CHAPTER VII.

=Heart of Mid-Lothian.=

THE PORTEOUS MOB.

We shall mention a few inaccuracies in the account given of the Porteous mob in “The Heart of Midlothian,” assigning, at the same time, precise dates to all the incidents.

On the morning of the 11th of April, 1736, Wilson and Robertson were conducted to the Tolbooth Church, for the purpose of hearing their last sermon, their execution being to happen on Wednesday following. The custom of conducting criminals under sentence of death to a place of public worship, and suffering them again to mix with their fellow-men, from whom they were so shortly to be cut off for ever, was a beautiful trait of the devotional and merciful feelings of the people of Scotland, which has since this incident been unhappily disused. In the Tale, the escape of Robertson is said to have happened after the sermon; but this statement, evidently made by the novelist for the sake of effect, is incorrect. The criminals had scarcely seated themselves in the pew, when Wilson committed the daring deed. Robertson tripped up the fourth soldier himself, and jumped out of the pew with incredible agility. In hurrying out at the door of the church, he tumbled over the collection money, by which he was probably hurt; for, in running across the Parliament Square, he was observed to stagger much, and, in going down the stairs which lead to the Cowgate, actually fell. In this dangerous predicament he was protected by Mr. M‘Queen, minister of the New Kirk, who was coming up the stair on his way to church at the moment. This kind-hearted gentleman is said to have set him again on his feet, and to have covered his retreat as much as possible from the pursuit of the guard. Robertson passed down to the Cowgate, ran up the Horse Wynd, and out at the Potterrow Port, the crowd all the way closing behind him, so that his pursuers could not by any means overtake him. In the wynd he made up to a saddled horse, and would have mounted him, but was prevented by the owner. Passing the Crosscauseway, he got into the King’s Park, and made the way for Duddingstone, under the basaltic rocks which overhang the path to that village. On jumping a dyke near Clearburn, he fainted away, but was revived by a refreshment which he there received.

Upon Robertson’s escape, Wilson was immediately taken back to prison, and put in close custody. He was executed, under the dreadful circumstances so well known, on the 14th of April. The story of a “young fellow, with a sailor’s cap slouched over his face,” having cut him down from the gibbet, on the rising of the mob, is perfectly unfounded. The executioner was at the top of the ladder, performing that part of his office, at the time Porteous fired.

Though the author of the Tale has chosen George Robertson for his hero, and invested him with many attributes worthy of that high character, historical accuracy obliges us to record that he was merely a stabler; and, what must at once destroy all romantic feelings concerning him in the light of a hero, tradition informs us that he was a married man at the time of his imprisonment. He kept an inn in Bristo Street, and was a man of rather dissipated habits, though the exculpatory evidence produced upon his trial represents him as in the habit of being much intrusted by the carriers who lodged at his house. After his escape, he was known to have gone to Holland, and to have resided there many years.

The most flagrant aberration from the truth committed by the novelist, is in the opening of the Tale, where the crowd is represented as awaiting the execution of Captain Porteous, in the Grassmarket, on the 7th of September. The whole scene is described in the most admirable manner; and the interesting objects of the gallows, the filled windows, and the crowd upon the street, form, I have no doubt, the faithful outline of what the scene would have been, had it existed.[29]

But however ably the Author of “Waverley” has delineated this imaginary scene, it is unfortunate that his account does not agree either with truth, or, what was to him ten times more important, _vraisemblance_. He has no doubt handled the fictitious incident of the abortive preparations for the execution, and the expressions of the disappointed multitude on the occasion, in his usual masterly manner, and heightened the _effect_ of his own story not a little by the use he has made of history; but it must at the same time strike every reader that the whole affair is extremely improbable. It seems scarcely possible that a conspiracy of such a deep and well-planned nature as the Porteous mob could have been laid and brought to issue in a single afternoon. Not even the most romantic reader of novels, supposing him to understand the case to its full extent, would deceive himself with so incredible an absurdity; but would think with us that, according to the natural course of things, it would take _all the time it did take_, (five days,) before so well-laid and eventually so successful a scheme could be projected, organized, and accomplished.

The plain statement of the facts is to the following effect.

