[Illustration: Marionville.]
Between the eastern suburbs of Edinburgh and the village of Restalrig
stands a solitary house named Marionville, enclosed in a shrubbery
of no great extent, surrounded by high walls. Whether it be that the
place has become dismal in consequence of the rise of a noxious fen
in its neighbourhood, or that the tale connected with it acts upon
the imagination, I cannot pretend to decide, but unquestionably there
is about the house an air of depression and melancholy such as could
scarcely fail to strike the most unobservant passenger. Yet, in 1790,
this mansion was the abode of a gay and fashionable family, who,
amongst other amusements, indulged in that of private theatricals,
and in this line were so highly successful that admission to the
Marionville theatre became a privilege for which the highest in the
land would contend. Mr Macrae, the head of this family, was a man of
good fortune, being the proprietor of an estate in Dumfriesshire, and
also of good connections—the Earl of Glencairn, whom Burns has so
much celebrated, being his cousin, while by his mother he was nearly
related to Viscount Fermoy and the celebrated Sir Boyle Roche. He had
been for some years retired from the Irish Carabiniers, and being still
in the prime of life, he was thinking of again entering the army, when
the incident which I am about to relate took place. He was a man of
gentlemanlike accomplishments and manners, of a generous and friendly
disposition, but marked by a keen and imperious sense of the deference
due to a gentleman, and a heat of temper which was apt to make him
commit actions of which he afterwards bitterly repented. After the
unfortunate affair which ended his career in Scotland, the public,
who never make nice distinctions as to the character of individuals,
adopted the idea that he was as inhumane as rash, and he was reported
to be an experienced duellist. But here he was greatly misrepresented.
Mr Macrae would have shrunk from a deliberate act of cruelty; and the
only connection he had ever had with single combat was in the way of
endeavouring to reconcile friends who had quarrelled—an object in
which he was successful on several memorable occasions. But the same
man—whom all that really knew him allowed to be a delightful companion
and kind-hearted man—was liable to be transported beyond the bounds of
reason by casual and trivial occurrences. A messenger of the law having
arrested the Rev. Mr Cunningham, brother of the Earl of Glencairn,
for debt, as he was passing with a party from the drawing-room to the
dining-room at Drumsheugh House, Mr Macrae threw the man over the
stair. He was prompted to this act by indignation at the affront which
he conceived his cousin, as a gentleman, had received from a common
man. But soon after, when it was represented to him that every other
means of inducing Mr Cunningham to settle his debt had failed, and when
he learned that the messenger had suffered severe injury, he went to
him, made him a hearty apology, and agreed to pay three hundred guineas
by way of compensation. He had himself allowed a debt due to a tailor
to remain too long unpaid, and the consequence was that he received
a summons for it before the sheriff-court. With this document in his
hand, he called, in a state of great excitement, upon his law-agent, to
whom he began to read: ‘Archibald Cockburn of Cockpen, sheriff-depute,’
&c., till he came to a passage which declared that ‘he, the said James
Macrae, had been oft and diverse times desired and required,’ &c. ‘The
greatest lie ever uttered!’ he exclaimed. ‘He had never heard a word
of it before; he would instantly go to the sheriff and horsewhip him.’
The agent had at the time letters of _horning_ against a very worthy
baronet lying upon his table—that is to say, a document in which the
baronet was denounced as a rebel to the king, according to a form of
the law of Scotland, for failing to pay his debt. The agent took up
this, and coolly began to read: ‘George III. by the grace of God,’ &c.
Macrae at once saw the application, and fell a-laughing at his own
folly, saying he would go directly and give the sheriff tickets for
the play at Marionville, which he and his family requested. It will be
seen that the fault of this unfortunate gentleman was heat of temper,
not a savage disposition; but what fault can be more fatal than heat of
temper?
Mr Macrae was married to an accomplished lady, Maria Cecilia le Maitre,
daughter of the Baroness Nolken, wife of the Swedish ambassador.
They occasionally resided in Paris, with Mrs Macrae’s relations,
particularly with her cousin, Madame de la Briche, whose private
theatricals in her elegant house at the Marais were the models of those
afterwards instituted at Marionville. It may not be unworthy of notice
that amongst their fellow-performers at Madame de la Briche’s was
the celebrated Abbé Sieyès. When Mr Macrae and his lady set up their
theatre at Marionville, they both took characters, he appearing to
advantage in such parts as that of Dionysius in the _Grecian Daughter_,
and she in the first line of female parts in genteel comedy. Sir David
Kinloch and a Mr Justice were their best male associates; and the
chief female performer, after Mrs Macrae herself, was Mrs Carruthers
of Dormont, a daughter of the celebrated artist Paul Sandby. When all
due deduction is made for the effects of complaisance, there seems to
remain undoubted testimony that these performances involved no small
amount of talent.
