Produced by Martin Robb
THE FAIR MAID OF PERTH
or
ST. VALENTINE’S DAY
By Sir Walter Scott
INTRODUCTORY.
The ashes here of murder’d kings Beneath my footsteps sleep; And yonder
lies the scene of death, Where Mary learn’d to weep.
CAPTAIN MARJORIBANKS.
Every quarter of Edinburgh has its own peculiar boast, so that the city
together combines within its precincts, if you take the word of the
inhabitants on the subject, as much of historical interest as of natural
beauty. Our claims in behalf of the Canongate are not the slightest.
The Castle may excel us in extent of prospect and sublimity of site; the
Calton had always the superiority of its unrivalled panorama, and has of
late added that of its towers, and triumphal arches, and the pillars of
its Parthenon. The High Street, we acknowledge, had the distinguished
honour of being defended by fortifications, of which we can show no
vestiges. We will not descend to notice the claims of more upstart
districts, called Old New Town and New New Town, not to mention the
favourite Moray Place, which is the Newest New Town of all. We will not
match ourselves except with our equals, and with our equals in age only,
for in dignity we admit of one. We boast being the court end of the
town, possessing the Palace and the sepulchral remains of monarchs,
and that we have the power to excite, in a degree unknown to the less
honoured quarters of the city, the dark and solemn recollections of
ancient grandeur, which occupied the precincts of our venerable Abbey
from the time of St. David till her deserted halls were once more made
glad, and her long silent echoes awakened, by the visit of our present
gracious sovereign.
My long habitation in the neighbourhood, and the quiet respectability of
my habits, have given me a sort of intimacy with good Mrs. Policy, the
housekeeper in that most interesting part of the old building called
Queen Mary’s Apartments. But a circumstance which lately happened
has conferred upon me greater privileges; so that, indeed, I might, I
believe, venture on the exploit of Chatelet, who was executed for
being found secreted at midnight in the very bedchamber of Scotland’s
mistress.
It chanced that the good lady I have mentioned was, in the discharge of
her function, showing the apartments to a cockney from London--not one
of your quiet, dull, commonplace visitors, who gape, yawn, and
listen with an acquiescent “umph” to the information doled out by the
provincial cicerone. No such thing: this was the brisk, alert agent of a
great house in the city, who missed no opportunity of doing business,
as he termed it--that is, of putting off the goods of his employers,
and improving his own account of commission. He had fidgeted through the
suite of apartments, without finding the least opportunity to touch upon
that which he considered as the principal end of his existence. Even the
story of Rizzio’s assassination presented no ideas to this emissary of
commerce, until the housekeeper appealed, in support of her narrative,
to the dusky stains of blood upon the floor.
“These are the stains,” she said; “nothing will remove them from the
place: there they have been for two hundred and fifty years, and there
they will remain while the floor is left standing--neither water nor
anything else will ever remove them from that spot.”
Now our cockney, amongst other articles, sold Scouring Drops, as they
are called, and a stain of two hundred and fifty years’ standing was
interesting to him, not because it had been caused by the blood of a
queen’s favourite, slain in her apartment, but because it offered
so admirable an opportunity to prove the efficacy of his unequalled
Detergent Elixir. Down on his knees went our friend, but neither in
horror nor devotion.
“Two hundred and fifty years, ma’am, and nothing take it away? Why, if
it had been five hundred, I have something in my pocket will fetch it
out in five minutes. D’ye see this elixir, ma’am? I will show you the
stain vanish in a moment.”
Accordingly, wetting one end of his handkerchief with the all deterging
specific, he began to rub away on the planks, without heeding the
remonstrances of Mrs. Policy. She, good soul, stood at first in
astonishment, like the abbess of St. Bridget’s, when a profane visitant
drank up the vial of brandy which had long passed muster among the
relics of the cloister for the tears of the blessed saint. The venerable
guardian of St. Bridget probably expected the interference of her
patroness--she of Holyrood might, perhaps, hope that David Ruzzio’s
spectre would arise to prevent the profanation. But Mrs. Policy stood
not long in the silence of horror. She uplifted her voice, and screamed
as loudly as Queen Mary herself when the dreadful deed was in the act of
perpetration--
“Harrow, now out, and walawa!” she cried.
