OLD MORTALITY
In the grounds of the Observatory at Maxwelltown, across the river from
Dumfries, is a small pavilion, enclosing two sculptured figures. One
represents an old Scotchman, half reclining on a tombstone, a chisel in
his left hand and a mallet resting by his side; the other is a pony,
apparently waiting for his master to arise. The sculptures were the
work of a local artist. They were disposed of by lottery to a young
man, who died by accident the next day, and they are here deposited as
a curious 'memorial to departed worth.'
The figures, thus used as a monument to the man who chanced to own
them, were intended to represent a very different person. 'Old
Mortality' and his pony were familiar to the people of Dumfriesshire
and other parts of Scotland for more than forty years. His real name,
as is well known, was Robert Paterson. He was a mason or stone-cutter
by trade, who operated a small quarry. In middle life he became so
thoroughly imbued with the religious enthusiasm of the Cameronians, of
which austere sect he was a zealous member, that he felt impelled to
desert his wife and five children, in order that he might perform the
duty which, he conceived, had devolved upon him. This was to travel
about the country and repair the gravestones of the martyred
Covenanters. He would clear off the moss from the old stones and recut
the half-defaced inscriptions, doing this often in {167} remote and
almost inaccessible recesses of the mountains and moors. Scarcely a
churchyard in Ayr, Galloway, or Dumfriesshire is without some evidences
of his work.
In spite of his eccentricity there was a fine sincerity of purpose in
the old man's devotion to his self-appointed task. He believed that
each grave should serve as a warning to posterity to defend their
religious faith, and he purposed to make every one, however obscure, a
beacon light, so to speak, to proclaim to all the world the sufferings
and devotion of the Covenanters, and thus to perpetuate the ideals for
which they strove. However mistaken he may have been as to the wisdom
of his methods, his calling was apparently as real to himself and as
sincere as that of any minister of the Gospel. He was found dying on
the highway one day in his eighty-sixth year, the little old white pony
standing patiently by his side. Thus he wore out his life in the
service of his religion, as truly devoted to it as any of the martyrs
who perished on battle-field or scaffold. His grave is marked by an
appropriate stone in the churchyard of Caerlaverock, south of Dumfries.
Scott, who once met the old man in the churchyard of Dunottar and saw
him actually engaged in his usual task, sought an interview, but in
spite of a good dinner and some liquid refreshments, which were quite
acceptable, was unable to induce him to speak of his experiences. This
was when the novelist was a young lawyer and long before he had thought
of looking for materials for a novel.
'Old Mortality,' which many, including Lord Tennyson, have regarded as
the greatest of Scott's novels, was {168} introduced to the public in a
curious way. The real author, as usual, concealed his identity. The
ostensible writer is Jedediah Cleishbotham, a schoolmaster, who in turn
denies the actual authorship of the story, but claims to be merely the
possessor of some posthumous papers of his late pupil, Peter Pattieson,
who has only transcribed some tales he had heard from the landlord of
Wallace Inn. Even the landlord was not original, for he received his
information from the lips of 'Old Mortality.' Thus, by a circuitous
route, the novelist derives this lengthy but extremely interesting tale
from old Robert Paterson, whom he never saw but once, and then failed
to make him talk!
After the Introduction and the first chapter, in which 'Old Mortality'
is briefly presented, we hear no more of him. In this respect the
novel irresistibly reminds me of the celebrated American humourist, who
advertised his lecture on 'Milk.' When his usual large audience had
assembled, he would step to the front of the platform and pour out,
from a pitcher conveniently provided for the purpose, a glass of milk,
which he would drink with great deliberation before uttering a word.
The lecture then followed in which he kept his hearers convulsed with
laughter, but there was never a word about milk.
Three events, all within the space of two months, form the historical
basis of 'Old Mortality.' These are the murder of Archbishop Sharp on
May 3, 1679, the skirmish at Drumclog on June 1, and the battle of
Bothwell Bridge, June 22. It was during the era of the persecution, in
the reign of Charles II, of the Scottish Covenanters, who persistently
resisted the 'Conventicle Act' forbidding the gathering of more than
five persons for {169} religious worship, except in accordance with the
Established Church. James Sharp, Archbishop of St. Andrews, had
incurred the hatred of the Covenanters by selfishly betraying the
Scottish Kirk. An attempt upon his life was made in 1668 by Robert
Mitchell, who was not arrested until six years later. He confessed
under Sharp's personal promise of pardon, but was sent to Bass Island,
where he remained a prisoner without trial for four years. Sharp then
denied his promise, though it was proved by the court records, and
demanded Mitchell's death. His base action met with speedy revenge.
