Chapter 7

There can be little doubt that Blind Harry, during his lifetime, became a favourite, nay, a power in the realm. Wherever he circulated, there circulated the fame of Wallace; there, his deeds were recounted; there, hatred of a foreign foe, and love to their native land, were inculcated as first principles; and long after the Homer of Scotland had breathed his last, and been consigned perhaps to some little kirkyard among the uplands, his lays continued to live; and we know that such a man as Burns (who read them in the modern paraphrase of William Hamilton of Gilbertfield, a book which was, till within a somewhat recent period, a household god in the libraries of the Scotch) derived from the old singer much of 'that national prejudice which boiled in his breast till the floodgates of life shut in eternal rest.' If Barbour, as we said, was fortunate in his subject, still more was Blind Harry in his. The interest felt in Wallace is of a deeper and warmer kind than that which we feel in Bruce. Bruce was of royal blood; Wallace was from an ancient but not wealthy family. Bruce stained his career by one great crime --great in itself, but greater from the peculiar notions of the age --the murder of Comyn in the sanctuary of Dumfries; on the character of Wallace no similar imputation rests. Wallace initiated that plan of guerilla warfare,--that fighting now on foot and now on the wing, now with beak and now with talons, now with horns and now with hoofs,--which Bruce had only to perfect. Wallace was unsuccessful, and was besides treated by the King of England with revolting barbarity; while Bruce became victorious: and, as we saw in our remarks on Chaucer, it is the unfortunate brave who stamp themselves most forcibly on a nation's heart, and it is the red letters, which tell of suffering and death, which are with most difficulty erased from a nation's tablets. On Bruce we look somewhat as we regard Washington,--a great, serene man, who, after long reverses, nobly sustained, gained a notable national triumph; to Wallace we feel, as the Italians do to Garibaldi, as a demon of warlike power,--blending courage and clemency, enthusiasm and skill, daring and determination, in proportions almost superhuman,--and we cry with the poet,

'The sword that seem'd fit for archangel to wield, Was light in his terrible hand.'

We have often regretted that Sir Walter Scott, who, after all, has not done full justice to Bruce in that very unequal and incondite poem 'The Lord of the Isles,' had not bent his strength upon the Ulysses bow of Wallace, and filled up that splendid sketch of a part of his history to be found near the beginning of 'The Fair Maid of Perth.' As it is, after all that a number of respectable writers, such as Miss Porter, Mrs Hemans, Findlay, the late Mr Macpherson of Glasgow, and others, have done--in prose or verse, in the novel, the poem, or the drama--to illustrate the character and career of the Scottish hero, Blind Harry remains his poet.

It is necessary to notice that Harry derived, by his own account, many of the facts of his narrative from a work by John Blair, a Benedictine monk from Dundee, who acted as Wallace's chaplain, and seems to have composed a life of him in Latin, which is lost. Besides these, he doubtless mingled in the story a number of traditions--some true, and some false--which he found floating through the country. His authority in reference to certain disputed matters, such as Wallace's journey to France, and his capture of the Red Rover, Thomas de Longueville, who became his fast friend and fellow-soldier, was not long ago entirely established by certain important documents brought to light by the Maitland Club. It is probable that some other of his supposed misstatements--always excepting his ghost-stories--may yet receive from future researches the confirmation they as yet want. Blind Harry, living about a century and a half after the era of Wallace, and at a time when tradition was the chief literature, was not likely to be able to test the evidence of many of the circumstances which he narrated; but he seems to speak in good faith: and, after all, what Paley says is unquestionably true as a general principle--'Men tell lies about minute circumstantials, but they rarely invent.'

BATTLE OF BLACK-EARNSIDE.

