JAMES IV: THE KNIGHT-ERRANT
The graver records of the nation pause at the point to which we have
arrived. The tale leaves both battlefield and council chamber, though
there is an inevitable something of both in the chronicle as there is
something of daily bread in the most festive day. But it is not with
these grave details that the historian occupies himself. The most
serious page takes a glow from the story it has to tell, the weighty
matters of national life and development stand aside, and it is a knight
of romance who stands forth to occupy the field. The story of James, the
fourth of the name, is one of those passages of veritable history in
which there is scarcely anything that might not be borrowed from a tale
of chivalry. It is pure romance from beginning to end.
Of the character and personality of the boy whose education was carried
on under strict surveillance at Stirling we know nothing whatever, until
he suddenly appears before us in the enemy's camp, whether with his own
consent or not, or how much, if with his own consent, with any knowledge
of what he was about, it is difficult to tell. His mother had died while
he was still a child, and probably for the last few years of his much
disturbed life James III had but little attention to spare for his son.
If there is any truth in a curious story told by Pitscottie of a search
on board Sir Andrew Wood's ship for the murdered King, while yet the
fact of his death was unknown, and the Prince's wistful address to the
great sailor, "Sir, are ye my father?" we might suppose that the boy had
been banished altogether from his father's presence. But perhaps this is
too slender a foundation to build upon. There can be no doubt, however,
that after the battle, little honourable to either side, and lost by the
King's party almost before begun, from which he fled in a panic so
ignominious and fatal, there was a moment of great perplexity and
dismay, when King James's fate remained a mystery, and the rebel nobles
with the boy-prince among them knew not what to do or to say, in the
doubt whether he was dead or alive, whether he might not reappear at any
moment with a host from the Highlands or from France, or even England,
at his back. When they had fully realised their unsatisfactory victory
they marched to Edinburgh, with the Prince always among them and a chill
horror about them, unaware what way to look for news of the King. The
rush of the people to watch their return with their drooping banners and
faces full of consternation, and wonder at the unaccustomed sight of the
young Prince which yet was not exciting enough to counterbalance the
anxiety, the wonder, the perpetual question what had become of the
King--must have been as a menace the more to the perplexed leaders, who
knew that a fierce mob might surge up into warfare at any moment, or a
rally from the castle cut off their discouraged and weary troops. Where
was the King? Had he perhaps got before them to Edinburgh? was he there
on that height, misty with smoke and sunshine, turning against them the
great gun, which had been forged for use against the Douglas: or ready
to appear from over the Firth terrible with a new army; or in the ships,
most likely of all, with the great admiral who lay there watching, ready
to carry off a royal fugitive or bring back strange allies to revenge
the scorn that had been done to the King? The lords decided to take
their dispirited and broken array to Leith instead of going to Holyrood,
and there collected together to hold a council of war. Among the
confused reports brought to them of what one man and another had seen or
heard was one, more likely than the rest, of boats which had been seen
to steal down Forth and make for the _Yellow Carvel_ lying in the
estuary, with apparently wounded men on board. They sent accordingly to
summon Sir Andrew Wood to their presence. The sailor probably cared
nothing about politics any further than that he held for the King--and
furious with the Lords who had withstood his Majesty declined to come
unless hostages were sent for his safety. When this was accorded, the
old sea-lion, the first admiral of Scotland, came gruffly from his ships
to answer their questions. Whether there was any resemblance between the
two men, as he stood with his cloak wrapped round him defiant before the
rebel lords, or if the Prince had, as is possible, been so long absent
from his father that the vague outline of a man enveloped and muffled
deceived him, it is impossible to say. But there is a tone of
penetrating reality in the "Sir, are ye my father?" of the troubled boy,
perhaps only then aroused to a full comprehension of his position and
the sense that he was himself guiltily involved in the proceedings which
had brought some mysterious and unknown fate upon the King. It is
difficult to see why, accepting from Pitscottie all the rest of this
affecting narrative, the modern historian should cut out this as
unworthy of belief, "Who answered," continues the chronicler, "with
tears falling from his eyes,"
"'Sir, I am not your father, but I was a servand to your father, and
sall be to his authoritie till I die, and ane enemy to them that was
the occasion of his doon-putting.' The lords inquired of Captain
Wood if he knew of the King or where he was. He answered he knew
nothing of the King nor where he was. Then they speired what they
were that came out of the field and passed into his ships. He
answered: 'It was I and my brother, who were ready to have waired
our lives with the King in his defence.' Then they said, 'He is not
in your ships?' who answered again, 'He is not in my ship, but would
to God he were in my ship safelie, I should defend him and keep him
skaithless frae all the treasonable creatures who has murdered him,
for I think to see the day when they shall be hanged and quartered
for their demerites.'"
The lords would fain have silenced this rude sailor, but having given
hostages for his safe return were obliged to let him go. There could not
be a more vivid picture of their perplexity and trouble. They proceeded
to Edinburgh after this rebuff, coming in, we may well believe, with
little sound of trumpet or sign of welcome, and with many a threatening
countenance among the crowds that gazed wistfully upon the boy in their
midst, who, if the King were really dead, was the King--another James.
There might be old men about watching from the foot of the Canongate the
silent cortege trooping along the valley to Holyrood--men who remembered
with all the force of boyish recollection how the assassins of James I.
had been dragged and tormented through Edinburgh streets, and might
wonder and whisper inquiries to their sons whether such a horrible sight
might be coming again, and what part that pale boy had in the dreadful
deed? It was but fifty years since that catastrophe, and already two
long minorities had paralysed the progress of Scotland. How the crowding
people must have eyed him, as he rode along, the slim stripling, so
young, so helpless, in the midst of all these bearded men! What part did
he have in it? Was his father done to death by his orders? Was he
consenting at least to what was done? Was he aware of all that was to
follow that hurried ride with the lords, into which he had been beguiled
or persuaded? James III had to some degree favoured Edinburgh, where,
notwithstanding his long captivity in the Castle, he had found defenders
and friends. And there must have been many in the crowd who took part
with the unfortunate monarch, so mysteriously gone out of their midst,
and who looked with horror upon the boy who had something at least to do
with the ruin and death of his father. It was a sombre entry upon the
future dwelling to which this young James was to bring so much splendour
and rejoicing.
How these doubts were cleared up and certainty attained we have no sure
way of knowing. Pitscottie's story is that when the false priest
murdered the King, he took up the body on his back and carried it away,
"but no man knew what he did with him or where he buried him." Other
authorities speak of a funeral service in the Abbey of Cambuskenneth on
the banks of the Forth--a great religious establishment, of which one
dark grey tower alone remains upon the green meadows by the winding
river; and there is mention afterwards of a bloody shirt carried about
on the point of a lance to excite the indignant Northmen to rebellion.
But notwithstanding these facts no one ventures to say that James's body
was found or buried. Masses for the dead were sung, and every religious
honour paid; but so far as anything is told us, these rites might have
been performed around an empty bier. At last however, in some way, a
dolorous certainty, which must by many have been felt as a relief, was
attained, and the young King was crowned in Edinburgh in the summer of
1488, some weeks after his father's death. At the same time a Parliament
was called, and the Castle of Edinburgh, which all this time seems to
have kept its gates closed and rendered no submission, was summoned by
the herald to yield, "which was obediently done at the King's command,"
says the chronicle. There was evidently no thought of rebellion or of
resisting the lawful sovereign, so soon as it was certain which he was.