While driving with his daughter he was set upon by a party of nine men
and put to death with the most atrocious cruelty.
The real leader in this murder was John Balfour of Burley, one of the
fiercest and most fanatical of the proscribed sect. Though he
professed the utmost religious fervour, Burley was more noted for the
violence and zeal with which he undertook the most desperate
enterprises and for his courage and skill with the sword. The murder
of Sharp aroused the Government to new activities and no less
stimulated the zeal of the Covenanters. Burley and a handful of his
followers openly defied their enemies. On the anniversary of the
Restoration, May 29, they interrupted the holiday, which they
considered 'presumptuous and unholy.' They rode into the town of
Rutherglen, extinguished the bonfires in honour of the day, burned the
acts of Parliament for the suppression of the conventicles and other
obnoxious laws, and concluded their 'solemn testimony' with prayer and
psalms.
Three days later a conventicle was held near Loudon {170} Hill, at
which no doubt sermons like those of Gabriel Kettledrummle and Habakkuk
Mucklewrath were preached with fiery vehemence. The Covenanters seemed
to depend upon their religious enthusiasm, for they were poorly armed
and badly organized. Men and women who had no arms marched out to
battle, relying upon 'the spirit given forth from the Lord.' They did
not wait to be attacked, but advanced eastward about two miles from
Loudon Hill to the farm of Drumclog, singing psalms all the way.
Whether by accident or design they made their stand on peculiarly
favourable ground behind a marsh too soft to support the weight of
cavalry. As it was covered with green herbage and only a few yards in
width, the attacking party, led by John Grahame of Claverhouse, did not
know of its existence.
'No quarter' was the word passed along on both sides. Claverhouse and
his dragoons, despising their foe, dashed down the declivity. The
horses' feet were entangled in the marsh and the ranks thrown into
confusion. The Covenanters, seizing the opportunity for which they had
waited, made a spirited attack and completely routed the cavalry,
Claverhouse himself having a narrow escape. Thirty-six dragoons were
killed, while the victors lost only three. The successful skirmish
aroused tremendous enthusiasm among the Covenanters, and had they been
able to maintain harmony in their own ranks, might have led to a
serious rebellion.
It did lead to the battle of Bothwell Bridge which took place on the
22d of the same month, June, 1679. The Government leader was the Duke
of Monmouth, who was anxious to preserve peace and avoid bloodshed.
{171} The more moderate of the insurgents sent a message offering terms
upon which they would surrender. The Duke offered to interpose with
the King on their behalf, provided they would first lay down their
arms. The Cameronians violently opposed the moderate policy and
favoured a fierce and even desperate resistance. While they were
debating the question, the sound of the enemy's guns broke in upon
them. In their disorganized condition, the cause of the Covenanters
was hopeless and the Government gained an easy victory. Claverhouse
rode at the head of his own troop, who were thus able to avenge the
disgraceful defeat at Drumclog.
It was the portrait of John Grahame of Claverhouse, hanging in the
library of Abbotsford, which, according to Lockhart, first suggested
the idea of the novel. Joseph Train had called to present the purse of
Rob Roy and 'a fresh heap of traditionary gleanings, which he had
gathered among the tale-tellers of his district.' Noticing the
handsome features revealed by the portrait of a man whom most Scotchmen
regarded as 'a ruffian desperado, who rode a goblin horse, was proof
against shot, and in league with the Devil,' Train expressed his
surprise. After Scott had defended his hero's character, Train, always
alive to the possibilities of a new story, asked whether he might not
'be made, in good hands, the hero of a national romance, as interesting
as any about either Wallace or Prince Charlie.' Upon receiving the
novelist's conditional assent, Train resumed: 'And what if the story
were to be delivered as if from the mouth of "Old Mortality?"' Train
then told what he knew of old Paterson, offering to learn more and
report later. Though Scott did not mention it at the time, the {172}
conversation recalled his earlier meeting with Paterson, and led to the
immediate writing of the novel.
The scenery of 'Old Mortality' required us to explore the course of the
river Clyde for almost its entire length. This picturesque stream
rises in the high country near Moffat. An old rhyme, as repeated to us
by a native of Moffat, runs thus:--
Evan, Annan, Tweed and Clyde
All flow out from ae hillside.
