

similar figure, Carlyle graphically presents the sloping street and its

wynds as 'covering like some rhinoceros skin, with many a gnarled

embossment, church steeple, chimney head, Tolbooth and other ornament or

indispensability, back and ribs of the slope.' The old city wall, built

by James II., had fallen into ruin and disrepair by the year of Flodden,

1513. On that disastrous occasion there was built in hot haste and

panic, of which even the surviving fragments give proof, the famous

'Flodden Wall,' which formed the city boundary till the time of Scott.

The north side being almost entirely defended by the Nor' Loch, the wall

extended from the Castle round the south and east sides of the city.

Beside the Castle rock the first entrance to the city was the West Port,

a gate which stood at the foot of the Grassmarket. We may judge how

greatly the presence of the walls affected the life of the citizens from

the fact that a small wicket-gate had to be constructed in the wall some

distance from this Port in the year 1744. Twenty-two years before this,

Thomas Hope of Rankeillor had drained the Borough Loch, and planted

trees, made a walk, and laid down turf on its side, thus forming the

park known as 'The Meadows.' It was to afford 'a more commodious egress

to the elegant walks in the meadows' that the wicket was eventually

opened. From the West Port the wall ran half-way along the east side of

the steep lane called the Vennel, where a portion of it is still

existent, thence turning south-east to Bristo Port. The next gate

eastward was the Potterrow Port, originally Kirk-of-Field Port, at the

head of the Horse Wynd, a lane leading down into the Cowgate. The Horse

Wynd was, in fact, the principal access to the town in this quarter, and

got its name from being, unlike the others, safe for horses. By the

line of Drummond Street the wall proceeded to the Pleasance and the foot

of St. Mary Wynd, which the Nether Bow joined to Leith Wynd. The Nether

Bow, which was not built till 1616, was the chief entrance of the city,

separating it from the Burgh of Canongate. The part of the wall which

ran from the Nether Bow to the point at which Leith Wynd crossed the

Nor' Loch was added in the year 1540.

Such were the walled boundaries of Edinburgh, within which the city made

shift to contain its increasing population during a period of about two

hundred and fifty years. Practically the Edinburgh of these centuries

lay between the Castle and Holyrood lengthwise, and in breadth between

the Nor' Loch and some distance beyond the Cowgate on the south. There

was no lack, however, at any period of persons who preferred to live

outside the city walls. In fact, old writers are continually remarking

on such a strange and perverse disposition, for which they cannot

account, especially in those old days when the danger from England was a

very grim reality. The propensity led to the gradual growth of a few

suburban hamlets, and the only wonder is that they were not larger and

more numerous. Of these outside regions the Canongate was the largest,

but it was really at first an independent ecclesiastical burgh,

established by David I. in 1128 under the Abbey of Holyrood. It did not

come under the jurisdiction of the city till the year 1636, when the

Town Council bought it from the Earl of Roxburgh. Another 'burgh' of

ancient fame was 'Portsburgh' at the other end of the city, extending

from the West Port to Toll Cross. Straggling houses belonging to

citizens were also to be found farther afield on the Glasgow Road, and

in the district now named Dairy. The suburb of Bristo Street, as we

have seen, adjoined one of the city gates, and beyond it were the

grounds of Ross House, which about 1764 supplied a site for George

Square, named after the reigning monarch, George III.

Within these bounds, then, is all that Scott meant when he wrote the

words, 'mine own romantic town.' And indeed it was full of romance in

every quarter. To him the New Town was but an appendage, a fast-growing

appendage of the city itself--a fringe which set off the beauty of the

general view. From his Castle Street mansion he looked across to the

city of his imagination, and had he lived to see the beginning of the

twentieth century, he might have gone farther afield. The city

improvements of a large and important provincial centre could hardly

have consoled his outraged spirit for the ruthless and needless

destruction of priceless relics of the past in which he lived.

Edinburgh University, that is, the old University building, stands in a

busy street, without any 'grounds' to remove it from the outside noise

and distinguish it from the line of shops and shabby houses. The city

of Edinburgh has always been celebrated for its unhappiness in the

matter of selecting 'sites.' Why, therefore, the University was put in

this unfortunate corner, need not be discussed. The Town Council, it

seems, was responsible for the building, and the architect employed was

Robert Adam. This edifice, according to a contemporary, was considered

by many 'as the masterpiece of Mr. Adam,' but for lack of money the

original plans were modified by W. H. Playfair. To make way for this

great city improvement, one of the most characteristic 'bits' of old

Edinburgh was cleared away. This was College Wynd, now known as Guthrie

Street. The picturesque medieval lane, with its jutting balconies,

battlemented roofs and charming old windows, had for nearly two

centuries been a kind of University, or College, 'Close,' practically

reserved for the residence of the learned Regents or Professors from

generation to generation. One of the houses at the top of the Wynd

demolished on this occasion belonged to Mr. Walter Scott, W.S., who

resided in it with his family. Here happened the greatest event in the

history of Edinburgh, the birth of _our_ Walter Scott, on the 15th of

August 1771.

The locality was not even at that time considered quite a desirable one,

but socially it was regarded as satisfactory, even for a family of

gentle birth. The fact is that about this time certain new ideas

regarding health and fresh air were beginning to excite attention among

the inhabitants of the old city. The rate of infant mortality was

frightfully high, and the doctors began to ascribe it to the closeness

and damp of the nurseries. In the lofty old mansions these were

frequently located, for obvious reasons of convenience, in the 'laigh

rooms' or sunk floors below the level of the street. The time was ripe

for a great change. Building had already been begun on the site of

Princes Street and George Street. Plans for a New Town had been

approved in 1761, the architect being Mr. James Craig, who was a nephew

of Thomson the poet. The North Bridge, which was to connect the New

Town with the Old, was finished in 1772. At the same time a more

conservative policy led others to try to confine the desired improvement

to the Old Town. Brown's Square, part of which still may be seen at the

top of Chambers Street, was built, and this was for the time the

exclusively fashionable quarter of the city. It was to Brown's Square,

as we read in _Redgauntlet_ (_Letter_ II.), that the Fairfords removed,

when, as Alan relates to his friend Darsie Latimer, 'the leaving his old

apartments in the Luckenbooths was to him' (the elder Fairford) 'like

divorcing the soul from the body; yet Dr. R---- did but hint that the

better air of this new district was more favourable to my health, as I

was then suffering under the penalties of too rapid a growth, when he

exchanged his old and beloved quarters, adjacent to the very Heart of

Midlothian, for one of those new tenements [entire within themselves]

which modern taste has so lately introduced.'

*CHAPTER II*

The Scotts in George Square--Walter's

Lameness--Sandyknowe--Bath--Edinburgh--Changes in the City,

1763-1783--Migrations to the New Town--The Mound--New Manufactures and

Trades--The first Umbrella.

To the good people of Edinburgh who had for many years the privilege of

seeing Walter Scott daily in their streets, his robust and manly form

must have emphasised his unfortunate lameness. It is a defect very

painful to a man of bold and active spirit. But Scott had to bear with

it all his life through. It began when he was an infant of eighteen

months.

The touching little family tradition was often repeated to him

afterwards, how one night he was racing about the room in an access of

childish high spirits, refusing to go to bed. With difficulty he was

caught at last and conveyed to his crib. Next morning he was found to

be suffering from fever, and on the fourth day it was discovered that he

had lost the use of the right leg. There appeared to be no dislocation

or sprain; but the remedies devised by Dr. Rutherford and the other

specialists from the University were of no avail. Walter was, in fact,

doomed to be lame for life. He tells with a touch of melancholy humour

how his parents in their anxiety eagerly made trial of every remedy

offered by the sympathy of old friends or by the self-interest of

empirics, and some of them were eccentric enough. On Dr. Rutherford's

advice, however, the very sensible plan was adopted of sending the child

to the country, where, with perfect freedom for open air life, he might

have the chance of all the benefit that might gradually be obtained from

the natural exertion of his limbs.

He was sent immediately to his grandfather Scott's residence at

Sandyknowe, and here, to use his own words, 'I, who in a city had

probably been condemned to hopeless and helpless decrepitude, was now a

healthy, high-spirited, and, my lameness apart, a sturdy child--_non

sine diis animosus infans_.' This gratifying improvement was quite

confirmed by the time he was four years of age, but his parents were

only the more anxious in their efforts after a complete cure. At this

time it was suggested to his father that the waters at Bath might have

some effect on the child's lameness. He was sent to Bath, going first

by sea to London. Here he was taken to see the Tower, Westminster

Abbey, etc., of which he took with him an impression so strong,

complete, and accurate, that, on visiting the same scenes twenty-five

years afterwards, he found nothing to correct in the mental pictures

which his powerful memory had so long retained. The residence at Bath

had no effect on his lameness, but it was here he learned to read,

partly at a dame school, and partly at his aunt's knee. 'But I never'

(he says) 'acquired a just pronunciation, nor could I read with much

propriety.' After a year of Bath, he returned to Edinburgh. A short

interval at home was followed by another season at beloved Sandyknowe.

Sea-bathing was next recommended for his lameness, and after a few weeks

of this at Prestonpans, he was finally taken home to George Square,

which continued to be his dwelling-place till his marriage in 1797. He

was, of course, too young to appreciate the changes which were going on

in the city, but in later years no one realised more keenly than he the

revolutionary effects, both concrete and social, of those same years of

his childhood. His unfortunate lameness no doubt debarred Walter from

seeing as much of the great extensions then proceeding as his brothers

may have examined, but they must have been the one unfailing and

constant topic of conversation everywhere, and were no doubt of special

interest to one who could not even then have been unduly impressed by

the vast cost and supposed magnificence of all that was new. The

description just given of the city as contained within the old 'Flodden

Wall' will help the reader at once to understand how the Edinburgh of

Scott's single life differed from the Modern City, and how very

considerable were the additions already to the ancient town. Some

curious facts have been preserved in an old annual publication called

the _Picture of Edinburgh_. In it we find a quaint 'comparative view' of

Edinburgh as it was in 1763 and Edinburgh in the year 1783. In this

period there were added on the south side Nicolson Street and Square,

most of Bristo Street, George Square, and other streets: all of which

took the place of gardens and open fields. The New Town had risen as if

by magic. Progressive shopkeepers and bailies were already boasting of

George Street as the most splendid street in Europe,[1] and Princes

Street as the most elegant terrace. It was computed that over two

millions sterling had been spent in these extensions. Wholesale

migrations followed from the Old Town to the New, and many grand old

mansions passed into unexpected hands. Oliver Cromwell's former

lodgings were occupied by a mere sheriff-clerk. The house that at the

time of the Union was inhabited by the Duke of Douglas fell to a

wheelwright, and Lord President Craigie's mansion was transferred to a

seller of old furniture. So great, in fact, was the change of habits

and ideas, that we are told a common chairman, or porter, who had got

into the apartments once used by Lord Drummore, complained of defective

accommodation! The year 1783 also saw a new passage opened between the

Old Town and the New. This was effected by means of the huge heap of

earth collected from the excavations made in digging so many

foundations. By agreement with the contractors, all this earth was

conveyed, free of charge, to the space between the foot of Hanover

Street and the Old Town ridge. It is also stated that in this period

the number of four-wheeled carriages in Edinburgh increased from 396 to

1268. Coach-building became one of the most important industries, if it

be true that about 1783 an Edinburgh coachmaker received an order from

Paris for one thousand coaches. It seems that before this time the

operation of trade was exactly the reverse, Paris being reputed to make

carriages superior to any in Europe. Other trades, which had been

wholly unknown to the old city, now sprang into existence, indicating

great change of manners as well as increase of wealth. Amongst those,

drapers' shops became the most numerous in the city, and hairdressers

vastly increased in number. Oyster-cellars also became numerous, and

are noted as being frequented by people of fashion, who sometimes held

their private dancing-parties in these places. It was now that

umbrellas came into general use. Before 1763, it would appear that an

umbrella was regarded in Edinburgh as a rare phenomenon.

[1] But to Scott, of course, the old High Street always was 'the

principal street of Edinburgh.' It is to it he refers with pride in

_The Abbot_ as being 'then, as now, the most spacious street in Europe.'

*CHAPTER III*

School-days--The High School--Old Methods of Teaching--Luke Fraser--Tone

of the School--Brutal Masters--Schoolboy's Dress--Boyish Ideas--Scott's

Pride of Birth--The 'Harden' Family--'Beardie'--The Dryburgh Lands.