Kerlie beheld unto the bold Heroun, Upon Fawdoun as he was looking down, A subtil stroke upward him took that tide, Under the cheeks the grounden sword gart[1] glide, By the mail good, both halse[2] and his craig-bane[3] In sunder strake; thus ended that chieftain, To ground he fell, feil[4] folk about him throng, 'Treason,' they cried, 'traitors are us among.' Kerlie, with that, fled out soon at a side, His fellow Steven then thought no time to bide. The fray was great, and fast away they yeed,[5] Both toward Earn; thus 'scaped they that dread. Butler for woe of weeping might not stint. Thus recklessly this good knight have they tint.[6] They deemed all that it was Wallace' men, Or else himself, though they could not him ken; 'He is right near, we shall him have but[7] fail, This feeble wood may little him avail.' Forty there pass'd again to Saint Johnstoun, With this dead corpse, to burying made it boune.[8] Parted their men, syne[9] divers ways they rode, A great power at Dupplin still there 'bode. To Dalwryeth the Butler pass'd but let,[10] At sundry fords the gate[11] they unbeset,[12] To keep the wood while it was day they thought. As Wallace thus in the thick forest sought, For his two men in mind he had great pain, He wist not well if they were ta'en or slain, Or 'scaped haill[13] by any jeopardy. Thirteen were left with him, no more had he; In the Gaskhall their lodging have they ta'en. Fire got they soon, but meat then had they nane; Two sheep they took beside them of a fold, Ordain'd to sup into that seemly hold: Graithed[14] in haste some food for them to dight:[15] So heard they blow rude horns upon height. Two sent he forth to look what it might be; They 'bode right long, and no tidings heard he, But bousteous[16] noise so bryvely blowing fast; So other two into the wood forth pass'd. None came again, but bousteously can blaw, Into great ire he sent them forth on raw.[17] When that alone Wallace was leaved there, The awful blast abounded meikle mare;[18] Then trow'd he well they had his lodging seen; His sword he drew of noble metal keen, Syne forth he went whereat he heard the horn. Without the door Fawdoun was him beforn, As to his sight, his own head in his hand; A cross he made when he saw him so stand. At Wallace in the head he swakked[19] there, And he in haste soon hint[20] it by the hair, Syne out again at him he could it cast, Into his heart he greatly was aghast. Right well he trow'd that was no sprite of man, It was some devil, that sic[21] malice began. He wist no wale[22] there longer for to bide. Up through the hall thus wight Wallace can glide, To a close stair, the boards they rave[23] in twin,[24] Fifteen foot large he lap out of that inn. Up the water he suddenly could fare, Again he blink'd what 'pearance he saw there, He thought he saw Fawdoun, that ugly sire, That haill[25] hall he had set into a fire; A great rafter he had into his hand. Wallace as then no longer would he stand. Of his good men full great marvel had he, How they were tint through his feil[26] fantasy. Trust right well that all this was sooth indeed, Suppose that it no point be of the creed. Power they had with Lucifer that fell, The time when he parted from heaven to hell. By sic mischief if his men might be lost, Drowned or slain among the English host; Or what it was in likeness of Fawdoun, Which brought his men to sudden confusion; Or if the man ended in ill intent, Some wicked sprite again for him present. I cannot speak of sic divinity, To clerks I will let all sic matters be: But of Wallace, now forth I will you tell. When he was won out of that peril fell, Right glad was he that he had 'scaped sa,[27] But for his men great mourning can he ma.[28] Flait[29] by himself to the Maker above Why he suffer'd he should sic paining prove. He wist not well if that it was God's will; Right or wrong his fortune to fulfil, Had he pleas'd God, he trow'd it might not bo He should him thole[30] in sic perplexity. But great courage in his mind ever drave, Of Englishmen thinking amends to have. As he was thus walking by him alone Upon Earnside, making a piteous moan, Sir John Butler, to watch the fords right, Out from his men of Wallace had a sight; The mist again to the mountains was gone, To him he rode, where that he made his moan. On loud he speir'd,[31] 'What art thou walks that gate?' 'A true man, Sir, though my voyage be late; Errands I pass from Down unto my lord, Sir John Stewart, the right for to record, In Down is now, newly come from the King.' Then Butler said, 'This is a selcouth[32] thing, You lied all out, you have been with Wallace, I shall thee know, ere you come off this place;' To him he start the courser wonder wight, Drew out a sword, so made him for to light. Above the knee good Wallace has him ta'en, Through thigh and brawn in sunder strake the bane.[33] Derfly[34] to dead the knight fell on the land. Wallace the horse soon seized in his hand, An ackward stroke syne took him in that stead, His craig in two; thus was the Butler dead. An Englishman saw their chieftain was slain, A spear in rest he cast with all his main, On Wallace drave, from the horse him to bear; Warily he wrought, as worthy man in weir.[35] The spear ho wan withouten more abode, On horse he lap,[36] and through a great rout rode; To Dalwryeth he knew the ford full well: Before him came feil[37] stuffed[38] in fine steel. He strake the first, but bade,[39] on the blasoun,[40] Till horse and man both fleet[41] the water down. Another soon down from his horse he bare, Stamped to ground, and drown'd withouten mair.[42] The third he hit in his harness of steel, Throughout the cost,[43] the spear it brake some deal. The great power then after him can ride. He saw no waill[44] there longer for to bide. His burnish'd brand braithly[45] in hand he bare, Whom he hit right they follow'd him na mair.[46] To stuff the chase feil freiks[47] follow'd fast, But Wallace made the gayest aye aghast. The muir he took, and through their power yede, The horse was good, but yet he had great dread For failing ere he wan unto a strength, The chase was great, skail'd[48] over breadth and length, Through strong danger they had him aye in sight. At the Blackford there Wallace down can light, His horse stuffed,[49] for way was deep and lang, A large great mile wightly on foot could gang.[50] Ere he was hors'd riders about him cast, He saw full well long so he might not last. Sad[51] men indeed upon him can renew, With returning that night twenty he slew, The fiercest aye rudely rebutted he, Keeped his horse, and right wisely can flee, Till that he came the mirkest[52] muir amang. His horse gave over, and would no further gang.