The Queen’s pardon reached Edinburgh so early as Thursday, the 2nd of September. The riot happened on the night of Tuesday, the 7th—the night previous to the day on which the execution was to have taken place, and after a sufficient time had elapsed for the preparation of the scheme. Many of the rioters came from counties so distant, that the news of the reprieve could not have reached them in a less space; and perhaps the intelligence would not have been so speedily communicated in those postless and coachless days, had not the popular interest in the matter been so universal. Taking every thing into consideration, it may indeed astonish us that the conspiracy was so rapidly matured as it _was_, not to speak of a single afternoon! It may be noticed, that some papers have lately come to light, by which it appears the plot was not of that dark and mysterious character which the accounts of the times and the Author of “Waverley” make it. Information had been given to the council at least _thirty-six hours_ before the tumult burst forth; and at a meeting late on the previous evening, when the information was taken into consideration, the council pronounced the reports in circulation to be merely _cadies’ clatters_, (gossip of street-porters,) unworthy of regard.

The incidents of the riot, from the mob’s entering the city at the West Port to Butler’s desertion of the scene at midnight, are all given very correctly by the novelist. It is said to be absolutely true that the rioters seized and detained a person of Butler’s profession, for the purpose related in the novel. This happened, however, when they had got half way to the gallows, at the head of the West Bow. Porteous was twice drawn up and let down again before the deed was accomplished—first, to bind his hands, and secondly, in order to put something over his face. In the morning his body was found hanging, by the public functionaries of the city, and was buried the same day in the neighbouring churchyard of Greyfriars. It was on the south side of the Grassmarket that he was hanged.

Arnot observes, after relating the incidents of the Porteous mob, in his History of Edinburgh, that though it was then forty years after that occurrence, no person had ever been found out upon whom an accession to the murder could be charged. Nevertheless, the writer of the present narrative has been informed by a very old man, who was an apprentice in the Fleshmarket of Edinburgh about fifty years ago, that in his younger days it was well known among the butchers, though only whispered secretly among themselves, that the leaders of this singular riot were two brothers of the name of Cumming, who were, for many years after, fleshers in the Low Market, and died unmolested, at advanced ages. They were tall, strong, and exceedingly handsome men, had been dressed in women’s clothes on the occasion, and were said to have been the first to jump through the flames that burnt down the prison-door, in eagerness to seize their unfortunate victim.

A few more scraps of private information have also been communicated to the world by one who was instrumental and active in the riot. We give them from the authority of “The Beauties of Scotland.”

“On the day preceding that of Porteous’ death, a whisper went through the country, upon what information or authority this person knew not, that an attempt was to be made, on the succeeding evening, to put Captain Porteous to death. To avenge the blood of a relation who had been killed at the execution of Wilson, he conceived himself bound in duty to share the risk of the attempt. Wherefore, upon the following day, he proceeded to Edinburgh, and towards the evening stopped in the suburb of Portsburgh, which he found crowded with country people; all of whom, however, kept aloof from each other, so that there was no conversation about the purpose of their assembling. At a later hour, he found the inferior sort of inns in the Grassmarket full of people, and saw many persons, apparently strangers, lurking in the different houses. About eleven at night, the streets became crowded with men, who, having in some measure organized their body, by beating a drum and marching in order, immediately proceeded to secure the gates and make for the prison.”

* * * * *

“As the multitude proceeded with Porteous down the West Bow, some of their number knocked at the door of a shop and demanded ropes.[30] A woman, apparently a maid-servant, thrust a coil of ropes out of a window, without opening the door, and a person wearing a white apron, which seemed to be assumed for disguise, gave in return a piece of gold as the price,” etc.

THE CITY GUARD.