It was in 1778 that Walter Scott began to attend the Grammar School, or

High School of Edinburgh. The High School building stood at the foot of

Infirmary Street, in what was called the High School Wynd. The name

'High School Yards' is still attached to a neighbouring lane. The

'Yards' would be the boys' playground. Like other Grammar Schools in

Scotland the High School was managed by the Town Council,[1] by whose

authority, at a date so early as 1519, the citizens were charged to send

their boys to it and to no other school. In 1777 the Town Council

erected a new schoolhouse, as the rapidly increasing numbers required

more extensive accommodation. It seems that in the eighteenth century

the reputation of the school stood very high, and, of course, it had

then no rivals in the city. The number of pupils about this time is

stated to have been six hundred. The teaching staff consisted of the

Rector and four masters.

[1] The school was transferred in 1873 to the School Board of Edinburgh.

The classes were, of course, very large, and the method of teaching was

necessarily very simple. Short tasks in Latin, set purely for

repetition, were rhymed over by each boy in the same words and the same

way. One Henry Cockburn, who joined the school in 1787, says it drove

him stupid. 'Oh! the bodily and mental wearisomeness of sitting six

hours a day, staring idly at a page, without motion and without

thought.' He says the school was notorious for its severity and

riotousness, and recalls his feelings of trembling and dizziness when he

sat down amidst above a hundred new faces. His master he characterises

as being as bad a schoolmaster as it is possible to fancy. Walter Scott

was more fortunate. His class was taught by Mr. Luke Fraser, a good

Latin scholar and a very worthy man. Walter seems to have enjoyed his

school life. In Mr. Fraser's class he was not distinguished as one of

the brilliant pupils. To the latter, especially the dux, James Buchan,

he pays a warm tribute, and of himself he says: 'I glanced like a meteor

from one end of the class to the other, and commonly disgusted my kind

master as much by negligence and frivolity as I occasionally pleased him

by flashes of intellect and talent. Among my companions, my good-nature

and a flow of ready imagination rendered me very popular.... In the

winter play-hours, when hard exercise was impossible, my tales used to

assemble an admiring audience round Lucky Brown's fireside, and happy

was he that could sit next to the inexhaustible narrator. I was also,

though often negligent of my own task, always ready to assist my

friends; and hence I had a little party of staunch adherents and

partisans, stout of hand and heart, though somewhat dull of head--the

very tools for raising a hero to eminence. So, on the whole, I made a

brighter figure in the yards than in the class.' In speaking of his

education, it must be remembered that he always underrates his

attainments. There is no doubt that he had a gift for acquiring

languages and was a remarkable pupil in every class. But because he was

a little behind the others at the start, he seems to have fancied

himself somewhat in that position all through. As to the manners and

morals of the boys, Scott has left no criticism. Of their outside fun

and adventures he has given a lively sketch in the episode of

Green-Breeks in the third Appendix to the General Preface of his novels.

We learn from Lord Cockburn that in his time and in his opinion, the

tone of the school was vulgar and harsh. Among the boys (he states)

coarseness of language and manners was the only fashion. An English boy

was so rare, that his language was openly laughed at. No lady could be

seen within the walls. Nothing evidently civilised was safe. Two of the

masters, in particular, were so savage, that any master doing now what

they did every hour, would certainly be transported.

The same writer mentions that the boys had to be at school during summer

at seven in the morning. Here is his interesting description of his

dress as a schoolboy: 'I often think I see myself in my usual High

School apparel, which was the common dress of other boys. It consisted

of a round black hat; a shirt fastened at the neck by a black ribbon,

and except on dress days, unruffled; a cloth waistcoat, rather large,

with two rows of buttons and of button-holes, so that it could be

buttoned on either side, which, when one side got dirty, was convenient;

a single-breasted jacket, which in due time got a tail and became a

coat; brown corduroy breeks, tied at the knees by a showy knot of brown

cotton tape; worsted stockings in winter, blue cotton stockings in

summer, and white cotton for dress; clumsy shoes made to be used on

either foot, and each requiring to be used on alternate feet daily;

brass or copper buckles. The coat and waistcoat were always of glaring

colours, such as bright blue, grass green, and scarlet. I remember well

the pride with which I was once rigged out in a scarlet waistcoat and a

bright green coat. No such machinery as what are now termed braces or

suspenders had then been imagined.'

There was plenty of pride among the High School boys. The roughness of

manners and coarseness of speech which they shared with the lower orders

never impaired the strong feeling of caste which they imbibed at home.

Among the baser spirits it was, of course, selfish and conceited, but it

had a better and healthier effect on the finer natures of the few. Even

as a boy, Walter Scott, as we have seen, lived much in an ideal world of

his own creation. It was largely peopled with the romantic figures of

the adventurous past, and the boy must have delighted greatly in the

knowledge that many of his heroes of the past were ancestors of his own.

Pride of birth was certainly one of his earliest ideals, and it

continued to influence him, in a manly and noble spirit, all through

life. It colours, as we know, every page of his romantic writings, both

verse and prose. It is united always with the ideas of truth, honour,

and courage, and strongly allied with a beautiful sentiment of chivalry

and grace.

Though he never boasted of his own lineage--vulgarity being alien to his

nature--he was always conscious of it, and always lived up to the ideal

standard it created in his mind. His pedigree was one in which a

romantic antiquary could not but rejoice. On the mother's side he was a

lineal descendant of the Swintons of that ilk, a family which (as he

records) produced many distinguished warriors in the Middle Ages, and

which, for antiquity and honourable alliances, may rank with any in

Britain. His father's family, the Scotts of Harden, were still more

after his poetical heart. 'Wat of Harden, who came with speed,' was a

typical Border chief, the sturdy hero of many a minstrel's lay. For

among these rude Borderers not only had every dale its battle, but every

river its song. And this attachment to music and song, together with

the 'rude species of chivalry in constant use' among the Border clans,

raises them to a level amply sufficient for romance. The grandson of

Wat of Harden was another Walter Scott, who, not being his father's

eldest son, was employed as Factor on the estate of Makerston. It is

strange to think of Wat of Harden's grandson in a quasi-legal post and

noted as a gentleman of literary leanings. Such he was, however, and a

favourite friend of that great physician and elegant Latinist, Archibald

Pitcairn. The two used to meet together in Edinburgh, and talked

treasonable sentences in majestic Latin. This Walter, indeed, had

proved his Jacobite loyalty in a manner worthy of his name. He had

fought, 'with conquering Graham,' at Killiecrankie, and now testified

his sorrow for the exile of the Stuarts by letting his beard grow,

untouched by razor or scissors, as a symbol of mourning, and a visible

protest.

This eccentricity gained for him the nickname of 'Beardie,' and it would

have been well (says Sir Walter) that his zeal had stopped there. But

he took arms, and intrigued in their cause, until he lost all he had in

the world. His second son, Robert, was intended for the sea, but a

shipwreck, which unfortunately occurred in his first voyage, gave him

such a dislike for the salt water, that he refused to go back for a

second trial. His father, displeased with his son's perversity, now

left him to his own resources. It was the best thing that could have

happened, for the youth had grit and character, as his grandson's

amusing account of his proceedings sufficiently shows. 'He turned Whig

upon the spot, and fairly abjured his father's politics and his learned

poverty. His chief and relative, Mr. Scott of Harden, gave him a lease

of the farm of Sandyknowe, comprehending the rocks in the centre of

which Smailholm or Sandyknowe Tower is situated. He took for his

shepherd an old man called Hogg, who willingly lent him, out of respect

to his family, his whole savings, about thirty pounds, to stock the new

farm. With this sum, which it seems was at that time sufficient for the

purpose, the master and the servant set off to purchase a stock of sheep

at Whitsun-Tryste, a fair held on a hill near Wooler in Northumberland.

The old shepherd went carefully from drove to drove, till he found a

_hirsel_ likely to answer their purpose, and then returned to tell his

master to come and conclude the bargain. But what was his surprise to

see him galloping a mettled hunter about the racecourse, and to find he

had expended the whole stock in this extraordinary purchase!--Moses'

bargain of green spectacles did not strike more dismay into the Vicar of

Wakefield's family, than my grandfather's rashness into the poor old

shepherd. The thing, however, was irretrievable, and they returned

without the sheep. In the course of a few days, however, my

grandfather, who was one of the best horsemen of his time, attended John

Scott of Harden's hounds on this same horse, and displayed him to such

advantage that he sold him for double the original price. The farm was

now stocked in earnest, and the rest of my grandfather's career was that

of successful industry.'

The wife of this Robert Scott was Barbara Haliburton, daughter of a

Berwickshire laird, whose brother was proprietor of part of the lands of

Dryburgh, including the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey. Thus this rare

old-world relic, unequalled in its beauty and its hallowed associations,

was likely to fall into the hands of the father of Sir Walter Scott. It

happened, however, that the old laird, Robert Haliburton, had a weakness

for dabbling in trade, and so came to ruin himself. His Dryburgh

possessions were sold, and passed for ever out of the hands of the

novelist's relations. Scott seems to have felt considerable regret over

this incident in his family history. There is a touching note of pathos

in the remarks with which he sums it up in his Autobiography: 'And thus

we have nothing left of Dryburgh, although my father's maternal

inheritance, but the right of stretching our bones where mine may

perhaps be laid ere any eye but my own glances over these pages.'

*CHAPTER IV*

Dr. Adam, Rector of High School--Walter Scott's first Lines--Influence

of Adam--Persecution by Nicol--Death-scene of the Rector--Home Life in

George Square--Walter Scott the 'Writer'--Anecdotes of his Character.

Very special honour, on the part of all lovers of Scott, is due to

Alexander Adam, the Rector of the High School. Adam, whose text-book of

_Roman Antiquities_ continued for over a century to be used in the

Scottish Grammar Schools and Universities, was not only a scholar, but a

man of literary tastes and sympathies. He was ever ready to detect and

encourage any sign of talent or character among the boys. It was his

custom to encourage them to attempt poetical versions of Horace and

Vergil. These were purely voluntary efforts, never set as tasks. Of

course, such attempts had a strong attraction for Scott. Though he

might not understand the Latin so well as some of his comrades, the

Rector himself declared that _Gualterus Scott_ was behind few in

following and enjoying the author's meaning. His versions therefore

often gained discriminating praise, and Adam ever after took much notice

of the boy. It is a pleasure to find in the pages of Lockhart one of

these juvenile efforts. No wonder that Adam had faith in the boy of

twelve who could turn Vergil in language like this:

'In awful ruins AEtna thunders nigh,

And sends in pitchy whirlwinds to the sky

Black clouds of smoke, which, still as they aspire,

From their dark sides there bursts the glowing fire;

At other times huge balls of fire are toss'd,

That lick the stars, and in the smoke are lost;

Sometimes the mount, with vast convulsions torn,

Emits huge rocks, which instantly are borne

With loud explosions to the starry skies,

The stones made liquid as the huge mass flies,

Then back again with greater weight recoils,

While AEtna thundering from the bottom boils.'

This little piece, it seems, written in a weak, boyish scrawl, within

pencilled marks still visible, had been carefully preserved by his

mother; it was folded up in a cover inscribed by the old lady--'_My

Walter's first lines_, 1782.'

Scott does full justice to the excellent influence of Dr. Adam on his

character. 'I saw I was expected to do well, and I was piqued in honour

to vindicate my master's favourable opinion. I climbed, therefore, to

the first form; and, though I never made a first-rate Latinist, my

school-fellows, and, what was of more consequence, I myself, considered

that I had a character for learning to maintain. Dr. Adam, to whom I

owed so much, never failed to remind me of my obligations when I had

made some figure in the literary world.... He remembered the fate of

every boy at his school during the fifty years he had superintended it,

and always traced their success or misfortunes entirely to their

attention or negligence when under his care. His "noisy mansion," which

to others would have been a melancholy bedlam, was the pride of his

heart; and the only fatigues he felt, amidst din and tumult, and the

necessity of reading themes, hearing lessons, and maintaining some

degree of order at the same time, were relieved by comparing himself to

Caesar, who could dictate to three secretaries at once:--so ready is

vanity to lighten the labours of duty.' Another great man who testified

the same kindly feeling towards Adam was Francis Jeffrey, who passed

through his hands a few years later than Scott.