In its short course of less than seventy-five miles to the Firth of
Clyde at Dumbarton, it descends toward the sea by leaps and bounds,
forming a series of beautiful cataracts. The highest and most famous
of these is Corra Linn where Wordsworth composed a poem, inspired by
the sight of Wallace's Tower. Here the river takes a triple plunge
over the rocks for a distance of eighty-four feet. Not less imposing
is Stonebyres Linn, below the city of Lanark, where the fall is
seventy-six feet.
Following the downward course of the stream we came to the ruins of
Craignethan Castle, at the juncture of the Nethan with the Clyde. 'A
crag above the river Nethan' is the literal meaning of the name. This
is Tillietudlem, the castle which Scott made the residence of Lady
Bellenden and her granddaughter, Edith. A ravine under the old castle
of Lanark, near by, known as Gillytudlem, no doubt suggested the name.
[Illustration: CRAIGNETHAN CASTLE (TILLIETUDLEM)]
In the autumn of 1799, while on a visit to Lord Douglas at Bothwell
Castle, on the Clyde, Scott made an excursion to Craignethan and, as he
afterwards said, immediately fell in love with it so much that he
wanted to live there. Lord Douglas offered him the use for life {173}
of a very good house at one corner of the court. It was built in 1665
and we found it still in excellent repair. Scott did not at once
decline the offer, but circumstances made it impossible to accept.
That he made a very careful examination of the ruin, however, is shown
by the unusually accurate descriptions.
The castle stands on a high rock, reached by a long road through the
woods, by the side of a deep glen. I climbed some stairways through a
corner of the building which still remains intact, and stood on the
ruined battlement from which Major Bellenden valiantly defended the
castle. Here I had a fine view over the tree-tops and could see the
village of Braidwood, two miles away; but the road over which Lady
Bellenden saw the troops approaching was not visible to my eyes.
From this point also I had a good view of the court, which I could
fancy almost filled with a motley crowd of soldiers, domestic servants,
and retainers, including the bluff and stout-hearted Sergeant Bothwell,
who died 'hoping nothing, believing nothing--and fearing nothing'; the
intrepid Tam Halliday; the infamous Inglis; the old drunken cavaliering
butler, John Gudyill; the faithful ploughman, Cuddie Headrigg, with his
sweetheart, Jenny Dennison; and even poor little half-witted Goose
Gibbie, muffled in a big buff coat, 'girded rather _to_ than _with_ the
sword of a full-grown man,' his feeble legs 'plunged into jack-boots'
and a steel cap on his head so big as completely to extinguish him. In
the centre of the court is the entrance gate, formerly the chapel; on
the right a watch-tower and stable, and on the left the very
substantial house now occupied by the keeper's family, to which I have
referred.
{174}
The keeper next conducted me to the rear of the castle, where he
pointed out a well-preserved square tower below which the ground slopes
at a sharp angle to the river's edge. The lower part was used as a
dungeon, where we may suppose Henry Morton to have been confined. It
was once occupied by a nobleman of real life, who, not so fortunate as
the hero of the novel, was led away to execution. Above the dungeon
was the kitchen and pantry, with windows perhaps twenty feet above the
ground. At the corner there was once an old yew, the stump of which
may still be seen.
Readers of 'Old Mortality' will recall that during the siege of the
castle, Cuddie Headrigg, though an old servant, found himself with the
opposing army. With five or six companions he found his way to the
rear, where there was less danger, and proceeded to attempt to capture
the stronghold by climbing the tree and gaining access through the
window of the pantry. All might have gone well had it not been for the
fact that Jenny Dennison had chosen the pantry as the safest place of
retreat. When, therefore, Cuddie's figure appeared at the window, clad
in the steel cap and buff coat which had belonged to Sergeant Bothwell,
Jenny not only failed to recognize her lover, but was terribly
frightened. With an hysteric scream she rushed to the kitchen, where
she had hung on the fire a pot of kail-brose (a kind of vegetable
stew), having promised to prepare Tam Halliday his breakfast. Seizing
the pot and still screaming, she jumped to the window and poured the
whole scalding contents upon the head and shoulders of the unfortunate
Cuddie, thus 'conferring upon one admirer's outward man the viands
which her fair hands {175} had so lately been in the act of preparing
for the stomach of another.'
