As the place where state proclamations were always made, where the
execution of noted state criminals took place, and where many important
public ceremonials were enacted, the Cross of Edinburgh is invested
with numberless associations of a most interesting kind, extending
over several centuries. Here took place the mysterious midnight
proclamation, summoning the Flodden lords to the domains of Pluto, as
described so strikingly in _Marmion_; the witness being ‘Mr Richard
Lawson, ill-disposed, ganging in his gallery fore-stair.’ Here did
King James VI. bring together his barbarous nobles, and make them shake
hands over a feast partaken of before the eyes of the people. Here did
the Covenanting lords read their protests against Charles’s feeble
proclamations. Here fell Montrose, Huntly, the Argylls, Warriston,
and many others of note, victims of political dissension. Here were
fountains set a-flowing with the blood-red wine, to celebrate the
passing of kings along the causeway. And here, as a last notable
fact, were Prince Charles and his father proclaimed by their devoted
Highlanders, amidst screams of pipe and blare of trumpet, while the
beautiful Mrs Murray of Broughton sat beside the party on horseback,
adorned with white ribbons, and with a drawn sword in her hand! How
strange it seems that a time should at length have come when a set of
magistrates thought this structure an encumbrance to the street, and
had it removed. This event took place in 1756—the ornamental stones
dispersed, the pillar taken to the park at Drum.[152]
The Cross was the peculiar citadel and rallying-point of a species
of lazzaroni called _Caddies_ or _Cawdies_, which formerly existed
in Edinburgh, employing themselves chiefly as street-messengers and
_valets de place_. A ragged, half-blackguard-looking set they were, but
allowed to be amazingly acute and intelligent, and also faithful to
any duty entrusted to them. A stranger coming to reside temporarily in
Edinburgh got a caddy attached to his service to conduct him from one
part of the town to another, to run errands for him; in short, to be
wholly at his bidding.
‘Omnia novit,
Græculus esuriens, in cœlum, jusseris, ibit.’
A caddy _did_ literally know everything—of Edinburgh; even to that
kind of knowledge which we now only expect in a street directory. And
it was equally true that he could hardly be asked to go anywhere,
or upon any mission, that he would not go. On the other hand, the
stranger would probably be astonished to find that, in a few hours,
his caddy was acquainted with every particular regarding himself,
where he was from, what was his purpose in Edinburgh, his family
connections, and his own tastes and dispositions. Of course for every
particle of scandal floating about Edinburgh, the caddy was a ready
book of reference. We sometimes wonder how our ancestors did without
newspapers. We do not reflect on the living vehicles of news which then
existed: the privileged beggar for the country people; for townsfolk,
the caddies.
The caddy is alluded to as a useful kind of blackguard in Burt’s
_Letters from the North of Scotland_, written about 1740. He says that
although they are mere wretches in rags, lying upon stairs and in the
streets at night, they are often considerably trusted, and seldom or
never prove unfaithful. The story told by tradition is that they formed
a society under a chief called their constable, with a common fund or
box; that when they committed any misdemeanour, such as incivility
or lying, they were punished by this officer by fines, or sometimes
corporeally; and if by any chance money entrusted to them should not
be forthcoming, it was made up out of the common treasury. Mr Burt
says: ‘Whether it be true or not I cannot say, but I have been told
by several that one of the judges formerly abandoned two of his sons
for a time to this way of life, as believing it would create in them
a sharpness which might be of use to them in the future course of
their lives.’ Major Topham, describing Edinburgh in 1774, says of the
caddies: ‘In short, they are the tutelary guardians of the city; and
it is entirely owing to them that there are fewer robberies and less
housebreaking in Edinburgh than anywhere else.’
Another conspicuous set of public servants characteristic of Edinburgh
in past times were the _Chairmen_, or carriers of sedans, who also
formed a society among themselves, but were of superior respectability,
in as far as none but steady, considerate persons of so humble an order
could become possessed of the means to buy the vehicle by which they
made their bread. In former times, when Edinburgh was so much more
limited than now, and rather an assemblage of alleys than of streets,
sedans were in comparatively great request. They were especially in
requisition amongst the ladies—indeed, almost exclusively so. From
time immemorial the sons of the Gael have monopolised this branch of
service; and as far as the business of a sedan-carrier can yet be said
to exist amongst us, it is in the possession of Highlanders.
The reader must not be in too great haste to smile when I claim his
regard for an historical person among the chairmen of Edinburgh. This
was Edward Burke, the immediate attendant of Prince Charles Edward
during the earlier portion of his wanderings in the Highlands. Honest
Ned had been a chairman in our city, but attaching himself as a servant
to Mr Alexander Macleod of Muiravonside, aide-de-camp to the Prince,
it was his fortune to be present at the battle of Culloden, and to fly
from the field in his Royal Highness’s company. He attended the Prince
for several weeks, sharing cheerfully in all his hardships, and doing
his best to promote his escape. Thus has his name been inseparably
associated with this remarkable chapter of history. After parting
with Charles, this poor man underwent some dreadful hardships while
under hiding, his fears of being taken having reference chiefly to the
Prince, as he was apprehensive that the enemy might torture him to
gain intelligence of his late master’s movements. At length the Act of
Indemnity placed him at his ease; and the humble creature who, by a
word of his mouth, might have gained thirty thousand pounds, quietly
returned to his duty as a chairman on the streets of Edinburgh! Which
of the venal train of Walpole, which even of the admirers of Pulteney,
is more entitled to admiration than Ned Burke? A man, too, who could
neither read nor write—for such was actually his case.[153]
One cannot but feel it to be in some small degree a consolatory
circumstance, and not without a certain air of the romance of an
earlier day, that a bacchanal company came with a bowl of punch, the
night before the demolition, and in that mood of mind when men shed
‘smiles that might as well be tears,’ drank the Dredgie of the Cross
upon its doomed battlements.
‘Oh! be his tomb as lead to lead,
Upon its dull destroyer’s head!
A minstrel’s malison is said.’[154]