An incident in Adam's career must now be mentioned which throws a strong

light on a rather seamy side of Edinburgh character at the time. Very

naturally, though he had no sympathy or even acquaintance with the party

politics then current, the Rector would occasionally make comparisons

between the French Revolution and the events of ancient history. This

led to some hostility on the part of the pupils. Then the parents took

offence, and the Town Council, as patrons of the school, persecuted the

good man by encouraging Nicol, one of the masters, to insult and defy

him. This is the 'Willie' who was a friend of Burns, and who sorely

tried the poet's patience during their tour in the Highlands. He seems

to have been a good classical scholar, an 'admirable convivial

humorist,' but in other respects a downright blackguard. The savage

brute, taking advantage of his influence with the Council, went so far

as actually to attempt the life of his chief, waylaying and attacking

the poor man after dark. Nicol is one of the two masters whom Lord

Cockburn mentions as the curse of the school, 'whose atrocities young

men cannot be made to believe, but old men cannot forget.'

We pass from the High School and its memories with the beautiful and

touching picture drawn by Scott of the death of his old master and

friend: 'This (unpleasant incident) passed away with other heats of the

period, and the Doctor continued his labours till about a year since,

when he was struck with palsy while teaching his class. He survived a

few days, but becoming delirious before his dissolution, conceived he

was still in school, and after some expressions of applause or censure,

he said, "But it grows dark--the boys may dismiss,"--and instantly

expired.'

The home life during these school-days was very strict, but tempered by

the natural outbreaks of youthful vitality. In later years it is clear

that Walter regretted two things--the unnecessary gloom of Sunday at

home, and the want of sympathy on the part of his father--more correctly

the failure of giving expression to the feelings which were certainly

there, and very deep and strong. But all the same he loved his father,

and recognised to the full his splendid character. Walter Scott, the

eldest son of Robert of Sandyknowe, was born in 1729. He was bred to

the law, and in due time became a Writer to the Signet. Though not

perhaps well fitted by nature for such a profession, he was a hard,

conscientious worker, and took a special interest 'in analysing the

abstruse feudal doctrines connected with conveyancing.' In fact, his

high principles and earnest attachment to religion made it impossible

for him to devote his whole mind to mere bargain-driving, whether for

himself or others. Anything like sharpness in employing the necessities,

wants, and follies of men for his own pecuniary advantage was entirely

foreign to his nature. Of fighting the knaves and dastards with the

petty weapons of an ignoble warfare he was as little capable as ever was

his magnanimous son. In all such affairs, in that son's opinion, 'Uncle

Toby himself could not have conducted himself with more simplicity than

my father.' No quainter proof of this admirable simplicity could be

imagined than the fact that he made a personal matter of the honour of

his clients, and often embarrassed by his zeal for their credit persons

whose sense of honour and duty was anything but keen. However, in those

days character and honesty were still appreciated by men who did not

imitate them. Mr. Scott rose to eminence in his profession, and enjoyed

at one time an extensive practice. Somewhat formal in manner and a

rigid Calvinist in religion, he had many little peculiarities of the

rural rather than the city Scot. Thus, though very abstemious in his

habits, he was fond of sociability and grew very merry over his sober

glass of wine. Moderate in politics, he had a natural leaning to

constitutional principles, and was jealous of modern encroachments on

the royal prerogative. His weakness for established forms made him a

stickler for points of etiquette at marriages, christenings, and

funerals. The sweetness of his temper, the dignity and purity of his

life, and the charm of his distinguished personality inspired those who

knew him with singular affection for this Scottish Thomas Newcome. The

best of all this might stand for the picture of the younger Walter

Scott, but it is interesting to know that in features there was no

resemblance between the father and the son. By a striking but not

unusual freak of heredity, the latter's face was an almost perfect

replica of that of his ancestor 'Beardie.'

*CHAPTER V*

At Edinburgh University--Holidays at Kelso--Home--First University

Class--Professor Hill--Professor Dalzell--The 'Greek

Blockhead'--Anecdotes of Dalzell--His History of Edinburgh University.

Walter Scott was a boy of thirteen when he entered the University.

After leaving the High School he had been sent to spend half a year with

his aunt, Miss Janet Scott, at Kelso. Here, while keeping up his Latin

with a tutor, he was free to indulge in miscellaneous reading. Amongst

other treasures he came upon Percy's _Reliques_, about which he declared

he had never read a book half so frequently or with half the enthusiasm.

It confirmed him in the love for legendary lore, which had begun in

infancy. To this period also he traces the awaking of his feeling for

the beauties of nature, 'more especially when combined with ancient

ruins.' It became, as he says, an insatiable passion, and indeed goes

far to account for his eager pursuit of territory at Abbotsford.

Returning to Edinburgh in October, he joined the class of Humanity,

under Mr. Hill, and the first Greek class, under Mr. Dalzell.

Unfortunately for his Latin, Hill's class seems for the time to have

been the rowdiest in the University. No work was done in it. Lord

Cockburn, speaking of 1793, bitterly complains that the class was a

scene of unchecked idleness and disrespectful mirth. Scott says that

Hill was beloved by his students, but that he held the reins of

discipline very loosely. In fact, the boy, as might have been expected

of his lively nature, took his part in the fun and forgot much of the

Latin he had learned under Adam and Whale (the Selkirk tutor). But his

loss in the Greek class was greater still. The first class, in those

days, was engaged on the mere elements, but Walter had not even the

smattering which was necessary to keep up with this humble attempt. He

therefore resolved not to learn Greek at all, and professed a contempt

for the language, as a method of braving things out. He was known in

the class as the _Greek Blockhead_, and at the end of the session he

wrote an essay to prove the inferiority of Homer to Ariosto. This

whimsical idea he defended with such force as to rouse Professor

Dalzell's indignation, but while reproving the foolish presumption of

the young critic, he honestly expressed his surprise at the quantity of

out-of-the-way knowledge which the boy had displayed. It was like

Samuel Johnson quoting Macrobius to the Oxford dons. But Dalzell,

instead of complimenting and flattering the genius, denounced him,

saying that dunce he was and dunce he would remain. The good judge,

however, handsomely reversed and recalled this verdict in after-years

'over a bottle of Burgundy, at our literary club at Fortune's, of which

he was a distinguished member.' Cockburn, like Scott, entered Dalzell's

class without any knowledge of Greek. He has left a charming picture of

the Professor, with whose ways and ideas he seems to have been in full

sympathy. 'At the mere teaching of a language to boys, he was

ineffective. How is it possible for the elements, including the very

letters, of a language to be taught to one hundred boys at once, by a

single lecturing professor? To the lads who, like me, to whom the very

alphabet was new, required positive _teaching_, the class was utterly

useless. Nevertheless, though not a good schoolmaster, it is a duty, and

delightful to record Dalzell's value as a general exciter of boys'

minds. Dugald Stewart alone excepted, he did me more good than all the

other instructors I had. Mild, affectionate, simple, an absolute

enthusiast about learning--particularly classical, and especially

Greek--with an innocence of soul and of manner which imparted an air of

honest kindliness to whatever he said or did, and a slow, soft, formal

voice, he was a great favourite with all boys, and with all good men.

Never was a voyager, out in quest of new islands, more delighted in

finding one, than he was in discovering any good quality in any humble

youth.... He could never make us actively laborious. But when we sat

passive and listened to him, he inspired us with a vague but sincere

ambition of literature, and with delicious dreams of virtue and poetry.

He must have been a hard boy whom these discourses, spoken by Dalzell's

low, soft, artless voice, did not melt.'

Dalzell was clerk to the General Assembly, and was long one of the

curiosities of that strange place, for which Cockburn quaintly says he

was too innocent. The last time he saw Dalzell was just before his

death, of the near approach of which the old man was quite aware. He

was busy amusing his children by trying to discharge a twopenny cannon;

but his alarm and awkwardness only terrified the little ones. At last

he got behind a washing-tub, and then, fastening the match to the end of

a long stick, set the piece of ordnance off gloriously. He seems to

have held the opinion strongly that the seventeenth century was

responsible for the defects of classical learning in Scotland. Sydney

Smith declared that one dark night he had overheard the Professor

muttering to himself on the street, 'If it had not been for that

confounded Solemn League and Covenant, we would have made as good longs

and shorts as they' (the English Episcopalians).

Professor Dalzell compiled a History of the University of Edinburgh from

its foundation to his own time. His own election to the Greek chair took

place in 1772, and he was at the time acting as tutor to the sons of the

Earl of Lauderdale. From 1785 he appears to have acted as joint

Secretary and Librarian, thus obtaining access to all the materials

necessary for his elaborate History.

*CHAPTER VI*

Scott's University Studies--The old Latin Chronicles--Dugald Stewart,

His Success described--His elegant Essays--Popular Subjects--Picture of

Stewart by Lord Cockburn--His Lectures--Anecdote of Macvey Napier--Meets

Robert Burns--The Poet's 'Pocket Milton.'

Certainly Edinburgh University cannot claim to have contributed much, if

anything at all, to the training of the future poet, novelist, and man

of letters. In his second session he fell ill, and was sent again to

Kelso to recruit. He had now lost all taste for the Latin classics, and

his reading at this time was almost entirely without aim or system,

except that his taste led him to make a special point of history. He

read George Buchanan's Latin History of Scotland, Matthew Paris, and

various monkish chronicles in Latin, but Greek he now gave up for ever.

He had forgotten the very letters of the Greek alphabet; a loss, as he

says, never to be repaired, considering what that language is, and who

they were who employed it in their compositions. His knowledge of

mathematics was, by his own account, never more than a superficial

smattering. He seems, however, to have won some distinction in the

study of ethics, having been one of the students selected in this class

for the distinction of reading an essay before the Principal. The great

ornament of the Arts Faculty was at this time Dugald Stewart, of whom

some account must now be given as representing in its best and typical

aspects the characteristic Edinburgh culture of the period. Stewart had

succeeded his father as Professor of Mathematics in 1775, and had

obtained the chair of Moral Philosophy in 1785 by exchanging with a

colleague. He occupied this chair for twenty-five years, during which

time, by his lectures and writings, he gained the very highest

distinction, not only for the importance of his philosophical

speculations, but on account of the high literary merits of his style.

There is no doubt that his reputation was greatly exaggerated, for his

technical work was really of no value; but in his own time he maintained

a foremost place, and his celebrity shed honour alike on his University

and his native country. In fact, Dugald Stewart is the most remarkable

example we know of the great possibilities that lie open to men of

ordinary or even meagre capacities, who know how to make effective use

of the commonplace. His merits were such as may belong to any man: he

mastered the details of his subject with thorough care, he read much and

drew upon literature for illustrative quotations, he supported moral

theories by an elaborate sentimental rhetoric, he was most careful in

his personal conduct, and, above all, he studiously maintained great

formal dignity of both speech and manners. In short, he cultivated all

the prudential and external methods of success, and he obtained it full

and overflowing. He might have reversed the lines of Cato, and said:

''Tis not in mortals to deserve success:

But I'll do more, my subjects, I'll command it.'

In his college lectures his method was to expatiate on the popular

aspects of moral themes, studiously avoiding repulsive technicalities

and brain-taxing discussions. Thus, by judiciously limiting his topics

to those in which it was possible to exercise the embellishments of

rhetoric, he succeeded in his aim of always preserving the appearance of

dignity and greatness. He never deviated from the great style in

language or manner, and it is not surprising that his matter temporarily

passed for great. The man who is never seen other than faultlessly

attired in the height of fashion is bound to be considered a well-to-do

gentleman. Walter Scott, however, does not seem to have been carried

away by the prevailing current of enthusiasm. He merely mentions that

he was further instructed in Moral Philosophy by Mr. Dugald Stewart,

whose striking and impressive eloquence riveted the attention even of

the most volatile students.

To Lord Cockburn's essentially different nature Stewart was the ideal of

academic greatness, the correctness of Stewart's taste striking him with

a certain awe. Stewart's elegant essays, 'embellished by the happiest

introduction of exquisite quotations,' on such subjects as the

obligations of patriotism and affection, the cultivation and the value

of taste, the charms of literature and science, etc., appeared to him

not only fascinating, which they were, but always great, which certainly

they were not.