The procession of the herald, perhaps the Lord Lyon himself, with all
his pursuivants, up the long street to sound the trumpets outside the
castle gates and demand submission, must have brightened the waiting and
wondering city with the certainty of the new reign. But the bravery and
fine colours of such a procession, though made doubly effective by the
background of noble houses and all the lofty gables and great churches
in the crowded picturesque centre at the foot of the Castle Hill, were
not then as now strange to the "grey metropolis of the North." No
country in Christendom would seem to have so changed under the influence
of the Reformation as Scotland. The absence of pageant and ceremonial,
the discouragement of display, the suppression of the picturesque in
action, in the midst of one of the most picturesque scenes in the world,
are all of modern growth. In the fifteenth century, and especially in
the reign that was now begun, the town ran over with bright colour and
splendid spectacle. When the lists were formed upon the breezy platform,
overlooking the fair plains of Lothian, the great Firth, and the
surrounding circle of hills, at the castle gate--how brilliant must have
been both scene and setting, the living picture and the wonderful frame,
and how every window would be crowded to see the hundred little
processions of knights to the jousts and ladies to the tribunes, and the
King and Queen riding with all their fine attendants "up the toun" all
the way from Holyrood! Nor would the curiosity be much less when, coming
in from the country, with every kind of quaint surrounding, the great
nobles with their glittering retinue, the lairds each with a little
posse of stout men-at-arms, as many as he could muster, the burgesses
from the towns, the clergy from all the great centres of the Church, on
mules and soft-pacing palfreys, would gather for the meetings of
Parliament. It scarcely wanted a knight-errant like the fourth James,
with his chivalrous tastes and devices, to fill the noble town with
brightness, for all these fine sights were familiar to Edinburgh. But
the brightest day was now to come.
[Illustration: OLD HOUSE IN LAWNMARKET]
The Parliament which assembled in all the emotion of that curious
crisis, while still the wonder and dismay of the King's tragic
disappearance were in the air, was a strange one. It was evidently
convened with the intention of shielding the party which had taken arms
against James III, while making a cunning attempt to throw the blame on
those who had stood by him: these natural sentiments being combined with
the determination, most expedient in the circumstances, to reconcile all
by punishing none. The young King and the power now exercised in his
name were in the hands of the lords who had headed the rebellion, Angus,
Home, Bothwell, and the rest; and while their own safety was naturally
their first consideration, they had evidently no desire to stir up
troublesome questions even for the fierce joy of condemning their
opponents. At one or other of the early Parliaments in this reign,
either that first held by way of smoothing over matters and preparing
such an account of all that had happened as might be promulgated by
foreign ambassadors to their respective Courts--or one which followed
the easy settlement of an attempt at rebellion already referred to, when
the Lord of Forbes carried a bloody shirt, supposed to be that of King
James, through the streets of Aberdeen, and raised a quickly-quelled
insurrection--there occurs the trial of Sir David Lindsay, one of the
most quaint narratives of a _cause celebre_ ever written. The
chronicler, whom we may quote at some length--and whose living and
graphic narrative none even of those orthodox historians who pretend to
hold lightly the ever-delightful Pitscottie, upon whom at the same time
they rely as their chief authority, attempt to question in this
case--was himself a Lindsay, and specially concerned for the honour of
his name. The defendant was Lindsay of the Byres, one of the chief of
James III's supporters, he who had given the King that ominous gift of a
fleet courser on the eve of the battle. When he appeared at the bar of
the house so to speak--before Parliament--the following "dittay" or
indictment was made against him:--
"Lord David Lindsay of the Byres compeir for the cruel coming
against the King at Bannokburne with his father, and in giving him
counsall to have devored his sone, the King's grace, here present:
and to that effect gave him ane sword and ane hors to fortify him
against his sone: what is your answer heirunto?"
A more curious reversal of the facts of the case could not be, and the
idea that James the actual monarch could be a rebel against his own son,
then simply the heir to the crown, is bewildering in its grave defiance
of all reason. There is not much wonder that Lindsay, "ane rasch man,
and of rud language, albeit he was stout and hardy in the field and
exercised in war," burst forth upon the assembled knights and lords,
upbraiding them with bringing the Prince into their murderous designs
against the King. The effect of his speech on the assembly would seem to
have been considerable, and it is very apparent that the party in power
had no desire to make any fight, for the Chancellor anxiously excused
Lindsay to the King as "ane man of the old world, that cannot answer
formallie nor get speech reverentlie in your Grace's presence." This
roused the brother of the culprit, a certain Mr. Patrick Lindsay,
otherwise described as a Churchman, who was by no means content to see
the head of his house thus described, nor yet that Lord Lindsay should
come "in the King's will," thus accepting forfeiture or any other
penalties that might be pronounced against him. Accordingly he
interfered in the following remarkable way:--
"To that effect he stamped on his brother's foot to latt him
understand that he was not content with the decree which the
Chancellour proponed to him. But this stamp of Mr. Patrick's was so
heavy upon his brother's foot, who had ane sair toe which was
painful to him, wherefore he looked to him and said, 'Ye were over
pert to stampe upon my foot; were you out of the King's presence I
would overtake you upon the mouth.' Mr. Patrick, hearing the vain
words of his brother, pled on his knees before the King and the
Justice, and made his petition to them in this manner: 'Sir, if it
will please your Grace and your honorabill counsall, I desire of
your Grace, for His cause that is Judge of all, that your Grace will
give me leave this day to speak for my brother, for I see there is
no man of law that dare speak for him for fear of your Grace; and
although he and I has not been at ane this mony yeires, yet my heart
may not suffer me to see the native house whereof I am descended to
perish!' So the King and the Justice gave him leave to speak for his
brother. Then the said Mr. Patrick raise off his knees, and was very
blythe that he had obtained that license with the King's favour. So
he began very reverentlie to speak in this manner, saying to the
whole lords of Parliament, and to the rest of them that were
accusers of his brother at that time, with the rest of the lords
that were in the summons of forfaltrie, according to their dittay,
saying: 'I beseech you all, my lords, that be here present, for His
sake that will give sentence and judgment on us all at the last day,
that ye will remember now instantly is your time ... therefore now
do all ye would be done to in the administration of justice to your
neighbours and brethren, who are accused of their lives and
heritages this day, whose judgment stands in your hands. Therefore
beware in time, and open not the door that ye may not steik.' Be
this Mr. Patrick had ended his speeches, the Chancellour bid him say
something in defence of his brother, and to answer to the points of
the summons made and raised upon his brother and the rest of the
lords and barons. Then Mr. Patrick answered again and said: 'If it
please the King's grace, and your honours that are here present, I
say the King should not sit in judgment against his lords and
barons, because he has made his oath of fidelity when he received
the crown of Scotland that he should not come in judgment against
his lords and barons in no action where he is partie himself. But
here His Grace is both partie, and was at the committing of the
crime himself, therefore he ought not, neither by the law of God nor
of man, to sit in judgment at this time; wherefore we desire him, in
the name of God, to rise and depart out of judgment, till the matter
be further discussed conform to justice.'"
[Illustration: ST. ANTHONY'S CHAPEL]
This bold request apparently commended itself to the Parliament, for we
hear that the Chancellor and lords considered it reasonable, and the
King was accordingly desired "to rise up and pass into the inner
tolbooth, which," adds Pitscottie, "was very unpleasant to him for the
time, being ane young prince sittand upon his royall seat to be raised
by his subjects." Mr. Patrick so pressed his advantage after this
strange incident, and the argument of the young King's presence and
complicity in all that had happened was so unanswerable, added to some
inaccuracy in the indictment, of which the keen priest made the most,
that the summons was withdrawn, and Lindsay along with all the other
barons of his party would seem to have shared in the general amnesty, as
probably was the intention of all parties from the beginning. For the
victors, who were victors by a chance, were not powerful enough to carry
matters with a high hand, and their opponents, though overcome, were too
strong to be despised. It was better for all to gather round the new
King, who had no evil antecedents nor anything to prevent a new
beginning of the most hopeful kind. The scene ends with characteristic
liveliness. "The lord David Lindsay was so blyth at his brother's
sayings that he burst forth saying to him, 'Verrilie, brother, ye have
fine pyet words. I should not have trowed, by St. Amarie, that you had
sic words'"--an amusing tribute of half-scornful gratitude from the
soldier to the Churchman whose pyet or magpie words were so wonderfully
efficacious, yet so despicable in themselves, to change the fate of a
gentleman! It is grievous to find that the King was so displeased at Mr.
