Part 21

Amongst the social features of a bygone age in Edinburgh were the _bickers_ in which the boys were wont to indulge—that is, street conflicts, conducted chiefly with stones, though occasionally with sticks also, and even more formidable weapons. One cannot but wonder that, so lately as the period when elderly men now living were boys, the powers for preserving peace in the city should have been so weak as to allow of such battles taking place once or twice almost every week. The practice was, however, only of a piece with the general rudeness of those old days; and, after all, there was more appearance than reality of danger attending it. It was truly, as one who had borne a part in it has remarked, ‘only a rough kind of play.’[160]

The most likely time for a bicker was Saturday afternoon, when the schools and hospitals held no restraint over their tenants. Then it was almost certain that either the Old Town and New Town boys, the George Square and Potterrow boys, the Herioters and the Watsoners, or some other parties accustomed to regard themselves as natural enemies, would meet on some common ground, and fall a-pelting each other. There were hardly anywhere two adjoining streets but the boys respectively belonging to them would occasionally hold encounters of this kind; and the animosity assumed a darker tinge if there was any discrepancy of rank or condition between the parties, as was apt to be the case when, for instance, the Old Town lads met the children of the aristocratic streets to the north. Older people looked on with anxiety, and wondered what the Town-guard was about, and occasionally reports were heard that such a boy had got a wound in the head, while another had lost a couple of his front teeth; it was even said that fatal cases had occurred in the memory of aged citizens. Yet, to the best of my recollection—for I do remember something of bickers—there was little likelihood of severe damage. The parties somehow always kept at a good distance from each other, and there was a perpetual running in one direction or another; certainly nothing like hand-to-hand fighting. Occasionally attempts were made to put down the riot, but seldom with much success; for it was one of the most ludicrous features of these contests that whenever the Town-guard made its appearance on the ground, the belligerent powers instantly coalesced against the common foe. Besides, they could quickly make their way to other ground, and there continue the war.

Bickers must have had a foundation in human nature: from no temporary effervescence of the boy-mind did they spring; pleasant, though wrong, had they been from all time. Witness the following act of the Town-council so long ago as 1529: ‘_Bikkyrringis betwix Barnis_.—It is statut and ordainit be the prouest ballies and counsall Forsamekle as ther has bene gret bikkyrringis betwix barnis and followis in tymes past and diuerse thar throw hurt in perell of ther lyffis and gif sik thingis be usit thar man diuerse barnis and innocentis be slane and diuisione ryse amangis nychtbouris theirfor we charge straitlie and commandis in our Souerane Lord the Kingis name the prouest and ballies of this burgh that na sic bykkyrringis be usit in tymes to cum. Certifing that and ony persone be fund bykkyrrand that faderis and moderis sall ansuer and be accusit for thar deidis and gif thai be vagabondis thai to be scurgit and bannist the toune.’

An anecdote which Scott has told of his share in the bickers which took place in his youth between the George Square youth and the plebeian fry of the neighbouring streets is so pat to this occasion that its reproduction may be excusable. ‘It followed,’ he says, ‘from our frequent opposition to each other, that, though not knowing the names of our enemies, we were yet well acquainted with their appearance, and had nicknames for the most remarkable of them. One very active and spirited boy might be considered as the principal leader in the cohort of the suburbs. He was, I suppose, thirteen or fourteen years old, finely made, tall, blue-eyed, with long fair hair, the very picture of a youthful Goth. This lad was always first in the charge and last in the retreat—the Achilles, at once, and Ajax, of the Crosscauseway. He was too formidable to us not to have a cognomen, and, like that of a knight of old, it was taken from the most remarkable part of his dress, being a pair of old green livery breeches, which was the principal part of his clothing; for, like Pentapolin, according to Don Quixote’s account, Green Breeks, as we called him, always entered the battle with bare arms, legs, and feet.