Lord Cockburn describes Dugald Stewart as 'about the middle size, weakly

limbed, and with an appearance of feebleness which gave an air of

delicacy to his gait and structure. His forehead was large and bald,

his eyebrows bushy, his eyes grey, and intelligent, and capable of

conveying any emotion, from indignation to pity, from serene sense to

hearty humour: in which they were powerfully aided by his lips, which,

though rather large perhaps, were flexible and expressive. The voice

was singularly pleasing; and, as he managed it, a slight burr only made

its tones softer. His ear, both for music and for speech, was

exquisite; and he was the finest reader I have ever heard. His gesture

was simple and elegant, though not free from a tinge of professional

formality; and his whole manner that of an academical gentleman....

'He lectured, standing, from notes which, with their successive

additions, must, I suppose, at last have been nearly as full as his

spoken words. His lecturing manner was professorial, but gentlemanlike;

calm and expository, but rising into greatness, or softening into

tenderness, whenever his subject required it. A slight asthmatic

tendency made him often clear his throat; and such was my admiration of

the whole exhibition, that Macvey Napier told him, not long ago, that I

had said there was eloquence in his very spitting. "Then," said he, "I

am glad there was at least one thing in which I had no competitor...."

To me his lectures were like the opening of the heavens. I felt that I

had a soul. His noble views, unfolded in glorious sentences, elevated

me into a higher world. I was as much excited and charmed as any man of

cultivated senses would be, who, after being ignorant of their

existence, was admitted to all the glories of Milton, Cicero, and

Shakespeare. They changed my whole nature. In short, Dugald Stewart

was one of the greatest of didactic orators. Had he lived in ancient

time, his memory would have descended to us as that of one of the finest

of the old eloquent sages. But his lot was better cast. Flourishing in

an age which requires all the dignity of morals to counteract the

tendencies of physical pursuits and political convulsion, he has exalted

the character of his country and his generation. No intelligent pupil of

his ever ceased to respect philosophy or was ever false to his

principles, without feeling the crime aggravated by the recollection of

the morality that Stewart had taught him.'

This last tribute to Stewart is a very fine idea. It recalls Persius'

noble line:

'Virtutem videant, intabescantque relicta.'

Stewart had the great honour and felicity of meeting Burns on his first

visit to Edinburgh in 1786. A more singularly contrasted pair could

hardly have been brought together from any corners of the earth. Burns

looked up to the celebrated professor with genuine admiration, for

rhetoric was the great poet's besetting weakness. He speaks of Stewart

personally always with respect and esteem, but the stateliness of the

patricians in Edinburgh almost disgusted him with life. He was obliged

to buy a pocket Milton, so that he might be able, whenever he recalled

it, to study the sentiments of courage, independence, and noble

defiance, 'in that great personage, SATAN,' as an antidote to the

poisoned feeling of disgust.

*CHAPTER VII*

Old Edinburgh Society--Manners of the older Generation--St. Cecilia's

Hall--Buccleuch Place Rooms--Rules of the Assemblies--Drinking

Customs--Recollections of Lord Cockburn.

The great transformation process of Edinburgh life and society was a

striking feature of the years during which Walter Scott grew from

boyhood to manhood. The rise of the New Town, with the consequent rapid

migration of the much greater part of the well-to-do population, was

naturally the most active factor in the change. There was a general

alteration of habits. Families changed their style of living. Old

arrangements, necessitated by the lofty old houses, disappeared. Old

peculiarities, which gave character and Scottish individuality to the

city, were obliterated as if by magic. As might be expected, such

sweeping changes were disliked and denounced by many who looked upon the

whole movement as a vulgarising of the old gentilities. The social

habits of the older generation were a strange mixture of coarseness and

extreme decorum, based upon artificial rules. The latter side is seen

in the delightful sketches which Lord Cockburn has left us of the old

concert-rooms and assembly-rooms which were maintained by the

fashionable class for their own exclusive use.

'Saint Cecilia's Hall was the only public resort of the musical, and

besides being our most selectly fashionable place of amusement, was the

best and the most beautiful concert-room I have ever yet seen. And

there have I myself seen most of our literary and fashionable gentlemen,

predominating with their side curls and frills, and ruffles, and silver

buckles; and our stately matrons stiffened in hoops and gorgeous satin;

and our beauties with high-heeled shoes, powdered and pomatumed hair,

and lofty and composite head-dresses. All this was in the Cowgate! the

last retreat nowadays of destitution and disease. The building still

stands, though raised and changed, and is looked down upon from South

Bridge, over the eastern side of the Cowgate Arch. When I last saw it,

it seemed to be partly an old clothesman's shop, and partly a

brazier's.[1] The abolition of this Cecilian temple, and the necessity

of finding accommodation where they could, and of depending for

patronage on the common boisterous public, of course, extinguished the

delicacies of the old artificial parterre.

[1] It is now part of the bookbinding premises of George Cooper and Co.,

Niddry Street. The Hall itself is now used as a store for paper.

'Our balls, and their manners, fared no better. The ancient dancing

establishments in the Bow and the Assembly Close I know nothing about.

Everything of the kind was meant to be annihilated by the erection

(about 1784) of the handsome apartments in George Street. Yet even

against these, the new part of the old town made a gallant struggle, and

in my youth the whole fashionable dancing, as indeed the fashionable

everything, clung to George Square; where (in Buccleuch Place, close by

the south-eastern corner of the square) most beautiful rooms were

erected, which, for several years, threw the New Town piece of

presumption entirely into the shade. And here were the last remains of

the ballroom discipline of the preceding age. Martinet dowagers and

venerable beaux acted as masters and mistresses of ceremonies, and made

all the preliminary arrangements. No couple could dance unless each

party was provided with a ticket prescribing the precise place in the

precise dance. If there was no ticket, the gentleman, or the lady, was

dealt with as an intruder, and turned out of the dance. If the ticket

had marked upon it--say, for a country dance, the figures 3, 5, this

meant that the holder was to place himself in the third dance, and fifth

from the top; and if he was anywhere else, he was set right or excluded.

And the partner's tickets must correspond. Woe to the poor girl who,

with ticket 2, 7, was found opposite a youth marked 5, 9! It was

flirting without a licence, and looked very ill, and would probably be

reported by the ticket director of that dance to the mother. Of course,

parties, or parents, who wished to secure dancing for themselves or

those they had charge of, provided themselves with correct and

corresponding vouchers before the ball day arrived. This could only be

accomplished through a director: and the election of a pope sometimes

requires less jobbing. When parties chose to take their chance, they

might do so; but still, though only obtained in the room, the written

permission was necessary; and such a thing as a compact to dance, by a

couple, without official authority, would have been an outrage that

could scarcely be contemplated. Tea was sipped in side-rooms, and he

was a careless beau who did not present his partner with an orange at

the end of each dance; and the orange and the tea, like everything else,

were under exact and positive regulations. All this disappeared, and

the very rooms were obliterated, as soon as the lately raised community

secured its inevitable supremacy to the New Town. The aristocracy of a

few predominating individuals and families came to an end; and the

unreasonable old had nothing for it but to sigh over the recollection of

the select and elegant parties of their youth, where indiscriminate

public right was rejected, and its coarseness awed.

'Yet in some respects there was far more coarseness in the formal age

than in the free one. Two vices especially, which have been long

banished from all respectable society, were very prevalent, if not

universal, among the whole upper ranks--swearing and drunkenness.

Nothing was more common than for gentlemen who had dined with ladies,

and meant to rejoin them, to get drunk. To get drunk in a tavern seemed

to be considered as a natural, if not an intended consequence of going

to one. Swearing was thought the right, and the mark, of a gentleman.

And, tried by this test, nobody, who had not seen them, could now be

made to believe how many gentlemen there were. Not that people were

worse tempered then than now. They were only coarser in their manners,

and had got into a bad style of admonition and dissent. And the evil

provoked its own continuance, because nobody who was blamed cared for

the censure, or understood that it was serious, unless it was clothed in

execration; and any intensity even of kindness or of logic, that was not

embodied in solid commination, evaporated, and was supposed to have been

meant to evaporate, in the very uttering. The naval chaplain justified

his cursing the sailors, because it made them listen to him; and

Braxfield apologised to a lady whom he damned at whist for bad play, by

declaring that he had mistaken her for his wife. This odious practice

was applied with particular offensiveness by those in authority towards

their inferiors. In the army it was universal by officers towards

soldiers; and far more frequent than is now credible by masters towards

servants.'

*CHAPTER VIII*

Description of St. Cecilia's Hall--Concerts--Old-fashioned Contempt for

'Stars'--Former Assembly Rooms--The George Street Rooms--Scott and the

old Social Ways--Simplicity and Friendliness--His Picture of the

Beginnings of Fashion in the New Town.

A few additional details can still be given of the places thus described

by Lord Cockburn. St. Cecilia's Hall was seated, in the manner of an

amphitheatre, for five hundred persons, with a large open space in the

centre. The orchestra was at the upper end of the room, where there was

also 'an elegant organ.' It was managed by a great society of musical

gentlemen, a society which, it seems, originated from a weekly

club-meeting, as was then usual, in a tavern. The landlord, Steil, was

extremely fond of music, and was regarded as an excellent singer of

Scottish songs. The concerts given in St. Cecilia's Hall, besides their

fashionable aspect, seem to have been of high musical merit. One

writing about the beginning of last century laments most feelingly its

neglect and decay. He describes the great doings of its palmy days,

when the best compositions of the old school took the lead in the plans

of the concerts; when the sublime compositions of Handel, and the

enchanting strains of Corelli, were ably conducted under the direction

of a Pinto, a Puppo, a Penducci, and a Kelly. He declares that genuine

taste for music has decayed in Edinburgh; that the rage of the present

day is only to be captivated by those intricate capriccios in execution

which excite no passion but surprise; and that the sweet sounds which

enchanted the ears of our forefathers are now laid aside for those which

amaze rather than delight. It is true (he continues) we may be

_occasionally_ honoured with a visit by a Braham or a Catalani; but,

like birds of passage, scarcely have they _feathered their nests_, when

they wing their way to milder climes. How different and how

disagreeable, in fact, must modern arrangements have appeared to

old-fashioned worthies. The 'stars' of the old time were paid only by

results, that is, by benefit nights whose success was, of course, in

proportion to the singer's merits.

The first Assembly Rooms were at the West Bow, opened in 1760. The

Assemblies were removed to new rooms in the High Street (Assembly Close)

some ten years later. They were weekly meetings for dancing and

card-playing, kept up by a charge of five shillings for admission. At

first the Assemblies were managed entirely by private individuals, but a

change was made in 1746, when they were transferred to the charge of

seven persons connected with the Royal Infirmary and the Charity

Workhouse. A lady of fashion was always associated with this committee,

to look after points of etiquette and decorum. The surplus funds were

always given to the two institutions named. The George Street Rooms were

erected to supply defects of accommodation and to shift the centre of

fashion into the New Town. Sir Walter pictures the veterans of his

generation as recollecting with a sigh the Old Assembly Rooms, or Dun's

Rooms, or the George Street Rooms, when first opened, as a place of

public amusement, where all persons, of rank and fashion entitling them

to frequent such places, met upon easy and upon equal terms, and without

any attempt at intrusion on the part of others; where the pretensions of

every one were known and judged of by their birth and manners, and not

by assumed airs of extravagance, or a lavish display of wealth. His

conclusion was that, upon the whole, the society of the higher classes

in Edinburgh was formerly select, the members better known to each

other, and therefore more easy in intercourse than at a later day (say

after the beginning of the nineteenth century). Evidently what charmed

Scott was the family charm of the old system, and the mild assertion of

the aristocratic caste which was doomed to give way before the claims of

mere wealth. The Scottish aristocracy were not rich. The old Edinburgh

therefore suited at once their purses and their prejudices. The ladies

were content to entertain their friends at tea. Then after some

wine-drinking by the gentlemen, the carpets would be lifted, and a

homely and happy evening spent in dancing. Thus there was abundance of

sociability at little expense; and friendships were warmer because of

this admission to the intimacies of the ordinary daily life. Families

met more frequently, when the only preparation necessary was 'a social

and domestic meal of plain cookery, with a glass of good port-wine or

claret.' Scott is never severe on the drinking customs, of which the

purely social aspect appealed so strongly to his warm heart and kindly

nature. He admits that the claret was sometimes allowed to circulate

too often and too long, but the tea-table and the card-party claimed

their rights sooner or later, and perhaps the young ladies might thank

the claret for the frequent proposal of rolling aside the carpet and

dancing to the music of the pianoforte.