Patrick and his boldness that he sent him off to the Ross of Bute, and
kept him imprisoned in that solitary yet beautiful region for a whole
year.
Notwithstanding, however, this little failure of respect to the
sovereign, and the dismal uncertainty and anxiety in which his reign
began, there seemed to be nothing but the happiest prospects opening
before the young King. Out of the miserable struggle which brought him
to the throne, he himself, most probably only awakened to the meaning of
it after all was over, brought a lifelong remorse which he never threw
off, and which was increased by the melancholy services of commemoration
and expiation, the masses for his father's soul and solemn funeral
ceremonials whether real or nominal, at all of which the youth would
have to be present with a sore and swelling heart. We are told that he
went and unburthened himself to the Dean of the Chapel Royal in
Stirling, his father's favourite church, which James III had built and
endowed, arranging the services and music with special personal care.
The Dean received his confession with kindness seeing him so penitent,
and gave him "good counsel and comfort," and remained his friend and
spiritual adviser as he grew into manhood; but we are not told whether
it was by his ordinance as a penance and constant reminder of his sin,
or by a voluntary mortification of his own, that James assumed the iron
belt which he wore always round him "and eikit it from time to time,"
that is, increased its size and weight as long as he lived. This
sensibility, which formed part of his chivalrous and generous character,
the noble, sweet, and lovable nature which conquered all hearts, at once
subdued and silenced his many critics, and furnished them with a
reproach which spite and ill-will could bring up against him when
occasion occurred. But the enemies were few and the lovers many who
surrounded the young Prince when the contentions of the crisis were once
over, and the warring factions conciliated by general condemnations in
principle which hurt nobody so long as they were not accompanied by
confiscations or deprivations. Such clemency in so young a king was a
marvel to all, the chroniclers say, though indeed there could be little
question of clemency on James's part in a mutual hushing-up, which was
evidently dictated by every circumstance of the time and the only source
of mutual safety.
When, however, he had arrived at man's estate, and makes a recognisable
and individual appearance upon the stage of history, the picture of him
is one of the most attractive ever made, the happiest and brightest
chapter in the tragic story of the Stewarts. Youth with that touch of
extravagance which becomes it, that genial wildness which all are so
ready to pardon, and an adventurous disposition, careless of personal
safety, gave a charm the more to the magnificent young King, handsome,
noble, brave, and full of universal friendliness and sympathy, who comes
forth smiling in the face of fate, ready to turn back every gloomy
augury and bring in another golden age. Pitscottie's description is full
of warmth and vivid reality:--
"In this mean time was good peace and rest in Scotland and great
love betwixt the King and all his subjects, and was well loved by
them all: for he was verrie noble, and though the vice of
covetousness rang over meikle in his father it rang not in himself:
nor yet pykthankis nor cowards should be authorised in his companie,
nor yet advanced; neither used he the council but of his lords,
whereby he won the hearts of the whole nobilitie; so that he could
ride out through any part of the realme, him alone, unknowing that
he was King; and would lie in poor men's houses as he had been ane
travellour through the country, and would require of them where he
lodged, where the King was, and what ane man he was, and how he used
himself towards his subjects, and what they spoke of him through the
countrie. And they would answer him as they thought good, so by this
doing the King heard the common bruit of himself. This Prince was
wondrous hardie and diligent in execution of justice, and loved
nothing so well as able men and horses; therefore at sundry times he
would cause make proclamations through the land to all and sundry
his lords and barons who were able for justing and tourney to come
to Edinburgh to him, and there to exercise themselves for his
pleasure, some to run with the spear, some to fight with the
battle-axe, some with the two-handed sword, and some with the bow,
and other exercises. By this means the King brought the realm to
great manhood and honour: that the fame of his justing and tourney
spread through all Europe, which caused many errant knights to come
out of other parts to Scotland to seek justing, because they heard
of the kinglie fame of the Prince of Scotland. But few or none of
them passed away unmatched, and ofttimes overthrown."
The town to which, under this young and gallant Prince, the stream of
chivalry flowed, was yet more picturesque than the still and always
"romantic town" of which every Scotsman is proud. The Nor' Loch
reflected the steep rocks of the castle and the high crown of walls and
turrets that surmounted them, with nothing but fields and greenery, here
and there diversified by a village and fortified mansion between it and
the sea. The walls, which followed the irregularities of the rocky
ridge, as far as the beginning of the Canongate, were closed across the
High Street by the picturesque port and gateway of the Nether Bow, the
boundary in that direction of the town, shutting in all its busy life,
its markets, its crowding citizens, its shops and churches. On the south
at the foot of the hill, the burghers' suburb, where the merchants,
lawyers, and even some of the nobles had their houses and gardens, lay
outside the walls in the sunshine, protected only by the soft summits of
the Braid and Pentland hills: what is now the Cowgate, not a savoury
quarter, being then the South Side, the flowery and sheltered faubourg
in which all who could afford the freedom of a country residence while
still close to the town, expanded into larger life, as the wealthy
tradesfolk of all ages, and persons bound to a centre of occupation and
duty, always love to do. Towards the east, and gradually becoming as
important and busy as the High Street itself, though outside the series
of towers which guarded the city gate, lay the long line of the Court
suburb, the lofty and noble Canongate descending towards the abbey and
palace, where all that was splendid in Scotland congregated around the
gay and gallant King. Outside the Netherbow Port, striking out in
opposite directions, was the road which led to the seaport of Leith and
that which took its name from the great Kirk of Field, St. Mary's Wynd,
a pleasant walk along the outside of the fortifications to the great
monastery on its plateau, with the Pleasance, a name suggestive of all
freshness and greenery and rural pleasure, at its feet. Inside the town,
between the castle gates and those of the city, were the crowded
habitations of a mediaeval town, the only place where business could be
carried on in safety, or rich wares exhibited, or money passed from hand
to hand. The Lawnmarket or Linen Market would be the chief centre of
sale and merchandise, and there, no doubt, the booths before the lower
stories, with all their merchandise displayed, and the salesmen seated
at the head of the few deep steps which led into the cavernous depths
within, would be full of fine dresses and jewellery, and the gold and
silver which, some one complains, was worn away by the fine workmanship,
which was then more prized than solid weight. The cloth of gold and
silver, the fine satins and velvets, the embroidery, more exquisite than
anything we have time or patience for now--embroidery of gold thread
which we hear of, an uncomfortable sort of luxury, even upon the linen
of great personages--would there be put forth and inspected by gallants
in all their fine array, or by the ladies in their veils, half or wholly
muffled from public inspection. Even the cheaper booths that adorned the
West Bow or smaller wynds, where the country women bought their kirtles
of red or green when they brought their produce to the market, would
show more gay colours under their shade in a season than we with our
soberer taste in years; and the town ladies, in their hoods and silk
gowns, which were permitted even in more primitive times to the
possessors of so much a year, must have been of themselves a fair sight
in all their ornaments, less veiled and muffled from profane view than
more high-born dames and demoiselles. No doubt it would be a favourite
walk with all to pass the port and see what was doing among the great
people down yonder at Holyrood, or watch a gay band of French knights
arriving from Leith with their pennons displayed, full of some challenge
lately given by the knights of Scotland, or eager to maintain on their
own account the beauty of their ladies and the strength of their spears
against all comers. Edinburgh can never have been so amusing, never so
gay and bright, as in these fine times; though, no doubt, there was
always the risk of a rush together of two parties of gallants, a melee
after the old mode of Clear the Causeway, a hurried shutting of shops
and pulling forth of halberds. For the younger population, at least, no
doubt these risks were almost the best part of the play.