The City Guard, of which so much mention is made in the Tale before us, was originally instituted in 1648. Previous to that period, the City had been watched during the night by the personal duty of the inhabitants, a certain number of whom were obliged to undertake the office by rotation. In order to relieve the inconveniency of this service, a body of sixty men was first appointed, with a captain, two lieutenants, two sergeants, and three corporals; but no regular funds being provided for the support of the establishment, it was speedily dissolved. However, about thirty years thereafter, the necessity of a regular police was again felt; and forty men were raised. These, in the year 1682, were augmented, at the instigation of the Duke of York, to 108 men; and, to defray the expense of the company, a tax was imposed upon the citizens. At the Revolution, the Town Council represented to the Estates of Parliament, that the burden was a grievance to the City; and their request to have it removed was granted. So speedily, however, did they repent this second dismissal of their police, that the very next year they applied to Parliament for authority to raise a body of no fewer than 126 men, and to assess the inhabitants for the expense. Since that period the number of the Town Guard had been very fluctuating, and, before its late final dissolution, amounted only to about 75 men. For many years previous to this event, they had been found quite inadequate to the protection of the City. Riots seemed to be in some measure encouraged by the ridicule in which the venerable corps was held; and from their infirmities and other circumstances, as well as from their scantiness, the more distant parts of the rapidly increasing capital were left defenceless and open to the attacks of nightly depredators. Their language, their manners, and their tempers, so uncongenial with those of the citizens whom they protected, were also found to be almost inapplicable to the purposes for which they served, and, of course, operated as causes of their being disbanded. Besides, a few years before their dismissal, a regular police, similar to that of London, had been established in Edinburgh; which soon completely set aside all necessity of their services. The Town Guard were therefore convoked for the last time, we believe, in February, 1817; and, after receiving some small gratuity from the magistrates, and having a pension settled upon them still more trifling than their trifling pay, proportioned to the rank they held in the corps, were finally disbanded. The police of Edinburgh is now almost unrivalled in Britain for vigilance and activity—how different from the unruly and intemperate times when magisterial authority could be successfully set at defiance, when mobs could unite into such a system of co-operation as even to beard royalty itself, when (in 1812) a scene of violence could be exhibited that would not have disgraced the middle ages, and when, still more to be lamented, the protection of property was so uncertain, that, according to the city-arms, it was but too literally true that—

“Unless the _Lord_ the City kept, The _watchmen_ watched in vain!”

Another event occurred about the same time in Edinburgh, which was appropriately contemporaneous with the abolition of the City Guard,—namely, the demolishment and final removal of the Tolbooth. This building, which makes so conspicuous a figure in the present Tale, was originally the Town-house of Edinburgh, and afterwards afforded accommodation for the Scottish Parliament and Courts of Justice, and for the confinement of debtors and malefactors. It had been used solely as a jail since 1640. It was not deficient in other interesting recollections, besides being the scene of the Porteous mob. Here Queen Mary delivered, what are termed by John Knox her _Painted Orations_; and on its dreary summits had been successively displayed the heads of a Morton, a Gowrie, a Huntly, a Montrose, and an Argyll,—besides those of many of inferior note.

A part of this edifice had been devoted to the use of the City Guard, ever since the removal of their former rendezvous in the High Street. Many will still remember of seeing a veteran or two leaning over a half-door in the north side of the Jail. Could their eyes have penetrated farther into the gloomy interior, a few more indistinct figures might have been perceived smoking round a fire, or reading an old newspaper, while the unintelligible language which they spoke might aid the idea of their resemblance to a convocation of infernals in some of the cinder-holes of Tartarus. In fine weather, a few of the venerable corps might be seen crawling about the south front of the prison, with Lochaber axes over their shoulders, or reposing lazily on a form with the white-haired keeper of the Tolbooth door, and basking in the sun, in all the lubber luxury of mental and corporeal abandonment. But now (_sic transit gloria mundi!_) their ancient Capitol is levelled with the dust, and they themselves are only to be ranked among the “things that were.” All trace of their existence is dispersed over a waste of visioned recollection; and future generations will think of the City Guard, as they think of _the forty-five_, of _the Friends of the People_,—or of the last year’s snow!

It is said, in the “Heart of Midlothian,” that “a phantom of former days,” in the shape of “an old worn-out Highlander, dressed in a cocked hat, bound with white tape instead of silver lace, and in coat, waistcoat and breeches, of a muddy-coloured red,” (the costume of _the Guard_,) “still creeps around the statue of Charles the Second, in the Parliament Square, as if the image of a Stuart were the last refuge for any memorial of our ancient manners.” This venerable spectre is neither more nor less than the goodly flesh and blood figure of John Kennedy, who served in the corps ever since the American war, and who is now employed by Mr. Rae, keeper of the Parliament House, to sweep the arcade, and to prevent little ragged urchins from disturbing by their noisy sports the weightier business of the law. John Kennedy was one of the band; and was well known to the heroes of the High School forty years ago. Like him, the greater part of his surviving brethren have changed into new shapes. One or two may be observed now and then, staggering about the outskirts of the town, or dozing away the last years of life upon the seats in the Meadow Walk and the King’s Park. Their old musty coats, in such instances, are dyed in some colour less military than red, and generally otherwise modernized by abscission of the skirts. A pair of their original spatterdashers still case their legs,—but which still less scarcely fend than formerly

“——to keep Frae weet and weary plashes O’ dirt, thir days.”