Contrast with these happy and home-like revels the beginnings of the

modern system as pictured by Scott. 'Certainly he who has witnessed and

partaken of pleasures attainable on such easy terms, may be allowed to

murmur at modern parties, where, with much more formality and more

expense, the same cheerful results are not equally secured. When, after

a month's invitation, he meets a large party of twenty or thirty people,

probably little known to him and to each other, who are entertained with

French cookery and a variety of expensive wines offered in succession,

while circumstances often betray that the landlord is making an effort

beyond his usual habits; when the company protract a dull effort at

conversation under the reserve imposed by their being strangers to each

other, and reunite with the ladies, sober enough, it is true, but dull

enough also, to drink cold coffee, he expects at least to finish the

evening with dance and song, or the lively talk around the fire, or the

comfortable, old-fashioned rubber. But these are no part of modern

manners. No sooner is the dinner-party ended, than each guest sets

forth on a nocturnal cruise from one crowded party to another; and ends

by elbowing, it may be, in King Street, about three o'clock in the

morning, the very same folks whom he elbowed at ten o'clock at night in

Charlotte Square, and who, like him, have spent the whole night in the

streets, and in going in or out of lighted apartments.'

*CHAPTER IX*

Manners and Social Customs--Cockburn's Sketches--The Dinner-hour--The

Procession--The Viands--Drinking--Claret--Healths and Toasts--Anecdote

of Duke of Buccleuch--'Rounds' of Toasts--'Sentiments'--The Dominie of

Arndilly--Scott's Views of the old Customs--Decline of 'friendly'

Feeling.

We shall now give Lord Cockburn's very interesting picture of the

evenings which Scott dwelt upon with such sympathetic regret:--

'The prevailing dinner-hour was about three o'clock. Two o'clock was

quite common, if there was no company. Hence it was no great deviation

from their usual custom for a family to dine on Sundays "between

sermons"--that is, between one and two. The hour, in time, but not

without groans and predictions, became four, at which it stuck for

several years. Then it got to five, which, however, was thought

positively revolutionary; and four was long and gallantly adhered to by

the haters of change as "the good old hour." At last even they were

obliged to give in. But they only yielded inch by inch, and made a

desperate stand at half-past four. Even five, however, triumphed, and

continued the average polite hour from (I think) about 1806, or 1807,

till about 1820. Six has at last prevailed, and half an hour later is

not unusual. As yet this is the furthest stretch of London

imitation.... Thus, within my memory, the hour has ranged from two to

half-past six o'clock; and a stand has been regularly made at the end of

every half-hour against each encroachment; and always on the same

grounds--dislike of change and jealousy of finery.'

Mr. Oldbuck of Monkbarns, it will be remembered, who flourished _circa_

1804, invited his guests to the famous 'coenobitical symposion' _at four

o'clock precisely_. It may be presumed that the Antiquary in this

matter, however, lingered a little in the rear of the fashion. The

dishes at the symposion comprehended 'many savoury specimens of Scottish

viands now disused at the tables of those who affect

elegance'--hotch-potch, 'the relishing Solan goose,' fish and sauce,

crappit-heads, and chicken-pie. The Antiquary's beverage was port, a

wine highly approved of by the clerical friend who so ably disposed of

the relics of the feast intended for the worthy host's supper.

'The procession from the drawing-room to the dining-room was formerly

arranged on a different principle from what it is now. There was no

such alarming proceeding as that of each gentleman approaching a lady,

and the two hooking together. This would have excited as much horror as

the waltz at first did, which never showed itself without denunciations

of continental manners by correct gentlemen and worthy mothers and

aunts. All the ladies first went off by themselves, in a regular row,

according to the ordinary rules of precedence. Then the gentlemen moved

off in a single file; so that when they reached the dining-room, the

ladies were all there, lingering about the backs of the chairs, till

they could see what their fate was to be. Then began the selection of

partners, the leaders of the male line having the advantage of priority;

and of course the magnates had an affinity for each other.

'The dinners themselves were much the same as at present. Any

difference is in a more liberal adoption of the cookery of France. Ice,

either for cooling or eating, was utterly unknown, except in a few

houses of the highest class. There was far less drinking during dinner

than now, and far more after it. The staple wines, even at ceremonious

parties, were in general only port and sherry. Champagne was never

seen. It only began to appear after France was opened by the peace of

1815. The exemption of Scotch claret from duty, which continued (I

believe) till about 1780, made it till then the ordinary beverage. I

have heard Henry Mackenzie and other old people say that, when a cargo

of claret came to Leith, the common way of proclaiming its arrival was

by sending a hogshead of it through the town on a cart, with a horn; and

that anybody who wanted a sample, or a drink under pretence of a sample,

had only to go to the cart with a jug, which, without much nicety about

its size, was filled for a sixpence. The tax ended this mode of

advertising; and, aided by the horror of everything French, drove claret

from all tables below the richest.

'Healths and toasts were special torments; oppressions which cannot now

be conceived. Every glass during dinner required to be dedicated to the

health of some one. It was thought sottish and rude to take wine

without this--as if forsooth there was nobody present worth drinking

with. I was present about 1803, when the late Duke of Buccleuch took a

glass of sherry by himself at the table of Charles Hope, then Lord

Advocate; and this was noticed afterwards as a piece of ducal contempt.

And the person asked to take wine was not invited by anything so

slovenly as a look combined with a putting of the hand upon the bottle,

as is practised by near neighbours now. It was a much more serious

affair. For one thing, the wine was very rarely on the table. It had

to be called for; and in order to let the servant know to whom he was to

carry it, the caller was obliged to specify his partner aloud. All this

required some premeditation and courage. Hence timid men never ventured

on so bold a step at all, but were glad to escape by only drinking when

they were invited. As this ceremony was a mark of respect, the

landlord, or any other person who thought himself the great man, was

generally graciously pleased to perform it to every one present. But he

and others were always at liberty to abridge the severity of the duty by

performing it by platoons. They took a brace, or two brace, of ladies

or of gentlemen, or of both, and got them all engaged at once, and

proclaiming to the sideboard--"A glass of sherry for Miss Dundas, Mrs.

Murray, and Miss Hope, and a glass of port for Mr. Hume, and one for

me," he slew them by coveys. And all the parties to the contract were

bound to acknowledge each other distinctly. No nods or grins or

indifference, but a direct look at the object, the audible uttering of

the very words--"Your good health," accompanied by a respectful

inclination of the head, a gentle attraction of the right hand towards

the heart, and a gratified smile. And after all these detached pieces

of attention during the feast were over, no sooner was the table

cleared, and the after-dinner glasses set down, than it became necessary

for each person, following the landlord, to drink the health of every

other person present, individually. Thus, where there were ten people,

there were ninety healths drunk. This ceremony was often slurred over by

the bashful, who were allowed merely to look the benediction; but usage

compelled them to look it distinctly, and to each individual. To do

this well required some grace, and consequently it was best done by the

polite ruffled and frilled gentlemen of the olden time.

'This prandial nuisance was horrible. But it was nothing to what

followed. For after dinner, and before the ladies retired, there

generally began what were called "_Rounds_" of toasts; when each

gentleman named an absent lady, and another person was required to match

a gentleman with that lady, and the pair named were toasted, generally

with allusions and jokes about the fitness of the union. And, worst of

all, there were "sentiments." These were short epigrammatic sentences,

expressive of moral feelings and virtues, and were thought refined and

elegant productions. A faint conception of their nauseousness may be

formed from the following examples, every one of which I have heard

given a thousand times, and which indeed I only recollect from their

being favourites. The glasses being filled, a person was asked for his,

or her, sentiment, when this, or something similar, was committed--"May

the pleasures of the evening bear the reflections of the morning," Or,

"May the friends of our youth be the companions of our old age." Or,

"Delicate pleasures to susceptible minds." "May the honest heart never

feel distress." "May the hand of charity wipe the tear from the eye of

sorrow." "May never worse be among us." There were stores of similar

reflections; and for all kinds of parties, from the elegant and romantic

to the political, the municipal, the ecclesiastic, and the drunken.

Many of the thoughts and sayings survive still, and may occasionally be

heard at a club or a tavern. But even there they are out of vogue as

established parts of the entertainment; and in some scenes nothing can

be very offensive. But the proper _sentiment_ was a high and pure

production; a moral motto; and was meant to dignify and grace private

society. Hence, even after an easier age began to sneer at the display,

the correct thing was to receive the sentiment, if not with real

admiration, at least with decorous respect. Mercifully, there was a

large known public stock of the odious commodity, so that nobody who

could screw up his nerves to pronounce the words, had any occasion to

strain his invention. The conceited, the ready, or the reckless,

hackneyed in the art, had a knack of making new sentiments applicable to

the passing accidents, with great ease. But it was a dreadful

oppression on the timid or the awkward. They used to shudder, ladies

particularly--for nobody was spared when their turn in the _round_

approached. Many a struggle and blush did it cost; but this seemed only

to excite the tyranny of the masters of the craft; and compliance could

never be avoided except by more torture than yielding. There can

scarcely be a better example of the emetical nature of the stuff that

was swallowed than the sentiment elaborated by the poor dominie of

Arndilly. He was called upon, in his turn, before a large party, and

having nothing to guide him in an exercise to which he was new, except

what he saw was liked, after much writhing and groaning, he came out

with--"The reflection of the moon in the cawm bosom of the lake." It is

difficult for those who have been born under a more natural system, to

comprehend how a sensible man, a respectable matron, a worthy old maid,

and especially a girl, could be expected to go into company only on such

conditions.'

Different men, different minds. Even from this picture, which is taken

from the point of view of one who was by nature critical and prone to

dissent, one can see how jolly and amusing such parties must often have

been made. Scott liked them; enjoyed them thoroughly. What would one

not give to have seen him presiding at one of those 'grave annual

dinners of the Bannatyne Club,' where he always insisted on rounds of

ladies and gentlemen, and of authors and printers, poets and kings, in

regular pairs. The custom, in spite of its drawbacks, fulfilled the

great end and aim of sociability: it brought every individual guest into

active participation in the evening's proceedings. Nowadays, 'annual'

banquets almost always fail in this; being only, as a rule, occasions

for more or less falsetto speechifying by a temporary clique of

self-regarded notables and their complacent secretary. The toast-system

was also favourable to loyalty and patriotism, the health of the King

never being neglected at the family dinner-table, even when no guests

were present. That custom, we fear, has now fallen away, along with

that other and nobler one immortalised in 'The Cotter's Saturday Night.'

*CHAPTER X*

Religious Observances--Sunday Attendance at Church--Sunday

Books--Breakdown of the System--Alleged Infidelity among Professors--Low

State of Morality--Increase of mixed Population--Provincialism.

The externals of religion in Edinburgh underwent a radical change during

the boyhood of Walter Scott. The generation that was then retiring from

the scene was a generation devoted, in all externals at least, to the

cultivation of the religious duties. Rich and poor, old and young, they

attended church with unfailing regularity. They held to the strict

Puritanic idea of the Sabbath Day. That is, they thought devotion the

only proper employment of that day, and considered even a casual

appearance on the street during the hours of worship as a disgrace.

With them family worship was a general and honoured practice. The

reading of any but definitely religious books on Sunday was forbidden in

every respectable family. In fact, the Sunday at home in such a family

as Scott's was a day of discipline, of which even his good-nature was

inclined to complain. What vexed his young soul was 'the gloom of one

dull sermon succeeding to another.' The Sunday books were to him a

relief and a delight. He retained all his life a favour for Bunyan's

Pilgrim, Gesner's Death of Abel, Rowe's Letters, and a few others.

Still, in his opinion, the tedium of the day did the young people no

good. The scene soon changed. Even in the early eighties we find it

noted as 'ungenteel' to go to church in a family capacity. Amusements

and idle recreation began to be common. The streets were now crowded

during the hours of service. On Sunday evenings they became scenes of

noise and disorder. Family worship was abandoned, even, as was

whispered, by the clergy themselves. And, as a striking evidence of

this rapid declension, it is recorded that church collections had fallen

from L1500 to L1000 a year. Critical seniors loudly wailed, but their

outcry was as useless as it was earnest. Old times were changed, old

manners gone, never to return. The decent, staid, and dignified

generation was being hustled from the scene by a flippant, noisy crowd

of loose and licentious innovators. Conduct which the elders would have

regarded and punished as criminal was no longer atoned for even by the

blush of shame.

