a letter from the chevalier to the magistrates, he was ushered forward
to the opening of a narrow passage, which in those days led through a
pile of buildings called the Luckenbooths, towards the door of Haddo’s
Hole Church, a passage called in the old Scottish language a stile,
which, moreover, was traversed in 1628 by King Charles the First, when
he went to open the Scottish Parliament in the High Tolbooth. Here the
Highlander dismounted, and after throwing his bridle over the hook at a
saddler’s door close to the corner of the stile, was led forward into
the lobby of the church, from which the hum of active discussion was
heard to proceed. On requesting to be introduced to the magistrates, he
was informed, by an official wearing their livery, that the church was
so very much crowded, that “there would be nae possibility of either
getting him in to see the magistrates, or the magistrates out to see
him,” but that his letter might be handed into them over the heads of
the crowd. To this expedient the messenger consented, and accordingly
it was immediately put in execution. In a few moments after it had left
the keeper’s hands, a dead silence seemed to fall upon the company,
and, after a renewed tumult and a second silence, those who stood in
the lobby heard a voice reading a few words aloud, apparently those
of the letter. The voice was, however, interrupted in a few seconds
by the clamour of the whole assembled people, who presently rose in
confusion, and made a tumultuous rush towards the door. On hearing and
observing these alarming symptoms, the city officer, with inconsiderate
rashness, thought it his duty to seize the author of so much supposed
mischief, and accordingly made a dash at the stranger’s collar, calling
upon the town-guardsmen present to close in upon him, and intercept
his retreat. But the prompt and energetic Highlander was not to be so
betrayed. With a bound like the first movement of the startled deer,
he cleared the lobby, and made for his horse. Two dragoons standing
without, and who, observing the rush from the door, threw themselves
in the stranger’s way, were in the same instant felled to the ground;
and before any other person could lay hands upon him, the maltreated
messenger threw himself upon his horse, drew his sword, and in a
transport of rage shouted defiance to all around. Whirling his weapon
round his head, he stopped a few seconds amidst the terrified crowd;
and then, striking spurs into his horse’s sides, rode along the street,
still vociferating loud defiances to all the detached military parties
which he met. No attempt, however, was made to prevent his escape, or
to offer him farther violence. One symptom of offensive warfare alone
occurred, and that originated in an accident; for an old guardsman, who
was overturned on the causeway by the brush of the passing steed, could
not help discharging his redoubted piece; the shot, however, doing no
other harm than _winging_ a golden peacock, which overhung the window
of a fashionable milliner in the fourth flat of the Luckenbooths. After
clearing the narrow defile of the Luckenbooths, and getting into the
full open street, the Highland cavalier for once turned round, and,
with a voice broken by excess of indignation, uttered a thundering
malediction against all Edinburgh for its breach of the articles of
war, and a challenge to the prettiest man in it who would meet him
upon honourable terms. He then galloped briskly down the High Street,
still brandishing his broadsword, the people making way for him on all
sides, by running down the numerous alleys leading from the street, and
terminated his daring exploit, unscathed and undaunted, by passing out
at the Netherbow Port, of which the enormous folding doors, like the
turnpikes in John Gilpin, flew open at his approach.
It is irrelevant to our purpose to describe the consternation under
which the inhabitants of Edinburgh passed the whole of that evening
and night, or the real terror which next morning seized them, when
they understood that the insurgents were in possession of the town.
Moreover, as it would not be proper to encumber our narrative
with well-known historical details, we shall also pass over the
circumstances in this remarkable civil war which followed upon the
capture of the city, and content ourselves with relating the simple
events of a love tale, in which the hero just introduced to the notice
of our readers acted a conspicuous part.
About a month after the rebels had entered Edinburgh, and while Prince
Charles Edward was still fondly lingering in the palace which had
sheltered so many of his ancestors, a young gentlewoman, named Helen
Lindsay, the daughter of a whig writer to the signet in Edinburgh, was
one fine October evening taking a solitary walk in the King’s Park.
