Chapter 10

For ten years he remained concealed, but in the mean time both title and estate were forfeited by attainder. His last escape was so very remarkable, that I may be pardoned for giving it in the language of the author of his memoirs.

"In March 1756, and of course long after all apprehension of a search had ceased, information having been given to the commanding officer at Fraserburgh, that Lord Pitsligo was at that moment at the house of Auchiries, it was acted upon with so much promptness and secrecy that the search must have proved successful but for a very singular occurrence. Mrs. Sophia Donaldson, a lady who lived much with the family, repeatedly dreamt, on that particular night, that the house was surrounded by soldiers. Her mind became so haunted with the idea, that she got out of bed, and was walking through the room, in hopes of giving a different current to her thoughts before she lay down again; when, day beginning to dawn, she accidentally looked out at the window as she passed it in traversing the room, and was astonished at actually observing the figures of soldiers among some trees near the house. So completely had all idea of a search been by that time laid asleep, that she supposed they had come to steal poultry--Jacobite poultry-yards affording a safe object of pillage for the English soldiers in those days. Mrs. Sophia was proceeding to rouse the servants, when her sister, having awaked, and inquiring what was the matter, and being told of soldiers near the house, exclaimed in great alarm, that she feared they wanted something more than hens. She begged Mrs. Sophia to look out at a window on the other side of the house, when not only were soldiers seen in that direction, but also an officer giving instructions by signal, and frequently putting his fingers to his lips, as if enjoining silence.

There was now no time to be lost in rousing the family, and all the haste that could be made was scarcely sufficient to hurry the venerable man from his bed into a small recess, behind the wainscot of an adjoining room, which was concealed by a bed, in which a lady, Miss Gordon of Towie, who was there on a visit, lay, before the soldiers obtained admission. A most minute search took place. The room in which Lord Pitsligo was concealed did not escape. Miss Gordon's bed was carefully examined, and she was obliged to suffer the rude scrutiny of one of the party, by feeling her chin, to ascertain that it was not a man in a lady's night-dress. Before the soldiers had finished their examination in this room, the confinement and anxiety increased Lord Pitsligo's asthma so much, and his breathing became so loud, that it cost Miss Gordon, lying in bed, much and violent coughing, which she counterfeited, in order to prevent the high breathings behind the wainscot from being heard.

It may be easily conceived what agony she would suffer, lest, by overdoing her part, she should increase suspicion, and in fact lead to a discovery. The ruse was fortunately successful. On the search through the house being given over, Lord Pitsligo was hastily taken from his confined situation, and again replaced in bed; and, as soon as he was able to speak, his accustomed kindness of heart made him say to his servant--'James, go and see that these poor fellows get some breakfast and a drink of warm ale, for this is a cold morning; they are only doing their duty, and cannot bear me any ill-will.' When the family were felicitating each other on his escape, he pleasantly observed--'A poor prize, had they obtained it--an old dying man!'"

This was the last attempt made on the part of government to seize on the persons of any of the surviving insurgents. Three years before, Dr. Archibald Cameron, a brother of Locheill, having clandestinely revisited Scotland, was arrested, tried, and executed for high treason at Tyburn. The government was generally blamed for this act of severity, which was considered rather to have been dictated by revenge than required for the public safety. It is, however, probable that they might have had secret information of certain negotiations which were still conducted in the Highlands by the agents of the Stuart family, and that they considered it necessary, by one terrible example, to overawe the insurrectionary spirit. This I believe to have been the real motive of an execution which otherwise could not have been palliated: and, in the case of Lord Pitsligo, it is quite possible that the zeal of a partisan may have led him to take a step which would not have been approved of by the ministry. After the lapse of so many years, and after so many scenes of judicial bloodshed, the nation would have turned in disgust from the spectacle of an old man, whose private life was not only blameless, but exemplary, dragged to the scaffold, and forced to lay down his head in expiation of a doubtful crime: and this view derives corroboration from the fact that, shortly afterwards, Lord Pitsligo was tacitly permitted to return to the society of his friends, without further notice or persecution.

Dr. King, the Principal of St. Mary's Hall, Oxford, has borne the following testimony to the character of Lord Pitsligo. "Whoever is so happy, either from his natural disposition, or his good judgment, constantly to observe St. Paul's precept, 'to speak evil of no one' will certainly acquire the love and esteem of the whole community of which he is a member. But such a man is the _rara avis in terris_; and, among all my acquaintance, I have known only one person to whom I can with truth assign this character. The person I mean is the present Lord Pitsligo of Scotland. I not only never heard this gentleman speak an ill word of any man living, but I always observed him ready to defend any other person who was ill spoken of in his company. If the person accused were of his acquaintance, my Lord Pitsligo would always find something good to say of him as a counterpoise. If he were a stranger, and quite unknown to him, my lord would urge in his defence the general corruption of manners, and the frailties and infirmities of human nature.