Such a view of Edinburgh's religious state at the end of the eighteenth

century was at all events maintained by certain praisers of the past.

It has also been stoutly asserted that infidelity was rampant, under the

aegis of the redoubtable David Hume. The University especially was

accused of being tainted with infidelity, but the charge is denounced by

Lord Cockburn as utterly false. 'I am not aware (he says) of a single

professor to whom it was ever applied, or could be applied, justly.

Freedom of discussion was not in the least combined with scepticism

among the students, or in their societies. I never knew nor heard of a

single student, tutor, or professor, by whom infidelity was disclosed,

or in whose thoughts I believed it to be harboured, with perhaps only

two obscure and doubtful exceptions. I consider the imputation as

chiefly an invention to justify modern intolerance.'

As to the comparative religiousness of the present and the preceding

generation, any such comparison is very difficult to be made. Religion

is certainly more the fashion than it used to be. There is more said

about it; there has been a great rise, and consequently a great

competition, of sects; and the general mass of the religious public has

been enlarged. On the other hand, if we are to believe one-half of what

some religious persons themselves assure us, religion is now almost

extinct. My opinion is that the balance is in favour of the present

time. And I am certain that it would be much more so, if the modern

dictators would only accept of that as religion, which was considered to

be so by their devout fathers.'

On the whole, with due heed paid to possible qualifications, it is clear

that the standard of life and conduct must have been low between, say,

1780 and 1820. We have Scott's express statement that domestic purity

was in general maintained in Edinburgh society, but scandalous

exceptions were by no means unknown. Among the lower classes the

freedom from wholesome, if irksome, restraints was, of course, marked by

greater lapses. Among them a generation grew up, practically ignorant

of the elementary ideas of religion. As a contemporary quaintly puts

it, they were as ignorant as Hottentots, and as little acquainted with

the decalogue as with repealed Acts of Parliament. The streets, which

formerly a lady might have traversed in perfect safety at any hour, now

became notoriously unsafe. Doubtless all this was increased, and to

some extent occasioned, by the constant influx of a new and shifting

population, attracted by the rapid extension of the city. The vices and

easy manners of a modern city soon concealed what remained of the old

Scottish habits and character. In short, Edinburgh in those years

passed from the state of a national capital to that of a big provincial

centre, such as Colonel Mannering beheld it, 'with its noise and

clamour, its sounds of trade, of revelry and licence, and the eternally

changing bustle of its hundred groups.'

*CHAPTER XI*

Scott apprenticed to the Law--Copying Money and _menus

plaisirs_--Novels--Romances--Early Attempts--John Irving--Sibbald's

Library--Sees Robert Burns--The Parliament House--The 'Krames.'

About 1785-86, Walter Scott, acceding to his father's wish, was

indentured in his father's office, and 'entered upon the dry and barren

wilderness of forms and conveyances.' Boy as he was, he felt even then

that he was not cut out for this career, but family circumstances and

the necessary intimacy with so many representatives of the profession no

doubt prevented him from making any very serious objection, though he

felt in a general way that his 'parts ill-suited law's dry, musty arts.'

His warm affection and respect for his father was also a determining

motive. For this reason, and indeed with the honest desire to excel, he

made up his mind to work hard. But he was never enthusiastic over deeds

and quills. He mentions as no trifling incentive to labour, the copying

money, an allowance which supplied him with funds for going to the

theatre and subscribing to a library.[1] One of his feats was to copy

one hundred and twenty folio pages with no interval either for food or

rest. But when there was no call for toil, he would spend his time in

reading. His desk was filled with books of every kind, except manuals

of law. His supreme delight was in works of fiction, of which he must

have read an enormous number. He was not, however, entirely uncritical

in his choice. Only the 'art of Burney, or the feeling of Mackenzie,'

could make him read a domestic tale. He therefore realised early enough

that the field of novel-writing was unoccupied. His fondness for

adventure led him to devour every romance he came across without much

discrimination. 'I really believe (he says) I have read as much

nonsense of this class as any man now living.' Of the exploits of

knight-errantry he never tired, and he soon began to make attempts at

imitating the stories he loved. These early efforts were not in verse.

[1] See General Preface to Waverley Novels.

A quaintly interesting glimpse into the life of this most notable of law

apprentices is given in the General Preface of 1829, where he describes

himself and a chosen friend as delighting, on a holiday, to escape from

the town and in some solitary spot to recite alternately such adventures

as each had been able to invent. 'These legends, in which the material

and the miraculous always predominated, we rehearsed to each other

during our walks, which were usually directed to the most solitary spots

about Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags.... Whole holidays were spent

in this singular pastime, which continued for two or three years, and

had, I believe, no small effect in directing the turn of my imagination

to the chivalrous and romantic in poetry and prose.' This companion of

Scott's was Mr. John Irving, W.S., whose mother seems also to have been

very sympathetic with the boy. She would recite ballads to him, which

he easily learned by heart, and which helped him in making the

collection in six volumes which he had thus early begun.

Such being his tastes, he was naturally more interested in literary

characters than in the notable men of the legal profession. In the

course of frequenting Sibbald's circulating library in Parliament

Square, where he must have spent a good deal of time in rummaging the

dusty shelves for rare old songs and romances, he had occasionally 'a

distant view' of some of the literary celebrities of the time. Among

them was the unfortunate Andrew Macdonald, author of _Vimonda_, and also

from this library vantage-ground he saw, at a distance, 'the boast of

Scotland, Robert Burns.'[2] The Parliament House itself was less

interesting to Scott than his beloved library, but he must by this time

have been very familiar with it, and often have seen the 'Lords' of the

old generation, whose pictures have been so quaintly sketched by Lord

Cockburn. Edinburgh, like any other collection of three hundred

thousand people, has amongst its numbers persons possessed of some

aesthetic conscience, persons who lament the past orgies of Vandalism,

and who do not admire the present triumphs of commercial architecture.

But such men are naturally not as a rule to be found in Town or Parish

Councils, and seldom indeed in public posts of any kind. Thus the

population has always seemed wholly given over to the worship of the

aesthetic Baal, and as a consequence the name of Lord Cockburn shines in

almost solitary splendour as that of a dignitary who protested against

the incredible doings of ignorance and avarice dressed in the authority

of municipal rank. Cockburn bitterly regretted the destruction of the

old Parliament House, which, he says, was, both outside and in, a

curious and interesting place. 'The old building exhibited some

respectable turrets, some ornamented windows and doors, and a handsome

balustrade. But the charm that ought to have saved it was its colour

and its age, which, however, were the very things that caused its

destruction. About one hundred and seventy years had breathed over it a

grave grey hue. The whole aspect was venerable and appropriate;

becoming the air and character of a sanctuary of Justice. But a mason

pronounced it to be all _Dead Wall_.[3] The officials to whom, at a

period when there was no public taste in Edinburgh,[4] this was

addressed, believed him; and the two fronts were removed in order to

make way for the bright free-stone and contemptible decorations that now

disgrace us.... I cannot doubt that King Charles tried to spur his

horse against the Vandals when he saw the profanation begin. But there

was such an utter absence of public spirit in Edinburgh then, that the

building might have been painted scarlet without anybody objecting.'

[2] 'I saw him one day at the late venerable Professor Ferguson's, where

there were several gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I

remember the celebrated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course, we youngsters sat

silent, looked and listened. The only thing I remember which was

remarkable in Burns's manner was the effect produced upon him by a print

of Bunbury's, representing a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog

sitting in misery on the one side, on the other his widow, with a child

in her arms. These lines were written beneath:

"Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain,

Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain;

Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew,

The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,

Gave the sad presage of his future years,

The child of misery baptized in tears."

Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather by the ideas which it

suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the lines

were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they occur

in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising title

of "The Justice of the Peace." I whispered my information to a friend

present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a

word, which, though of mere civility, I then received and still

recollect with very great pleasure.'--_Letter to_ J. G. LOCKHART.

[3] This means, when translated, that it was plain wall, without any

architectural or aesthetic value.

[4] Observe the delightful ambiguity.

Among the most vivid childish memories of Scott and his contemporaries

was that of the Krames. It is described in the _Heart of Midlothian_ as

a narrow, crooked lane, winding between the Old Tolbooth and the

Luckenbooths on the one side, and the buttresses and projections of St.

Giles's Cathedral on the other. At one time, as Scott mentions, the

narrow court, with its booths plastered against the sides of the

Cathedral, was occupied by the hosiers, hatters, glovers, mercers,

milliners, and drapers, who removed, however, to the South Bridge as

soon as it was opened. The Krames then fell into the hands of the

toy-merchants, and became the paradise of childhood. Its glories were

maintained all the year round, but at New Year time especially it was

the enchanted ground of the city youngsters. To the youthful Cockburn

it was like one of the Arabian Nights' bazaars in Bagdad, and there is a

touch of personal recollection, too, in Scott's picture (_Heart of

Midlothian_, chap. vi.) of the little loiterers in the Krames,

'enchanted by the rich display of hobby-horses, babies, and Dutch toys,

yet half-scared by the cross looks of the withered pantaloon, or

spectacled old lady, by whom those tempting wares were watched and

superintended.' The Krames disappeared, on the demolition of the

adjacent Tolbooth, in 1817.

*CHAPTER XII*

Topics of Talk--Religion--Scott's Freedom from Fanaticism--Dilettantism

of the 'liberal young Men'--Politics--Basis of Scott's

Toryism--Cockburn's Anecdote of Table-talk--Men of the Old

School--Robertson the Historian--His _History of Charles V._--His noble

Generosity--Closing Years--Anecdotes.

In all probability Walter Scott was not very greatly interested or

influenced by the general conversation. Neither by nature nor by

circumstances was he ever in danger of being seduced into fanaticism of

any kind. As regards religion, his was the simple faith of one who

reverenced God as the Omnipotent whose power meant justice, goodness,

truth and love, and who loved his fellow-men, content to be happy

himself and to try to pour out happiness on all around him. His mind

did not hanker after theories on the mystery of existence. In fact, he

was a 'moderate' of the best kind, whose only anxiety was that his life

should be in the right. They seek in vain who search his volumes for

philosophical wisdom or prophetic gleams. He never posed as preacher or

as sage. He accepted the religion of his time, and felt himself at home

in the Episcopal Church of Scotland rather than in the Calvinistic

temples, whose services always repelled him by their gloom and dryness.

Still less was he attracted by anything intellectually fanatical. His

mind naturally rejected humbug. He was not one of the dilettante young

gentlemen whose talk was of chemistry because Lavoisier had made it

fashionable. Nor was he one of Cockburn's 'liberal young men of

Edinburgh,' who lived upon Adam Smith, a sound enough, but for them apt

to be windy, diet. I have no doubt he appreciated the greatness and

good sense of the author of the _Wealth of Nations_, and the value of

the brilliant work of Lavoisier, but the direction of his intellectual

interests was determined by his heart. And his heart was in the story of

the Past, glowing over the old ballads, songs, and romances of the age

of chivalry and glory. He was not a party politician any more than he

was a chemist or an economist. He was a Tory only because his sympathies

were with the kind of people who composed that party. He identified the

party with the gallantry and loyalty of the Cavalier, with the free,

wholesome life of the country as opposed to the grasping selfishness and

coarse materialism of the town, and with the generous sense of honour

which made himself the truest and sweetest of gentlemen. His Toryism

was a sentiment as far above the actual existing politics of his party

as Milton's ideal republicanism was above the practice of his Puritan

contemporaries, whom he styles 'owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and

dogs.' Scott's saving gift of humour saved him from sharing the painful

impression of which Lord Cockburn speaks. He was not so easily pained.

When worthy people talk nonsense in the bosom of the family, they should

not be taken too seriously even by boys. 'My father's house (Lord

Cockburn says) was one of the places where the leaders and the ardent

followers of the party in power were in the constant habit of

assembling. I can sit yet, in imagination, at the small side-table, and

overhear the conversation, a few feet off, at the established Wednesday

dinner. How they raved! What sentiments! What principles! Not that I

differed from them. I thought them quite right, and hated liberty and

the people as much as they did. But this drove me into an opposite

horror; for I was terrified out of such wits as they left me at the idea

of bloodshed, and it never occurred to me that it could be avoided. My

reason no sooner began to open, and to get some fair-play, than the

distressing wisdom of my ancestors began to fade, and the more

attractive sense that I met with among the young men into whose company

our debating societies threw me, gradually hardened me into what I

became--whatever this was.' Fortunately Cockburn, though he became a

Whig and a political lawyer, did not let his mind become narrowed

against the larger human interests. His sketches of some of the

representative men of the older generation are as warm and appreciative

as could be wished. He speaks of the pleasure he felt in having seen

them, though it was at a time when he could only judge of their

qualities from the respect which they commanded even among the young.

