The cleverly executed _History of Edinburgh_, published by Arnot
in 1779, and which to this day has not been superseded, gives some
respectability to a name which tradition would have otherwise handed
down to us as only that of an eccentric gentleman, of remarkably
scarecrow figure, and the subject of a few _bon-mots_.
He was the son of a Leith shipmaster, named Pollock, and took the name
of Arnot from a small inheritance in Fife. Many who have read his
laborious work will be little prepared to hear that it was written when
the author was between twenty and thirty; and that, antiquated as his
meagre figure looks in Kay’s Portraits, he was at his death, in 1786,
only thirty-seven. His body had been, in reality, made prematurely old
by a confirmed asthma, accompanied by a cough, which he himself said
would carry him off like a rocket some day, when a friend remarked,
with reference to his known latitudinarianism: ‘Possibly, Hugo, in the
contrary direction.’
[Illustration: Hugo Arnot, looking so like his meat.]
Most of the jokes about poor Hugo’s person have been frequently
printed—as Harry Erskine meeting him on the street when he was gnawing
at a spelding or dried haddock, and congratulating him on _looking so
like his meat_; and his offending the piety of an old woman who was
cheapening a Bible in Creech’s shop, by some thoughtless remark, when
she first burst out with: ‘Oh, you monster!’ and then turning round and
seeing him, added: ‘And he’s an anatomy too!’ An epigram by Erskine is
less known:
‘The Scriptures assure us that much is forgiven
_To flesh and to blood_ by the mercy of Heaven;
But I’ve searched the whole Bible, and texts can find none
That extend the assurance _to skin and to bone_.’
Arnot was afflicted by a constitutional irritability to an extent
which can hardly be conceived. A printer’s boy, handing papers to him
over his shoulder, happened to touch his ear with one of them, when he
started up in a rage, and demanded of the trembling youth what he meant
by insulting him in that manner! Probably from some quarrel arising
out of this nervous weakness—for such it really was—the Edinburgh
booksellers, to a man, refused to have anything to do with the
prospectuses of his _Criminal Trials_, and Arnot had to advertise that
they were to be seen in the coffee-houses, instead of the booksellers’
shops.
About the time when he entered at the bar (1772), he had a fancy for a
young lady named Hay (afterwards Mrs Macdougall), sister of a gentleman
who succeeded as Marquis of Tweeddale, and then a reigning toast.
One Sunday, when he contemplated making up to his divinity on the
Castle-hill, after forenoon service, he entertained two young friends
at breakfast in his lodgings at the head of the Canongate. By-and-by
the affairs of the toilet came to be considered. It was then found that
Hugo’s washerwoman had played false, leaving him in a total destitution
of clean linen, or at least of clean linen that was also _whole_. A
dreadful storm took place, but at length, on its calming a little, love
found out a way, by taking the hand-ruffles of one cast garment, in
connection with the front of another, and adding both to the body of
a third. In this eclectic form of shirt the meagre young philosopher
marched forth with his friends, and was rewarded for his perseverance
by being allowed a very pleasant chat with the young lady on ‘the
hill.’ His friends standing by had their own enjoyment in reflecting
what the beauteous Miss Hay would think if she knew the struggles which
her admirer had had that morning in preparing to make his appearance
before her.
Arnot latterly dwelt in a small house at the end of the Meuse Lane in
St Andrew Street, with an old and very particular lady for a neighbour
in the upper-floor. Disturbed by the enthusiastic way in which he
sometimes rang his bell, the lady ventured to send a remonstrance,
which, however, produced no effect. This led to a bad state of matters
between them. At length a very pressing and petulant message being
handed in one day, insisting that he should endeavour to call his
servants _in a different manner_, what was the lady’s astonishment
next morning to hear a pistol discharged in Arnot’s house! He was
simply complying with the letter of his neighbour’s request, by firing,
instead of ringing, as a signal for shaving-water.