Edinburgh, which now smiles complacently upon the gravities of her
reviews and the flippancies of her magazines, formerly laughed outright
at the coarse lampoons of her favourite poet and pamphleteer, Claudero.
The distinct publications of this witty and eccentric personage (whose
real name was James Wilson) are well known to collectors; and his
occasional pieces must be fresh in the remembrance of those who, forty
or fifty years ago (1824), were in the habit of perusing the _Scots
Magazine_, amidst the general gravity of which they appeared, like the
bright and giddy eyes of a satyr, staring through the sere leaves of a
sober forest scene.
Claudero was a native of Cumbernauld, in Dumbartonshire, and at an
early period of his life showed such marks of a mischief-loving
disposition as procured him general odium. The occasion of his lameness
was a pebble thrown from a tree at the minister, who, having been
previously exasperated by his tricks, chased him to the end of a
closed lane, and with his cane inflicted such personal chastisement as
rendered him a cripple, and a hater of the clergy, for the rest of his
life.
In Edinburgh, where he lived for upwards of thirty years previous to
his death in 1789, his livelihood was at first ostensibly gained by
keeping a little school, latterly by celebrating what were called
_half-mark marriages_—a business resembling that of the Gretna
blacksmith. It is said that he, who made himself the terror of so
many by his wit, was in his turn held in fear by his wife, who was as
complete a shrew as ever fell to the lot of poet or philosopher.
He was a satirist by profession; and when any person wished to have
a squib played off upon his neighbours, he had nothing to do but
call upon Claudero, who, for half a crown, would produce the desired
effusion, composed, and copied off in a fair hand, in a given time. He
liked this species of employment better than writing upon speculation,
the profit being more certain and immediate. When in want of money, it
was his custom to write a sly satire on some opulent public personage,
upon whom he called with it, desiring to have his opinion of the work,
and his countenance in favour of a subscription for its publication.
The object of his ridicule, conscious-struck by his own portrait, would
wince and be civil, advise him to give up thoughts of publishing so
hasty a production, and conclude by offering a guinea or two to keep
the poet alive till better times should come round. At that time there
lived in Edinburgh a number of rich old men who had made fortunes in
questionable ways abroad, and whose characters, labouring under strange
suspicions, were wonderfully susceptible of Claudero’s satire. These
the wag used to bleed profusely and frequently by working upon their
fears of public notice.
In 1766 appeared _Miscellanies in Prose and Verse, by Claudero, Son
of Nimrod the Mighty Hunter, &c., &c._, opening with this preface:
‘Christian Reader—The following miscellany is published at the
desire of many gentlemen, who have all been my very good friends;
if there be anything in it amusing or entertaining, I shall be very
glad I have contributed to your diversion, and will laugh as heartily
at your money as you do at my works. Several of my pieces may need
explanation; but I am too cunning for that: what is not understood,
like Presbyterian preaching, will at least be admired. I am regardless
of critics; perhaps some of my lines want a foot; but then, if the
critic look sharp out, he will find that loss sufficiently supplied
in other places, where they have a foot too much: and besides, men’s
works generally resemble themselves; if the poems are lame, so is the
author—CLAUDERO.’
The most remarkable poems in this volume are: ‘The Echo of the Royal
Porch of the Palace of Holyrood House, which fell under Military
Execution, anno 1753;’ ‘The Last Speech and Dying Words of the Cross,
which was Hanged, Drawn, and Quartered on Monday the 15th of March
1756, for the horrid crime of being an Incumbrance to the Street;’
‘Scotland in Tears for the horrid Treatment of the Kings’ Sepulchres;’
‘An Elegy on the much-lamented Death of Quaker Erskine;’[255] ‘A Sermon
on the Condemnation of the Netherbow;’ ‘Humphry Colquhoun’s Last
Farewell,’ &c. Claudero seems to have been the only man of his time who
remonstrated against the destruction of the venerable edifices then
removed from the streets which they ornamented, to the disappointment
and indignation of all future antiquaries. There is much wit in his
sermon upon the destruction of the Netherbow. ‘What was too hard,’ he
says, ‘for the great ones of the earth, yea, even queens, to effect,
is now accomplished. No patriot duke opposeth the scheme, as did the
great Argyll in the grand senate of our nation; therefore the project
shall go into execution, and down shall Edina’s lofty porches be hurled
with a vengeance. Streets shall be extended to the east, regular and
beautiful, as far as the Frigate Whins; and Portobello[256] shall be a
lodge for the captors of tea and brandy. The city shall be joined to
Leith on the north, and a procession of wise masons shall there lay
the foundations of a spacious harbour. Pequin or Nanquin shall not be
able to compare with Edinburgh for magnificence. Our city shall be the
greatest wonder of the world, and the fame of its glory shall reach the
distant ends of the earth.[257] But lament, O thou descendant of the
royal Dane, and chief of the tribe of Wilson; for thy shop, contiguous
to the porch, shall be dashed to pieces, and its place will know thee
no more! No more shall the melodious voice of the loyalist Grant[258]
be heard in the morning, nor shall he any more shake the bending wand
towards the triumphal arch. Let all who angle in deep waters lament,
for Tom had not his equal. The Netherbow Coffee-house of the loyal
Smeiton can now no longer enjoy its ancient name with propriety; and
from henceforth _The Revolution Coffee-house_ shall its name be called.
