THE BLACK DWARF
Late in the afternoon of a beautiful May day, while on one of our
drives from Melrose, we turned off the main road a few miles west of
Peebles, and, crossing the Tweed, entered the vale of Manor Water.
This secluded valley, peaceful and charming, would make an ideal
retreat for any one who wished to escape the noise and confusion of a
busy world. The distinguished philosopher and historian, Dr. Adam
Ferguson, found it so, when in old age he took up his residence at
Hallyards, where his young friend, Walter Scott, paid him a visit in
the memorable summer of 1797.
It was not a desire to retire from worldly activities, however, or to
visit the house of Dr. Ferguson, that led us into the quiet valley.
Our purpose was to see the former home of one of the strangest human
beings who ever lived; one who found the seclusion of the beautiful
vale well adapted to shield him from the unwelcome observation of the
curious-minded. David Ritchie, or 'Bow'd Davie o' the Wud'use,'[1] as
he was called, was for many years a familiar figure to the few farmers
of the valley. He was born about 1735, and lived to be seventy-six
years of age. He had been horribly deformed from birth. His shoulders
were broad and muscular, and his arms unusually long and powerful,
though he could not lift them higher than his breast. But Nature
seemed {161} to have omitted providing him with legs and thighs. The
upper part of his body, with proportions seemingly intended for a
giant, was set upon short fin-like legs, so small that when he stood
erect they were almost invisible. His height was scarcely three feet
and a half. His feet were badly adapted for walking and were kept
wrapped in masses of rags as though they were the particular feature of
which their owner was most ashamed. So completely did he depend upon
the strength of his arms and chest that, unable to use his feet in the
ordinary way in digging his garden, he contrived a peculiar spade which
he could force into the soil with his breast. With his great arms he
had been known to tear a tree up by the roots, which had defied the
strength of two ordinary men.
His head was unusually large, particularly behind the ears. He had a
long nose, a wide, ugly mouth, and a protruding chin covered with a
grisly black beard. He had eyes of piercing black which in moments of
excitement gleamed with wild and awe-inspiring brightness. His voice
was shrill, harsh, and discordant, more like that of a screech-owl than
a human being, and his laugh was said to be horrible.
His mind corresponded in deformity with his body. He was eccentric,
irritable, jealous, and strangely superstitious. He was sensitive
beyond all reason and could not endure even the glance of his curious
fellow men. He read insult and scorn in faces where neither was
intended. He thoroughly despised all children and most strangers. His
whole nature seemed to have been poisoned with bitterness of spirit
because he was not like other men. Scott was introduced to this
singular {162} individual by Dr. Ferguson, who had taken a great
interest in him. Nineteen years later, and five years after the death
of David Ritchie, he made the recluse of Manor Valley known to the
world as 'The Black Dwarf,' in the first of the 'Tales of My Landlord.'
We found the cottage a little off the road and not far from the river,
nestling under the brow of a hill. I should, perhaps, say two
cottages, joined together and nearly of the same size. The one on the
left is of comparatively recent date and has a weather-stained bust of
Sir Walter over the door. The older cottage is divided by a partition.
On the right is a door and window of ordinary size. On the left is a
door three and a half feet high and a very small window. There is no
means of communication between the two apartments. The left side was
occupied by David Ritchie and the right by his half-crazed sister,
Agnes. There was never any affection between these two unfortunates,
but on the contrary, and in spite of the loneliness of their lives,
there was an almost complete estrangement.
[Illustration: THE BLACK DWARF'S COTTAGE]
The cottage has a stone over the dwarf's door inscribed 'D. R. 1802.'
This commemorates the date when it was built, by the charity of Sir
James Nasmyth, the owner of the land. It replaces a hut built by David
himself in very much the same manner as described in the novel. With
his own hands the dwarf rolled the heavy stones down from the hill, and
with what seemed to be almost superhuman strength, lifted them into
position. He enlisted the aid of passers-by, however, to help lift the
weightiest ones, which added to the wonderment of the next comers, who
could not know how much he had been assisted. Scott says he settled on
the land {163} without asking or receiving permission, but was allowed
to remain when discovered by the good-natured laird. William Chambers,
however, who gave considerable study to the subject, says that the
owner not only gave him possession of the ground rent-free, but
instructed his servants to render such assistance as might be required.
The immediate occasion of building a house in this sequestered
neighbourhood was the fact that Ritchie's painful sensitiveness about
his ungainly appearance made it intolerable for him to remain in
Edinburgh, whither he had gone to learn the trade of brush-making.
Whatever instinct guided him to Manor Water, he could scarcely have
found anywhere in Scotland a location better adapted to his
requirements.
Here the good part of his nature asserted itself--for there is good in
every human being, if only the key can be discovered that unlocks the
secret chambers. The poor misshapen dwarf found his in the cultivation
of a little garden, shut out from an unsympathetic world by a stone
wall of his own construction. Within this sacred enclosure a profusion
of flowers rankly unfolded their beauties to his eyes and shrank not
from his touch. He had contrived to obtain some rare exotics and to
learn their scientific names. He planted fruit trees in his garden and
surrounded his little house with willows and mountain ashes, until he
had converted it into a fairy bower. He found pleasure and profit in
the raising of vegetables, and even cultivated certain medicinal herbs
which he sold or gave to the neighbours. He also supplied some of the
gentlemen of the vicinity with honey and took great delight in the care
of his bees. A {164} cat, a dog, and a goat completed the roll of his
best-loved companions.
Besides the pleasure he took in the contemplation of his own garden,
Ritchie was an ardent admirer of the natural beauty of the country
which he had chosen for his home. 'The soft sweep of the green hill,
the bubbling of a clear fountain or the complexities of a wild thicket,
were scenes on which he often gazed for hours and, as he said, with
inexpressible delight.' He felt that sense of rest and refreshment
from the contemplation of nature which Bryant has so finely expressed:--
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language: for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
To this great comfort, the poor misanthrope added another--the reading
of good books. He was fond of the history of Wallace, Bruce, and other
Scottish heroes, and he also had a love of poetry. Scott speaks of his
familiarity with 'Paradise Lost' and says he has heard 'his most
unmusical voice repeat the celebrated description of Paradise, which he
seemed fully to appreciate.' Though not a man of orthodox religious
beliefs, he would occasionally speak of the future life with great
earnestness and on such occasions would sometimes burst into tears. He
had chosen a wild and beautiful spot on a neighbouring hillside for the
place of his burial. It was covered with green ferns and enclosed with
a circle of his favourite rowan or mountain ash, planted with his {165}
own hands, partly because of their beauty, but largely on account of
their potency in guarding the grave against evil spirits. He haughtily
expressed great abhorrence of being interred in the parish churchyard
with what he contemptuously called the 'common brush,' but in the last
moments his heart became softened towards his fellow men, his
antipathies relaxed, and his final wish was that he might be buried
with his fathers.
The writing of a novel based upon a character so grotesque and
repellent was not well suited to a man of Scott's wholesome and genial
temperament. He soon tired of it, and indeed the only satisfaction he
got out of it was in presenting the better side of the Black Dwarf's
nature. He came in time to agree with the criticism of the publisher,
William Blackwood, to which at first he had strenuously objected, and
the novel, originally intended to be in two volumes, was crowded into
one and hurried to an end, thereby producing a narrative, as the author
facetiously remarked in later years, 'as much disproportioned and
distorted as the Black Dwarf, who is its subject.'
[1] Or Bowed Davie of the Woodhouse Farm.
{166}