I happened to be taking my morning walk in the adjoining gallery,
pondering in my mind why the kings of Scotland, who hung around me,
should be each and every one painted with a nose like the knocker of
a door, when lo! the walls once more re-echoed with such shrieks as
formerly were as often heard in the Scottish palaces as were sounds of
revelry and music. Somewhat surprised at such an alarm in a place so
solitary, I hastened to the spot, and found the well meaning traveller
scrubbing the floor like a housemaid, while Mrs. Policy, dragging him
by the skirts of the coat, in vain endeavoured to divert him from his
sacrilegious purpose. It cost me some trouble to explain to the zealous
purifier of silk stockings, embroidered waistcoats, broadcloth, and deal
planks that there were such things in the world as stains which ought
to remain indelible, on account of the associations with which they are
connected. Our good friend viewed everything of the kind only as
the means of displaying the virtue of his vaunted commodity. He
comprehended, however, that he would not be permitted to proceed
to exemplify its powers on the present occasion, as two or three
inhabitants appeared, who, like me, threatened to maintain the
housekeeper’s side of the question. He therefore took his leave,
muttering that he had always heard the Scots were a nasty people, but
had no idea they carried it so far as to choose to have the floors of
their palaces blood boltered, like Banquo’s ghost, when to remove them
would have cost but a hundred drops of the Infallible Detergent Elixir,
prepared and sold by Messrs. Scrub and Rub, in five shilling and ten
shilling bottles, each bottle being marked with the initials of the
inventor, to counterfeit which would be to incur the pains of forgery.
Freed from the odious presence of this lover of cleanliness, my good
friend Mrs. Policy was profuse in her expressions of thanks; and yet her
gratitude, instead of exhausting itself in these declarations, according
to the way of the world, continues as lively at this moment as if she
had never thanked me at all. It is owing to her recollection of this
piece of good service that I have the permission of wandering, like the
ghost of some departed gentleman usher, through these deserted halls,
sometimes, as the old Irish ditty expresses it--
Thinking upon things that are long enough ago;--and sometimes wishing
I could, with the good luck of most editors of romantic narrative, light
upon some hidden crypt or massive antique cabinet, which should yield to
my researches an almost illegible manuscript, containing the authentic
particulars of some of the strange deeds of those wild days of the
unhappy Mary.
My dear Mrs. Baliol used to sympathise with me when I regretted that all
godsends of this nature had ceased to occur, and that an author might
chatter his teeth to pieces by the seaside without a wave ever wafting
to him a casket containing such a history as that of Automates; that
he might break his shins in stumbling through a hundred vaults without
finding anything but rats and mice; and become the tenant of a dozen
sets of shabby tenements without finding that they contained any
manuscript but the weekly bill for board and lodging. A dairymaid of
these degenerate days might as well wash and deck her dairy in hopes of
finding the fairy tester in her shoe.
“It is a sad and too true a tale, cousin,” said Mrs. Baliol, “I am sure
we all have occasion to regret the want of these ready supplements to a
failing invention. But you, most of all, have right to complain that the
fairest have not favoured your researches--you, who have shown the world
that the age of chivalry still exists--you, the knight of Croftangry,
who braved the fury of the ‘London ‘prentice bold,’ in behalf of the
fair Dame Policy, and the memorial of Rizzio’s slaughter! Is it not a
pity, cousin, considering the feat of chivalry was otherwise so much
according to rule--is it not, I say, a great pity that the lady had not
been a little younger, and the legend a little older?”
“Why, as to the age at which a fair dame loses the benefit of chivalry,
and is no longer entitled to crave boon of brave knight, that I leave
to the statutes of the Order of Errantry; but for the blood of Rizzio
I take up the gauntlet, and maintain against all and sundry that I
hold the stains to be of no modern date, but to have been actually the
consequence and the record of that terrible assassination.”
“As I cannot accept the challenge to the field, fair cousin, I am
contented to require proof.”
“The unaltered tradition of the Palace, and the correspondence of the
existing state of things with that tradition.”
“Explain, if you please.”