[1] 'Gart:' caused. [2] 'Halse:' throat. [3] 'Craig-bane:' neck-lone. [4] 'Feil:' many. [5] 'Yeed:' went. [6] 'Tint:' lost. [7] 'But:' without. [8] 'Boune:' ready. [9] 'Sync:' then. [10] 'But let:' without impediment. [11] 'Gate:' way. [12] 'Unbeset:' surround. [13] 'Haill:' wholly. [14] 'Graithed:' prepared. [15] 'Dight:' Make ready. [16] 'Bousteous:' boisterous. [17] 'On raw:' one after another. [18] 'Meikle mare:' much more. [19] 'Swakked:' pitched. [20] 'Hint:' took. [21] 'Sic:' such. [22] 'Wale:' advantage. [23] 'Rave:' split. [24] 'Twin:' twain. [25] 'Haill:'whole. [26] 'Feil:' great. [27] 'Sa:' so. [28] 'Ma:' make. [29] 'Flait:' chided. [30] 'Thole:' suffer. [31] 'Speir'd:' asked. [32] 'Selcouth:' strange. [33] 'Bane:' bone. [34] 'Derfly:' Quickly. [35] 'Weir:' war. [36] 'Lap:' leaped. [37] 'Feil:' many. [38] 'Stuffed:' armed. [39] 'But bade:' without delay. [40] 'Blasoun:' dress over armour. [41] 'Fleet:' float. [42] 'Mair:' more. [43] 'Cost:' side. [44] 'Waill:' advantage. [45] 'Braithly:' violently. [46] 'Na mair:' no more. [47] 'Feil freiks:' many fierce fellows. [48] 'Skail'd:' spread. [49] 'Stuffed:' blown. [50] 'Gang:' go. [51] 'Sad:' steady. [52] 'Mirkest:' darkest.

THE DEATH OF WALLACE.

On Wednesday the false Southron forth him brought To martyr him, as they before had wrought.[1] Of men in arms led him a full great rout. With a bold sprite good Wallace blink'd about: A priest he ask'd, for God that died on tree. King Edward then commanded his clergy, And said, 'I charge you, upon loss of life, None be so bold yon tyrant for to shrive. He has reign'd long in contrare my highness.' A blithe bishop soon, present in that place; Of Canterbury he then was righteous lord; Against the king he made this right record, And said, 'Myself shall hear his confessioun, If I have might, in contrare of thy crown. An[2] thou through force will stop me of this thing, I vow to God, who is my righteous king, That all England I shall her interdict, And make it known thou art a heretic. The sacrament of kirk I shall him give: Syne[3] take thy choice, to starve[4] or let him live. It were more 'vail, in worship of thy crown, To keep such one in life in thy bandoun,[5] Than all the land and good that thou hast reft, But cowardice thee aye from honour dreft.[6] Thou hast thy life rougin[7] in wrongous deed; That shall be seen on thee, or on thy seed.' The king gart[8] charge they should the bishop tae,[9] But sad[10] lords counselled to let him gae. All Englishmen said that his desire was right. To Wallace then he raiked[11] in their sight, And sadly heard his confession till an end: Humbly to God his sprite he there commend, Lowly him served with hearty devotion Upon his knees, and said an orison. A psalter-book Wallace had on him ever, From his childhood from it would not dissever; Better he trow'd in voyage[12] for to speed. But then he was despoiled of his weed.[13] This grace he ask'd at Lord Clifford, that knight, To let him have his psalter-book in sight. He gart a priest it open before him hold, While they till him had done all that they would. Steadfast he read for ought they did him there; Foil[14] Southrons said that Wallace felt no sair.[15] Good devotion so was his beginning, Continued therewith, and fair was his ending; Till speech and spirit at once all can fare To lasting bliss, we trow, for eveermair.