‘It fell that, once upon a time, when the combat was at the thickest, this plebeian champion headed a sudden charge, so rapid and furious that all fled before him. He was several paces before his comrades, and had actually laid his hands on the patrician standard, when one of our party, whom some misjudging friend had entrusted with a _couteau de chasse_, or hanger, inspired with a zeal for the honour of the corps worthy of Major Sturgeon himself, struck poor Green Breeks over the head with strength sufficient to cut him down. When this was seen, the casualty was so far beyond what had ever taken place before that both parties fled different ways, leaving poor Green Breeks, with his bright hair plentifully dabbled in blood, to the care of the watchman, who (honest man) took care not to know who had done the mischief. The bloody hanger was flung into one of the Meadow ditches, and solemn secrecy was sworn on all hands; but the remorse and terror of the actor were beyond all bounds, and his apprehensions of the most dreadful character. The wounded hero was for a few days in the Infirmary, the case being only a trifling one. But though inquiry was strongly pressed on him, no argument could make him indicate the person from whom he had received the wound, though he must have been perfectly well known to him. When he recovered, and was dismissed, the author and his brother opened a communication with him, through the medium of a popular gingerbread baker, of whom both parties were customers, in order to tender a subsidy in name of smart-money. The sum would excite ridicule were I to name it; but sure I am that the pockets of the noted Green Breeks never held as much money of his own. He declined the remittance, saying that he would not sell his blood; but at the same time reprobated the idea of being an informer, which he said was _clam_—that is, base or mean. With much urgency he accepted a pound of snuff for the use of some old woman—aunt, grandmother, or the like—with whom he lived. We did not become friends, for the bickers were more agreeable to both parties than any more pacific amusement; but we conducted them ever after under mutual assurances of the highest consideration for each other.’[161]

FOOTNOTES

[160] Notes to _Waverley_.

[161] _Waverley Annotations_, i. 70.

SUSANNA, COUNTESS OF EGLINTOUNE.

The house on the west side of the Old Stamp-office Close, High Street, formerly Fortune’s Tavern, was, in the early part of the last century, the family mansion of Alexander, Earl of Eglintoune. It is a building of considerable height and extent, accessible by a broad scale stair. The alley in which it is situated bears great marks of former respectability, and contained, till the year 1821, the Stamp-office, then removed to the Waterloo Buildings.[162]

The ninth Earl of Eglintoune[163] was one of those patriarchal peers who live to an advanced age—indefatigable in the frequency of their marriages and the number of their children—who linger on and on, with an unfailing succession of young countesses, and die at last leaving a progeny interspersed throughout the whole of Douglas’s _Peerage_, two volumes, folio, re-edited by Wood. His lordship, in early life, married a sister of Lady Dundee, who brought him a large family, and died just about that happy period when she could not have greatly increased it. His next wife was a daughter of Chancellor Aberdeen, who only added one daughter to his stock, and then paused, in a fit of ill-health, to the great vexation of his lordship, who, on account of his two sons by the first countess having died young, was anxious for an heir. This was a consummation to his nuptial happiness which Countess Anne did not seem at all likely to bring about, and the chagrin of his lordship must have been increased by the longevity which her very ill-health seemed to confer upon her; for her ladyship was one of those valetudinarians who are too well acquainted with death, being always just at his door, ever to come to closer quarters with him. At this juncture the blooming Miss Kennedy was brought to Edinburgh by her father, Sir Archibald, the rough old cavalier, who made himself so conspicuous in _the Persecution_ and in Dundee’s wars.

Susanna Kennedy, though the daughter of a lady considerably under the middle size—one of the three co-heiresses of the Covenanting general, David Leslie (Lord Newark), whom Cromwell overthrew at Dunbar—was six feet high, extremely handsome, elegant in her carriage, and had a face and complexion of most bewitching loveliness. Her relations and nurses always anticipated that she was to marry the Earl of Eglintoune, in spite of their disparity of age;[164] for, while walking one day in her father’s garden at Culzean, there alighted upon her shoulder a hawk, with his lordship’s name upon its bells, which was considered an infallible omen of her fate. Her appearance in Edinburgh, which took place about the time of the Union, gained her a vast accession of lovers among the nobility and gentry, and set all the rhyming fancies of the period agog. Among her swains was Sir John Clerk of Penicuik, a man of learning and talent in days when such qualities were not common. As Miss Kennedy was understood to be fond of music, he sent her a flute as a love-gift; from which it may be surmised that this instrument was played by females in that age, while as yet the pianoforte was not. When the young lady attempted to blow the instrument, something was found to interrupt the sound, which turned out to be a copy of verses in her praise:

‘Harmonious pipe, I languish for thy bliss, When pressed to Silvia’s lips with gentle kiss! And when her tender fingers round thee move In soft embrace, I listen and approve Those melting notes which soothe my soul in love. Embalmed with odours from her breath that flow, You yield your music when she’s pleased to blow; And thus at once the charming lovely fair Delights with sounds, with sweets perfumes the air. Go, happy pipe, and ever mindful be To court bewitching Silvia for me; Tell all I feel—you cannot tell too much— Repeat my love at each soft melting touch— Since I to her my liberty resign, Take thou the care to tune her heart to mine.’