“I will. The universal tradition bears that, when Rizzio was dragged
out of the chamber of the Queen, the heat and fury of the assassins, who
struggled which should deal him most wounds, despatched him at the door
of the anteroom. At the door of the apartment, therefore, the greater
quantity of the ill fated minion’s blood was spilled, and there the
marks of it are still shown. It is reported further by historians, that
Mary continued her entreaties for his life, mingling her prayers with
screams and exclamations, until she knew that he was assuredly slain; on
which she wiped her eyes and said, ‘I will now study revenge.’”
“All this is granted. But the blood--would it not wash out, or waste
out, think you, in so many years?”
“I am coming to that presently. The constant tradition of the Palace
says, that Mary discharged any measures to be taken to remove the marks
of slaughter, which she had resolved should remain as a memorial to
quicken and confirm her purposed vengeance. But it is added that,
satisfied with the knowledge that it existed, and not desirous to have
the ghastly evidence always under her eye, she caused a traverse, as it
is called (that is, a temporary screen of boards), to be drawn along the
under part of the anteroom, a few feet from the door, so as to separate
the place stained with the blood from the rest of the apartment, and
involve it in considerable obscurity. Now this temporary partition still
exists, and, by running across and interrupting the plan of the roof
and cornices, plainly intimates that it has been intended to serve some
temporary purpose, since it disfigures the proportions of the room,
interferes with the ornaments of the ceiling, and could only have been
put there for some such purpose as hiding an object too disagreeable
to be looked upon. As to the objection that the bloodstains would have
disappeared in course of time, I apprehend that, if measures to efface
them were not taken immediately after the affair happened--if the blood,
in other words, were allowed to sink into the wood, the stain would
become almost indelible. Now, not to mention that our Scottish palaces
were not particularly well washed in those days, and that there were no
Patent Drops to assist the labours of the mop, I think it very probable
that these dark relics might subsist for a long course of time, even
if Mary had not desired or directed that they should be preserved, but
screened by the traverse from public sight. I know several instances
of similar bloodstains remaining for a great many years, and I doubt
whether, after a certain time, anything can remove them save the
carpenter’s plane. If any seneschal, by way of increasing the interest
of the apartments, had, by means of paint, or any other mode of
imitation, endeavoured to palm upon posterity supposititious stigmata, I
conceive that the impostor would have chosen the Queen’s cabinet and the
bedroom for the scene of his trick, placing his bloody tracery where it
could be distinctly seen by visitors, instead of hiding it behind
the traverse in this manner. The existence of the said traverse, or
temporary partition, is also extremely difficult to be accounted for, if
the common and ordinary tradition be rejected. In short, all the rest of
this striking locality is so true to the historical fact, that I think
it may well bear out the additional circumstance of the blood on the
floor.”
“I profess to you,” answered Mrs. Baliol, “that I am very willing to be
converted to your faith. We talk of a credulous vulgar, without always
recollecting that there is a vulgar incredulity, which, in historical
matters as well as in those of religion, finds it easier to doubt than
to examine, and endeavours to assume the credit of an esprit fort,
by denying whatever happens to be a little beyond the very limited
comprehension of the sceptic. And so, that point being settled, and
you possessing, as we understand, the open sesamum into these secret
apartments, how, if we may ask, do you intend to avail yourself of your
privilege? Do you propose to pass the night in the royal bedchamber?”
“For what purpose, my dear lady? If to improve the rheumatism, this east
wind may serve the purpose.”
“Improve the rheumatism! Heaven forbid! that would be worse than adding
colours to the violet. No, I mean to recommend a night on the couch of
the nose of Scotland, merely to improve the imagination. Who knows
what dreams might be produced by a night spent in a mansion of so many
memories! For aught I know, the iron door of the postern stair
might open at the dead hour of midnight, and, as at the time of the
conspiracy, forth might sally the phantom assassins, with stealthy step
and ghastly look, to renew the semblance of the deed. There comes the
fierce fanatic Ruthven, party hatred enabling him to bear the armour
which would otherwise weigh down a form extenuated by wasting disease.
See how his writhen features show under the hollow helmet, like those of
a corpse tenanted by a demon, whose vindictive purpose looks out at
the flashing eyes, while the visage has the stillness of death. Yonder
appears the tall form of the boy Darnley, as goodly in person as
vacillating in resolution; yonder he advances with hesitating step, and
yet more hesitating purpose, his childish fear having already overcome
his childish passion. He is in the plight of a mischievous lad who
has fired a mine, and who now, expecting the explosion in remorse and
terror, would give his life to quench the train which his own hand
lighted. Yonder--yonder--But I forget the rest of the worthy cutthroats.