[Illustration: OLD HOUSES AT HEAD OF WEST BOW]
Thus Edinburgh breasted its ridge of rock--a fair sight across all the
green country; its sentinel mountain crouching eastward between the
metropolis and the sea, its suburbs growing and expanding; this full of
the fine people of the Court, that of the quiet wealth and enjoyment
which made no extravagant demonstration. It had never been so
prosperous, never so much the centre of all that was splendid in the
kingdom, as in the reign of the fourth James--the knight of romance, the
gayest and brightest representative of the House of Stewart, though
unable to defend himself from the tragic fate which awaited every
sovereign of his name.
Among the finest sights seen in Edinburgh must have been those which
occurred very early in his reign, when the great Admiral, Sir Andrew
Wood, he who had met so proudly the inquisition of the lords, came from
sea with his prisoners and his spoils. Wood had not pleased the reigning
party by his rough fidelity to the dead King, but they could not induce
the other sea captains, by any promise of reward or advancement, to
attack and punish, as was their desire, the greatest sailor in Scotland.
And when an English expedition began to vex the Scottish coasts, there
was no one but Wood to encounter and defeat them, which he did on two
different occasions, bringing the captains of the rover
vessels--probably only half authorised by the astute King Henry VII, who
had evidently no desire to attack Scotland, but who had to permit a raid
from time to time as the most popular thing to do--as prisoners to the
courteous King, who though he "thanked Sir Andrew Wood greatly and
rewarded him richlie for his labours and great proof of his manhood,"
yet "propined (gave presents to) the English captain richlie and all his
men and sent them all safelie home, their ships and all their
furnishing, because they had shown themselves so stout and hardie
warriours." "So he sent them all back to the King of England," says the
chronicler, with full enjoyment of James's magnanimous brag and of thus
having the better of "the auld enemy" both in prowess and in courtesy,
"to let him understand he had as manlie men in Scotland as he had in
England; therefore desired him to send no more of his captains in time
coming." England was obliged to accept, it appeared, this bravado of the
Scots, having no excuse for repeating the experiment, but was
"discontented" and little pleased to be overcome both in courtesy and in
arms.
A more serious matter than this encounter at sea, which was really more
a trial of strength than anything else, was the purely chivalric
enterprise of James in taking up the cause of Perkin Warbeck, the
supposed Duke of York, who imposed upon all Europe for a time, and on
nobody so much as the King of Scotland. This adventurer, who was given
out as the younger son of Edward IV escaped by the relenting of the
murderers when his elder brother was killed in the Tower, was by
unanimous consent of all history a youth of person and manners quite
equal to his pretensions, playing his part of royal prince with a grace
and sincerity which nobody could resist. The grave Pinkerton, so
sarcastically superior to all fables, writing at the end of the
eighteenth century, had evidently not even then made up his mind how to
accept this remarkable personage, but speaks of him as "this unfortunate
prince or pretender," and of James as "sensible of the truth of his
report or misled by appearance," with an evident leaning to the side of
the hero who played so bold a game. The young adventurer came to James
with the most illustrious of guarantees. He brought letters from Charles
VIII of France, and from the Emperor Maximilian, and was followed by a
train of gallant Frenchmen and by everything that was princelike,
gracious, and splendid. So completely was he received and believed at
the Scottish Court that when there arose a mutual love, as the story
goes, between him and the Lady Catherine Gordon, daughter of the Earl of
Huntly, one of the most powerful peers in Scotland, and at the same time
of royal blood, a cousin of the King, the marriage seems to have been
accepted as a most fit and even splendid alliance. No greater pledge of
belief could have been given than this. The King of Scots threw himself
into the effort of establishing the supposed prince's claims as if they
had been his own. Curious negotiations were entered into as to what the
pretender should do if, by the help of Scotland, he was placed upon the
English throne. He was to cede Berwick, that always-coveted morsel which
had to change its allegiance from generation to generation as the
balance between the nations rose and fell--and pay a certain sum towards
defraying the expenses of the expedition, a bargain to which Perkin,
playing his part much better than any king of the theatre ever did
before, demurred, insisting upon easier terms--as he afterwards
remonstrated when James harried the Borders, declaring that he would
rather resign all hopes of the crown than secure it at the expense of
the blood and goods of his people. A pretended prince who thus spoke
might well be credited as far as faith could go. The story of this
strange enterprise is chiefly told in the letters to Henry VII of
England of Sir John Ramsay, the same who had been saved by James III
when the rest of his favourites were killed, and who had more or less
thriven since, though in evil ways, occupying a position at the Court of
James IV whom he hated, and acting as spy on his actions, which were all
reported to the English Court. Ramsay gives the English Government full
information of all that his sovereign is about to do on behalf of the
fengit (feigned) boy, and especially of the invasion of England which he
is about to undertake "against the minds of near the whole number of his
barons and people. Notwithstanding," Ramsay says, "this simple
wilfulness cannot be removed out of the King's mind for nae persuasion
or mean. I trust verrilie," adds the traitor, "that, God will, he be
punished by your mean for the cruel consent of the murder of his
father."
Curiously enough Pitscottie, the most graphic and circumstantial of
historians, says nothing whatever of this most romantic episode. Why he
should have left it out, for it is impossible that it could have been
unknown to him, we are unable to imagine; but so it is. Buchanan however
enters fully into the tale. The wisest of James's counsellors, he tells
us, were disposed to have nothing to do with this spurious young prince
coming out of the unknown with his claim to be the rightful King of
England; but many more were in his favour, specially with the reflection
that the moment of England's difficulties was always one of advantage
for the Scots. An army was accordingly raised, with which James marched
into England, carrying Perkin with him with a train of about fourteen
hundred followers, and hopes that the country would rise to greet and
acknowledge their lost prince. But it is evident that the Northumbrians
looked on without any response, and saw in the expedition but one of the
many raids which they were always so ready to return on their side when
occasion offered. The pretender, on whose behalf all this was done,
shrank, it would appear, from the devastation, and with something like
the generous compunction of a prince protested that he would rather lose
the crown than gain it so--a protest which James must have thought a
piece of affectation, for he replied with a jeer that his companion was
too solicitous for the welfare of a country which would neither
acknowledge him as prince nor receive him as citizen. Perkin must have
begun to tire the patience of the finest gentleman in Christendom before
James would have made such a contemptuous retort. He returned with the
King, however, when this unsuccessful expedition--the only use of which
was that it proved to James the fruitlessness of fighting on behalf of a
pretender who had no hold upon the people over whom he claimed to
reign--came to an end. It was followed by some slight reprisals on the
part of the English, and after an interval by an embassy to make peace.
Henry VII would seem to have been at all times most unwilling to have
Scotland for an enemy, notwithstanding the strange motive suggested to
him by the traitor Ramsay. "Sir," writes this false Scot, "King Edward
had never fully the perfect love of his people till he had war with
Scotland; and he made sic good diligence and provision therein that to
this hour he is lovit; and your Grace may as well have as gude a tyme as
he had." But the cunning old potentate at Westminster was not moved even
by this argument. Instead of following the instructions of the virulent
spy whose hatred of his native king and country reaches the height of
passion, he sent a wise emissary, moderate like himself, the Bishop of
Durham, to inquire into the reasons of the attack.