We once stumbled upon a veteran snugly bedded in a stall of about three feet square, crammed into the internal space of an outside stair in the West Bow. In this den he exercised the calling of a cobbler. Like all shoemakers, he was an earnest politician, and read the _Scotsman_ every week in the second month of its age, after it had made the tour of _the Bow_;—“being determined,” he said, “to _stick by the nation_!” We have also sometimes found occasion to recognise the nose of an old acquaintance, under the disguise of a circulator of bills, at the doors of certain haberdashers on the South Bridge. We have a peculiar veneration for a puff given forth from the paw of an _old Town-Guardsman_; and seldom find it in our heart to put such a document to a death of candle-ends.

One of the principal reasons which David Deans assigned to Saddletree, for not employing counsel in the cause of his daughter Effie, was the notorious Jacobitism of the faculty, who, he said, had received into their library the medals which that Moabitish woman, the Duchess of Gordon, had sent to them. This was a true and, moreover, a curious case. In 1711, the great-grandmother of the present Duke of Gordon excited no small attention by presenting to the Faculty of Advocates a silver medal, with a head of the Pretender on one side, and, on the other, the British isles, with the word _Reddite_.[31] The Dean having presented the medal to the faculty at the next meeting, a debate ensued about the propriety of admitting it into their repositories. It was carried 63 to 12 to admit the medal, and return thanks to the duchess for her present. Two advocates, delegated for that purpose, waited upon her grace, and expressed their hopes that she would soon have an opportunity of complimenting the faculty with a second medal on the _Restoration_.

This lady was the wife of George, first Duke of Gordon, who held out Edinburgh Castle for King James, in 1689.

JEANIE DEANS.

The plot of this tale, besides bearing some resemblance to that of The Exiles of Siberia, finds a counterpart in the story of Helen Walker.

When the following account of this person was taken down, in 1786, she was a little stout-looking woman, between 70 and 80 years of age, dressed in a long tartan plaid, and having over her white cap, (_Scottice_, TOY,) a black silk hood tied under her chin. She lived in the neighbourhood of Dumfries, on the romantic banks of the immortalized Clouden, a little way above the bridge by which the road from Dumfries to Sanquhar crosses that beautiful stream. She lived by the humblest means of subsistence,—working stockings, teaching a few children, and rearing now and then a small brood of chickens. Her countenance was remarkably lively and intelligent, her eyes were dark and expressive, and her conversation was marked by a naïveté and good sense that seemed to fit her for a higher sphere in life. When any question was asked concerning her earlier life, her face became clouded, and she generally contrived to turn the conversation to a different topic.

Her story, so far as it was ever known, bore that she had been early left an orphan, with the charge of a younger sister, named _Tibby_, (Isabella,) whom she endeavoured to maintain and educate by her own exertions. It will not be easy to conceive her feelings when her sister was apprehended on a charge of child-murder, and herself called on as a principal witness against her. The counsel for the prisoner told Helen, that if she could declare that her sister had made any preparation, however slight, or had communicated any notice of her situation, such a statement would save her sister’s life. But, from the very first, this high-souled woman determined against such a perjury, and avowed her resolution to give evidence according to her conscience. Isabella was of course found guilty and condemned; and, in removing her from the bar, she was heard to say to her sister, “Oh, Nelly! ye’ve been the cause of my death!”

Helen Walker, however, was as remarkable for her dauntless perseverance in a good cause as for her fortitude in resisting the temptations of a bad one. She immediately procured a petition to be drawn up, stating the peculiar circumstances of the case, and that very night of her sister’s condemnation set out from Dumfries for London. She travelled on foot, and was neither possessed of introduction nor recommendation. She presented herself in her tartan plaid and country attire before John Duke of Argyll, after having watched three days at his door, just as he was stepping into his carriage, and delivered her petition. Herself and her story interested him so much, that he immediately procured the pardon she solicited, which was forwarded to Dumfries, and Helen returned on foot, having performed her meritorious journey in the course of a few weeks.

After her liberation, Isabella was married to the father of her child, and retired to some distance in the north of England, where Helen used occasionally to visit her.

Helen Walker, whom every one will be ready to acknowledge as the _Original_ of Jeanie Deans, died in the spring of 1787; and her remains lie in the Churchyard of Irongray, without a stone to mark the place where they are deposited.

PATRICK WALKER.

The objurgatory exhortation which David Deans delivers to his daughters, on suddenly overhearing the word “_dance_” pronounced in their conversation, will be remembered by our readers. He there “blesses God, (with that singular worthy, Patrick Walker the packman at Bristo-port,) that ordered his lot in his dancing days, so that fear of his head and throat, cauld and hunger, wetness and weariness, stopped the lightness of his head and the wantonness of his feet.” Almost the whole of David’s speech is to be found at the 59th page of Patrick Walker’s “Life of Cameron,” with much more curious matter.