Help me if you can.”
“Summon up,” said I, “the postulate, George Douglas, the most active of
the gang. Let him arise at your call--the claimant of wealth which he
does not possess, the partaker of the illustrious blood of Douglas, but
which in his veins is sullied with illegitimacy. Paint him the ruthless,
the daring, the ambitious--so nigh greatness, yet debarred from it; so
near to wealth, yet excluded from possessing it; a political Tantalus,
ready to do or dare anything to terminate his necessities and assert his
imperfect claims.”
“Admirable, my dear Croftangry! But what is a postulate?”
“Pooh, my dear madam, you disturb the current of my ideas. The postulate
was, in Scottish phrase, the candidate for some benefice which he had
not yet attained. George Douglas, who stabbed Rizzio, was the postulate
for the temporal possessions of the rich abbey of Arbroath.”
“I stand informed. Come, proceed; who comes next?” continued Mrs.
Baliol.
“Who comes next? Yon tall, thin made, savage looking man, with the
petronel in his hand, must be Andrew Ker of Faldonside, a brother’s son,
I believe, of the celebrated Sir David Ker of Cessford; his look and
bearing those of a Border freebooter, his disposition so savage that,
during the fray in the cabinet, he presented his loaded piece at the
bosom of the young and beautiful Queen, that queen also being within a
few weeks of becoming a mother.”
“Brave, beau cousin! Well, having raised your bevy of phantoms, I hope
you do not intend to send them back to their cold beds to warm them? You
will put them to some action, and since you do threaten the Canongate
with your desperate quill, you surely mean to novelise, or to dramatise,
if you will, this most singular of all tragedies?”
“Worse--that is less interesting--periods of history have been, indeed,
shown up, for furnishing amusement to the peaceable ages which, have
succeeded but, dear lady, the events are too well known in Mary’s days
to be used as vehicles of romantic fiction. What can a better writer
than myself add to the elegant and forcible narrative of Robertson?
So adieu to my vision. I awake, like John Bunyan, ‘and behold it is a
dream.’ Well enough that I awake without a sciatica, which would have
probably rewarded my slumbers had I profaned Queen Mary’s bed by using
it as a mechanical resource to awaken a torpid imagination.”
“This will never do, cousin,” answered Mrs. Baliol; “you must get over
all these scruples, if you would thrive in the character of a romantic
historian, which you have determined to embrace. What is the classic
Robertson to you? The light which he carried was that of a lamp to
illuminate the dark events of antiquity; yours is a magic lantern to
raise up wonders which never existed. No reader of sense wonders at your
historical inaccuracies, any more than he does to see Punch in the show
box seated on the same throne with King Solomon in his glory, or to
hear him hallooing out to the patriarch, amid the deluge, ‘Mighty hazy
weather, Master Noah.’”
“Do not mistake me, my dear madam,” said I; “I am quite conscious of
my own immunities as a tale teller. But even the mendacious Mr. Fag, in
Sheridan’s Rivals, assures us that, though he never scruples to tell
a lie at his master’s command, yet it hurts his conscience to be found
out. Now, this is the reason why I avoid in prudence all well known
paths of history, where every one can read the finger posts carefully
set up to advise them of the right turning; and the very boys and girls,
who learn the history of Britain by way of question and answer, hoot at
a poor author if he abandons the highway.”
“Do not be discouraged, however, cousin Chrystal. There are plenty of
wildernesses in Scottish history, through which, unless I am greatly
misinformed, no certain paths have been laid down from actual survey,
but which are only described by imperfect tradition, which fills up
with wonders and with legends the periods in which no real events are
recognised to have taken place. Even thus, as Mat Prior says:
“Geographers on pathless downs Place elephants instead of towns.”
“If such be your advice, my dear lady,” said I, “the course of my story
shall take its rise upon this occasion at a remote period of history,
and in a province removed from my natural sphere of the Canongate.”
It was under the influence of those feelings that I undertook the
following historical romance, which, often suspended and flung aside,
is now arrived at a size too important to be altogether thrown away,
although there may be little prudence in sending it to the press.