"It is no wonder that such an excellent man, who, besides, is a polite scholar, and has many other great and good qualities, should be universally admired and beloved--insomuch, that I persuade myself he has not one enemy in the world. At least, to this general esteem and affection for his person, his preservation must be owing; for since his attainder he has never removed far from his own house, protected by men of different principles, and unsought for and unmolested by government." To which eulogy it might be added, by those who have the good fortune to know his representatives, that the virtues here acknowledged seem hereditary in the family of Pitsligo.

The venerable old nobleman was permitted to remain without molestation at the residence of his son, during the latter years of an existence protracted to the extreme verge of human life. And so, says the author of his memoirs, "In this happy frame of mind,--calm and full of hope,--the saintly man continued to the last, with his reason unclouded, able to study his favourite volume, enjoying the comforts of friendship, and delighting in the consolations of religion, till he gently 'fell asleep in Jesus.' He died on the 21st of December, 1762, in the eighty-fifth year of his age; and to his surviving friends the recollection of the misfortunes which had accompanied him through his long life was painfully awakened even in the closing scene of his mortal career--as his son had the mortification to be indebted to a stranger, now the proprietor of his ancient inheritance by purchase from the crown, for permission to lay his father's honoured remains in the vault which contained the ashes of his family for many generations."

Such a character as this is well worthy of remembrance; and Lord Pitsligo has just title to be called the last of the old Scottish Cavaliers. I trust that, in adapting the words of the following little ballad to a well-known English air, I have committed no unpardonable larceny.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: See _Blackwood's Magazine_ for May 1829.--Article "Lord Pitsligo."]

THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER

I.

Come listen to another song, Should make your heart beat high, Bring crimson to your forehead, And the lustre to your eye;-- It is a song of olden time, Of days long since gone by, And of a Baron stout and bold As e'er wore sword on thigh! Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

II.

He kept his castle in the north, Hard by the thundering Spey; And a thousand vassals dwelt around All of his kindred they. And not a man of all that clan Had ever ceased to pray For the Royal race they loved so well, Though exiled far away From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers, All of the olden time!

III.

His father drew the righteous sword For Scotland and her claims, Among the loyal gentlemen And chiefs of ancient names Who swore to fight or fall beneath The standard of King James, And died at Killiecrankie pass With the glory of the Graemes; Like a true old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

IV.

He never owned the foreign rule, No master he obeyed, But kept his clan in peace at home, From foray and from raid; And when they asked him for his oath, He touched his glittering blade, And pointed to his bonnet blue, That bore the white cockade: Like a leal old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

V.

At length the news ran through the land-- THE PRINCE had come again! That night the fiery cross was sped O'er mountain and through glen; And our old Baron rose in might, Like a lion from his den, And rode away across the hills To Charlie and his men, With the valiant Scottish cavaliers, All of the olden time!

VI.

He was the first that bent the knee When the STANDARD waved abroad, He was the first that charged the foe On Preston's bloody sod; And ever, in the van of fight, The foremost still he trod, Until, on bleak Culloden's heath, He gave his soul to God, Like a good old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

VII.

Oh! never shall we know again A heart so stout and true-- The olden times have passed away, And weary are the new: The fair White Rose has faded From the garden where it grew, And no fond tears save those of heaven The glorious bed bedew Of the last old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

BLIND OLD MILTON

Place me once more, my daughter, where the sun May shine upon my old and time-worn head, For the last time, perchance. My race is run; And soon amidst the ever-silent dead I must repose, it may be, half forgot. Yes! I have broke the hard and bitter bread For many a year, with those who trembled not To buckle on their armour for the fight, And set themselves against the tyrant's lot; And I have never bowed me to his might, Nor knelt before him--for I bear within My heart the sternest consciousness of right, And that perpetual hate of gilded sin Which made me what I am; and though the stain Of poverty be on me, yet I win More honour by it, than the blinded train Who hug their willing servitude, and bow Unto the weakest and the most profane. Therefore, with unencumbered soul I go Before the footstool of my Maker, where I hope to stand as undebased as now! Child! is the sun abroad? I feel my hair Borne up and wafted by the gentle wind, I feel the odours that perfume the air, And hear the rustling of the leaves behind. Within my heart I picture them, and then I almost can forget that I am blind, And old, and hated by my fellow-men. Yet would I fain once more behold the grace Of nature ere I die, and gaze again Upon her living and rejoicing face-- Fain would I see thy countenance, my child, My comforter! I feel thy dear embrace-- I hear thy voice, so musical, and mild, The patient, sole interpreter, by whom So many years of sadness are beguiled; For it hath made my small and scanty room Peopled with glowing visions of the past. But I will calmly bend me to my doom, And wait the hour which is approaching fast, When triple light shall stream upon mine eyes, And heaven itself be opened up at last To him who dared foretell its mysteries. I have had visions in this drear eclipse Of outward consciousness, and clomb the skies, Striving to utter with my earthly lips What the diviner soul had half divined, Even as the Saint in his Apocalypse Who saw the inmost glory, where enshrined Sat He who fashioned glory. This hath driven All outward strife and tumult from my mind, And humbled me, until I have forgiven My bitter enemies, and only seek To find the straight and narrow path to heaven.