The sun had gone down over the castle, like the fire-shell dropping
into a devoted fortress, and the lofty edifices of the city presented,
on the eastern side, nothing but dark irregular masses of shade. The
park, which a little before had been crowded with idle and well-dressed
people, waiting perhaps for a sight of the prince, was now deserted by
all except a few Highland soldiers, hurrying to or from the camp at
Duddingston, and by the young lady above mentioned, who continued, in
spite of the deepening twilight, to saunter about, seeming to await
the hour of some assignation. As each single Highland officer or
group passed this lady, she contrived to elude their observation by
an adroit management of her plaid; and it was not till the gathering
darkness rendered her appearance at such a time and place absolutely
suspicious, that at length one gallant mountaineer made bold to accost
her. “Ah, Helen!” he exclaimed, “how delighted am I to find you here;
for I expected you to be waiting at the bottom of the Walk—and thus
I see you five minutes sooner than I otherwise would have done!” “I
would rather wait near the palace than at that fearsome place, at this
time o’ nicht, William,” said the young lady; “for, let me tell you,
you have been a great deal later o’ comin’ than you should have been.”
“Pardon me, my angel!” answered the youth; “I have been detained by the
prince till this instant. His royal highness has communicated to me no
very pleasant intelligence—he is decisive as to our march commencing on
the morning after to-morrow, and I am distracted to think of parting
with you. How shall I—how can I part with you?” “Oh! never mind that,
Willie,” cried the lady, in a tone quite different from his, which
was highly expressive of a lover’s misery; “if your enterprise prove
successful, and you do not get your head broken, or beauty spoilt, you
shall perhaps be made an earl, and marry some grand English countess;
and I shall then content myself with young Claver the advocate, who
has been already so warmly recommended to me by my father, and who
would instate me to-morrow, if I chose, as his wedded wife, in the fine
house he has just bought in Forrester’s Wynd.” “To the devil with that
beast!” cried the jealous lover in Gaelic. “Do you think, Helen, that I
could ever marry any one but you, even though it were the queen on the
throne? But perhaps you are not so very resolute in your love matters,
and could transfer your affections from one object to another as easily
and as quickly as you could your thoughts, or the glance of your eyes!”
“Ah, Willie, Willie,” said the lady, still in a jocular tone, “I see
you are a complete Hielanter—fiery and irritable. I might have kenned
that the first moment I ever saw ye, when ye bravadoed a’ Edinburgh,
because a silly toon-officer tried to touch ye. Wad ye flee up, man, on
your ain true love, when she merely jokes ye a wee?” “Oh! if that be
all, Helen,” said the youth humbly, “I beg your grace. Yet, methinks,
this is no time for merriment, when we are about to part, perhaps for
ever. How, dearest Helen, do you contrive to keep up your spirits under
such circumstances?” “Because,” said the young lady, “I know that there
is no necessity for us parting, at least for some time to come; for I
am willing to accompany you, if you will take me, to the very world’s
end. There’s sincerity and true love for you!” Surprised and delighted
with this frank offer, the lover strained his mistress passionately to
his bosom, and swore to protect her as his lawful wife till the latest
moment of his existence. “You shall travel,” he said, “in my sister
Lady Ogilvie’s carriage, and be one of the first British ladies to
attend the prince’s levee in St James’s at Christmas. Our marriage
shall be solemnized at the end of the first stage.” The project was
less than rational; but when was reason any thing to love? Many avowals
of mutual attachment passed between the parties; and, after projecting
a mode of elopement, they parted—William Douglas taking the road for
the camp at Duddingston, and Helen Lindsay hastily returning to the
town.
The morning of the 1st of November broke drearily upon Edinburgh,
showing a dull frosty atmosphere, and the ground covered with a thin
layer of snow. It was the morning of the march; and here and there
throughout the streets stood a few bagpipers, playing a reveillé before
the lodgings of the great officers of the clans. One or two chiefs
were already marching down the street, preceded by their pipers, and
followed by their men, in order to join the army, which was beginning
to move from Duddingston. The Highland guard, which had been stationed,
ever since the chevalier’s arrival, at the Weigh-house, was now leaving
its station, and moving down the Lawnmarket to the merry sound of the
bagpipe, when a strange circumstance occurred.