This “Patrick Walker” was a person who had suffered for the good cause in his youth, along with many others of the “singular worthies” of the times. After the Revolution, it appears that he exercised the profession of a pedlar. He probably dealed much in those pamphlets concerning the sufferings and the doctrines of the “_Martyrs_,” which were so widely diffused throughout Scotland, in the years subsequent to the Revolution. In the process of time he set up his staff of rest in a small shop at the head of Bristo Street, opposite to the entrance of a court entitled “Society.” Here Patrick flourished about a century ago, and published several works, now very scarce and curious, of “Remarkable Passages in the Lives and Deaths of those famous worthies, signal for piety and zeal, _viz._ Mr. John Semple, Mr. Wellwood, Mr. Cameron, Mr. Peden, etc.; who were all shining lights in the Land, and gave light to many, in which they rejoiced for a season.” For this sort of biography Patrick seems to have been excellently adapted; for he had not only been witness to many of the incidents which he describes, but, from his intimate personal friendship with the subjects of his narratives, he was also a complete adept in all their intricate polemics and narrow superstitions. These he accordingly gives in such a style of length, strength, and volubility, as leaves us weltering in astonishment at the extensive range of expression of which Cant was susceptible. Take the following, for instance, from the rhapsodies of Peden. “A bloody sword, a bloody sword, a bloody sword for thee, O Scotland! Many miles shall ye travel and shall see nothing but desolation and ruinous wastes in thee, O Scotland! The fertilest places shall be desert as the mountains in thee, O Scotland! Oh the Monzies, the Monzies, see how they run! how long will they run? Lord, cut their houghs and stay their running. The women with child shall be ript up and dashed in pieces. Many a preaching has God waired (_spent_) on thee, O Scotland! But now He will come forth with the fiery brand of His wrath, and then He will preach to thee by conflagration, since words winna do! O Lord, Thou hast been baith good and kind to auld Sandy, thorow a long tract of time, and given him many years in Thy Service which have been but like as many months. But now he is tired of the warld, and sae let him away with the honesty he has, for he will gather no more!” We will also extract Patrick’s own account of an incident which is related upon his authority in the “Heart of Midlothian,” at the 54th page of the second volume. It is a good specimen of his style:—

“One time, among many, he[32] designed to administrate the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper; and before the time cam, he assured the people that the devil would be envious of the good work they were to go about,—that he was afraid he would be permitted to raise a storm in the air with a speat of rain, to raise the water, designing to drown some of them; but it will not be within the compass of his power to drown any of you, no not so much as a dog. Accordingly it came to pass, on _Monday_, when they were dismissing, they saw a man all in black, entering the water to wade, a little above them; they were afraid, the water being big; immediately he lost his feet, (as they apprehended,) and came down lying on his back, and waving his hand. The people ran and got ropes, and threw in to him; and tho’ there were ten or twelve men upon the ropes, they were in danger of being drowned into the water: Mr. Semple, looking on, cryed, ‘Quit the ropes and let him go, (he saw who it was,) ’tis the devil, ’tis the devil; he will burn, but not drown; and, by drowning you, would have God dishonoured, because He hath gotten some glory to His free grace, in being kind to mony of your souls at this time. Oh! he is a subtile wylie devil, that lies at the catch, waiting his opportunity, that now, when ye have heard all ye will get at this occasion, his design is to raise a confusion among you, to get all out of your minds that ye have heard, and off your spirits that ye have felt.’ He earnestly exhorted them all to keep in mind what they had heard and seen, and to retain what they had attained, and to go home blessing God for all, and that the devil was disappointed of his hellish design. All search was made in the country, to find out if any man was lost, but none could be heard of; from whence all concluded that it was the devil.”

According to Patrick, this same Mr. Semple was remarkable for much discernment and sagacity, besides that which was necessary for the detection of devils. From the following “passage,” the reader will observe that he was equally acute in the detection of witches. “While a neighbouring minister was distributing tokens before the sacrament, Mr. Semple standing by, and seeing him reaching a token to a woman, said, ‘Hold your hand; that Woman hath got too many tokens already, for she is a witch;’ of which none suspected her then: yet afterwards she confessed herself to be a witch, and was put to death for the same.”