Our gates must be extended wide for accommodating the gilded chariots,
which, from the luxury of the age, are become numerous. With an
impetuous career, they jostle against one another in our streets, and
the unwary foot-passenger is in danger of being crushed to pieces. The
loaded cart itself cannot withstand their fury, and the hideous yells
of _Coal Johnie_ resound through the vaulted sky. The sour-milk barrels
are overturned, and deluges of Corstorphin cream run down our strands,
while the poor unhappy milkmaid wrings her hands with sorrow.’ To the
sermon are appended the ‘Last Speech and Dying Words of the Netherbow,’
in which the following laughable declaration occurs: ‘May my clock be
struck dumb in the other world, if I lie in this! and may MACK, the
reformer of Edina’s lofty spires, never bestride my weathercock on
high, if I deviate from truth in these my last words! Though my fabric
shall be levelled with the dust of the earth, yet I fall in hope that
my weathercock shall be exalted on some more modern dome, where it
shall shine like the burnished gold, reflecting the rays of the sun to
the eye of ages unborn. The daring Mack shall yet look down from my
cock, high in the airy region, to the brandy-shops below, where large
graybeards shall appear to him no bigger than mutchkin-bottles, and
mutchkin-bottles shall be in his sight like the spark of a diamond.’
One of Claudero’s versified compositions, ‘Humphry Colquhoun’s
Farewell,’ is remarkable as a kind of coarse prototype of the beautiful
lyric entitled ‘Mary,’ sung in _The Pirate_ by Claud Halcro. One
wonders to find the genius of Scott refining upon such materials:
‘Farewell to Auld Reekie,
Farewell to lewd Kate,
Farewell to each ——,
And farewell to cursed debt;
With light heart and thin breeches,
Humph crosses the main;
All worn out to stitches,
He’ll ne’er come again.
Farewell to old Dido,
Who sold him good ale;
Her charms, like her drink,
For poor Humph were too stale;
Though closely she urged him
To marry and stay,
Her Trojan, quite cloyed,
From her sailed away.
Farewell to James Campbell,
Who played many tricks;
Humph’s ghost and Lochmoidart’s[259]
Will chase him to Styx;
Where in Charon’s wherry
He’ll be ferried o’er
To Pluto’s dominions,
’Mongst rascals great store.
Farewell, pot-companions,
Farewell, all good fellows;
Farewell to my anvil,
Files, pliers, and bellows;
Sails, fly to Jamaica,
Where I mean long to dwell,
Change manners with climate—
Dear Drummond, farewell.’
[Illustration: Netherbow.]
It is not unworthy of notice that the publication of Dr Blair’s
_Lectures on Rhetoric and the Belles-lettres_ was hastened by Claudero,
who, having procured notes taken by some of the students, avowed an
intention of giving these to the world. The reverend author states in
his preface that he was induced to publish the lectures in consequence
of some surreptitious and incorrect copies finding their way to the
public; but it has not hitherto been told that this doggerel-monger was
the person chiefly concerned in bringing about that result.
Claudero occasionally dealt in whitewash as well as blackball, and
sometimes wrote regular panegyrics. An address of this kind to a
_writer_ named Walter Fergusson, who built St James’s Square, concludes
with a strange association of ideas:
‘May Pentland Hills pour forth their springs,
To water all thy square!
May Fergussons still bless the place,
Both gay and debonnair!’
When the said square was in progress, however, the water seemed in no
hurry to obey the bard’s invocation; and an attempt was made to procure
this useful element by sinking wells for it, despite the elevation
of the ground. Mr Walter Scott, W.S., happened one day to pass when
Captain Fergusson of the Royal Navy—a good officer, but a sort of
Commodore Trunnion in his manners—was sinking a well of vast depth.
Upon Mr Scott expressing a doubt if water could be got there, ‘I will
get it,’ quoth the captain, ‘though I sink to hell for it!’ ‘A bad
place for water,’ was the dry remark of the doubter.