And Edinburgh must have had another great sensational spectacle in the
arrival not only of the English commissioners, but of such a great
foreign personage as the Spanish envoy, one of the greatest grandees of
the most splendid of continental kingdoms, who had come to England to
negotiate the marriage of Catherine of Arragon with the Prince of Wales,
and who continued his journey to Scotland with letters of amity from his
sovereigns for James, and with the object of assisting in the
peacemaking between the two Kings. Henry required James to give up the
pretender into his hands--a thing which of course it was not consistent
with honour to do--but it was evident that the King of Scots had already
in his own mind given up the adventurer's cause. And after the
negotiations had been concluded and peace made between England and
Scotland, Perkin and his beautiful young wife and his train of followers
set sail from Scotland in a little flotilla of three ships, intending it
is said to go to Ireland, where he had been well received before coming
to the Court of James. The imagination follows with irrestrainable pity
the forlorn voyage of this youthful band of adventurers: the young
husband trained to all the manners and ways of thinking of a prince,
however little reality there might be in his claims; the young wife,
mild and fair, the White Rose as she was called, with the best blood of
Scotland in her veins; the few noble followers, knights, and a lady or
two who shared their fortunes, setting out vaguely to sea, not knowing
were to go, with the world before them where to choose. When they got to
Ireland Prince Perkin heard of an insurrection in Cornwall, and hastened
to put himself at the head of it, placing his wife for security in the
quaint fortress, among the waters, of St. Michael's Mount. But the
insurrection came to nothing, and "the unfortunate prince or adventurer"
was taken prisoner. He was pardoned it is said, but making a wild
attempt at insurrection again, was this time tried and executed. His
White Rose, most forlorn of ladies, was taken by King Henry from her
refuge at the end of the world, placed in charge of the Queen, and never
left the English Court again. There is no record that she and her
husband were ever allowed to meet. So ends one of the saddest and most
romantic of historical episodes.
This story takes up a large part of the early reign of James, who no
doubt saw his error at the last, but in the beginning threw himself into
Perkin's fortunes with characteristic impetuosity, and thought nothing
too good, not even his own fair kinswoman, for the rescued prince. It
was an error, however, that James shared with many high and mighty
potentates who gave their imprimatur at first to the adventurer's cause.
But even for the most genuine prince, when only a pretender, the
greatest sovereigns are but poor supporters in the long run. James had a
hundred things to do to make him forget that unfortunate adventure of
Perkin. It was in the year 1497 that this incident ended so far as the
Scottish Court was concerned, and James returned to the natural course
of his affairs, not without occasional tumults on the Border, but with
no serious fighting anywhere for a course of pleasant years. The old
traditional strife between the King and the nobles no longer tore the
kingdom asunder. Perhaps the first great event of his life, the waking
up of his boyish conscience to find himself in the camp of a faction
pitted against his own father, influenced him throughout everything, and
made the duty of conciliation and union seem the first and most
necessary; perhaps it was but the natural revulsion from those methods
which his father had adopted to his hurt and downfall; or perhaps
James's chivalrous temper, his love of magnificence and gaiety, made him
feel doubly the advantage of courtiers who should be great nobles and
his peers, not dependants made splendid by his bounty. At all events the
King lived as no Stewart had yet lived, surrounded by all without
exception who were most noble in the land, encouraging them to vie with
him in splendour, in noble exercises and pastimes, and almost, it may be
imagined--with a change of method, working by good example and genial
comradeship what his predecessors had vainly tried to do by fire and
sword--tempting them to emulate him also in preserving internal peace
and a certain reign of justice throughout the country. There was no lack
of barons in the Court of James. Angus and Home and Huntly, who had
pursued his father to the death and placed himself upon the throne, were
not turned into subservient courtiers by his gallantry and charm: but
neither was there any one of these proud lords in the ascendant, or any
withdrawn and sullen in his castle, taking no share in what was going
on. The machinery of the State worked as it had never done before. There
were few Parliaments, and not very much law-making. Enough laws had been
made under his predecessors, "if they had but been kept," to form an
ideal nation; the thing to do now was to charm, to persuade, to lead
both populace and nobility into respecting them. It would be vain to
imagine that this high purpose was always in James's mind, or that his
splendour and gaieties were part of a plan for the better regulation of
the kingdom. But that he was not without a wise policy in following his
own character and impulses, and that the spontaneous good-fellowship and
sympathy which his frank, genial, and easy nature called forth
everywhere were not of admirable effect in the welding together of the
nation, it would be unjust to say. If he had not the sterner nobility of
purpose which made the first of his name conceive and partially carry
into effect the ideal reign of justice which was the first want of his
kingdom, he had yet a noble ambition for Scotland to make her honoured
and feared and famous, and the success with which he seems to have
carried out this object of his life for many years was great. He made
the little northern kingdom known for a centre of chivalry, courtesy,
courage, and, what was more wonderful, magnificence, as it had never
been before. He penetrated that country with traditions and associations
of himself in the character always attractive to the imagination, of
that prince of good fellows, the wandering stranger, who came in unknown
and sought the hospitality of farmer or ploughman, and made the humble
board ring with wit and jest, and who thereafter was discovered by
sudden gift, or grace, or unexpected justice, to be the King:--
"He took a bugle from his side, and blew both loud and shrill,
And four and twenty belted knights came trooping owre the hill;"
"Then he took out his little knife, let a' his duddies fa',
And he was the brawest gentleman that was among them a'."
The goodman of Ballangeich,[3] the jovial and delightful Gaberlunzie,
the hero of many a homely ballad and adventure, some perhaps a trifle
over free, yet none involving any tragic treachery or betrayal, James
was the playfellow of his people, the Haroun al Raschid of Scotch
history. "By this doing the King heard the common brute (bruit) of
himself." Thus he won not only the confidence of the nobles but the
genial sympathy and kindness of the poor. A minstrel, a poet too in his
way a man curious about all handicrafts, famous in all exercises, "ane
singular good chirurgian, so that there was none of that profession if
they had any dangerous case in hand but would have craved his advice
"--he had every gift that was most likely to commend him to the people,
who were proud of a king so unlike other kings, the friend of all. And
nothing could exceed the activity of the young monarch, always occupied
for the glory of Scotland whatever he was doing. It was he who built the
great ship, the _Michael_, which was the greatest wonder ever seen in
the northern seas; a ship which took all the timber in Fife to build her
(the windswept Kingdom of Fife has never recovered that deprivation)
besides a great deal from Norway, with three hundred mariners to work
her, and carrying "ane thousand men of warre" within those solid sides,
which, all wooden as they were, could resist cannon shot. "This ship lay
in the road, and the King took great pleasure every day to come down and
see her," and would dine and sup in her, and show his lords all her
order and provisions; No doubt there were many curious parties from
Edinburgh who followed the King to see that new wonder, and that groups
would gather on the ramparts of the castle to point out on the shining
Firth the great and lofty vessel, rising like another castle out of the
depths. James had also the other splendid taste, which his unfortunate
father had shared, of building, and set in order the castle at Falkland
in the heart of the green and wealthy Fife--where there was great
hunting and coursing, and perhaps as yet not much high farming in those
days--and continued the adornments of Stirling, already so richly if
rudely decorated in the previous reign.
[3] This name and assumed character is generally supposed to belong to
James V: but all the accompanying circumstances seem to point so much
more to what is recorded of James IV, that I venture to attribute them
to him. If it is an error there is this, at least, to be said in favour
of it, that the story is as applicable to one as to the other monarch.
But Edinburgh was the centre of all the feasting and splendour which
distinguished his time. The lists were set before the castle gates, on
that lofty and breezy plateau where all the winds blow. Sometimes there
were bands of foreign chivalry breaking lances with the high Scottish
nobles according to all the stately laws of that mimic war; sometimes
warriors of other conditions, fighting Borderers or Highlanders, would
meet for an encounter of arms, ending in deadly earnest, which was not
discouraged, as we are told with grim humour, since it was again to the
realm to be disembarrassed of these champions at any cost, and the best
way was that they should kill each other amicably and have no rancour
against Justiciar or King. Among the foreign guests who visited James
was Bernard Stuart of Aubigny, Monsieur Derbine, as Pitscottie calls
him, the representative of a branch of the royal race which had settled
in France, whom James received, his kinsman being an old man, with even
more than his usual grace, making him the judge in all feats of chivalry
"at justing and tourney, and calling him father of warres, because he
was well practised in the same." Another of the visitors, Don Pedro
d'Ayala, the Spanish grandee who helped to conduct the quarrel over
Perkin Warbeck to a great issue, wrote to his royal master a description
of King James, which is highly interesting, and full of unconscious
prophecy. The Spaniard describes the young monarch at twenty-five as one
of the most accomplished and gallant of cavaliers, speaking Latin (very
well), French, German, Flemish, Italian, and Spanish; a good Christian
and Catholic, hearing two masses every morning; fond of priests--a
somewhat singular quality unless such jovial priests and boon-companions
as Dunbar, the poet-friar, were the subject of this preference; though
perhaps the seriousness which mingled with his jollity, the band of iron
under his silken vest, led him to seek by times the charm of graver
company, the mild and learned Gavin Douglas and other scholars in the
monasteries, where thought and learning had found refuge. The following
details, which are highly characteristic, bring him before us with
singular felicity, and, as afterwards turned out, with a curious
foreseeing of those points in him which brought about his tragical end.