We also find John Semple, of Carsphearn, introduced into that well-known irreverent work, “Scots Presbyterian Eloquence”; where an humorous burlesque of his style of expression is given in the following words: “In the day of judgment the Lord will say, ‘Who’s that there?’ John will answer, ‘It’s e’en poor auld John Semple, Lord.’ ‘Who are these with you, John?’ ‘It’s a few poor honest bonneted men.’ ‘Strange, John! where’s all your folks with their hats and silk hoods?’ ‘I invited them, Lord; but they would not come.’ ‘It’s not your fault, John; come forward, ye are very welcome, and these few with you!’”

In the _reekit_ and mutilated volume of “Lives” before us, we have found a considerable number of passages which are alluded to in the narratives of My Landlord—more indeed than it would be interesting to point out. The use which the Author makes of the information he derives from them is by no means dishonourable, except perhaps in one instance, vol. iv., page 134, where it must be allowed he is rather waggish upon Patrick, besides corrupting the truth of his text. This instance relates to the murder of a trooper named Francis Gordon, said to have been committed by the Cameronians. Patrick denies the charge of murder, and calls it only killing in self-defence. His own account is as follows: “It was then commonly said, that Mr. Francis Gordon was a Volunteer out of Wickedness of Principles, and could not stay with the Troops, but must alwaies be raging and ranging to catch hiding suffering people. Meldrum and Airly’s Troops, lying at Lanark upon the first Day of March, 1682, Mr. Gordon and another Comrade, with their two Servants and four Horses, came to Kilcaigow, two Miles from Lanark, searching for William Caigow and others under Hiding. Mr. Gordon, rambling thorow the Town, offered to abuse the women. At night they came a mile further to the Easterseat, to Robert Muir’s, he being also under hiding. Gordon’s comrade and the two servants went to bed, but he could sleep none, roaring all the night for women. When day came, he took his sword in his hand, and came to Moss-Platt; and some men, (who had been in the fields all night,) seeing him, they fled, and he pursued. James Wilson, Thomas Young, and myself, having been in a meeting all night, were lying down in the morning. We were alarmed, thinking there were many more than one. He pursued hard and overtook us. Thomas Young said, ‘Sir, what do you pursue us for?’ He said, he was come to send us to Hell. James Wilson said, ‘That shall not be, for we will defend ourselves.’ He answered that either he or we should go to it now, and then ran his sword furiously thorow James Wilson’s coat. James fired upon him, but missed him. All the time he cried, ‘damn his soul!’ He got a shot in his head out of a pocket pistol, rather fit for diverting a boy than for killing such a furious, mad, brisk man; which notwithstanding killed him dead.” Patrick does not mention who it was that shot him; and from his obscurity on this point, we are led to suspect that it was no other than himself; for had it been Thomas Young, it is probable that he would have mentioned it. In the ‘Tale,’ David Deans is mentioned as being among them, and half confesses to the merit of having killed Mr. Gordon; but our venerable biographer is also made to prefer a sort of a half claim to the honour, while neither of them dared utterly to avow it; ‘there being some wild cousins of the deceased about Edinburgh who might have been yet addicted to revenge.’”

The “worthy John Livingston, a sailor in Borrowstownness,” who is quoted for a saying at the 37th page of the fourth volume, will be found at 107th page of Patrick’s “Life of Cameron,” with the words ascribed to him at full length. Borrowstownness seems to have been a somewhat holy place in its day; for, besides this worthy, we learn from the same authority that it also produced “Skipper William Horn, that singular, solid, serious, old exercised, self-denied, experienced, confirmed, established, tender Christian,” and another tar of the name of Alexander Stewart, who “suffered at the Cross” for a cause in which few of his profession have ever since thought of suffering,—together with two other worthies named Cuthel, one of whom was beheaded along with Mr. Cargill.

At the 40th page of the same fourth volume, David Deans declares himself to have been the person “of whom there was some sport at the Revolution, when he noited thegither the heads of the twa false prophets, their ungracious Graces the Prelates, as they stood on the High Street, after being expelled from the Convention-parliament.” The source of this story is also to be found in the works of Patrick Walker. This sage historian relates the circumstance in a manner rather too facetious to be altogether consistent with his habitual gravity. “Fourteen Bishops,” says he, “were expelled at once, and stood in a cloud, with pale faces, in the Parliament Close. James Wilson, Robert Neilson, Francis Hislop, and myself, were standing close by them. Francis Hislop, with force, thrust Robert Neilson upon them, and their heads went hard upon each other. Their graceless Graces went quickly off; and in a short time neither Bishop nor Curate were to be seen in the streets. This was a sudden and surprising change, not to be forgotten. But some of us would have rejoiced still more to have seen the whole cabalzie sent legally down the Bow, that they might have found the weight of their tails in a tow, to dry their stocking-soles, and let them know what hanging was.”[33]

PARTICULARS REGARDING SCENERY, ETC.