Just as the word of command had been given to the Weigh-house guard,
the sash of the window in the third floor of an adjacent house was
pushed up, and immediately after, a female figure was observed to
issue therefrom, and to descend rapidly along a rope towards the
pavement below. The commander of the guard no sooner perceived this,
than he sprang forwards to the place where the figure was to alight,
as if to receive her in his arms; but he did not reach it before the
lady, finding the rope too short by several yards, dropped with a
slight scream upon the ground, where she lay apparently lifeless.
The officer was instantly beside her—and words cannot describe the
consternation and sorrow depicted in his face, as he stooped, and
with gentle promptitude lifted the unfortunate lady from the ground.
She had fainted with the pain of what soon turned out to be a broken
limb; and as she lay over the Highlander’s arm, her travelling hood,
falling back from her head, disclosed a face which, though exquisitely
beautiful, was as pale and expressionless as death. A slight murmur
at length broke from her lips, and a tinge of red returned to her
cheeks, as she half articulated the word “William.” William Douglas,
for it was he, hung over her in silent despair for a few moments, and
was only recalled to recollection when his men gathered eagerly and
officiously around him, each loudly inquiring of the other the meaning
of this strange scene. The noise thus occasioned soon had the effect
of bringing all to an understanding; for the father of the lady, in
a nightcap and morning gown, was first observed to cast a hurried
glance over the still open window above, and was soon after in the
midst of the group, calling loudly and distractedly for his daughter,
and exclaiming vehemently against the person in whose arms he found
her, for having attempted to rob him of his natural property. Douglas
bethought himself for a moment, and, calling upon his men to close all
round him and the lady, began to move away with his beloved burden,
while the old gentleman loaded the air with his cries, and struggled
forward with the vain intention of rescuing his daughter. The lover
might soon have succeeded in his wishes, by ordering the remonstrant
to be withheld, and taken home by his men; but he speedily found that
to take away his mistress in her present condition, and without the
means of immediately relieving her, would be the height of cruelty;
and he therefore felt himself reluctantly compelled to resign her to
the charge of her parent, even at the risk of losing her for ever. Old
Mr Lindsay, overjoyed at this resolution, offered to take his daughter
into his own arms, and transport her back to the house; but Douglas,
heeding not his proposal, and apparently anxious to retain his mistress
as long as he could, saved him this trouble, by slowly and mournfully
retracing his steps, and carrying her up stairs to her bedchamber—his
company meanwhile remaining below. He there discovered that Helen had
been locked up by her father, who had found reason to suspect her
intention of eloping, and that this was what occasioned her departure
from the mode of escape previously agreed upon. After depositing her
still inanimate person carefully on a bed, he turned for a moment
towards her father, told him fiercely that if he exercised any cruelty
upon her in consequence of what had taken place, he should dearly rue
it; and then, alter taking another silent, lingering, farewell look of
his mistress, left the house in order to continue his march.
After this, another and longer interval occurs between the incidents of
our tale; and this may perhaps be profitably employed in illustrating
a few of the circumstances already laid partially before the reader.
William Douglas was a younger son of Sir Robert Douglas of Glenbervie,
the celebrated antiquary, and had been bred to the profession of a
writer, or attorney, under the auspices of a master of good practice in
Aberdeen. Being, however, a youth of sanguine temperament and romantic
spirit, he did not hesitate a moment, on hearing of the landing of
the chevalier, to break his apprenticeship, just on the point of
expiring, and set off to rank himself under the banners of him whom he
conceived entitled to the duty and assistance of all true Scotsmen.
In consideration of his birth, and his connection with some of the
very highest leaders in the enterprise, he was appointed aide-de-camp
to the prince, in which capacity he had been employed to communicate
with the city in the manner already described. As he rode up the High
Street, and, more than that, as he rode down again, he had been seen
and admired by Helen Lindsay, who happened to be then in the house of a
friend near the scene of his exploit. Soon after the Highland army had
taken possession of the city, they had met at the house of a Jacobite
aunt of the young lady, and a passion of the tenderest nature then
took place between them. To her father, who was her only surviving
parent, this was quite unknown till the day before the departure of the
Highlanders, when some circumstances having roused his suspicions, he
thought it necessary to lock her up in her own room, without, however,
securing the window—that part of a house, so useful and so interesting
above all others to youthful lovers, the chink of Pyramus and Thisbe
not excepted. It only remains to be stated, that though the young lady
recovered from the effects of her fall in a few weeks, she did not so
soon recover from her disappointment, and she was doomed to experience
a still greater affliction in the strange look with which she was
afterwards regarded by her father and all her own acquaintance.