Unhappily for this accomplished and poetical lover, Lord Eglintoune’s sickly wife happened just about this time to die, and set his lordship again at large among the spinsters of Scotland. Admirers of a youthful, impassioned, and sonnet-making cast might have trembled at his approach to the shrine of their divinity; for his lordship was one of those titled suitors who, however old and horrible, are never rejected, except in novels and romances. It appears that poor Clerk had actually made a declaration of his passion for Miss Kennedy, which her father was taking into consideration, a short while before the death of Lady Eglintoune. As an old friend and neighbour, Sir Archibald thought he would consult the earl upon the subject, and he accordingly proceeded to do so. Short but decisive was the conference. ‘Bide a wee, Sir Archy,’ said his lordship; ‘my wife’s very sickly.’ With Sir Archibald, as with Mrs Slipslop, the least hint sufficed: the case was at once settled against the elegant baronet of Penicuik. The lovely Susanna accordingly became in due time the Countess of Eglintoune.

Even after this attainment of one of the greatest blessings that life has to bestow,[165] the old peer’s happiness was like to have been destroyed by another untoward circumstance. It was true that he had the handsomest wife in the kingdom, and she brought him as many children as he could desire. One after another came no fewer than seven daughters. But then his lordship wanted a male heir; and every one knows how poor a consolation a train of daughters, however long, proves in such a case. He was so grieved at the want of a son that he threatened to divorce his lady. The countess replied that he need not do that, for she would readily agree to a separation, provided he would give back what he had with her. His lordship, supposing she alluded only to pecuniary matters, assured her she should have her fortune to the last penny. ‘Na, na, my lord,’ said she, ‘that winna do: return me my youth, beauty, and virginity, and dismiss me when you please.’ His lordship, not being able to comply with this demand, willingly let the matter drop; and before the year was out her ladyship brought him a son, who established the affection of his parents on an enduring basis. Two other male children succeeded. The countess was remarkable for a manner quite peculiar to herself, and which was remembered as the _Eglintoune air_, or the _Eglintoune manner_, long after her death. A Scottish gentleman, writing from London in 1730, says: ‘Lady Eglintoune has set out for Scotland, much satisfied with the honour and civilities shown her ladyship by the queen and all the royal family: she has done her country more honour than any lady I have seen here, both by a genteel and a prudent behaviour.’[166] Her daughters were also handsome women. It was a goodly sight, a century ago, to see the long procession of sedans, containing Lady Eglintoune and her daughters, devolve from the close and proceed to the Assembly Rooms, where there was sure to be a crowd of plebeian admirers congregated to behold their lofty and graceful figures step from the chairs on the pavement. It could not fail to be a remarkable sight—eight beautiful women, conspicuous for their stature and carriage, all dressed in the splendid though formal fashions of that period, and inspired at once with dignity of birth and consciousness of beauty! Alas! such _visions_ no longer illuminate the dark tortuosities of Auld Reekie!

Many of the young ladies found good matches, and were the mothers of men more or less distinguished for intellectual attainments. Sir James Macdonald, the Marcellus of the Hebrides, and his two more fortunate brothers, were the progeny of Lady Margaret; and in various other branches of the family talent seems to be hereditary.

The countess was herself a blue-stocking—at that time a sort of prodigy—and gave encouragement to the humble literati of her time. The unfortunate Boyse dedicated a volume of poems to her; and I need scarcely remind the Scottish reader that the _Gentle Shepherd_ was laid at her ladyship’s feet. The dedication prefixed to that pastoral drama contains what appears the usual amount of extravagant praise; yet it was perhaps little beyond the truth. For the ‘penetration, superior wit, and profound judgment’ which Allan attributes to her ladyship, she was perhaps indebted in some degree to the lucky accident of her having exercised it in the bard’s favour; but he assuredly overstrained his conscience very little when he said she was ‘possessed of every outward charm in the most perfect degree.’ Neither was it too much to speak of ‘the unfading beauties of wisdom and piety’ which adorned her ladyship’s mind.’[167] Hamilton of Bangour’s prefatory verses, which are equally laudatory and well bestowed, contain the following beautiful character of the lady, with a just compliment to her daughters:

‘In virtues rich, in goodness unconfined, Thou shin’st a fair example to thy kind; Sincere, and equal to thy neighbours’ fame, How swift to praise, how obstinate to blame! Bold in thy presence bashfulness appears, And backward merit loses all its fears. Supremely blest by Heaven, Heaven’s richest grace Confest is thine—an early blooming race; Whose pleasing smiles shall guardian wisdom arm— Divine instruction!—taught of thee to charm, What transports shall they to thy soul impart (The conscious transports of a parent’s heart), When thou behold’st them of each grace possessed, And sighing youths imploring to be blest After thy image formed, with charms like thine, Or in the visit or the dance[168] to shine: Thrice happy who succeed their mother’s praise, The lovely Eglintounes of other days!’