One of these was Dr. William Robertson, described in _Guy Mannering_ by

Mr. Pleydell, with some pride, as 'our historian of Scotland, of the

Continent, and of America.' Robertson's long and illustrious career was

almost wholly connected with Edinburgh. He was educated at the

University there, and about 1760 became minister of Old Greyfriars,

which had been his father's charge before, and where Pleydell conducts

Colonel Mannering to hear him preach. He was greater as a church leader

and a man of letters than as a preacher. Lord Brougham, who was his

grand-nephew, says that he preferred moral to gospel subjects, in order

to discountenance the fanaticism of the evangelicals. As a church

leader, he may be called the Lord North of the Church of Scotland. The

'moderatism' of Robertson led, after other secessions, eventually to the

Disruption of 1843. But in spite of his professional activities,

Robertson was essentially a literary artist. Conscientious and prolonged

research gave a value to his historical works, which largely atoned for

the monotony of his somewhat too ornate and dignified style. He has the

glory--and that too, when Samuel Johnson was at his zenith--of having

established a record in literary remuneration. For his history of

Charles V. he received L4500, the largest sum which had till then been

paid for a single work. No one will grudge the reward to the man who,

at the age of twenty-two, with a country clergyman's income of less than

L100 a year, took into his charge his orphaned brother and six sisters,

and postponed his marriage for several years that he might give them

education. In the last two years of his life, 1791-93, he was taken to

reside at Grange House, a rare old mansion, the seat of the family of

Dick Lauder, of Grange and Fountainhall. Here the enfeebled old man,

quite broken down by disease of the liver, spent his time as much as

possible in the garden. The Cockburn family, who lived close by at Hope

Park, were intimate friends, and thus young Henry came to see a great

deal of the Principal in the last summer of his life. He describes the

historian as 'a pleasant-looking old man, with an eye of great vivacity

and intelligence, a large projecting chin, small hearing-trumpet

fastened by a black ribbon to a button-hole of his coat, and a rather

large wig, powdered and curled.' For all his feebleness, with deafness

superadded, he seems up to the last to have been able to take an

animated part in conversation, whenever a favourite subject happened to

be started at his table.

*CHAPTER XIII*

More Men of the Old School--Dr. Erskine--Scott on Church Disputes--His

Admiration of Erskine's Character--Anecdote of Erskine's Walk to

Fife--Professor Ferguson--His History of Rome--Abstainer and

Vegetarian--Picture of Ferguson's Appearance--Odd Habits--Travels to

Italy.

When Colonel Mannering and Mr. Pleydell went to Greyfriars Church to

hear Dr. Robertson, they found, somewhat to their disappointment, that

the great historian was not to be the preacher that morning. 'Never

mind,'said the counsellor, 'have a moment's patience, and we shall do

very well.' The preacher they actually did hear was that distinguished

and excellent man, Dr. John Erskine, who was Robertson's colleague in

the pastoral charge of Greyfriars. Scott describes his external

appearance as not prepossessing: 'A remarkably fair complexion,

strangely contrasted with a black wig without a grain of powder; a

narrow chest and a stooping posture; hands which, placed like props on

either side of the pulpit, seemed necessary rather to support the person

than to assist the gesticulation of the preacher--no gown, not even that

of Geneva, and a gesture which seemed scarce voluntary. "The preacher

seems a very ungainly person," said Mannering. "Never fear, he's the

son of an excellent Scottish lawyer--he'll show blood, I'll warrant

him." The learned counsellor predicted truly.' They listen, in fact,

to a typical specimen of Scottish pulpit eloquence, and Mannering is

fain to admit that he had seldom heard so much learning, metaphysical

acuteness, and energy of argument, brought into the service of

Christianity. There is no doubt that in this most delightful chapter

(xxxvii.) of _Guy Mannering_ we have Scott himself in the person of Mr.

Paulus Pleydell. And in the remarks of the witty counsellor we get some

light here and there on how Scott regarded some of those questions which

by our Whigs and philosophical Radicals and suchlike are regarded as so

much more important and dignified than old ballads and mere human

questions of noble courage, love, kindness, fun, and truth. Speaking of

Robertson and Erskine's notorious difference in regard to church

government, Mannering asks the advocate what he thinks of these points

of difference: 'Why, I hope, Colonel, a plain man may go to heaven

without thinking about them at all.' That was Walter Scott, God bless

his memory! He was too much a living soul to waste his time or his

brain power on the pitiful, dry, deadening rubbish of polemics in

religion or in affairs of state. He had warm blood in his veins and a

warm heart in his breast, and therefore could not waste his manhood on

the marvellous speculations of the 'liberal young men of Edinburgh.'

Therefore, to pervert a sentence of Carlyle, he became Walter Scott of

the Universe, instead of drying up into a fossil Chancellor or Judge.

What interested Scott in Erskine and Robertson, as it did in all such

human beings whom he ever knew, was the beautiful, simple goodness of

heart, which was so much finer a thing than the fleeting glory of

eloquence or power. He tells with gusto how, in spite of differences of

opinion the greatest possible in their sphere, the two good men never

for a moment lost personal regard or esteem for each other, or suffered

malignity to interfere with their opposition. Erskine was indeed very

generally esteemed even by his opponents for his candour and kindliness,

and his personal qualities went more to make his high reputation than

the marked ability displayed in his works on Divinity. Cockburn, who,

like Scott, used to attend his church, says he was all soul and no body;

and compares the stooping figure of the old man, as he walked along,

with his hands in his sides, and his elbows turned outwards, to a piece

of old china with two handles. He also mentions the interesting fact

that Erskine, as well as Robertson, habitually spoke 'good honest

natural Scotch.' To illustrate his assertion that there was nothing

this good man would not do for truth or a friend, Cockburn relates a

characteristic anecdote: 'His friend Henry Erskine had once some

interest in a Fife election, but whether as a candidate or not I can't

say, in which the Doctor had a vote. Being too old and feeble to bear

the motion of a carriage or of a boat, he was neither asked nor expected

to attend; but loving Henry Erskine, and knowing that victories depended

on single votes, he determined to walk the whole way round by Stirling

Bridge, which would have taken him at least a fortnight; and he was only

prevented from doing so, after having arranged all his stages, by the

contest having been unexpectedly given up. Similar sacrifices were

familiar to the heroic and affectionate old gentleman.' Dr. Erskine

died at Edinburgh in 1803. His father was the famous lawyer, John

Erskine, whose great work the _Institutes of the Law of Scotland_ is

understood to be still the leading authority on its subject.

In the list of the young friends with whom Walter Scott chiefly

associated about 1788-89 occurs the name of Adam Ferguson, who continued

to be a cherished intimate, and became, in 1818, Scott's tenant and

neighbour at Huntley Burn on the lands of Abbotsford. His father was the

venerable and famous Professor Adam Ferguson, who, taken all round, was

probably the ablest of the many remarkable men who signalised Edinburgh

in this period. From about 1745 to 1757 he had been chaplain to the

42nd Highlanders, or Black Watch, and it is mentioned that no orders

could keep him in the rear during an action. He was next appointed

Keeper of the Advocates' Library in succession to David Hume. He

remained in this post for less than a year, and soon after began his

connection with Edinburgh University, first as Professor of Natural

Philosophy, and then, in 1764, as Professor of Moral Philosophy. The

latter subject was his favourite study, and he filled the chair for

twenty years. During this time he wrote his great work, the _History of

the Roman Republic_. He was a man of original mind, and had a rare

faculty of extempore lecturing, for which his practical experience in

the world and his extensive travels in Europe and America must have

supplied him with a rich and varied fund of striking illustrations. In

his personal habits he was an exception to his generation, being a

strict abstainer from both wine and animal food. In consequence of this

peculiarity he seems to have refrained from dining out, except with his

relative Dr. Joseph Black, a kindred spirit; and his son used to say it

was delightful to see the two philosophers rioting over a boiled turnip!

'When I first knew him (says Lord Cockburn), he was a spectacle well

worth beholding. His hair was silky and white; his eyes animated and

light blue; his cheeks sprinkled with broken red, like autumnal apples,

but fresh and healthy; his lips thin, and the under one curled. A

severe paralytic attack had reduced his animal vitality, though it left

no external appearance, and he required considerable artificial heat.

His raiment, therefore, consisted of half-boots lined with fur, cloth

breeches, a long cloth waistcoat with capacious pockets, a

single-breasted coat, a cloth greatcoat also lined with fur, and a felt

hat commonly tied by a ribbon below the chin. His boots were black; but

with this exception the whole coverings, including the hat, were of a

Quaker grey colour, or of a whitish brown; and he generally wore the fur

greatcoat within doors. When he walked forth, he used a tall staff,

which he commonly held at arm's-length out towards the right side; and

his two coats, each buttoned by only the upper button, flowed open

below, and exposed the whole of his curious and venerable figure. His

gait and air were noble; his gesture slow; his look full of dignity and

composed fire. He looked like a philosopher from Lapland. Domestically

he was kind, but anxious and peppery. His temperature was regulated by

Fahrenheit; and often, when sitting quite comfortably, he would start up

and put his wife and daughters into commotion, because his eye had

fallen on the instrument, and discovered that he was a degree too hot or

too cold. He always locked the door of his study when he left it, and

took the key in his pocket; and no housemaid got in till the

accumulation of dust and rubbish made it impossible to put the evil day

off any longer; and then woe on the family. He shook hands with us boys

one day in summer 1793, on setting off, in a strange sort of carriage,

and with no companion except his servant, James, to visit Italy for a

new edition of his history. He was then about seventy-two, and had to

pass through a good deal of war; but returned in about a year, younger

than ever.'

From this time, however, his remarkable figure ceased to be seen in

Edinburgh. His last years were spent mostly in rural retirement, and he

died at St. Andrews in 1816.

*CHAPTER XIV*

'Jupiter' Carlyle--Noble Looks--Friend of Robertson and John Home--The

Play of Douglas--Anecdote of Dr. Carlyle--Dr. Joseph Black--Latent

Heat--His personal Appearance--Anecdote of last Illness--His _History of

Great Britain_--Forerunner of the Modern School.

Of the other eighteenth-century Edinburgh worthies in Cockburn's little

gallery, the best-known name is that of 'Jupiter' Carlyle, the minister

of Inveresk. Carlyle's fame, or notoriety, what you will, came from his

intimate relations with the eminent characters of his time, such as

Hume, Blair, Home, and Adam Smith. If he was not great himself, his wise

counsels aided his friends to achieve greatness. The charm of his

manners was extraordinary, and his countenance and bearing so nobly

imposing as to suggest the classical eke-name of Jupiter. While he

lived, Carlyle and culture were synonymous. Cockburn, who scarcely

appreciated his value, admits the grace and kindness of his manner, and

says that he was one of the noblest-looking old gentlemen he almost ever

beheld. Carlyle was a conspicuous figure in the General Assembly. He

was a firm ally of Principal Robertson, whose moderate policy was

exactly to the mind of the extremely 'Broad' minister of Inveresk.

Great excitement was aroused by his open support of his friend Home in

producing the play of Douglas. It is said that he took part in the

private rehearsal of the play, and made a distinct hit as Old Norval.

At the third public representation he was present in the theatre, and

witnessed the extraordinary success of Home's piece. The play was

received by crowded audiences for many successive nights with universal

and vociferous applause. 'Where's your Shakespeare _noo_?' was the

triumphant shout of a patriotic but uncritical admirer. The play of

_Douglas_, though rejected by the keen judgment of Garrick as 'totally

unfit for the stage,' has passages of fine rhetoric, and shows at least

an easy mastery of elegant language. The author Home was suspended by

the General Assembly for his audacity in writing a play while he was a

minister of the Church of Scotland. A few years after, he received a

pension of L300 a year, which enabled him to spend the remainder of his

life in happiness and peace. Carlyle, his neighbour and constant

friend, has done full justice to the amiable qualities of Home, who was

the liberal friend of struggling merit in the hour of need. Carlyle

died in 1805 at the age of eighty-four, and Home in 1808, aged

eighty-six.

