In Catholic times several of the great dignitaries of the Church had
houses in Edinburgh, as the Archbishop of St Andrews at the foot
of Blackfriars Wynd, the Bishop of Dunkeld in the Cowgate, and the
Abbot of Cambuskenneth in the Lawnmarket.[187] The Abbot of Melrose’s
‘lodging’ appears from public documents to have been in what is now
called Strichen’s Close, in the High Street, immediately to the west of
Blackfriars Wynd. It had a garden extending down to the Cowgate and up
part of the opposite slope.
[Illustration: Strichen’s Close.]
A successor of the abbot in this possession was Sir George Mackenzie
of Rosehaugh, king’s advocate in the reigns of Charles II. and James
II., and author of several able works in Scottish law, as well as a
successful cultivator of miscellaneous literature. He got a charter
of the property from the magistrates in 1677. The house occupied by
Sir George still exists,[188] and appears to have been a goodly enough
mansion for its time. It is now, however, possessed by a brass-founder
as a place of business. From Sir George the alley was called
Rosehaugh’s Close, till, this house falling by marriage connection into
the possession of Lord Strichen, it got the name of Strichen’s Close,
which it still bears. Lord Strichen was a judge of the Court of Session
for forty-five years subsequent to 1730. He was the direct ancestor of
the present Lord Lovat of the British peerage.
[Illustration: Back of Mackenzie’s House, looking into Cant’s House.]
Mackenzie has still a place in the popular imagination in Edinburgh as
the _Bluidy Mackingie_, his office having been to prosecute the unruly
Covenanters. It therefore happens that the founder of our greatest
national library,[189] one whom Dryden regarded as a friend, and who
was the very first writer of classic English prose in Scotland, is
a sort of Raw-head and Bloody-bones by the firesides of his native
capital. He lies in a beautiful mausoleum, which forms a conspicuous
object in the Greyfriars Churchyard, and which describes him as
an ornament to his age, and a man who was kind to all, ‘except a
rebellious crew, from whose violence, with tongue and pen, he defended
his country and king, whose virulence he stayed by the sword of
justice, and whose ferocity he, by the force of reason, blunted, and
only did not subdue.’ This monument was an object of horror to the good
people of Edinburgh, as it was almost universally believed that the
spirit of the persecutor could get no rest in its superb but gloomy
tenement. It used to be ‘a feat’ for a set of boys, in a still summer
evening, to march up to the ponderous doors, bedropt with white tears
upon a black ground, and cry in at the keyhole:—
‘Bluidy Mackingie, come out if ye daur,
Lift the sneck, and draw the bar!’
after which they would run away as if some hobgoblin were in chase of
them, probably not looking round till they were out of the churchyard.
Sir George Mackenzie had a country-house called Shank, about ten miles
to the south of Edinburgh,[190] now a ruin. One day the Marquis of
Tweeddale, having occasion to consult him about some law business, rode
across the country, and arrived at so early an hour in the morning that
the lawyer was not yet out of bed. Soliciting an immediate audience,
he was admitted to the bedroom, where he sat down and detailed the
case to Sir George, who gave him all necessary counsel from behind the
curtains. When the marquis advanced to present a fee, he was startled
at the apparition of a female hand through the curtains, in an attitude
expressive of a readiness to receive, while no hand appeared on the
part of Sir George. The explanation was that Sir George’s lady, as
has been the case with many a weaker man, took entire charge of his
purse.[191]
Several of the descendants of this great lawyer have been remarkable
for their talents. None, perhaps, possessed more of the _vivida vis
animi_ than his granddaughter, Lady Anne Dick of Corstorphine (also
granddaughter, by the father’s side, to the clever but unscrupulous
‘Tarbat Register,’ the first Earl of Cromarty).[192] This lady excited
much attention in Edinburgh society by her eccentric manners and her
droll pasquinade verses: one of those beings she was who astonish,
perplex, and fidget their fellow-creatures, till at last the world
feels a sort of relief when they are removed from the stage. She made
many enemies by her lampoons; and her personal conduct only afforded
them too good room for revenge. Sometimes she would dress herself in
men’s clothes, and go about the town in search of adventures. One
of her frolics ended rather disgracefully, for she and her maid,
being apprehended in their disguise, were lodged all night in the
Town Guard-house. It may be readily imagined that by those whom her
wit had exasperated such follies would be deeply relished and made
the most of. We must not, therefore, be surprised at Scandal telling
that Lady Anne had at one period lain a whole year in bed, in a vain
endeavour—to baffle _himself_.
Through private channels have oozed out at this late day a few
specimens of Lady Anne’s poetical abilities; less brilliant than might
be expected from the above character of her, yet having a certain air
of dash and _espièglerie_ which looks appropriate. They are partly
devoted to bewailing the coldness of a certain Sir Peter Murray of
Balmanno, towards whom she chose to act as a sort of she-Petrarch,
but apparently in the mere pursuit of whim. One runs in the following
tender strain:
‘Oh, when he dances at a ball,
He’s rarely worth the seeing;
So light he trips, you would him take
For some aërial being!
While pinky-winky go his een,
How blest is each bystander!
How gracefully he leads the fair,
When to her seat he hands her!
But when in accents saft and sweet,
He chants forth _Lizzie Baillie_,
His dying looks and attitude
Enchant, they cannot fail ye.
The loveliest widow in the land,
When she could scarce disarm him,
Alas! the belles in Roxburghshire
Must never hope to charm him!
O happy, happy, happy she,
Could make him change his plan, sir,
And of this rigid bachelor,
Convert the married man, sir:
O happy, and thrice happy she,
Could make him change his plan, sir,
And to the gentle Benedick
Convert the single man, sir,’ &c.
In another, tired, apparently, of the apathy of this sweet youth, she
breaks out as follows:
‘Oh, wherefore did I cross the Forth,
And leave my love behind me?
Why did I venture to the north,
With one that did not mind me?
Had I but visited Carin!
It would have been much better,
Than pique the prudes, and make a din
For careless, cold Sir Peter!
I’m sure I’ve seen a better limb,
And twenty better faces;
But still my mind it ran on him,
When I was at the races.
At night, when we went to the ball,
Were many there discreeter;
The well-bred duke, and lively Maule,
Panmure behaved much better.
They kindly showed their courtesy,
And looked on me much sweeter;
Yet easy could I never be,
For thinking on Sir Peter.
I fain would wear an easy air,
But, oh, it looked affected,
And e’en the fine ambassador
Could see he was neglected.
Though Powrie left for me the spleen,
My temper grew no sweeter;
I think I’m mad—what do I mean,
To follow cold Sir Peter!’
Her ladyship died, without issue, in 1741.