"Rarely even in joking a word escapes him which is not the truth. He
prides himself much upon it, and says it does not seem to him well
for kings to swear their treaties as they do now. The oath of a king
should be his royal word as was the case in bygone ages. He is
courageous even more than a king should be. I have seen him even
undertake most dangerous things in the late wars. I sometimes clung
to his skirts and succeeded in keeping him back. On such occasions
he does not take the least care of himself. He is not a good
captain, because he begins to fight before he has given his orders.
He said to me that his subjects serve him with their persons and
goods, in just or unjust quarrels, exactly as he likes; and that
therefore he does not think it right to begin any warlike
undertaking without being himself the first in danger. His deeds are
as good as his words. For this reason, and because he is a very
humane prince, he is much loved."
[Illustration: BAKEHOUSE CLOSE]
The perfect reason yet profound unreasonableness of this quality in
James, so fatally proved in his after history, is very finely
discriminated by the writer, who evidently had come under the spell of a
most attractive personality in this young sovereign, so natural and
manful, so generous and true. That James should acknowledge the penalty
of the fatal power he had to draw a whole nation into his quarrel, just
or unjust, by risking himself the first, is so entirely just according
to every rule of personal honour, yet so wildly foolish according to all
higher policy; exposing that very nation to evils so much greater than
the worst battle. Flodden was still far off in the darkness of the
unknown, but had this description been written after that catastrophe,
it could not more clearly have disclosed the motives and magnanimity but
tragic unwisdom of this prince of romance.
The Spaniard adds much praise of James's temperance, a virtue
indifferently practised by his subjects, and of his morality, which is
still more remarkable. The amours and intrigues of his youth, Don Pedro
informs his king, this young hero had entirely renounced, "or so at
least it is believed," partly "from fear of God, and partly from fear of
scandal," which latter "is thought very much of here"--a curious touch,
which would seem to indicate a magnificent indifference to public
opinion, not shared by the little northern Court, in the haughtier
circles of Madrid. The picture is perhaps a little flattered; and it is
hard to imagine how James could have picked up so many languages in the
course of what some writers call a neglected education, confined to
Scotland alone; but perhaps his father's fondness for clever artificers
and musicians may have made him familiar in his childhood with foreign
dependants, more amusing to a quick-witted boy than the familiar varlets
who had no tongue but "braid Scots." "The King speaks besides," says
Ayala, "the language of the savages who live in some parts of Scotland
and in the islands"; clearly in every sense of the word a man of endless
accomplishments and personal note, quite beyond the ordinary of kings.
At no time, according to unanimous testimony, had Scotland attained so
high a position of national wealth, comfort, and prosperity. The wild
Highlands had been more or less subdued by the forfeiture of the
traditionary Lord of the Isles, and the final subjection of that lawless
region, nominally at least, to the King's authority, and with every
precaution for the extension of justice and order to its farthest
limits. A navy had suddenly sprung into being, signalising itself in its
very birth by brilliant achievements and consisting of vessels few
indeed, but of exceptional size and splendour, as great for their time
as the great Italian ironclads are for this, and like them springing
from something of the bravado as well as for the real uses of a rapidly
growing power. And there had been peace, save for that little passage of
arms on account of Perkin Warbeck, throughout all the reign of
James--peace to which the warlike Scots seem to have accustomed
themselves very pleasantly, notwithstanding that on the one side of the
Border as on the other there was nothing so popular as war between the
neighbour nations; but the exploits of Sir Andrew Wood with his _Yellow
Carvel_, and the _Great Michael_ lying there proudly on the Firth, ready
to sweep the seas, afforded compensation for the postponement of other
struggles.
It was in these circumstances that the negotiations for James's marriage
with the little Margaret, Princess Royal of England, and in every way,
as it turned out, a true Tudor, though then but an undeveloped child,
took place. The gallant young King, then seven or eight and twenty, in
the plenitude of his manhood, was not anxious for the bride of ten
persistently offered to him by her royal father; and the negotiations
lagged, and seemed to have gone on _a plusieurs reprises_ for several
years. But at length by the persistent efforts of Henry VII, who saw all
the advantages of the union, and no doubt also of councillors on the
Scots side, who felt that the continued prosperity of the country was
best secured by peace, it was brought about in 1504, when James must
have been just over thirty and Margaret was twelve--a very childish
bride, but probably precocious, and not too simple or ignorant, as
belonged to her violent Tudor blood. He "was married with her
solemnedlie by the advice of the nobilitie of England and Scotland, and
gatt great summes of money with her: and promise of peace and unity made
and ordained to stand between the two realms," says Pitscottie. The
great sums, however, seem problematical, as the dower of Margaret was
not a very large one, and the sacrifices made for her were
considerable--the town of Berwick being given up to England as one
preliminary step. The event, however, was one of incalculable importance
to both nations, securing as it did the eventual consolidation in one of
the realm of Great Britain, though nobody as yet foresaw that great
consequence that might follow. Along with the marriage treaty was made
one of perpetual peace between England and Scotland--a treaty indeed not
worth the paper it was written upon, yet probably giving comfort to some
sanguine spirits. Had the prudent old monarch remained on the throne of
England as long as James ruled in Scotland it might indeed never have
been broken; but Henry was already old, and his son as hot-headed as the
cousin and traditionary adversary now turned into a brother. Margaret
was conveyed into Scotland with the utmost pomp, and Edinburgh roused
itself and put on decorations like a bride to receive the little maiden,
so strangely young to be the centre of all these rejoicings: her lofty
houses covered with flutterings of tapestries and banners and every kind
of gay decoration, and her windows filled with bright faces, coifs, and
veils, and embroideries of gold that shone in the sun. The dress worn by
James, as he carried his young bride into Edinburgh seated on horseback
behind him, is fully described for the benefit of after ages. He wore a
jacket of cloth of gold bordered with purple velvet, over a doublet of
purple satin, showing at the neck the collar of a shirt embroidered with
pearls and gold, with scarlet hose to complete the resplendent costume.
At his marriage he wore a jacket of crimson satin over a doublet of
cloth of gold, with the same scarlet hose, and a gown of white damask
brocaded with gold over all. No doubt the ladies were not behind in this
contest of brave apparel. Grey Edinburgh, accustomed this long time to
the dull tones of modern habiliments, sparkled and shone in those days
of finery and splendour. The streets were meant for such fine shows; its
stairheads and strong deep doorways to relieve the glories of sweet
colour, plumes, and jewels. When the lists were set on the summit of the
hill, the gates thrown up, the garrison in their steel caps and
breastplates lining the bars, and perhaps the King himself tilting in
the melee, while all the ladies were throned in their galleries like
banks of flowers, what a magnificent spectacle! The half-empty streets
below still humming with groups of gazers not able to squeeze among the
throngs about the bars, but waiting the return of the splendid
procession: and more and more banners and tapestries and guards of
honour shining through the wide open gates of the port all the way down
to Holyrood. There was nothing but holiday-making and pleasure while the
feasting lasted and the bridal board was yet spread.