Dr. Carlyle was a famous _bon vivant_. His physical powers were

fortunately adequate to carry him through in any company. It is strange

and amusing in these days to think of a man like him sitting through the

prolonged convivialities of his clubs and parties. For Carlyle, both as

a divine and an aristocrat, was the very pink of propriety. He would

have deplored excess in himself as he did in others. He was, in fact, a

very temperate gentleman, and his conduct was admirable and exemplary.

The respect that was paid to his merits was only increased by the fact

that he could drink his four or five bottles of wine with impunity--nay,

with advantage. He was often the better, never the worse, of his wine.

One evening he was leaving Pinkieburn House, where he had dined, and

wending his way home with all his usual Olympian dignity. An old

woman-servant stood at the side-door, beholding the minister with

reverent admiration. 'Ay,' she was heard to say, 'there goes Dr.

Carlyle, the good man--as steady as a wall, and he's had his ain share

o' four bottles o' port.'

Dr. Joseph Black, the eminent chemist, lived in Edinburgh from 1766 to

his death in 1799. He was Professor of Chemistry in the University, but

his delicate health seems to have disabled him from continuing the

researches so fruitfully pursued in Glasgow (1756-66). His fame rests

on the discovery of Latent Heat, and he seems to have been the first to

apply hydrogen gas in raising balloons. Looking at his portrait, one

realises the remarkable truth and felicity of Cockburn's word-picture:

'A striking and beautiful person; tall, very thin, and cadaverously

pale; his hair carefully powdered, though there was little of it except

what was collected into a long thin queue; his eyes dark, clear, and

large, like deep pools of pure water. He wore black speckless clothes,

silk stockings, silver buckles, and either a slim green silk umbrella,

or a genteel brown cane. The general frame and air were feeble and

slender. The wildest boy respected Black. No lad could be irreverent

towards a man so pale, so gentle, so elegant, and so illustrious. So he

glided like a spirit through our rather mischievous sportiveness

unharmed. He died seated with a bowl of milk on his knee, of which his

ceasing to live did not spill a drop; a departure which it seemed, after

the event happened, might have been foretold of this attenuated

philosophical gentleman.' We shall not omit the companion picture to

this touching scene, the even more tranquil death of Dr. Robert Henry,

the historian. Four days before his death, he wrote to Sir Harry

Moncrieff the strange message: 'Come out here directly. I have got

something to do this week, I have got to die.' Moncrieff obeyed the

summons, and sat with him alone for what turned out to be the last three

days of his life. During this time, as he sat in his easy-chair, now

dozing, now conversing, a neighbouring minister, who was a notorious and

much-dreaded bore, came to call. 'Keep him out,' cried the doctor,

'don't let the cratur in here.' It was too late, the cratur entered,

but when he came in, behold the doctor to all appearance fast asleep.

Moncrieff at once taking in the situation, signed to the intruder to be

silent. The visitor sat down, apparently to wait till Dr. Henry might

awake. Every time he offered to speak, he was checked by solemn

gestures from Moncrieff or Mrs. Henry. 'So he sat on, all in perfect

silence, for above a quarter of an hour; during which Sir Harry

occasionally detected the dying man peeping cautiously through the

fringes of his eyelids to see how his visitor was coming on. At last

Sir Harry tired, and he and Mrs. Henry pointing to the poor doctor,

fairly waved the visitor out of the room; on which the doctor opened his

eyes wide, and had a tolerably hearty laugh; which was renewed when the

sound of the horse's feet made them certain that their friend was

actually off the premises. Dr. Henry died that night.' His one work, a

remarkable pioneer production, was the _History of Great Britain_.

Though severely criticised at the time of its publication, the work

certainly deserves Cockburn's praise of 'considerable merit in the

execution.' Its author, however, has the credit, apart from the

intrinsic value of his own attempt, of having discovered the new and

fruitful idea of making history display the internal growth of the

nation as well as its political development. In short, Henry was the

forerunner of Macaulay and Green.

*CHAPTER XV*

The 'Meadows' one Hundred Years ago--A Resort of great Men--Vixerunt

fortes--Their Intimacy and Quarrels--Hume and Ferguson--Home, the

happy--His boundless Generosity--Sympathy with Misfortune--Home and

Edinburgh Society--Sketch by Scott--'The Close of an Era.'

Time's changes have altered the state of the 'Meadows.' This park is

now surrounded by houses, a tramway line passes half-way down its south

side, and a constant stream of passengers between north and south makes

its Middle Walk a busy thoroughfare. The privacy is gone for ever that

made it in the eighteenth century 'so distinctly the resort of our

philosophy and our fashion.' It is now a noisy playground for the

flannelled fools at the wicket and the muddied oafs at the goal. In the

corners are swings, parallel bars, etc., for the use of little children.

But in the days of Scott's boyhood, it was possible to enjoy a quiet,

meditative stroll in these still suburban fields. And the great learned

and legal luminaries made the Meadows their resort for talk or for quiet

meditation. The lofty yet simple character of the men of this great

generation, but still more their strong nationality, combined with their

graceful manners and extraordinary benevolence, made a strong impression

on the imagination of Scott. The brilliance of the succeeding era,

which he himself created, never quite made up to his mind for what was

lost. The change was inevitable, but to him the men whom as a boy he

had seen in the Meadows or on the streets of Edinburgh, the geniuses

whose works and reputation had then only been known to him by name,

remained always the ideal figures of Scotland's literary and scientific

greatness. He was struck also by the breadth of mind which they had,

almost without exception, and which he, almost alone, carried over into

the next century: for those great men were like a family of amiable

brothers, free from jealousy and eagerly ready to make common cause of

each individual's fame. In reviewing Mackenzie's Life of Home for the

_Quarterly_ in 1827, he speaks of them in this touching strain: 'There

were men of literature in Edinburgh before she was renowned for

romances, reviews, and magazines:

"Vixerunt fortes ante Agamemnona";

and a single glance at the authors and men of science who dignified the

last generation will serve to show that, in those days, there were

giants in the North. The names of Hume, Robertson, and Ferguson stand

high in the list of British historians. Adam Smith was the father of

the economical system in Britain, and his standard work will long

continue the text-book of that science. Dr. Black as a chemist opened

the path of discovery which has since been prosecuted with such splendid

success. Of metaphysicians Scotland boasted perhaps but too many; to

Hume and Ferguson we must add Reid, and, though younger, still of the

same school, Dugald Stewart. In natural philosophy Scotland could

present Professor Robison, James Watt, and Clerk of Eldin, who taught

the British seamen the road to assured conquest. Others we could

mention, but these form a phalanx whose reputation was neither confined

to their narrow, poor, and rugged native country, nor to England and the

British dominions, but known and respected wherever learning,

philosophy, and science were honoured.' In regard to the personal

friendship of these great men, be it remembered, to the honour of the

excellent 'Jupiter' Carlyle, that he was a great peacemaker among them.

So was John Home, the happy. Ferguson, it would seem, had the defects

of his virtues. Sir Walter, indeed, who never minimised the merits of

any man except himself, says he kept his passions and feelings in strong

subjection to his reason, but there were occasions when the 'passions

and feelings' refused to be controlled. In fact, he was a constant

thorn in the patient side of Carlyle; being jealous of his rivals and

indignant against any assumption of superiority. However, Home and

Carlyle kept Adam Smith, Ferguson, and Hume on very good terms; while

Robertson's good-nature was so great, that it disarmed Ferguson's

weakness without the aid of the peacemakers. Thus they all dwelt in

unity, and 'held their being on the terms--each aid the ithers.' And so

Carlyle remarks, as if the assumption were the only possible one, 'David

Hume did not live to see Ferguson's History, otherwise his candid praise

would have prevented all the subtle remarks of the jealous or

resentful.' Very probably, after all, for Hume always regarded Ferguson

as the master spirit of the group. He was certainly the most masterful,

for, as Cockburn records, though a most kind and excellent man, he was

as fiery as gunpowder. The darling of the fraternity was of course John

Home. Famed in his youth for sprightliness and wit, he simply charmed

every company in which he mingled. He was joyous himself, and the cause

of joy in others. 'Such was the charm of his fine spirits in those days

(says Carlyle, who knew and loved him like a very brother), that when he

left the room prematurely, which was but seldom the case, the company

grew dull, and soon dissolved.' To praise his works was a sure passport

to his favour, and after once conferring his esteem there was nothing he

would not do or say to attest it. For the sake of the poor he made

himself a beggar, and was thus able to dispense constantly, not in

charity but in friendly kindness to the struggling and unfortunate, many

times the amount of his modest pension. For this his name should stand

above all Greek, above all Roman fame, save that of Cimon or of

Donatello. After all, the cultured and refined poor are the greatest

sufferers in our modern civilisation. They suffer, without betraying

it, the same privations of want and cold as the more favoured

inhabitants of the slums, and they suffer in addition unspeakable

agonies of mind, beholding themselves daily sinking in the struggle to

climb up the slippery side of the pit of poverty. Their very work is

spoiled and depreciated by the ceaseless haunting of the spectre of

ruin, and the absolute certainty that the struggle is hopeless. Such

persons were happy to be near John Home. He was their Providence. He

sought them out, made their acquaintance, gained their confidence,

guessed the needs they would not tell, and never failed to put the poor

wretches in the way of hope. When shall we see his like again? Probably

when another Donatello ruins himself for his friends, and when another

youthful de Medici bestows a second fortune on the ruined old artist, to

maintain the credit of his father's name. No wonder that Scott saw Home

as the object of general respect and veneration. The kindly old man

mingled in society to the very last. He died in 1808. 'There was a

general feeling (Scott adds) that his death closed an era in the

literary history of Scotland, and dissolved a link, which, though worn

and frail, seemed to connect the present generation with that of their

fathers.'

*CHAPTER XVI*

Ladies of the Old School--Anecdotes told by Scott, Dr. Carlyle, and Lord

Cockburn--Their Speech--'Suphy' Johnston--Anecdote of Suphy and Dr.

Gregory--Miss Menie Trotter--Her Dream--Views of Religion.

Speaking of the society manners of the old generation, Scott more than

hints that the upper classes in Scotland had only just emerged from a

very rough and socially ignorant condition. He tells an anecdote of 'a

dame of no small quality, the worshipful Lady Pumphraston, who buttered

a pound of green tea, sent her as an exquisite delicacy, dressed it as a

condiment to a rump of salt beef, and complained that no degree of

boiling would render those foreign greens tender.' One of the most

extraordinary passages in Carlyle's book is a description of a tour he

made in his boyhood--it was in the summer of 1733--with his father and

another clergyman, Jardine, minister of Lochmaben. They visited

Bridekirk, the family seat of the Carlyles. The laird was from home,

but the lady came to the door, and with boisterous hospitality ordered

the party to alight and come in. She is described as a very large and

powerful virago, about forty years of age. Her appearance naturally

startled the boy. A gentlewoman like this he had never seen, and the

picture fixed itself in his memory for life. 'Lady Bridekirk (he says)

was like a sergeant of foot in women's clothes; or rather like an

over-grown coachman of a Quaker persuasion. On our peremptory refusal

to alight, she darted into the house, like a hogshead down a slope, and

returned instantly with a pint bottle of brandy--a Scots pint, I

mean--and a stray beer-glass, into which she filled almost a bumper.

After a long grace said by Mr. Jardine--for it was his turn now, being

the third brandy-bottle we had seen since we left Lochmaben--she emptied

it to our healths, and made the gentlemen follow her example: she said

she would spare me as I was so young, but ordered a maid to bring a

ginger-bread cake from the cupboard, a luncheon of which she put in my

pocket. This lady was famous, even in the Annandale border, both at the

bowl and in battle: she could drink a Scots pint of brandy with ease;

and when the men grew obstreperous in their cups, she could either put

them out of doors, or to bed, as she found most convenient.' In the

latter half of the century, however, the typical lady of rank was a very

great improvement on Lady Bridekirk. Like that hospitable virago, she

was distinctly Scottish in speech and in dress. 'They all dressed (says

Cockburn), and spoke, and did, exactly as they chose; but without any

other vulgarity than what perfect naturalness is sometimes mistaken for.

They were a delightful set; strong-headed, warm-hearted, and

high-spirited; the fire of their tempers not always latent; merry even

in solitude; very resolute; indifferent about the modes and habits of

the modern world; and adhering to their own ways, so as to stand out,

like primitive rocks, above ordinary society.'