[1] 'Wrought:' contrived. [2] 'An:' if. [3] 'Syne:' then. [4] 'Starve:' perish. [5] 'Bandoun:' disposal. [6] 'Dreft:' drove. [7] 'Rougin:' spent. [8] 'Gart:' caused. [9] 'Tae:' take. [10] 'Sad:' grave. [11] 'Raiked:' walked. [12] 'Voyage:' journey to heaven. [13] 'Weed:' clothes. [14] 'Feil:' many. [15] 'Sair:' sore.

JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND.

Here we have a great ascent from our former subject of biography--from Blind Harry to James I.--from a beggar to a king. But in the Palace of Poetry there are 'many mansions,' and men of all ranks, climes, characters, professions, and we had almost added _talents_, have been welcome to inhabit there. For, even as in the House Beautiful, the weak Ready-to-halt and the timid Much-afraid were as cheerfully received as the strong Honest and the bold Valiant-for-truth; so Poetry has inspired children, and seeming fools, and maniacs, and mendicants with the finest breath of her spirit. The 'Fable-tree' Fontaine is as immortal as Corneille; Christopher Smart's 'David' shall live as long as Milton's 'Paradise Lost;' and the rude epic of a blind wanderer, whose birth, parentage, and period of death are all alike unknown, shall continue to rank in interest with the productions of one who inherited that kingdom of Scotland, the independence of which was bought by the successive efforts and the blended blood of Wallace and Bruce.

Let us now look for a moment at the history and the writings of this 'Royal Poet.' The name will suggest to all intelligent readers the title of one of the most pleasing papers in Washington Irving's 'Sketch-book.' James I. was the son of Robert III. of Scotland,--a character familiar to all from the admirable 'Fair Maid of Perth,'--and of Annabella Stewart. He was created Earl of Carrick; and after the miserable death of the Duke of Rothesay, his elder brother, his father, apprehensive of the further designs of Albany, determined to send James to France, to find an asylum and receive his education in that friendly Court. On his way, the vessel was captured off Flamborough Head by an English cruiser, (the 13th of March 1405,) and the young prince, with his attendants, was conveyed to London, and committed to the Tower. As there was a truce between the two nations at the time, this was a flagrant outrage on the law of nations, and has indelibly disgraced the memory of Henry IV., who, when some one remonstrated with him on the injustice of the detention, replied, with cool brutality, 'Had the Scots been grateful, they ought to have sent the youth to me, for I understand French well.' Here for nineteen years,--during the remainder of the life of Henry IV., and the whole of the reign of Henry V.,--James continued. He was educated, however, highly, according to the fashion of these times, --instructed in the languages, as well as in music, painting, architecture, horticulture, dancing, fencing, poetry, and other accomplishments. Still it must have fretted his high spirit to be passing his young life in prison, while without horses were stamping, plumes glistening, trumpets sounding, tournaments waging, and echoes from the great victories of Henry V. in France ringing around. One sweetener of his solitude, however, he at length enjoyed. Having been transferred from the Tower to Windsor Castle, he beheld one day from its windows that beautiful vision he has described in 'The King's Quhair,' (see 'Specimens.') This was Lady Jane or Joanna Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, niece of Richard II., and grand-daughter of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. She was a lady of great beauty and accomplishments as well as of high rank, and James, even before he knew her name, became deeply enamoured. The passion was returned, and their mutual attachment had by and by an important bearing upon his prospects.