I had great difficulty in photographing this tower. The declivity was
so steep that it was almost impossible either to place the tripod in
proper position or to find a footing from which to look into the
camera. While in the midst of my preparations the keeper informed me
casually that a man had fallen down the slope three weeks before and
broken his neck. With this encouragement, I persevered and was finally
able to obtain what I believe to be one of the best evidences of the
accuracy with which Scott often made his investigations and subsequent
descriptions.
On one of our excursions from Melrose, we followed the course of the
Yarrow, from its junction with the Ettrick to its source in St. Mary's
Loch; then continuing to the southwest, we traced the course of Moffat
Water, which forms the outlet of the Loch of the Lowes, to a point just
above the place where the stream meets the Evan and the Annan; then
turning westward and passing through the town of Moffat, we followed
the course of the Tweed northward and eastward from its source to our
starting-place. For a large part of this drive, we were in wild,
desolate regions, which presented to us, we were well assured, exactly
the same aspect as they did to Sir Walter Scott, and to the Covenanters
a century or more before his time. From St. Mary's Loch to Moffat and
from the latter northward for at least fifteen or twenty miles, we were
in the very region where the Covenanters were wont to find a safe
retreat from persecution.
Scott was fond of riding through these wild mountain {176} passes, and
often did so with his friend, Skene, of Rubislaw, who has left an
entertaining account of one of these expeditions:--
One of our earliest expeditions was to visit the wild scenery of the
mountainous tract above Moffat, including the cascade of the Grey
Mare's Tail and the dark tarn called Loch Skene. In our ascent to the
lake we got completely bewildered in the thick fog which generally
envelops the rugged features of that lovely region; and as we were
groping through the maze of bogs, the ground gave way, and down went
horse and horsemen pell-mell into a slough of peaty mud and black
water, out of which, entangled as we were with our plaids and
floundering nags, it was no easy matter to get extricated. Indeed,
unless we had prudently left our gallant steeds at a farmhouse below
and borrowed hill-ponies for the occasion, the result might have been
worse than laughable. As it was, we rose like the spirits of the bogs,
covered _cap-à-pie_ with slime, to free themselves from which our wily
ponies took to rolling about on the heather, and we had nothing for it
but following their example. At length, as we approached the gloomy
loch, a huge eagle heaved himself from the margin and rose right over
us, screaming his scorn of the intruders; and altogether it would be
impossible to picture anything more desolately savage than the scene
which opened, as if raised by enchantment on purpose to gratify the
poet's eye, thick clouds of fog rolling incessantly over the face of
the inky waters, but rent asunder, now in one direction and then in
another--so as to afford us a glimpse of some projecting rock or naked
point of land, or island bearing a few scraggy stumps of pine--and then
closing again in universal darkness upon the cheerless waste. Much of
the scenery of 'Old Mortality' was drawn from that day's ride.
James Hogg, who conducted the party on that day, says:--
I conducted them through that wild region by a path, which if not rode
by Clavers, as reported, never was rode by {177} another gentleman....
Sir Walter, in the very worst paths, never dismounted save at Loch
Skene to take some dinner. We went to Moffat that night, where we met
with Lady Scott and Sophia and such a day and night of glee I never
witnessed. Our very perils were to him matters of infinite merriment.
The Grey Mare's Tail is a waterfall three or four hundred feet in
height, forming the outlet of Loch Skene. It is a narrow stream and
the water comes boiling and bubbling in foamy whiteness over the
ruggedest of rocks and through the wildest of ravines.
I am inclined to think that Scott, in striving to find a retreat for
Balfour, or Burley, poetically in keeping with the stern, fierce, and
dangerous character of that terrible individual, combined the awesome
features of the Grey Mare's Tail with the wild beauty of another ravine
which he had visited. The latter is the deep gulch known as Crichope
Linn, near the village of Closeburn, north of Dumfries. A narrow
stream, flowing through a thick wood, has cut a deep chasm in the solid
rock, through which the water has carved many curious channels. One of
these is called 'Hell's Cauldron,' where the water has worn a deep
round hole, through which it rushes with terrific force. Near by is
the Soutar's Seat, so called from the legend that a 'soutar' or cobbler
used to conceal himself there to mend the shoes of the Covenanters.
I had the pleasure of walking up the stream to the falls through the
wet woods, in a rainstorm, without a guide. The loneliness of my
situation,--for I did not encounter a soul on the journey,--added to
the mist in the atmosphere, gave an impression, which I might {178} not
otherwise have had, of the absolute security of such a hiding-place. I
tried to fancy old Burley appearing at some opening in the rocks and
myself leaping across the chasm, as did Henry Morton, to get out of his
way. I was not obliged to attempt any such feat. But I felt that a
visit to this strange locality had given me a better idea of the
closing scenes of the novel than I had ever had before.