I have not placed in the mouth of the characters the Lowland Scotch
dialect now spoken, because unquestionably the Scottish of that day
resembled very closely the Anglo Saxon, with a sprinkling of French
or Norman to enrich it. Those who wish to investigate the subject may
consult the Chronicles of Winton and the History of Bruce by Archdeacon
Barbour. But supposing my own skill in the ancient Scottish were
sufficient to invest the dialogue with its peculiarities, a translation
must have been necessary for the benefit of the general reader. The
Scottish dialect may be therefore considered as laid aside, unless
where the use of peculiar words may add emphasis or vivacity to the
composition.
PREFACE.
In continuing the lucubrations of Chrystal Croftangry, it occurred
that, although the press had of late years teemed with works of various
descriptions concerning the Scottish Gad, no attempt had hitherto been
made to sketch their manners, as these might be supposed to have
existed at the period when the statute book, as well as the page of the
chronicler, begins to present constant evidence of the difficulties to
which the crown was exposed, while the haughty house of Douglas all but
overbalanced its authority on the Southern border, and the North was
at the same time torn in pieces by the yet untamed savageness of the
Highland races, and the daring loftiness to which some of the remoter
chieftains still carried their pretensions.
The well authenticated fact of two powerful clans having deputed each
thirty champions to fight out a quarrel of old standing, in presence of
King Robert III, his brother the Duke of Albany, and the whole court of
Scotland, at Perth, in the year of grace 1396, seemed to mark with
equal distinctness the rancour of these mountain feuds and the degraded
condition of the general government of the country; and it was fixed
upon accordingly as the point on which the main incidents of a romantic
narrative might be made to hinge. The characters of Robert III,
his ambitious brother, and his dissolute son seemed to offer some
opportunities of interesting contrast; and the tragic fate of the heir
of the throne, with its immediate consequences, might serve to complete
the picture of cruelty and lawlessness.
Two features of the story of this barrier battle on the Inch of
Perth--the flight of one of the appointed champions, and the reckless
heroism of a townsman, that voluntarily offered for a small piece
of coin to supply his place in the mortal encounter--suggested the
imaginary persons, on whom much of the novel is expended. The fugitive
Celt might have been easily dealt with, had a ludicrous style of
colouring been adopted; but it appeared to the Author that there would
be more of novelty, as well as of serious interest, if he could succeed
in gaining for him something of that sympathy which is incompatible with
the total absence of respect. Miss Baillie had drawn a coward by
nature capable of acting as a hero under the strong impulse of filial
affection. It seemed not impossible to conceive the case of one
constitutionally weak of nerve being supported by feelings of honour and
of jealousy up to a certain point, and then suddenly giving way, under
circumstances to which the bravest heart could hardly refuse compassion.
The controversy as to who really were the clans that figured in the
barbarous conflict of the Inch has been revived since the publication of
the Fair Maid of Perth, and treated in particular at great length by Mr.
Robert Mackay of Thurso, in his very curious History of the House and
Clan of Mackay. Without pretending to say that he has settled any part
of the question in the affirmative, this gentleman certainly seems to
have quite succeeded in proving that his own worthy sept had no part in
the transaction. The Mackays were in that age seated, as they have since
continued to be, in the extreme north of the island; and their chief at
the time was a personage of such importance, that his name and proper
designation could not have been omitted in the early narratives of the
occurrence. He on one occasion brought four thousand of his clan to the
aid of the royal banner against the Lord of the Isles. This historian is
of opinion that the Clan Quhele of Wyntoun were the Camerons, who appear
to have about that period been often designated as Macewans, and to
have gained much more recently the name of Cameron, i.e. Wrynose, from a
blemish in the physiognomy of some heroic chief of the line of Lochiel.
This view of the case is also adopted by Douglas in his Baronage, where
he frequently mentions the bitter feuds between Clan Chattan and Clan
Kay, and identifies the latter sept in reference to the events of 1396,
with the Camerons. It is perhaps impossible to clear up thoroughly this
controversy, little interesting in itself, at least to readers on
this side of Inverness. The names, as we have them in Wyntoun, are
“Clanwhewyl” and “Clachinya,” the latter probably not correctly
transcribed. In the Scoti Chronicon they are “Clanquhele” and “Clankay.