William Douglas performed an active part in all the scenes of the
rebellion, and finally escaped the perils of Culloden almost without a
wound. He fled to his father’s house, where he was received joyfully,
and concealed for upwards of a twelvemonth, till the search of the
royal troops was no longer dangerous. His father frequently entreated
him to go abroad, but he would not consent to such a measure; and
at last, it being understood that government had passed an “act of
oblivion” in regard of the surviving rebels, he ventured gradually
and cautiously to appear again in society. All this time he had never
communicated with Helen Lindsay, but his thoughts had often, in the
solitude of his place of hiding, turned anxiously and fondly towards
her. At length, to the surprise of his father, he one day expressed
his desire of going to Edinburgh, and setting up there as a writer—the
profession to which he had been educated, and for which he could easily
complete his qualifications. Sir Robert was by no means averse to his
commencing business, but expressed his fears for the safety of his
son’s person in so conspicuous a situation in the capital, where the
eyes of justice were constantly wide open, and where he would certainly
meet with the most disagreeable recognitions. The lover overruled all
these obstructions, by asking the old gentleman whether he would wish
to see his son perish in the West Indies, or become a respectable and
pacific member of society in his own country; and it was speedily
arranged that both should set out for Edinburgh, in order to put
the youth’s purpose in execution, so soon as he should procure his
indenture from his late master. In this no difficulty was experienced;
and in a few weeks the aged baronet set forth, accompanied by his son,
on horseback, towards the city, which contained all the latter held
dear on earth.
On arriving at an inn in the Canongate, the first thing Sir Robert
did, was to send a card to his cousin, the Earl of ——, informing his
lordship of his arrival, and begging his company that evening at his
hotel. The earl soon made his appearance, heartily welcomed the old
gentleman to Edinburgh, and was introduced to young William. His
lordship was sorry, however, that he could not stay long with them,
as Lady —— was to have a ball that evening, where his presence was,
of course, indispensable. He begged, however, to have the pleasure of
_their_ company at his house so soon as they could dress, when he would
endeavour to entertain them, and, moreover, introduce his young kinsman
to the chief beauties of Edinburgh. When he was gone, Sir Robert,
alarmed at the idea of his son entering at once into an assemblage
where many would remember his face, attempted to dissuade him from
attending the ball, and offered to remain all the evening with him in
the inn. But William insisted upon going, holding all danger light, and
representing to his father, that, even though he were _recognised_,
no one, even an enemy, would think of _discovering_ him, that being
generally held as a sin of the deepest dye. The truth was, that the
earl’s mention of _beauties_ put him in mind of Miss Lindsay, and
inspired him with a notion that she would be of the party, and that
he might have an opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with her,
which he could not easily procure otherwise. Both, therefore, prepared
themselves for the ball, and, in a short time, set off in two chairs
for Gray’s Close, in which the earl’s house was situated.
That fine old spacious alley was found to be, on the present occasion,
as splendid as it was possible for any close in Auld Reekie to be,
under the double advantages of fashion and festivity. Two livery-men
stood at the head with torches, and served as a beacon to mark to the
gathering company the entrance of the strait into which they had to
steer their way. Between the head of the lane and the vestibule of his
lordship’s house, other servants were planted with torches, so as to
form an avenue of lights, along which the guests were ushered. All the
guests, as they successively arrived, were announced at the head of
the stair by a servant—a custom recently adopted from London, and of
little service in Edinburgh, where all people knew each other by sight.
