which never manifested any disinclination to her acquaintance. This was
the class of loose young men of good birth, who daily paraded at the
Cross with flowing periwigs and glancing canes, and nightly drowned
their senses in a vulgar debauch, from which they occasionally awoke
in the morning with the duty of settling scores by a rencontre in St
Ann’s Yards, or at St Leonard’s Crags. This set of brawlers, the proper
successors of those drunken cavaliers who disgraced a preceding age,
subsisted in a state of pure antagonism to the stayed and decorous
habits of the general community; many of them were literally the
children of cavaliers, and indebted in a great measure for their idle
way of life to the circumstances of the government, which dictated an
exclusive distribution of its patronage among its own adherents, and
of course left the poor Jacobites exposed to all the temptations of
idleness. Dicing and golfing were the employments of their forenoons;
in the evening they would stagger from table into Heriot’s Green, or
Lady Murray’s garden in the Canongate, where they would make a point
of staring out of countenance such sober citizens and their daughters
as ventured to frequent those fashionable promenades. According to a
Presbyterian writer of the day, they sent to London regularly for the
last fashions and the newest oaths; but perhaps the latter part of the
report is only a scandal. If such personages were to revive now-a-days,
and appear some forenoon among the modern _beaux esprits_ of Prince’s
Street, they would be looked upon, with their long wide-skirted
coats, and buckles, and cravats, as a set of the most solemn looking
gentlemen; but in their own time, there were no ideas associated with
them but those of reckless, hot-headed youth, and daily habits the most
opposite to those of decency and virtue.
Mrs Macfarlane, while she sunk from the society of gentlewomen of her
own rank, still retained such acquaintance as she had ever happened
to possess, of their wild sons and brothers. With them, she was in
her turn an object of great interest, on account of her transcendant
beauty, or rather its fame—for the fame with such persons is of far
more importance than the reality. It was not disagreeable to Mrs
Macfarlane, when she walked with her husband on the Castle Hill, and
found herself passed with dry recognition by persons of her own sex, to
be made up to by some long-waisted Sir Harry Wildair, who, in language
borrowed from Congreve or Farquhar, protested that the sun was much
aided in his efforts to illuminate the world by the light of her eyes.
A rattle of the fan was the least favour that could be dispensed in
reward for such a compliment; and then would ensue a conversation,
perhaps only interrupted by a declaration from Mr Macfarlane, that he
felt the air getting rather cold, and was afraid to stay out any longer
on account of his rheumatism. The society of these fops was never
farther encouraged by Mrs Macfarlane; indeed, it was only agreeable to
her in public places, where it consoled her a little for the ungenerous
slights of more respectable persons. Yet it had some effect upon her
reputation, and was partly the cause of all her misfortunes.
About two years after the insurrection of 1715, the host of Edinburgh
fops received an important accession in Mr George Cayley, a young
English gentleman, who was sent down as one of the commissioners upon
the forfeited estates. Cayley brought with him a considerable stock
of cash, an oath of recent coinage, said to be very fashionable in
Pall Mall, and a vest of peculiar cut, which he had lately got copied
at Paris from an original belonging to the Regent Orleans. As he also
brought a full complement of the most dissolute personal habits, he
might be considered as recommended in the strongest manner to the
friendship of the native beaux; if, indeed, his accomplishments were
not apt rather to produce displeasure from their superiority. Some days
after his arrival, he was introduced to Mrs Macfarlane, to whom he was
an object of some interest on account of his concern in the disposal of
her father’s estate. If she felt an interest in him on this account, he
was not the less struck by her surpassing beauty and elegant manners,
which appeared to him alike thrown away upon her husband, and the
city in which she dwelt. He rushed home from the first interview in a
state of mind scarcely to be imagined. That such a glorious creature
should squander her light upon the humble house of an attorney, when
she seemed equally fit to illuminate the halls of a palace, was in his
eyes a perversion of the designs of nature. He wished that it was in
his power to fly with her away—away from all the scenes where either
was known, to some place far over this world’s wilderness, where every
consciousness might be lost, except that of mutual love. Over and over
again he deplored the artificial bonds imposed by human laws, and
protected by the virtuous part of the human race, by which hearts the
most devoted to each other were often condemned to eternal separation.
