Although Edinburgh does not appear to manifest any consciousness of the
fact, the 1st of September is the feast of her patron saint. There was a
time when solemn celebrations marked the event. But centuries have
passed since then; and it would not be very rash to assume that, at the
present day, for every thousand of its Presbyterian population, at any
rate, the city does not contain one man, woman, or child who knows of
any connection between St. Giles and any special day in the year.
In this respect, it is true, Edinburgh is not more indifferent than
Glasgow. Every year the 13th of January passes by without the slightest
official recognition on the part of the commercial metropolis. In spite
of that, however, St. Mungo and St. Giles stand on a very different
footing in their respective cities. All Glaswegians know something of
their saint. Indeed, their municipal coat of arms makes it impossible
for them to be wholly ignorant of his story. The very children amongst
them are familiar with the incidents which the bird, the tree, and the
ring commemorate; and reference to the capital of the West as the city
of St. Mungo is by no means uncommon. But whoever heard Edinburgh call
herself the city of St. Giles? Nor is this difference in the esteem in
which the two patrons are held unnatural or unaccountable. For, whilst
Glasgow's tutelar saint was a true Scot, he under whose special
protection the capital chose to put itself was simply an alien. Not but
what he was a well-born and eminently venerable person. We are told that
St. Giles, or, to give him his Latin name, Egidius, was born in Greece
in the seventh century. According to the Roman Breviary, he was of royal
lineage. The same authority states that from his youth he showed a great
love for sacred learning and for works of charity, and that, at the
death of his parents, he bestowed his whole inheritance on the poor. The
miracles which he was reported to have wrought brought him a fame which
was distasteful to him. To escape from it he retired to Arles, in
France. He remained there but a short time, however, having determined
to lead the life of a hermit. For this purpose he betook himself to a
forest near Gards, in the diocese of Nîmes. There he lived for a long
time upon the roots and herbs and the milk of a hind which came to him
at regular hours--an act of kindness for which the charitable and
faithful animal was not to go unrewarded, and to which, indeed, she owes
the honour of figuring in the arms of the city of Edinburgh, of which
she is the sinister supporter. One day the hind was chased by the King's
hounds, and took refuge in Giles's cave. "Thereby," says the Breviary,
"the King of France was moved earnestly to entreat that Giles would
allow a monastery to be built in the place where the cave was. Yielding
to the pressing solicitations of the King, he took the rule of this
monastery, although himself unwilling, and discharged this duty in a
wise and godly manner for some years, until he passed away to
heaven."[230]
The biographical sketch supplied by the Breviary suggests no connection
between Giles and any part of Britain--north or south; neither does
there seem to be anything extant to account for his being chosen as the
tutelar saint of Edinburgh. There are, however, documents which prove
that, as far back as the thirteenth century, the parish church was
dedicated to him. Arnot states, on the authority of a charter in the
Advocates' Library, that, in the reign of James II, Preston of Gortoun,
having got possession of a relic which was alleged to be an arm-bone of
St. Giles, bequeathed it to the mother kirk.[231] In gratitude for this
gift, the magistrates of the city granted a charter in favour of the
heirs of Preston, entitling the nearest heir of the donor, being of the
name of Preston, to carry this sacred relic in all processions. The
magistrates, at the same time, obliged themselves to found in this
church an altar, and to appoint a chaplain, for celebrating an annual
mass of requiem for the soul of the donor. They also ordered that a
tablet, displaying his arms and describing his pious donation, should be
put in the chapel. The relic, enshrined in silver, was kept amongst the
treasures of the church till the Reformation.[232]
The outburst of iconoclasm which is chronicled by John Knox as one of
the marks of progress of the Reformation in Scotland proved fatal to St.
Giles. "The images were stolen away in all parts of the country," says
the historian, "and in Edinburgh was that great idol called St. Giles
first drowned in the North Loch, and after burned, which raised no small
trouble in the town." This was in 1557. But twelve months later there
occurred what may be looked upon as the public and formal denial by
Edinburgh of her patron saint, and his violent and shameful deposition
by his whilom devotees. This "tragedy of St. Giles" is recorded by Knox
with that grim humour which is characteristic of him. He relates that,
on the approach of St. Giles's day, the bishops gave charge to the
Provost, Bailies, and Council of Edinburgh, either to get the old St.
Giles again, or else to provide a new image at their expense. To this
the Council answered, in words that breathe the very spirit of the
reformer himself, "That to them the charge appeared very unjust. They
understood that God, in some places, had commanded idols and images to
be destroyed, but where He had commanded images to be set up, they had
not read; and they desired the Archbishop of St. Andrews to find a
warrant for his commandment."
In spite of this refusal, the priests and friars determined to have
"that great solemnity and manifest abomination which they accustomably
had upon St. Giles's day", or, in other words, to hold the annual
procession. To replace the statue that had come to grief the year
before, "a marmoset idol" was borrowed from the Grey Friars; who, as
security for its safe return, required the deposit of "a silver piece".
It was made fast with iron nails to a feretory, or portable shrine.
"There assembled priests, friars, canons, and rotten Papists, with
tabours and trumpets, banners and bagpipes. And who was there to lead
the ring but the Queen Regent herself, with all her shavelings, for
honour of that feast?" For all her unpopularity, Mary exercised a
restraining influence on the mob. But that day she was to dine "in
Sandie Carpetyne's house, betwixt the Bows"--that is to say, between the
West Bow and the Nether Bow; and so when, after going down the High
Street and as far as the foot of the Canongate, "the idol returned back
again, she left it and passed in to her dinner".
The Regent's withdrawal from the procession was the signal for the
outbreak of the riot which Knox dignifies with the title of "the
enterprise". They that were of it at once approached to the statue, and
pretended they were anxious to help in bearing it. Having got the
feretory upon their shoulders, they began to shake it roughly, thinking
that this would bring down the "idol". But the iron nails resisted such
slight efforts, and, casting aside all pretence, they pulled it down
violently to the cry of "Down with the idol! down with it!" "Some brag
made the priests' patrons at the first," records Knox; "but they soon
saw the feebleness of their god, for one took him by the heels, and
dadding his head to the causeway, left Dagon without head or hands, and
said, 'Fie upon thee, thou young St. Giles, thy father would have
tarried for such!' This considered, the priests and friars fled faster
than they did at Pinkie Cleuch! Down go the crosses, off go the
surplices, and the round caps corner with the crowns. The Grey Friars
gaped, the Black Friars blew, the priests panted and fled, and happy was
he that first go into the house; for such a sudden fray came never among
the generation of Antichrist within this realm before."[233]
These riotous proceedings chanced to be witnessed by a "merry
Englishman", who, seeing that there was more noise and confusion than
hurt or injury, and that the discomfiture was bloodless, thought he
would add some merriment to the matter. And the gibes in which he
indulged so tickled Knox's sense of humour that he duly records them:
"Fie upon you, why have ye broken order? Down the street ye passed in
great array and with great mirth. Why fly ye, villains, now without
order? Turn and strike every man a stroke, for the honour of his god!
Fie, cowards, fie, ye shall never be judged worthy of your wages again!"
"But," adds the chronicler, "exhortations were then unprofitable; for
after Baal had broken his neck there was no comfort to his confused
army."
From that memorable fall of his, on September 1, 1558, St. Giles has
never recovered. His name, indeed, is not wholly forgotten, and cannot
be, so long as Edinburgh's venerable cathedral bears it; but if he be in
honour anywhere, it is not in the city which once chose him for its
patron, even in preference to any in the respectable company of
home-bred saints that lay ready at hand in the calendar.