While this heydey of life lasted and all was bright around and about the
chivalrous James, there was a certain suitor of his Court, a merry and
reckless priest, more daring in words and admixtures of the sacred and
the profane than any mere layman would venture to be, whose familiar and
often repeated addresses to the King afford us many glimpses into the
royal surroundings and ways of living, as also many pictures of the
noisy and cheerful mediaeval town which was the centre of pleasures, of
wit and gay conversation, and all that was delightful in Scotland.
Dunbar's title of fame is not so light as this. He was one of the
greatest of the followers of Chaucer, a master of melody, in some points
scarcely inferior to the master himself whose praise he celebrates as
"Of oure Inglisch all the light
Surmounting every tong terrestrial
Alls far as Mayis morrow dois mydnyght."
But it is unnecessary here to discuss the "Thrissil and the Rois," the
fine music of the epithalamium with which he celebrated the coming of
Margaret Tudor into Scotland, or the more visionary splendour of the
"Golden Targe." The poet himself was not so dignified or harmonious as
his verse. He possessed the large open-air relish of life, the broad
humour, sometimes verging on coarseness, which from the time of James I.
to that of Burns has been so singularly characteristic of Scots poetry:
and found no scene of contemporary life too humble or too ludicrous for
his genius--thus his more familiar poems are better for our purpose than
his loftier productions, and show us the life and fashion of his town
and time better than anything else can do. This is one, for example, in
which he upbraids "the merchantis of renown" for allowing "Edinburgh
their nobil town" to remain in the state in which he describes it:--
"May nane pass through your principall gates
For stink of haddocks and of skates,
For cryin' of carlines and debates,
For fensome flytings of defame.
Think ye not shame
Before strangers of all estates
That sic dishonour hurt your name?
"Your stinkand schule that standis dirk
Halds the light from your Parroche Kirk,
Your forestairs makis your houses mirk
Like na country but here at hame
Think ye not shame,
Sa little policie to work
In hurt and sklander of your name?
"At your hie Croce, where gold and silk
Should be, there is but curds and milk,
And at your Tron but cokill and wilk,
Pansches, puddings, of Jok and Jame.
Think ye not shame
Kin as the world sayis that ilk
In hurt and sklander of your name?"
Thus old Edinburgh rises before us, beautiful and brave as she is no
longer, yet thronged about the Netherbow Port, and up towards the Tron,
the weighing-place and centre of city life, with fishwives and their
stalls, with rough booths for the sale of rougher food, and with country
lasses singing curds and whey, as they still did when Allan Ramsay
nearly four hundred years after succeeded Dunbar as laureate of
Edinburgh. Notwithstanding, however, these defects the Scottish capital
continued to be the home of all delights to the poet-priest. When his
King was absent at Stirling, Dunbar in the pity of his heart sang an
(exceedingly profane) litany for the exile that he might be brought
back, prefacing it by the following compassionate strain:--
"We that are here in Hevinis glory
To you that are in Purgatory
Commendis us on our hairtly wyiss,
I mean we folk in Paradyis,
In Edinburgh with all merriness
To you in Strivilling in distress,
Where neither pleasance nor delyt is,
For pity thus ane Apostle wrytis.
"O ye Heremeitis and Hankersaidillis
That takis your penance at your tabillis,
And eitis nocht meit restorative
Nor drinkis no wyne comfortative
Bot aill, and that is thyn and small,
With few courses into your hall;
But (without) company of lordis or knights
Or any other goodly wightis,
Solitar walkand your allone
Seeing no thing but stok and stone,
Out of your powerfull Purgatory
To bring you to the bliss of glory
Of Edinburgh the merry toun,
We sall begin ane cairfull soun,
And Dirige devout and meik
The Lord of bliss doing besiek
You to delyvre out of your noy
And bring you soon to Edinburgh joy,
For to be merry among us,
And so the Dirige begynis thus."
Many are the poet's addresses to the King in happier circumstances when
James is at home and in full enjoyment of these joys of Edinburgh. His
prayers for a benefice are sometimes grave and sometimes comic, but
never-failing. He describes solicitors (or suitors) at Court, all
pushing their fortune. "Some singis, some dancis, some tells storyis."
Some try to make friends by their devotion, some have their private
advocates in the King's chamber, some flatter, some play the fool--
"My simpleness among the lave
Wist of na way so God me save,
But with ane humble cheer and face
Referris me to the Kyngis grace,
Methinks his gracious countenance
In ryches is my sufficence."
Not always so patient, however, he jogs James's memory with a hundred
remedies. "God gif ye war Johne Thomsounis man!" he cries with rueful
glee through a lively set of verses--
"For war it so than weill were me
Bot (without) benefice I wald not be;
My hard fortune war endit then
God gif ye war Johne Thomsounis man!"
John Thomson's man was, according to the popular saying, a man who did
as his wife told him; and Dunbar was strong in the Queen's favour.
Therefore happy had been his fate had James been of this character. We
cannot, however, follow the poet through all his pleadings and witty
appeals and remonstrances, until at last in despairing jest he commends
"the gray horse Auld Dunbar" to his Majesty, and draws or seems to draw
at last a consolatory reply, which is thus recorded at the end of the
poem under the title of "Responsio Regis."
"Efter our writtingis, Treasurer
Tak in this gray horse, Auld Dunbar,
Which in my aucht with service trew
In lyart changit is his heu.
Gar house him now against this Yuill
And busk him like ane Bischoppis muill,
For with my hand I have indorst
To pay whatever his trappouris cost."
Whether this response was really from James's hand or was but another
wile of the eager suitor it is impossible to tell: but he did eventually
have a pension granted him of twenty pounds Scots a year, until such
time as a benefice of at least fifty pounds should fall to him; so that
he was kept in hope. After this Dunbar tunes forth a song of welcome to
"his ain Lord Thesaurair," in which terror at this functionary's
inopportune absence--since quarterday we may suppose--is lost in
gratulations over his return. "Welcome," he cries--
"Welcome my benefice and my rent
And all the lyflett to me lent,
Welcome my pension most preclair,
Welcome my awin Lord Thesaurair."
Thus the reckless and jolly priest carols. A little while after he has
received his money he sings "to the Lordes of the King's Chacker," or
Exchequer--
"I cannot tell you how it is spendit,
But weel I wat that it is ended."
These peculiarities, however, it need not be said do not belong entirely
to the sixteenth century. The reader will find a great deal of beautiful
poetry among the works of Dunbar. These lighter verses serve our purpose
in showing once more how perennial has been this vein of humorous
criticism, and frank fun and satire, in Scotland, in all ages, and in
throwing also a broad and amusing gleam of light upon Edinburgh in the
early fifteen hundreds, the gayest and most splendid moment perhaps of
her long history.
All these splendours, however, were hard to keep up, and though
Edinburgh and Scotland throve, the King's finances after a while seem to
have begun to fail, and there was great talk of a pilgrimage to the Holy
Land--it is supposed by the historians as a measure of securing that the
King might not have the uncomfortable alternative of cutting short his
splendours at home. This purpose, if it was gravely entertained at all,
and not one of the proposals of change with which, when need comes, the
impecunious of all classes and ages amuse themselves to put off actual
retrenchment, never came to anything. And very soon there arose
complications of various natures which threw all Christendom into an
uproar. Henry VIII, young, arrogant, and hot-headed, succeeded his
prudent father in England, and the treaty with the Scots which made, or
seemed to make, England safe on the Borders, gave the English greater
freedom in dealing with the other hereditary foe on the opposite side of
the Channel; while France on her side began to use all possible efforts
to draw from the English alliance the faithful Scots, who had always
been the means of a possible diversion, always ready to carry fire and
flame across the Border, and call back the warring English to look after
their own affairs. James, with perhaps his head slightly turned by his
own magnificence and the prosperity that had attended him since the
beginning of his career, seemed to have imagined that he was important
enough to play the part of peacemaker among the nations of Europe. And
there are many embassies recorded of a bustling bishop, Andrew Forman,
who seems for some time to have pervaded Christendom, now at Rome, now
at Paris, now in London, with various confused negotiations. It was a
learned age, and the King himself, as has been seen, had very
respectable pretensions in this way; but that there was another side to
the picture, and that notwithstanding the translator of Virgil, the
three Universities now established in Scotland, and many men of science
and knowledge both in the priesthood and out of it, there remained a
strong body of ignorance and rudeness, even among the dignified clergy
of the time, the following story, which Pitscottie tells with much
humour of Bishop Forman, James's chosen diplomatist, will show.