His heart, he found, was possessed by sensations such as had never
before moved it. It worshipped its object as a kind of idol, instead
of, as formerly, regarding it as a toy. He flung himself in idea before
the shrine of her splendour, in breathless, boundless, despairing
passion.
It is probable that if Cayley had been fortunate enough to meet Mrs
Macfarlane before she was married, he might have been inspired with an
attachment equally devoted, and which, being indulged innocently, might
have had the effect of purifying him from all his degrading vices, and
raising him into a worthy member of society. As it was, the passion
which, in proper circumstances, is apt to refine and humanise, only
lent a frantic earnestness to his usual folly. He made it his endeavour
to obtain as much of her society as possible—an object in which he was
greatly favoured by his official character, which caused him to be
treated with much less coolness by Mr Macfarlane than was otherwise to
have been expected. That individual had not altogether lost hope of
regaining the property to which his wife was entitled, and he therefore
met Mr Cayley’s advances with more than corresponding warmth, every
other sentiment being for the time subordinate to this important
object. The young Englishman, in order to cultivate this delightful
intimacy with the greater convenience, removed from his former lodgings
to a house directly opposite to Mrs Macfarlane’s, in the High Street,
where, at such times as a visit was out of the question, he would sit
for hours watching patiently for the slightest glimpse of her through
the windows, and judging even a momentary gleam of her figure within
the dim glass as an ample compensation for his pains. He now became
much less lively than before—forsook, in some measure, the company of
his gay contemporaries—and seemed, in short, the complete _beau ideal_
of the melancholy, abstracted lover. It was his custom to spend most of
his evenings in Mrs Macfarlane’s house; and, except during those too
quickly flying hours, time was to him the greatest misery. Existence
was only existence in that loved presence; the rest was a state of
dormancy or watchfulness only to be spent in pain. If he applied at
all to the business for which he was commissioned by the government,
it was only to that part of it which related to the inheritance of
Mrs Macfarlane, in order that he might every night have an excuse for
calling upon that lady, to inform her of the progress he was making in
her cause. His attachment in that quarter was soon whispered abroad in
society; and while it served as a grateful theme for the tongues of Mrs
Macfarlane’s former compeers, the favour with which he seemed to be
received was equally the subject of envy to the young men, few of whom
had ever found much countenance in her house, for want of something to
recommend them equally to her husband.
Scarcely any thing is calculated to have so deteriorating an effect
upon the mind as the constant fret of an unlawful passion. In every
one of the clandestine and stealthy operations by which it is
sought to be gratified, a step is gained in the downward descent
towards destruction. Cayley, who was not naturally a man of wicked
dispositions, and who might have been reclaimed by this passion, had it
been virtuous, from all his trivial follies, gradually became prepared,
by the emotions which convulsed his bosom, for an attempt involving the
honour of his adored mistress, and, consequently, her whole happiness
in life, as well as that of many innocent individuals with whom she was
connected. This he now only waited for an opportunity of carrying into
effect, and it was not long ere it was afforded.
Called by the urgent request of a Highland client, Mr Macfarlane
had left town somewhat suddenly, and was not expected to return for
upwards of a week. During his absence, Mrs Macfarlane endeavoured to
repress the attentions of Mr Cayley as much as possible, from a sense
of propriety, and contented herself with a kind of society—dumb, yet
eloquent—which she felt to be much more fit for her situation—the
society of her infant child. One evening, however, as she sat with
her tender charge hushed to sleep upon her bosom, Mr Cayley was
unexpectedly ushered in, notwithstanding that she had given directions
for his exclusion after a certain hour, now past. To add to her
distress, he appeared a little excited, as she thought, by liquor, but,
in reality, by nothing but the burning and madly imprudent passion
which had taken possession of him. He sat down, and gazed at her for
a few moments without speaking, while she remonstrated against this
unseasonable intrusion. She then rung her bell, in order to chide her
servant for disobedience of her orders; but Mr Cayley tranquilly told
her, that he had taken the liberty of sending the girl away upon an
errand.
“In the name of heaven,” said the lady, “what do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear Madam,” answered he, “to have a little conversation
with you upon a subject of great importance to us both, and which I
should like to discuss without the possibility of interruption. Know,
Madam, that, ever since I first saw you, I have fondly, madly loved
you. You are become indispensable to my existence; and it depends upon
you whether I shall hereafter be the most happy or the most miserable
of men.”