Hector Boece writes Clanchattan” and “Clankay,” in which he is followed
by Leslie while Buchanan disdains to disfigure his page with their
Gaelic designations at all, and merely describes them as two powerful
races in the wild and lawless region beyond the Grampians. Out of
this jumble what Sassenach can pretend dare lucem? The name Clanwheill
appears so late as 1594, in an Act of James VI. Is it not possible that
it may be, after all, a mere corruption of Clan Lochiel?
The reader may not be displeased to have Wyntoun’s original rhymes [bk.
ix. chap. xvii.]:
A thousand and thre hundyr yere,
Nynty and sex to mak all clere--
Of thre scor wyld Scottis men,
Thretty agane thretty then,
In felny bolnit of auld fed,
[Boiled with the cruelty of an old feud]
As thare forelderis ware slane to dede.
Tha thre score ware clannys twa,
Clahynnhe Qwhewyl and Clachinyha;
Of thir twa kynnis ware tha men,
Thretty agane thretty then;
And thare thai had than chiftanys twa,
Scha Ferqwharis’ son wes ane of tha,
The tother Cristy Johnesone.
A selcouth thing be tha was done.
At Sanct Johnestone besid the Freris,
All thai entrit in barreris
Wyth bow and ax, knyf and swerd,
To deil amang thaim thare last werd.
Thare thai laid on that time sa fast,
Quha had the ware thare at the last
I will noucht say; hot quha best had,
He wes but dout bathe muth and mad.
Fifty or ma ware slane that day,
Sua few wyth lif than past away.
The prior of Lochleven makes no mention either of the evasion of one
of the Gaelic champions, or of the gallantry of the Perth artisan, in
offering to take a share in the conflict. Both incidents, however,
were introduced, no doubt from tradition, by the Continuator of Fordun
[Bower], whose narrative is in these words:
Anno Dom. millesimo trecentesimo nonagesimo sexto, magna pars borealis
Scotiae, trans Alpes, inquietata fuit per duos pestiferos Cateranos, et
eorum sequaces, viz. Scheabeg et suos consanguinarios, qui Clankay, et
Cristi Jonsonem ac suos, qui Clanqwhele dicebantur; qui nullo pacto
vel tractatu pacificari poterant, nullaque arte regis vel gubernatoris
poterant edomari, quoadusque nobilis et industriosus Dominus David de
Lindesay de Crawford, at Dominus Thomas comes Moraviae, diligentiam et
vires apposuerunt, ac inter partes sic tractaverunt, ut coram domino
rege certo die convenirent apud Perth, et alterutra pars eligeret de
progenie sua triginta personas adversus triginta de parte contraria,
cum gladiis tantum, et arcubus et sagittis, absque deploidibus, vel
armaturis aliis, praeter bipennes; et sic congredientes finem liti
ponerant, et terra pace potiretur. Utrique igitur parti summe placuit
contractus, et die lunae proximo ante festum Sancti Michaelis, apud
North insulam de Perth, coram rege et gubernatore et innumerabili
multitudine comparentes, conflictum acerrimum inierunt; ubi de sexaginta
interfecti sunt omnes, excepto uno ex parte Clankay et undecim exceptis
ex parte altera. Hoc etiam ibi accidit, quod omnes in procinctu belli
constituti, unus eorum locum diffugii considerans, inter omnes in
amnem elabitur, et aquam de Thaya natando transgreditur; a millenis
insequitur, sed nusquam apprehenditur. Stant igitur partes attonitae,
tanquam non ad conflictum progressuri, ob defectum evasi: noluit enim
pars integrum habens numerum sociorum consentire, ut unus de suis
demeretur; nec potuit pars altera quocumque pretio alterum ad supplendum
vicem fugientis inducere. Stupent igitur omnes haerentes, de damno
fugitivi conquerentes. Et cum totum illud opus cessare putaretur, ecce
in medio prorupit unus stipulosus vernaculus, statura modicus, sed
efferus, dicens: Ecce ego! quis me conducet intrare cum operariis istis
ad hunc ludum theatralem? Pro dimidia enim marca ludum experiar, ultra
hoc petens, ut si vivus de palaestra evasero, victum a quocumque vestrum
recipiam dum vixero: quia, sicut dicitur, “Majorem caritatem nemo habet,
quam ut animam suam ponat suis pro amicis.” Quali mercede donabor, qui
animam meam pro inimicis reipublicae et regni pono? Quod petiit, a rege
et diversis magnatibus conceditur. Cum hoc arcus ejus extenditur, et
primo sagittam in partem contrariam transmittit, et unum interficit.