SAINT LEONARD’S CRAGS, the scene of David Deans’s residence, are an irregular ridge, with a slight vegetation, situated in the south-west boundary of the King’s Park, at Edinburgh. Adjacent to them, and bearing their name, there exists a sort of village, now almost inclosed by the approaching suburbs of the city. The neighbouring extremity of the Pleasance, with this little place, seem to have formed at one period the summer residences or villas of the inhabitants of Edinburgh, some of the houses even yet bearing traces of little garden plots before the door, and other peculiarities of what is still the prevailing taste in the fitting up of _boxes_. None of these may, however, have existed in the time of David Deans. In former times, St. Leonard’s Crags and the adjoining valley used to be much resorted to by duellists. This part of their history is, however, to be found at full length in the “Heart of Midlothian.” There is a case of duel on record, in which a barber challenged a citizen, and fought him with swords. It happened in the year 1600. The citizen was slain; and his antagonist, being instantly apprehended, was tried, and, by the order of the King, executed, for having presumed to take the revenge of a gentleman.[34]

MUSCHAT’S CAIRN, so conspicuously introduced into this Tale, was a heap of stones placed upon the spot where a barbarous murder was committed in the year 1720. The murderer was descended of a respectable family in the county of Angus, and had been educated to the profession of a surgeon. When in Edinburgh, in the course of his education, it appears that he made an imprudent match with a woman in humble life, named Margaret Hall. He shortly repented of what he had done, and endeavoured by every means to shake himself free of his wife. The attempts which he made to divorce, to forsake, and to poison her, proved all unsuccessful; till at length he resolved, in the distraction caused by his frequent disappointments, to rid himself of his incumbrance by the surest method, that of cutting her throat. The day before the perpetration of this deed, he pretended a return of affection to the unfortunate woman, and in the evening took her to walk with him, in the direction of Duddingston. The unhappy creature was averse to the expedition, and intreated her husband to remain in Edinburgh; but he persisted, in spite of her tears, in his desire of taking her with him to that village. When they had got nearly to the extremity of the path which is called the Duke’s Walk, (having been the favourite promenade of the Duke of York, afterwards King James II.,) Muschat threw her upon the ground, and immediately proceeded to cut her throat. During her resistance he wounded her hand and chin, which she held down, endeavouring to intercept the knife; and he declared in his confession, afterwards taken, that, but for her long hair, with which he pinned her to the earth, he could not have succeeded in his purpose, her struggles being so great. Immediately after the murder, he went and informed some of his accomplices, and took no pains to evade apprehension. He was tried and found guilty upon his own confession, and, after being executed in the Grassmarket, was hung in chains upon the Gallowlee.[35] A cairn of stones was erected upon the spot where the murder took place, in token of the people’s abhorrence and reprobation of the deed. It was removed several years since, when the Duke’s Walk was widened and levelled by Lord Adam Gordon.

ST. ANTHONY’S CHAPEL, among the ruins of which Robertson found means to elude the pursuit of Sharpitlaw, is an interesting relic of antiquity, situated on a level space about half-way up the north-west side of the mountain called Arthur’s Seat. It lies in a westerly direction from Muschat’s Cairn, at about the distance of a furlong; and the Hunter’s Bog, also mentioned in this Tale, occupies a valley which surrounds all that side of the hill. The chapel was originally a place of worship, annexed to a hermitage at the distance of a few yards, and both were subservient to a monastery of the same name, which anciently flourished on the site of St. Anthony’s Street in Leith. In the times of Maitland and Arnot the ruin was almost entire; but now there only remain a broken wall and a few fragments of what has once been building, but which are now scarcely to be distinguished from the surrounding grey rocks;—so entirely has art in this case relapsed into its primitive nature, and lost all the characteristics of human handiwork. The slightest possible traces of a hermitage are also to be observed, plastered against the side of a hollow rock; and, further down the hill, there springs from the foot of a precipice the celebrated St. Anthony’s Well. Queen Mary is said to have visited all these scenes; and, somehow or other, her name is always associated with them by those who are accustomed to visit, on a Sunday afternoon, their hallowed precincts. They are also rendered sacred in song, by their introduction into one of the most beautiful, most plaintive, and most poetical of all Scotland’s ancient melodies:

“I leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree: But first it bowed and syne it brak, Sae my true love’s forsaken me.