“Mr Cayley,” cried the lady, “what foolery is this? You are not in your
senses—you have indulged too much in liquor. For heaven’s sake, go
home; and to-morrow you will have forgot that such ideas ever possessed
your brain.”
“No, never, my angel!” cried he, “can I forget that I have seen and
loved you. I might sleep for ages; and, if I awakened at all, it would
be with your image imprinted as strongly as ever upon my heart. You
now see a man prepared for the most desperate courses in order to
obtain you. Listen for a moment. In the neighbourhood, a coach stands
ready to carry us far from every scene where you have hitherto been
known. Consent, and I procure for you (which is now within my power)
a reversal of your father’s attainder. You shall again possess the
domains where your fathers for ages back have been held in almost
regal veneration, and where you spent the pleasant years of your own
youth. Deny me, and to-morrow your reputation is blasted for ever. The
least plausible tale, you well know, would be received and believed by
society, if told respecting Mrs Macfarlane.”
“Profligate wretch!” exclaimed the unfortunate lady; “can I believe my
ears when they tell me that such wickedness exists in a human bosom?
Look, Sir, at this infant—were there no principles of virtue within me
to dictate a contemptuous rejection of your proposals, do you think
that I could leave this innocent to pine and die under the cold neglect
of strangers, or to survive to a less blessed life with the stigma of a
disgraced mother fixed for ever upon her? Were I the basest woman that
ever lived, as you seem to think me, would nature permit so awful a
violation of her laws? Could I leave my child, and not next moment be
struck dead by fire from heaven for my crime? The alternative, indeed,
is awful. Well you know the point upon which I am most easily affected.
Base, however, as you avow yourself, I cannot yet suppose that you
could be guilty of a trick so worthy of the devil himself, as to blast
the reputation, where you could not fix the real cause of infamy.”
“Do not flatter yourself too much on that score,” rejoined Cayley; “you
do not now see a man actuated by ordinary principles. I am tortured and
confounded by an impetuous passion, which you have excited. If you take
from me all hope of a consent to my first proposal, I must endeavour
to bring you into my power by the second. To-morrow, did I say? Nay, I
will go this night, and tell every man I know that you are the slave
of my passion. Not a lady in Edinburgh but will know of it to-morrow
before she has left her pillow. You will _then_, I think, see the
necessity of consenting to the scheme of flight which I now put into
your power.”
He pronounced these words in such a disordered and violent manner,
that the unhappy lady sat for some time unable to reply. She hardly
recovered her senses till she heard the outer door clang behind him, as
he went upon the demoniac purpose which he had threatened.
The first place that Mr Cayley went to was John’s Coffeehouse, a
fashionable tavern in the Parliament Square, where he found a large
group of his dissolute young friends, drinking claret out of silver
stoups. The company was in an advanced stage of intoxication and riot,
very much to the annoyance, apparently, of a few smaller knots of
decent citizens, who were indulging in some more moderate potations
after the fatigues of the day, and endeavouring to understand as
much as they could of the London Intelligencer, the Flying Post, and
other little sheets of news which lay upon the various tables. “Well,
Cayley,” cried one of the young roisterers, “come and tell us how
you are getting on now with the fair lady over the way—husband not
at home—must be making great advances, I suppose?” “Make yourself
quite at ease on that subject; I _am_ so, I assure you.” This he said
in so significant a tone, that it was at once understood. A flood
of raillery, however, was immediately opened upon him; no one would
believe what he said, or rather implied; and thus, as they designed,
he was drawn to make much more explicit declarations of his supposed
triumph. No attempt was made by himself or others to conceal the
subject of their conversation from the rest of the individuals present.
It was understood distinctly by the sober citizens above mentioned,
some of whom shrugged their shoulders, knocked their cocked hats firmly
down upon their heads, took staff in hand, and strode consequentially
and indignantly out of the room. As Cayley had predicted, the whole
affair was blazoned abroad before next morning.
Mrs Macfarlane, as might be supposed, enjoyed little sleep after the
agitations of the preceding evening. She could hardly believe that
anything so wicked as what had been threatened by Mr Cayley could
be perpetrated by a being in human shape; but yet, recollecting the
extraordinary state in which he seemed to be, she could not altogether
assure herself of the contrary. In the forenoon she went to pay a visit
in a distant part of the town; and she could not help remarking, that
while she seemed to have become an object of additional interest to
the male sex, the ladies, even those with whom she had formerly been
on terms of civil recognition, averted their eyes from her, with an
expression, as she thought, of contempt.