In Mr and Mrs Macrae’s circle of visiting acquaintance, and frequent
spectators of the Marionville theatricals, were Sir George Ramsay of
Bamff and his lady. Sir George had recently returned, with an addition
to his fortune, from India, and was now settling himself down for
the remainder of life in his native country. I have seen original
letters between the two families, showing that they lived on the most
friendly terms and entertained the highest esteem for each other. One
written by Lady Ramsay to Mrs Macrae, from Sir George’s country-seat in
Perthshire, commences thus: ‘My dear friend, I have just time to write
you a few lines to say how much I long to hear from you, and to assure
you how sincerely I love you.’ Her ladyship adds: ‘I am now enjoying
rural retirement with Sir George, who is really so good and indulgent,
that I am as happy as the gayest scenes could make me. He joins me in
kind compliments to you and Mr Macrae,’ &c. How deplorable that social
affections, which contribute so much to make life pass agreeably,
should be liable to a wild upbreak from perhaps some trivial cause, not
in itself worthy of a moment’s regard, and only rendered of consequence
by the sensitiveness of pride and a deference to false and worldly
maxims!
The source of the quarrel between Mr Macrae and Sir George was of a
kind almost too mean and ridiculous to be spoken of. On the evening
of the 7th April 1790, the former gentleman handed a lady out of the
Edinburgh theatre, and endeavoured to get a chair for her, in which
she might be conveyed home. Seeing two men approaching through the
crowd with one, he called to ask if it was disengaged, to which the
men replied with a distinct affirmative. As Mr Macrae handed the lady
forward to put her into it, a footman, in a violent manner, seized hold
of one of the poles, and insisted that it was engaged for his mistress.
The man seemed disordered by liquor, and it was afterwards distinctly
made manifest that he was acting without the guidance of reason. His
lady had gone home some time before, while he was out of the way. He
was not aware of this, and, under a confused sense of duty, he was now
eager to obtain a chair for her, but in reality had not bespoken that
upon which he laid hold. Mr Macrae, annoyed at the man’s pertinacity
at such a moment, rapped him over the knuckles with a short cane to
make him give way; on which the servant called him a scoundrel, and
gave him a push on the breast. Incensed overmuch by this conduct, Mr
Macrae struck him smartly over the head with his cane, on which the
man cried out worse than before, and moved off. Mr Macrae, following
him, repeated his blows two or three times, but only with that degree
of force which he thought needful for a chastisement. In the meantime
the lady whom Mr Macrae had handed out got into a different chair, and
was carried off. Some of the bystanders, seeing a gentleman beating a
servant, cried shame, and showed a disposition to take part with the
latter; but there were individuals present who had observed all the
circumstances, and who felt differently. One gentleman afterwards gave
evidence that he had been insulted by the servant, at an earlier period
of the evening, in precisely the same manner as Mr Macrae, and that
the man’s conduct had throughout been rude and insolent, a consequence
apparently of drunkenness.
Learning that the servant was in the employment of Lady Ramsay,
Mr Macrae came into town next day, full of anxiety to obviate any
unpleasant impression which the incident might have made upon her mind.
Meeting Sir George in the street, he expressed to him his concern
on the subject, when Sir George said lightly that the man being his
lady’s footman, he did not feel any concern in the matter. Mr Macrae
then went to apologise to Lady Ramsay, whom he found sitting for her
portrait in the lodgings of the young artist Raeburn, afterwards so
highly distinguished. It has been said that he fell on his knees before
the lady to entreat her pardon for what he had done to her servant.
Certainly he left her with the impression that he had no reason to
expect a quarrel between himself and Sir George on account of what had
taken place.
James Merry—this was the servant’s name—had been wounded in the
head, but not severely. The injuries which he had sustained—though
nothing can justify the violence which inflicted them—were only of
such a nature as a few days of confinement would have healed. Such,
indeed, was the express testimony given by his medical attendant,
Mr Benjamin Bell. There was, however, a strong feeling amongst his
class against Macrae, who was informed, in an anonymous letter,
that a hundred and seven men-servants had agreed to have some
revenge upon him. Merry himself had determined to institute legal
proceedings against Mr Macrae for the recovery of damages. A process
was commenced by the issue of a summons, which Mr Macrae received
on the 12th. Wounded to the quick by this procedure, and smarting
under the insolence of the anonymous letter, Mr Macrae wrote next day
a note to Sir George Ramsay, in which, addressing him without any
term of friendly regard, he demanded that either Merry should drop
the prosecution or that his master should turn him off. Sir George
temperately replied ‘that he had only now heard of the prosecution for
the first time; that the man met with no encouragement from him; and
that he hoped that Mr Macrae, on further consideration, would not think
it incumbent on him to interfere, especially as the man was at present
far from being well.’