"This bishop made ane banquet to the Pope and all his cardinals in
one of the Pope's own palaces, and when they were all set according
to their custom, that he who ought (owned) the house for the time
should say the grace, and he was not ane good scholar, nor had not
good Latin, but begane ruchlie in the Scottise fashione, saying
Benedicite, believing that they should have said Dominus, but they
answered Deus in the Italian fashioun, which put the bishop by his
intendment (beyond his understanding), that he wist not well how to
proceed fordward but happened in good Scottis in this manner,
saying, what they understood not, 'The devil I give you all false
cardinals to, in nomine Patris, Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.'
Then all the bishop's men leuch, and all the cardinals themselves;
and the Pope inquired whereat they leuch, and the bishop showed that
he was not ane good clerk, and that the cardinals had put him by his
text and intendment, therefore he gave them all to the devil in good
Scottis, whereat the Pope himself leuch verrie earnestlie."
This did not prevent his Holiness, probably delighted with such a racy
visitor, from making Forman Legate of Scotland; and it is to be feared
that the meddling diplomatist with his want of education, was perhaps a
better example of the clergy of Scotland, who about this time began to
be the mark of all assailants as illiterate, greedy, vicious, and
rapacious, than such a gentle soul as the other poet of the age,
afterwards bishop of Dunkeld, the one mild and tranquil possessor of the
great Douglas name.
[Illustration: WHITE HORSE CLOSE]
The imbroglio of events into which it is unnecessary for us to enter
grew more and more complicated year by year, until at length it came to
be a struggle between France and England for the ally who could be of
most assistance to the one in the special way of injuring the other, and
whom it was of the first advantage to both to secure. James was bound by
the treaty of permanent peace which he had made at his marriage, and by
that marriage itself, and no doubt the strong inclination of his wife,
to England; but he was bound to France by a traditionary bond of a much
stronger kind, by the memory of long friendship and alliance, and the
persistent policy of his kingdom and race. The question was modified
besides by other circumstances. England was, as she had but too often
been, but never before in James's experience--harsh, overbearing, and
unresponsive: while France, as was also her wont, was tender,
flattering, and pertinacious. Henry refused or delayed to pay Queen
Margaret a legacy of jewels and plate left to her by her father, and at
the same time protected certain Borderers who had murdered a Scottish
knight, and defended them against justice and James, while still
summoning him to keep his word and treaty in respect to England; while
on the other hand not only the King but the Queen of France appealed to
James, he as to an ancient ally, she as to her sworn knight, to break
that artificial alliance with his haughty brother-in-law. It may well
have been that James in his own private soul had no more desire for such
a tremendous step than the nobles who struggled to the last against it.
But he had _les defauts de ses qualites_ in a high degree. He was
nothing if not a knight of romance. And though, as the poet has said--
"His own Queen Margaret, who in Lithgow's bower
All silent sat, and wept the weary hour,"
might be more to him than the politic Anne of France, or any fair lady
in his route, it was not in him, a paladin of chivalry, the finest of
fine gentlemen, the knight-errant of Christendom, to withstand a lady's
appeal. Perhaps, besides, he was weary of his inaction, the only prince
in Europe who was not inevitably involved in the fray; weary of holding
tourneys and building ships (some of which had been lately taken by the
English, turning the tables upon him) and keeping quiet, indulging in
the inglorious arts of peace, while everybody else was taking the field.
And Henry was arrogant and exasperating, so that even his own sister was
at the end of her brief Tudor patience; and Louis was flattering,
caressing, eloquent. When that last embassage of chivalry came with the
ring from Anne's own finger, and the charge to ride three miles on
English ground for her honour, it was the climax of many arguments. "He
loves war," the Spaniard had said. "War is profitable to him and to the
country"--a curious and pregnant saying. James would seem to have
struggled at least a little against all the impulses which were pushing
him forward to his doom. He promised a fleet to his lady in France for
her aid--a fleet foolishly if not treacherously handled by Arran, and
altogether diverted from its intended end; finally, that having failed,
James flung away all precaution and yielded to the tide of many
influences which was carrying him away.
It is needless to tell over again the tale that everybody knows: how
both heaven and hell were stirred by this ill-omened undertaking; how an
aged saint, venerable and stately, suddenly appeared out of the crowd
when the King was at his prayers in the Cathedral of Linlithgow, with a
message from on high; and how when James had gone back to Holyrood, the
High Street of Edinburgh resounded in the dead of night with trumpet
note and herald's call from the grim Hades of mediaeval imagination,
summoning by name a long list of the Scottish nobility, of whom one man
defied the portent and refused the call and was saved. James paid no
heed to these warnings, whether supernatural or otherwise, or perhaps
was too far committed to give any heed to them, carried away by the wild
and fatal stream which had caught his feet, with something of that
extraordinary impetus of natural tendency long restrained which acts
with tenfold force when at last yielded to. It is unnecessary either to
tell the story of all the foolish fatal lingerings upon the ill-omened
way: trifling with treacherous ladies for whom he cared nothing, cartels
from Surrey; the abandonment of a strong position, lest it should give
him an advantage, in ever greater and greater folly of chivalry: the
refusal to attack, or let his artillery attack, till his foes were all
safely over the bridge: all exhibitions of high honour gone mad with the
intoxication of fate. The Spaniard's letter comes back in full
significance as we watch with aching hearts the fatal fray. "He said to
me that his subjects serve him with their persons and goods, in just or
unjust quarrels, exactly as he wishes, and that therefore he does not
think it right to begin any warlike undertaking without being himself
the first in danger." The knight-errant kept his _consigne_ of honour to
the last. He betrayed his people to the most utter defeat they had ever
encountered, but he was himself the first victim.
Thus died the only Stewart king who ever seemed to have a fair prospect
of escaping the fate of his unfortunate race. The worm in his
conscience, the iron belt round his body, were perhaps only symptoms of
a susceptible nature, of remorse which was excessive for the bewildered
acquiescence in rebellion of an unawakened mind and an irresponsible
age. And his life, if soiled by errors which were then and are now but
lightly thought of in a prince, was in all public matters noble,
honourable, and enlightened, with always the advantage of his country
for its aim, even in the midst of the natural gaieties and extravagances
of a happy temper and exuberant energy. He was extravagant,
light-hearted, a lover of magnificence and display, all of which things,
in the face of the political economist, sometimes prove themselves
excellent for a country when the moment comes to press it forward into
the ranks of high civilisation out of a ruder and more primitive
development. The nobility with which his father struggled to the death
he held in a leash of silk or of gold, often making them the instruments
of the justice which they had so long resisted. There was peace in his
time such as had never before been in Scotland, and redress of
grievances, and extinction or suppression of mortal feuds and intestine
struggles. It is sometimes given to a man in all light-heartedness, in
what seems the spontaneous way of his own impulses and pleasures, to do
what is best for his surroundings and his time, without any apparent
strain of self sacrifice or gravity of duty. James Stewart, the fourth
of his name, was one of these happy and beautiful natures: and though
his life was one of almost unbroken prosperity and brightness, yet no
man can say that his stewardry was not nobly held, and to the benefit of
his kingdom and people. But not for this was the doom to pass by. The
brightness and the prosperity came to an end in a sudden folly,
infatuation, and madness, which belonged to him as his sunny nature did
and his generosity of heart. And it was no evil chance, but the
principle of his life, as we have seen, that in the calamity into which
he drew his people he himself should be the first to fall.