“Oh! Arthur’s Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne’er be pressed by me: St. Anton’s well shall be my drink, Sin’ my true love’s forsaken me,” etc.

The situation is remarkably well adapted for a hermitage, though in the immediate neighbourhood of a populous capital. The scene around is as wild as a Highland desert, and gives an air of seclusion and peacefulness as complete. If the distant din of the city at all could reach the eremite’s ears, it would appear as insignificant as the murmur of the waves around the base of the isolated rock, and would be as unheeded.

FOOTNOTES:

[29] Even the loftiness of the surrounding buildings is taken into account. “The uncommon height and antique appearance of these houses,” says the author, “some of which were formerly the property of the Knights Templars and the Knights of St. John, and still exhibit upon their fronts and gables the iron cross of these orders, gave additional effect to a scene in itself so striking.” This sentence, it is somewhat remarkable, is also used (perhaps I should say _repeated_) by Sir Walter Scott, when he finds occasion to describe the same scene in his “Provincial Antiquities of Scotland.”

[30] The shop from which the rioters procured the rope, was a small shop in the second or middle division of the West Bow (No. 69). It was then kept by a Mrs. Jeffrey, but was not a rope-maker’s shop. It was a shop of _huckstery_ or _small wares_, in which ropes were then included. It seems yet to be occupied by a person of the same profession (Mrs. Wilson).

[31] There is an engraving of this medal in Boyer’s “History of Queen Anne,” p. 511.

[32] Mr. John Semple, of Carsphearn.

[33] We are glad to observe that the biographical works of Patrick Walker are shortly to be reprinted by Mr. John Stevenson, Bookseller, Prince’s Street, whose shop is well known, or ought to be so, by all the true lovers of curious little old smoke-dried volumes.

[34] Birrel’s account of this matter is as follows:—“[1600.] The 2 of Apryll, being the Sabbath day, Robert Auchmutie, barber, slew James Wauchope, at the combat in St. Leonard’s Hill; and, upon the 23, the said Rt. put in ward in the tolbuith of Edr.; and in the meine time of his being in ward, he hang ane cloke w’t’out the window of the irone hous, and anither w’t in the window yr.; and, saying yat he was sick, and might not see the light, he had aquafortis continuallie seithing at the irone window, quhill, at the last, the irone window wes eiten throw; sua, upon a morneing, he caused his prentes boy attend quhen the towne gaird should have dissolvit, at q’lk tyme the boy waitit one, and gaif hes Mr ane token yat the said gaird wer gone, be the schewe or waiff of his hand-curche. The said Robt. hung out an tow, q’ron he thought to have cumeit doune; the said gairde espyit the waiff of the hand-curche, and sua the said Robt was disappointit of hes intentione and devys; and sua, on the 10 day, he wes beheidit at the Cross, upon ane scaffold.” P. 48, 49.

[35] The Gallowlee was not the usual place of execution; but the most flagrant criminals were generally hung there in chains. Many of the martyrs were exhibited on its summit, which Patrick Walker records with due horror. It ceased to be employed for any purpose of this kind about the middle of the last century; since which period with one exception, no criminals have been hung in chains in Scotland. Its site was a rising ground immediately below the Botanic Garden, in Leith Walk. When the New Town was in the progress of building, the sand used for the composition of the mortar was procured from this spot; on which account the miracle of a hill turned into a valley has taken place, and it is at the present day that low beautiful esplanade of which Eagle and Henderson’s nursery is formed. The Gallowlee turned out a source of great emolument to the possessor, sixpence being allowed for every cartful of sand that was taken away. But the proprietor was never truly benefited by the circumstance. Being addicted to drinking, he was in the habit of spending every sixpence as he received it. A tavern was set up near the spot, which was formerly unaccommodated with such a convenience, for the sole purpose of selling whisky to _Matthew Richmond_,—and he was its only customer. A fortune was soon acquired of the profits of the drink alone; and when the source of the affluence ceased, poor Matthew was left poorer than he had originally been, after having flung away the proffered chance of immense wealth. Never did gamester more completely sink the last acre of his estate, than did _muckle Matthew Richmond_ drink down the last grain of the sand-hill of the Gallowlee!