Yet I am weak--oh! how entirely weak, For one who may not love nor suffer more! Sometimes unbidden tears will wet my cheek, And my heart bound as keenly as of yore, Responsive to a voice, now hushed to rest, Which made the beautiful Italian shore, In all its pomp of summer vineyards drest, An Eden and a Paradise to me. Do the sweet breezes from the balmy west Still murmur through thy groves, Parthenope, In search of odours from the orange bowers? Still on thy slopes of verdure does the bee Cull her rare honey from the virgin flowers? And Philomel her plaintive chaunt prolong 'Neath skies more calm and more serene than ours, Making the summer one perpetual song? Art thou the same as when in manhood's pride I walked in joy thy grassy meads among, With that fair youthful vision by my side, In whose bright eyes I looked--and not in vain? O my adored angel! O my bride! Despite of years, and woe, and want, and pain, My soul yearns back towards thee, and I seem To wander with thee, hand in hand, again, By the bright margin of that flowing stream. I hear again thy voice, more silver-sweet Than fancied music floating in a dream, Possess my being; from afar I greet The waving of thy garments in the glade, And the light rustling of thy fairy feet-- What time as one half eager, half afraid, Love's burning secret faltered on my tongue, And tremulous looks and broken words betrayed The secret of the heart from whence they sprung. Ah me! the earth that rendered thee to heaven Gave up an angel beautiful and young, Spotless and pure as snow when freshly driven: A bright Aurora for the starry sphere Where all is love, and even life forgiven. Bride of immortal beauty--ever dear! Dost thou await me in thy blest abode? While I, Tithonus-like, must linger here, And count each step along the rugged road; A phantom, tottering to a long-made grave, And eager to lay down my weary load!

I, who was fancy's lord, am fancy's slave. Like the low murmurs of the Indian shell Ta'en from its coral bed beneath the wave, Which, unforgetful of the ocean's swell, Retains within its mystic urn the hum Heard in the sea-grots where the Nereids dwell-- Old thoughts still haunt me--unawares they come Between me and my rest, nor can I make Those aged visitors of sorrow dumb. Oh, yet awhile, my feeble soul, awake! Nor wander back with sullen steps again; For neither pleasant pastime canst thou take In such a journey, nor endure the pain. The phantoms of the past are dead for thee; So let them ever uninvoked remain, And be thou calm, till death shall set thee free. Thy flowers of hope expanded long ago, Long since their blossoms withered on the tree: No second spring can come to make them blow, But in the silent winter of the grave They lie with blighted love and buried woe.

I did not waste the gifts which nature gave, Nor slothful lay in the Circéan bower; Nor did I yield myself the willing slave Of lust for pride, for riches, or for power. No! in my heart a nobler spirit dwelt; For constant was my faith in manhood's dower; Man--made in God's own image--and I felt How of our own accord we courted shame, Until to idols like ourselves we knelt, And so renounced the great and glorious claim Of freedom, our immortal heritage. I saw how bigotry, with spiteful aim, Smote at the searching eyesight of the sage, How error stole behind the steps of truth, And cast delusion on the sacred page. So, as a champion, even in early youth I waged my battle with a purpose keen; Nor feared the hand of terror, nor the tooth Of serpent jealousy. And I have been With starry Galileo in his cell, That wise magician with the brow serene, Who fathomed space; and I have seen him tell The wonders of the planetary sphere, And trace the ramparts of heaven's citadel On the cold flag-stones of his dungeon drear. And I have walked with Hampden and with Vane-- Names once so gracious to an English ear-- In days that never may return again. My voice, though not the loudest, hath been heard Whenever freedom raised her cry of pain, And the faint effort of the humble bard Hath roused up thousands from their lethargy, To speak in words of thunder. What reward Was mine, or theirs? It matters not; for I Am but a leaf cast on the whirling tide, Without a hope or wish, except to die. But truth, asserted once, must still abide, Unquenchable, as are those fiery springs Which day and night gush from the mountain-side, Perpetual meteors girt with lambent wings, Which the wild tempest tosses to and fro, But cannot conquer with the force it brings. Yet I, who ever felt another's woe More keenly than my own untold distress; I, who have battled with the common foe, And broke for years the bread of bitterness; Who never yet abandoned or betrayed The trust vouchsafed me, nor have ceased to bless, Am left alone to wither in the shade, A weak old man, deserted by his kind-- Whom none will comfort in his age, nor aid!