It served, however, on the present occasion, to procure for Sir Robert
and his son, immediately on their entering the room, a general and
instantaneous attention, which they would rather have dispensed with,
and upon which they had not calculated. Both gentlemen were personally
presented by their kinsman, the earl, to many persons of distinction of
both sexes, among whom Sir Robert (though he had been for twenty years
estranged in a great measure from society, in the prosecution of his
studies, and the management of his gout) soon recognised and entered
into conversation with some old friends, while his son set himself to
observe if Miss Lindsay was in the room. She was not present; but,
as company continued still to arrive, he entertained hopes that she
would yet make her appearance. Disengaging himself, therefore, from
his father, he withdrew to a corner of the room, where he might see,
without being easily perceived by any person entering; and there, in
silence and abstraction, he awaited her probable arrival. Some minutes
had elapsed after the last announcement; and, in the idea that all were
assembled, the earl had stood up at the head of a long double line of
powdered beaux, and ladies with enormous hoops and high head-dresses,
in order to lead off the first dance, when William Douglas heard the
name of Mr and Miss Lindsay proclaimed at the head of the stair, and
presently after saw an old precise-looking gentleman lead into the
room the elegant figure of his long-lost mistress. He saw no more
for some time; for, while his blood rushed upwards to the heart in
tumultuous tide, a dimness came over his eyes, and obscured even the
brilliant chandeliers that hung over the company. On recovering his
powers of observation, the dance was done, and the floor cleared of
its revellers, who now sat all round in full view. Some of the ladies
were fanning themselves vehemently with their large Indian fans; others
were listening, with head awry, to the compliments of their partners;
not a few were talking and coquetting with the gentlemen near them,
and a great portion were sitting demurely and stiffly in groups,
like hedgerow elms, under the awful patronage of their mothers or
protectresses: all were companionable and looked happy, except one—a
silent and solitary one—who, less attractively dressed than any of the
rest, yet more beautiful than them all, sat pensively apart from the
throng, apparently taking little interest in what was going on. Douglas
needed no one to inform him that this was Helen Lindsay, though she
was very different from the vivacious, sparkling girl she had been
eighteen months before. He was shocked at the change he observed,
and hastened to discover the cause, by inquiring of a silly-looking
young man near him who she was. “Oh! that is Miss Lindsay,” quoth
the youth, who was no other than her ancient admirer, Claver, “said
to be the prettiest girl in Edinburgh, though Miss Pringle for my
money—her you see with a flame-coloured sack, sitting next to the Lord
Justice Clerk. To be sure, Miss Lindsay is not what she has been. I
was once thought in love with her (here he simpered), but she was
one morning found on the tramp with a rebel officer, who is said to
have been hanged, and she has never since then held up her head as
she used to do; for, indeed, let me tell you, some of our great dames
here affect to hold up their noses at her adventures; so that, what
with a lippit character and a hanged sweetheart, you see she looks
somewhat dismal on it.” Douglas durst make no farther inquiries, but
shrunk back in the seclusion and concealment afforded by a corner of
the room, from whence he continued, for some time longer, to watch
his unhappy mistress—his father, in the meantime, completely taken
off his hands by a spectacled old maiden of quality, who had engaged
him in a genealogical disquisition. By watching his opportunities, he
contrived to place himself almost close beside his mistress, without
being observed, and, gradually making still nearer approaches, he
had at last the happiness of finding himself upon the very next seat
to her’s. Whatever change disappointment and woe had wrought in her,
it did not amount to a fourth of that which William had achieved in
himself by a change of clothes, and taming down, to the expression of
domestic life, a visage which had showed somewhat fierce and soldierly
in the days of his acquaintance with Miss Lindsay. Instead of his
former gallant and robust air, he was now pale and elegant; and though
his eye still retained some of its fire, and his lip its wonted curve,
the general change was such, and, moreover, the circumstances under
which he was now seen were so different from those which surrounded and
characterised him, that before any but a lover’s eye, he might have
passed without recognition. As the case was, Miss Lindsay discovered
him at the first glance, and with difficulty suppressing a scream,
had nearly fainted with excessive emotion. In the words of Scotland’s
national poet—
She gazed, she redden’d like a rose,
Syne pale as ony lily.