Confestim hinc inde sagittae volitant, bipennes librant, gladios
vibrant, alterutro certant, et veluti carnifices boves in macello, sic
inconsternate ad invicem se trucidant. Sed nec inter tantos repertus
est vel unus, qui, tanquam vecors ant timidus, sive post tergum alterius
declinans, seipsum a tanta caede praetendit excusare. Iste tamen tyro
superveniens finaliter illaesus exivit; et dehinc multo tempore Boreas
quievit, nec ibidem fuit, ut supra, cateranorum excursus.
The scene is heightened with many florid additions by Boece and Leslie,
and the contending savages in Buchanan utter speeches after the most
approved pattern of Livy.
The devotion of the young chief of Clan Quhele’s foster father and
foster brethren in the novel is a trait of clannish fidelity, of which
Highland story furnishes many examples. In the battle of Inverkeithing,
between the Royalists and Oliver Cromwell’s troops, a foster father and
seven brave sons are known to have thus sacrificed themselves for Sir
Hector Maclean of Duart; the old man, whenever one of his boys fell,
thrusting forward another to fill his place at the right hand of the
beloved chief, with the very words adopted in the novel, “Another for
Hector!”
Nay, the feeling could outlive generations. The late much lamented
General Stewart of Garth, in his account of the battle of Killiecrankie,
informs us that Lochiel was attended on the field by the son of his
foster brother.
“This faithful adherent followed him like his shadow, ready to assist
him with his sword, or cover him from the shot of the enemy. Suddenly
the chief missed his friend from his side, and, turning round to look
what had become of him, saw him lying on his back with his breast
pierced by an arrow. He had hardly breath, before he expired, to tell
Lochiel that, seeing an enemy, a Highlander in General Mackay’s army,
aiming at him with a bow and arrow, he sprung behind him, and thus
sheltered him from instant death. This” observes the gallant David
Stewart, “is a species of duty not often practised, perhaps, by our aide
de camps of the present day.”--Sketches of the Highlanders, vol. i. p.
65.
I have only to add, that the Second Series of Chronicles of the
Canongate, with the chapter introductory which precedes, appeared in
May, 1828, and had a favourable reception.
ABBOTSFORD, Aug. 15, 1831.
CHAPTER I.
“Behold the Tiber,” the vain Roman cried,
Viewing the ample Tay from Baiglie’s side;
But where’s the Scot that would the vaunt repay,
And hail the puny Tiber for the Tay?
Anonymous.
Among all the provinces in Scotland, if an intelligent stranger were
asked to describe the most varied and the most beautiful, it is probable
he would name the county of Perth. A native also of any other district
of Caledonia, though his partialities might lead him to prefer his
native county in the first instance, would certainly class that of Perth
in the second, and thus give its inhabitants a fair right to plead that,
prejudice apart, Perthshire forms the fairest portion of the Northern
kingdom. It is long since Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, with that excellent
taste which characterises her writings, expressed her opinion that the
most interesting district of every country, and that which exhibits the
varied beauties of natural scenery in greatest perfection, is that where
the mountains sink down upon the champaign, or more level land. The
most picturesque, if not the highest, hills are also to be found in the
county of Perth. The rivers find their way out of the mountainous region
by the wildest leaps, and through the most romantic passes connecting
the Highlands with the Lowlands. Above, the vegetation of a happier
climate and soil is mingled with the magnificent characteristics of
mountain scenery, and woods, groves, and thickets in profusion clothe
the base of the hills, ascend up the ravines, and mingle with the
precipices. It is in such favoured regions that the traveller finds what
the poet Gray, or some one else, has termed beauty lying in the lap of
terror.