The lady upon whom she called received her in the coldest manner, and,
on an explanation being asked, did not hesitate to mention what she had
heard as the town’s talk that morning, namely, that Mr Cayley professed
himself to be her favoured lover. The unfortunate lady burst into a
passion of tears and lamentations at this intelligence, protested her
innocence a thousand times, and declared herself to be only the victim
of a profligate; but still she saw that she did not produce an entirely
exculpatory effect upon the mind of her friend. She went home in a
state of distress bordering on despair. Her early misfortunes through
the severity of the government; her dependent situation in the houses
of her kinsfolk; her unhappy marriage to a man she could never love;
and, finally, the cruel coldness with which she had been treated by her
former friends in the days of her depression, all recurred upon her
mind, and united with the more awful grief which had now overtaken her,
prepared her mind for the most desperate resolutions.
Early in the afternoon she sent a note to Mr Cayley, requesting, in
the usual terms, the favour of his company. The receipt of her billet
threw him into transports of joy, for he believed that his scheme had
already taken effect, and that she was now prepared to accede to his
proposals. He therefore dressed himself in his best style, and at
the proper hour (he felt too secure of his prey to go sooner) walked
across the street to his appointment. He was shown into a room at the
back of the house, where he had never before been, and where there
was little furniture besides a picture of Mrs Macfarlane, painted by
Sir John Medina, an Italian artist who long practised his trade at
the Scottish capital. This portrait, which he began to gaze upon with
all the enthusiasm of a lover, represented his mistress in a style
and manner strikingly beautiful. The utmost serenity, united with the
utmost innocence, shone in those sweetly noble features. The fair open
brow glowed like the summer sky, calmly and cloudlessly beautiful.
The eyes shone with the lustre of gladness and intelligence, and the
whole expression was resolved into an exquisite and killing smile. The
lover stood in a sort of transport before this image of all he held
dear on earth, as if he were yielding to an idolatrous contemplation of
its extraordinary loveliness, when the door was opened—and behold the
original! Instead of the voluptuous smile which shone on the canvass of
Medina, a Beautiful Fury stood before him—a Hecate not yet grown old.
He started with horror; for not only did she bear in her countenance
the most threatening ensigns of passion, but she carried in her hand
two large pistols, one of which she held extended to him, while with
the other hand she locked the door behind her, at the same time keeping
a watchful and glaring eye upon her victim.
“Wretch,” she said, “you have ruined one who never did you wrong. You
have destroyed me as completely as if you had stretched me lifeless
beneath your hand. More than this, you have rendered others who are
dear to me unhappy for ever. My child—you have deprived her of the
nurture of a mother; you have fixed upon her name a stain which will
never be washed out. And yet for all this, society, cruel as it is to
the victims, provides no punishment—hardly even any censure—to the
criminal. Were it now my will to permit you, you might walk away
scatheless from the fair scene you have ravaged, with nothing to
disturb your triumph, but the lamentations of so many broken hearts.
You shall not, however, enjoy this triumph—for here you shall die!”
Cayley had stood for a few moments, gazing alternately at her face and
at the weapon she held extended towards him. He heard her address as
if he had heard it not. But at the last word, he recovered a little of
his presence of mind, and made an effort to approach her. She at that
moment fired, but without effect. The effort of drawing the trigger had
depressed the muzzle of the weapon, and the ball entered the floor at
his feet. She lost not an instant to present and fire the other, the
shot of which penetrated his breast, and he fell next moment before
her, with but one indistinct murmur of agony—and then all was still.
One brief embrace to her child—a moment at the toilet to arrange her
travelling dress, which she had previously prepared, and the beautiful
murderess was ready to fly. She instantly left town for the south,
and, as already mentioned, received shelter and concealment in the
house of her distant kinsman, Sir John Swinton. How long she was there
protected, is not known, but it was probably as long as the search of
justice continued to be in the least eager. It was always understood,
by those aged persons who knew her story, and from whom the preceding
facts have chiefly been derived, that she ultimately escaped to some
remote continental state, where she was supported by contributions from
her relations. So closes one of the most tragical tales that stain the
domestic annals of Scotland during the last century.
THE DOWNDRAUGHT.