In 1423, the Duke of Bedford being now the English Regent, the friends of James renewed negotiations--often attempted before in vain--for his return to his native land, where his father had been long dead, and which, torn by factions and steeped in blood, was sorely needing his presence. Commissioners from the two kingdoms met at Pontefract on the 12th of May 1423, when, in presence of the young King, and with his consent, matters were arranged. The English coolly demanded L40,000 to defray the expense of James's nurture and education, (as though a _bill_ were handed in to a man who had been unjustly detained in prison on a false charge, ere he left its walls,) insisted on the immediate departure of the Scots from France, where a portion of them were fighting in the French army, and procured the assent of the Scottish Privy Council to the marriage of James with his beloved Jane Beaufort. A truce, too, with Scotland was concluded for seven years. All this was settled; and soon after, in the Church of St Mary Overies, Southwark, so often alluded to in the 'Life of Gower,' the happy pair were wed. It seemed a most auspicious event for both countries, and to augur the substitution of permanent peace for casual and temporary truces. To Lady Jane Beaufort it gave a crown, and a noble, gallant, and gifted prince to share it withal. On James it bestowed a lady of great beauty, who was regarded, too, with gratitude as having lightened the load of his captivity, and been a sunshine in his shady place, and--least consideration--who brought him a dowry of L10,000, which was, in fact, a remission of the fourth part of his ransom.

Attended by a magnificent retinue, the royal pair set out for Scotland. They were met at Durham by three hundred of the principal nobility and gentry, twenty-eight of whom were retained by the English as hostages for the national faith. Arrived on his native soil, James, at Melrose Abbey, gave his solemn assent on the Holy Gospels to the treaty; and seldom have the Eildon Hills returned a louder and more joyous shout of acclamation than now welcomed back to the kingdom of his fathers the 'Royal Poet.' He proceeded to Edinburgh, where he celebrated Easter with great pomp, and a month later, he and his queen were solemnly crowned inthe Abbey Church at Scone. This was in 1424. He lived after this only thirteen years; but the period of his reign has always been thought a glorious interlude in the dark early history of Scotland. He set himself, with considerable success, to curb the exorbitant power of the nobles, sacrificing some of them, such as Albany, to his just indignation. He passed many useful regulations in reference to the coinage, the constitution, and the commerce of the country. He suppressed with a strong hand some of the gangs of robbers and 'sorners' which abounded, founding instead the order of Bedesmen or King's Beggars, immortalised since in the character of Edie Ochiltree. He stretched a strong hand over the refractory Highland chieftains. While keeping at first on good terms with the English Court, he turned with a fonder eye to the French as the ancient allies of Scotland, and in 1436 gave his daughter Margaret in marriage to the Dauphin. This step roused the jealousy of his southern neighbours, who tried even to intercept the fleet that was conveying the bride across the Channel, whereupon James, stung to fury, proclaimed war against England, and in August commenced the siege of Roxburgh Castle. The castle, after being environed for fifteen days, was about to fall into his hands, when the Queen suddenly arrived in the camp, and communicated some information, probably referring to a threatened conspiracy of the nobles, which induced him to throw up the siege, disband his army, and return northward in haste. This unexpected step probably retarded, but could not prevent the dreadful purpose of death which had already been formed against the King.

In October 1436, he held his last Parliament in Edinburgh, in which, amidst many other enactments, we find, curiously enough, a prefiguration of the Forbes Mackenzie Act, in a decree that all taverns should be shut at nine o'clock. In the end of the year he determined on retiring to Perth, where (in the language of Gibbon, applied to Timour) 'he was expected by the Angel of Death.' It is said that, when about to cross the Frith of Forth, then called the Scottish Sea, a Highland woman, who claimed the character of a prophetess, like Meg Merrilees in fiction, met the cavalcade, and cried out, with a loud voice, 'My Lord the King, if you pass this water you shall never return again alive;' but as she was concluded to be mad or drunk, her warning was scorned. He betook himself to the convent of the Black Friars, where Christmas was being celebrated with great pomp and splendour. Meanwhile Robert Grahame, and Walter, Earl of Athole, the King's own uncle, actuated, the former by revenge on account of the resumption of some lands improperly granted to his family, and the latter by a desire to succeed to the Crown, had formed a plot against James's life. Several warnings, besides that of the Highland seeress, the King received, but he heeded them not, and, like most of the doomed, was in unnaturally high spirits, as if the winding-sheet far up his breast had been a wedding-robe.