From the same advantage of situation, this favoured province presents a
variety of the most pleasing character. Its lakes, woods, and mountains
may vie in beauty with any that the Highland tour exhibits; while
Perthshire contains, amidst this romantic scenery, and in some places in
connexion with it, many fertile and habitable tracts, which may vie
with the richness of merry England herself. The county has also been
the scene of many remarkable exploits and events, some of historical
importance, others interesting to the poet and romancer, though recorded
in popular tradition alone. It was in these vales that the Saxons of
the plain and the Gad of the mountains had many a desperate and bloody
encounter, in which it was frequently impossible to decide the palm of
victory between the mailed chivalry of the low country and the plaided
clans whom they opposed.
Perth, so eminent for the beauty of its situation, is a place of great
antiquity; and old tradition assigns to the town the importance of
a Roman foundation. That victorious nation, it is said, pretended to
recognise the Tiber in the much more magnificent and navigable Tay,
and to acknowledge the large level space, well known by the name of the
North Inch, as having a near resemblance to their Campus Martins. The
city was often the residence of our monarchs, who, although they had no
palace at Perth, found the Cistercian convent amply sufficient for the
reception of their court. It was here that James the First, one of the
wisest and best of the Scottish kings, fell a victim to the jealousy of
the vengeful aristocracy. Here also occurred the mysterious conspiracy
of Gowrie, the scene of which has only of late been effaced by the
destruction of the ancient palace in which the tragedy was acted. The
Antiquarian Society of Perth, with just zeal for the objects of their
pursuit, have published an accurate plan of this memorable mansion, with
some remarks upon its connexion with the narrative of the plot, which
display equal acuteness and candour.
One of the most beautiful points of view which Britain, or perhaps the
world, can afford is, or rather we may say was, the prospect from a
spot called the Wicks of Baiglie, being a species of niche at which the
traveller arrived, after a long stage from Kinross, through a waste and
uninteresting country, and from which, as forming a pass over the
summit of a ridgy eminence which he had gradually surmounted, he beheld,
stretching beneath him, the valley of the Tay, traversed by its ample
and lordly stream; the town of Perth, with its two large meadows, or
inches, its steeples, and its towers; the hills of Moncrieff and Kinnoul
faintly rising into picturesque rocks, partly clothed with woods; the
rich margin of the river, studded with elegant mansions; and the
distant view of the huge Grampian mountains, the northern screen of this
exquisite landscape. The alteration of the road, greatly, it must
be owned, to the improvement of general intercourse, avoids this
magnificent point of view, and the landscape is introduced more
gradually and partially to the eye, though the approach must be still
considered as extremely beautiful. There is still, we believe, a
footpath left open, by which the station at the Wicks of Baiglie may be
approached; and the traveller, by quitting his horse or equipage, and
walking a few hundred yards, may still compare the real landscape with
the sketch which we have attempted to give. But it is not in our power
to communicate, or in his to receive, the exquisite charm which surprise
gives to pleasure, when so splendid a view arises when least expected or
hoped for, and which Chrystal Croftangry experienced when he beheld, for
the first time, the matchless scene.
Childish wonder, indeed, was an ingredient in my delight, for I was not
above fifteen years old; and as this had been the first excursion which
I was permitted to make on a pony of my own, I also experienced the
glow of independence, mingled with that degree of anxiety which the most
conceited boy feels when he is first abandoned to his own undirected
counsels. I recollect pulling up the reins without meaning to do so,
and gazing on the scene before me as if I had been afraid it would shift
like those in a theatre before I could distinctly observe its different
parts, or convince myself that what I saw was real. Since that hour, and
the period is now more than fifty years past, the recollection of that
inimitable landscape has possessed the strongest influence over my
mind, and retained its place as a memorable thing, when much that was
influential on my own fortunes has fled from my recollection. It is
therefore unnatural that, whilst deliberating on what might be brought
forward for the amusement of the public, I should pitch upon some
narrative connected with the splendid scenery which made so much
impression on my youthful imagination, and which may perhaps have that
effect in setting off the imperfections of the composition which ladies
suppose a fine set of china to possess in heightening the flavour of
indifferent tea.
The period at which I propose to commence is, however, considerably
earlier of the remarkable historical transactions to which I have
already alluded, as the events which I am about to recount occurred
during the last years of the 14th century, when the Scottish sceptre was
swayed by the gentle but feeble hand of John, who, on being called to
the throne, assumed the title of Robert the Third.