On the same evening Mr Amory, a military friend of Mr Macrae, called
upon Sir George with a second note from that gentleman, once more
insisting on the man being turned off, and stating that in the event
of his refusal Mr Amory was empowered to communicate his opinion of
his conduct. Sir George did refuse, on the plea that he had yet seen
no good reason for his discharging the servant; and Mr Amory then said
it was his duty to convey Mr Macrae’s opinion, which was ‘that Sir
George’s conduct had not been that of a gentleman.’ Sir George then
said that further conversation was unnecessary; all that remained was
to agree upon a place of meeting. They met again that evening at a
tavern, where Mr Amory informed Sir George that it was Mr Macrae’s wish
that they should meet, properly attended, next day at twelve o’clock at
Ward’s Inn, on the borders of Musselburgh Links.
The parties met there accordingly, Mr Macrae being attended by Captain
Amory, and Sir George Ramsay by Sir William Maxwell; Mr Benjamin
Bell, the surgeon, being also of the party. Mr Macrae had brought an
additional friend, a Captain Haig, to favour them with his advice, but
not to act formally as a second. The two parties being in different
rooms, Sir William Maxwell came into that occupied by Mr Macrae, and
proposed that if Mr Macrae would apologise for the intemperate style of
his letters demanding the discharge of the servant, Sir George would
grant his request, and the affair would end. Mr Macrae answered that he
would be most happy to comply with this proposal if his friends thought
it proper; but he must abide by their decision. The question being put
to Captain Haig, he answered, in a deliberate manner: ‘It is altogether
impossible; Sir George must, in the first place, turn off his servant,
and Mr Macrae will then apologise.’ Hearing this speech, equally marked
by wrong judgment and wrong feeling, Macrae, according to the testimony
of Mr Bell, shed tears of anguish. The parties then walked to the
beach, and took their places in the usual manner. On the word being
given, Sir George took deliberate aim at Macrae, the neck of whose coat
was grazed by his bullet. Macrae had, if his own solemn asseveration
is to be believed, intended to fire in the air; but when he found Sir
George aiming thus at his life, he altered his resolution, and brought
his antagonist to the ground with a mortal wound in the body.
There was the usual consternation and unspeakable distress. Mr Macrae
went up to Sir George and ‘told him that he was sincerely afflicted at
seeing him in that situation.’[269] It was with difficulty, and only at
the urgent request of Sir William Maxwell, that he could be induced to
quit the field. Sir George lingered for two days. The event occasioned
a great sensation in the public mind, and a very unfavourable view was
generally taken of Mr Macrae’s conduct. It was given out that during a
considerable interval, while in expectation of the duel taking place,
he had practised pistol-shooting in his garden at a barber’s block;
and he was also said to have been provided with a pair of pistols
of a singularly apt and deadly character; the truth being that the
interval was a brief one, his hand totally unskilled in shooting, and
the pistols a bad brass-mounted pair, hastily furnished by Amory. We
have Amory’s testimony that as they were pursuing their journey to
another country, he was constantly bewailing the fate of Sir George
Ramsay, remarking how unfortunate it was that he took so obstinate a
view about the servant’s case. The demand, he said, was one which he
would have thought it necessary to comply with. He had asked Sir George
nothing but what he would have done had it been his own case. This is
so consonant with what appears otherwise respecting his character that
we cannot doubt it. It is only to be lamented that he should not have
made the demand in terms more calculated to lead to compliance.
The death of an amiable man under such deplorable circumstances
roused the most zealous vigilance on the part of the law
authorities; but Mr Macrae and his second succeeded in reaching
France. A summons was issued for his trial, but he was advised
not to appear, and accordingly sentence of outlawry was passed
against him. The servant’s prosecution meanwhile went on, and
was ultimately decided against Mr Macrae, although, on a cool
perusal of the evidence on both sides, there appears to me the
clearest proof of Merry having been the first aggressor. Mr
Macrae lived in France till the progress of the Revolution forced
him to go to Altona. When time seemed to have a little softened
matters against him, he took steps to ascertain if he could safely
return to his native country. It was decided by counsel that he
could not. They held that his case entirely wanted the extenuating
circumstance which was necessary—his having to contemplate
degradation if he did not challenge. He was under no such
danger; so that, from his letters to Sir George Ramsay, he
appeared to have forced on the duel purely for revenge. He came
to see the case in this light himself, and was obliged to make up
his mind to perpetual self-banishment. He survived thirty years.
A gentleman of my acquaintance, who had known him in early life in
Scotland, was surprised to meet him one day in a Parisian coffee-house
after the peace of 1814—the wreck or ghost of the handsome,
sprightly man he had once been. The comfort of his home,
his country, and friends, the use of his talents to all these, had
been lost, and himself obliged to lead the life of a condemned
Cain, all through the one fault of a fiery temper.