Oh! let me not repine! A quiet mind, Conscious and upright, needs no other stay; Nor can I grieve for what I leave behind, In the rich promise of eternal day. Henceforth to me the world is dead and gone, Its thorns unfelt, its roses cast away: And the old pilgrim, weary and alone, Bowed down with travel, at his Master's gate Now sits, his task of life-long labour done, Thankful for rest, although it comes so late, After sore journey through this world of sin, In hope, and prayer, and wistfulness to wait, Until the door shall ope, and let him in.

HERMOTIMUS

Hermotimus, the hero of this ballad, was a philosopher, or rather a prophet, of Clazomenæ, who possessed the faculty, now claimed by the animal-magnetists, of effecting a voluntary separation between his soul and body; for the former could wander to any part of the universe, and even hold intercourse with supernatural beings, whilst the senseless frame remained at home. Hermotimus, however, was not insensible to the risk attendant upon this disunion; since, before attempting any of these aerial flights, he took the precaution to warn his wife, lest, ere the return of his soul, the body should be rendered an unfit or useless receptacle. This accident, which he so much dreaded, at length occurred; for the lady, wearied out by a succession of trances, each of longer duration than the preceding, one day committed his body to the flames, and thus effectually put a stop to such unconnubial conduct. He received divine honours at Clazomenæ, but must nevertheless remain as a terrible example and warning to all husbands who carry their scientific or spiritual pursuits so far as to neglect their duty to their wives.

It is somewhat curious that Hermotimus is not the only person (putting the disciples of Mesmer and Dupotet altogether out of the question) who has possessed this miraculous power. Another and much later instance is recorded by Dr. George Cheyne, in his work entitled, _The English Malady, or a Treatise of Nervous Diseases_, as having come under his own observation; and, as this case is exactly similar to that of the Prophet, it may amuse the reader to see how far an ancient fable may be illustrated, and in part explained, by the records of modern science. Dr. Cheyne's patient was probably cataleptic; but the worthy physician must be allowed to tell his own story.

"Colonel Townshend, a gentleman of honour and integrity, had for many years been afflicted with a nephritic complaint. His illness increasing, and his strength decaying, he came from Bristol to Bath in a litter, in autumn, and lay at the Bell Inn. Dr. Baynard and I were called to him, and attended him twice a-day; but his vomitings continuing still incessant and obstinate against all remedies, we despaired of his recovery. While he was in this condition, he sent for us one morning; we waited on him with Mr. Skrine, his apothecary. We found his senses clear, and his mind calm: his nurse and several servants were about him. He told us he had sent for us to give him an account of an odd sensation he had for some time observed and felt in himself; which was, that, by composing himself, _he could die or expire when he pleased_; and yet by an effort, or somehow, he could come to life again, which he had sometimes tried before he had sent for us. We heard this with surprise; but, as it was not to be accounted for upon common principles, we could hardly believe the fact as he related it, much less give any account of it; unless he should please to make the experiment before us, which we were unwilling he should do, lest, in his weak condition, he might carry it too far. He continued to talk very distinctly and sensibly above a quarter of an hour about this surprising sensation, and insisted so much on our seeing the trial made, that we were at last forced to comply. We all three felt his pulse first--it was distinct, though small and thready, and his heart had its usual beating. He composed himself on his back, and lay in a still posture for some time: while I held his right hand, Dr. Baynard laid his hand on his heart, and Mr. Skrine held a clean looking-glass to his mouth. I found his pulse sink gradually, till at last I could not find any by the most exact and nice touch. Dr. Baynard could not feel the least motion in his heart, nor Mr. Skrine the least soil of breath on the bright mirror he held to his mouth; then each of us by turns examined his arm, heart, and breath, but could not, by the nicest scrutiny, discover the least symptom of life in him. We reasoned a long time about this odd appearance as well as we could, and all of us judging it inexplicable and unaccountable; and, finding he still continued in that condition, we began to conclude that he had indeed carried the experiment too far; and at last were satisfied he was actually dead, and were just ready to leave him. This continued about half an hour. As we were going away, we observed some motion about the body; and, upon examination, found his pulse and the motion of his heart gradually returning. He began to breathe gently and speak softly. We were all astonished to the last degree at this unexpected change; and, after some further conversation with him, and among ourselves, went away fully satisfied as to all the particulars of this fact, but confounded and puzzled, and not able to form any rational scheme that might account for it."

HERMOTIMUS

I.

"Wilt not lay thee down in quiet slumber? Weary dost thou seem, and ill at rest; Sleep will bring thee dreams in starry number-- Let him come to thee and be thy guest. Midnight now is past-- Husband! come at last-- Lay thy throbbing head upon my breast."

II.