[Illustration: CRICHOPE LINN]
'Old Mortality' will always be remembered for its animated picture of
the Covenanters and the conditions under which they lived. It was an
era of perverted sentiment in politics and religion. The times were
'out of joint' more truly than in the days of Hamlet. A powerful and
tyrannical Government was exhibiting cowardly fear of a small minority
of determined people, who demanded only the rights that had been
previously guaranteed. A policy of intolerant persecution prevailed.
The bullies of the Government laughed to scorn the more statesmanlike
propositions of moderation and fair dealing. Under these conditions a
helpless and miserable people found their strength in an underlying
perception of the truth and justice of their cause. They were
exhibiting that quality which, from Magna Charta to the present time,
has come to the front at every crisis in the history of Britain and
America and is at the root of the power of the Anglo-Saxon race--the
quality of earnest and sincere faith in the right of man to civil
liberty and religious freedom. If, in the excess of their enthusiasm,
these people became bigoted and intolerant, and if their frenzied
reading of the Scriptures enabled them to find texts to justify every
sort of deed of violence and cruelty, the harsh measures of a corrupt,
{179} selfish, and incompetent Government would at least explain the
unhappy conditions.
Scott's marvellous imagination enabled him to reanimate the people of
this excited period. In Habakkuk Mucklewrath we have the extreme of
crazy religious fervor and in Balfour of Burley the perfect embodiment
of that brute force which was so strangely blended with pious ideals.
Henry Morton, the hero of the tale, whose lot is cast with the
Covenanters, is out of place in the picture, but he sufficiently
typifies that class who were opposed to the extreme measures of the
Cameronians.
On the Government side, Claverhouse, to whom Scott endeavours to do
justice, General Dalzell, the Duke of Monmouth, and the Duke of
Lauderdale are pictured, fairly enough, in the colours of history.
Scott's treatment of the Covenanters aroused great controversy, some of
their admirers taking him to task in severe terms for his alleged lack
of fairness. Whatever may be said on this point, there is no doubt
that he touches the true sublimity of their faith in his account of the
torture and death of the Reverend Ephraim Macbriar. The dauntless
preacher was brought before the Privy Council and interrogated by the
Duke of Lauderdale. Refusing to reply to an important question, he was
dramatically confronted with the ghastly apparition of the public
executioner and his horrible implements of torture.
'Do you know who that man is?' said Lauderdale in a low, stern voice,
almost sinking into a whisper.
'He is, I suppose,' replied Macbriar, 'the infamous executioner of your
bloodthirsty commands upon the persons of God's people. He and you are
equally beneath my regard; {180} and, I bless God, I no more fear what
he can inflict than what you can command. Flesh and blood may shrink
under the sufferings you can doom me to, and poor frail nature may shed
tears, or send forth cries; but I trust my soul is anchored firmly on
the rock of ages.'
By the Duke's command the executioner then advanced and placed before
the prisoner an iron case called the Scottish boot, so constructed that
it would enclose the leg and knee of the victim with a tight fit. An
iron wedge and a mallet completed the equipment. This wedge, when
placed between the knee and the unyielding iron frame, and struck a
sharp blow with the mallet, was calculated to inflict the most
excruciating pain.
Macbriar faced the implement without flinching, while the executioner
asked in harsh, discordant tones which leg he should take first.
'Since you leave it to me,' said the prisoner, stretching forth his
right leg, 'take the best--I willingly bestow it in the cause for which
I suffer.'
Here Scott makes use of the actual words of James Mitchell, who
suffered similar torture for his attempt on the life of Archbishop
Sharp.
When Macbriar was led to his execution, he thanked the Council for his
sentence and forgave them, saying:--
And why should I not?--Ye send me to a happy exchange--to the company
of angels and spirits of the just, for that of frail dust and
ashes.--Ye send me from darkness into day--from mortality to
immortality--and in a word, from earth to heaven! If the thanks
therefore, and pardon of a dying man can do you good, take them at my
hand, and may your last moments be as happy as mine!
{181} And thus, 'his countenance radiant with joy and triumph,' he was
led to his execution, 'dying with the same enthusiastic firmness which
his whole life had evinced.'
The book which contains this superb presentation of a thrilling epoch
of Scottish history is justly termed, by Lockhart, the Marmion of the
Waverley Novels.
{182}