It may be remarked that her ladyship’s thorough-paced Jacobitism, which she had inherited from her father, tended much to make her the friend of Ramsay, Hamilton, and other Cavalier bards. She was, it is believed, little given to patronising Whig poets.

The patriarchal peer who made Susanna so happy a mother died in 1729, leaving her a dowager of forty, with a good jointure. Retiring to the country, she employed her widowhood in the education of her children, and was considered a perfect example to all mothers in this useful employment. In our days of freer manners, her conduct might appear too reserved. The young were taught to address her by the phrase ‘Your ladyship;’ and she spoke to them in the same ceremonious style. Though her eldest son was a mere boy when he succeeded to the title, she constantly called him Lord Eglintoune; and she enjoined all the rest of the children to address him in the same manner. When the earl grew up, they were upon no less formal terms; and every day in the world he took his mother by the hand at the dinner-hour, and led her downstairs to her chair at the head of his table, where she sat in state, a perfect specimen of the stately and ostentatious politeness of the last age.

All this ceremony was accompanied with so much affection that the countess was never known to refuse her son a request but one—to walk as a peeress at the coronation of King George III. Lord Eglintoune, then a gentleman of the bedchamber, was proud of his mother, and wished to display her noble figure on that occasion. But she jestingly excused herself by saying that it was not worth while for so old a woman to buy new robes.

The unhappy fate of her eldest and favourite son—shot by a man of violent passions, whom he was rashly treating as a poacher (1769)—gave her ladyship a dreadful shock in her old age. The earl, after receiving the fatal wound, was brought to Eglintoune Castle, when his mother was immediately sent for from Auchans. What her feelings must have been when she saw one so dear to her thus suddenly struck down in the prime of his days may be imagined. The tenderness he displayed towards her and others in his last hours is said to have been to the last degree noble and affecting.

When Johnson and Boswell returned from their tour to the Hebrides, they visited Lady Eglintoune at Auchans. She was so well pleased with the doctor, his politics, and his conversation that she embraced and kissed him at parting, an honour of which the gifted tourist was ever afterwards extremely proud. Boswell’s account of the interview is interesting. ‘Lady Eglintoune,’ says he, ‘though she was now in her eighty-fifth year, and had lived in the country almost half a century, was still a very agreeable woman. Her figure was majestic, her manners high-bred, her reading extensive, and her conversation elegant. She had been the admiration of the gay circles, and the patroness of poets. Dr Johnson was delighted with his reception here. Her principles in church and state were congenial with his. In the course of conversation, it came out that Lady Eglintoune was married the year before Dr Johnson was born; upon which she graciously said to him that she might have been his mother, and she now adopted him.’

This venerable woman amused herself latterly in taming and patronising rats. She kept a vast number of these animals in her pay at Auchans, and they succeeded in her affections to the poets and artists whom she had loved in early life. It does not reflect much credit upon the latter that her ladyship used to complain of never having met with true gratitude except from four-footed animals. She had a panel in the oak wainscot of her dining-room, which she tapped upon and opened at meal-times, when ten or twelve jolly rats came tripping forth and joined her at table. At the word of command, or a signal from her ladyship, they retired again obediently to their native obscurity—a trait of good sense in the character and habits of the animals which, it is hardly necessary to remark, patrons do not always find in two-legged protégés.

Her ladyship died in 1780, at the age of ninety-one, having preserved her stately mien and beautiful complexion to the last. The latter was a mystery of fineness to many ladies not the third of her age. As her secret may be of service to modern beauties, I shall, in kindness to the sex, divulge it. _She never used paint, but washed her face periodically with SOW’S MILK!_ I have seen a portrait, taken in her eighty-first year, in which it is observable that her skin is of exquisite delicacy and tint. Altogether, the countess was a woman of ten thousand!

The jointure-house of this fine old country-gentlewoman—Auchans Castle, a capital specimen of the Scottish manor-house of the seventeenth century, situated near Irvine—is now uninhabited, and the handsome wainscoted rooms in which she entertained Johnson and Boswell are fast hastening to decay. One last trait may now be recorded; in her ladyship’s bedroom at this place was hung a portrait of her sovereign _de jure_, the ill-starred Charles Edward, so situated as to be _the first object which met her sight on awaking in the morning_.

FOOTNOTES

[162] The buildings in this alley are now demolished.

[163] He is said to have been a nobleman of considerable talent, and a great underhand supporter of the exiled family; see the _Lockhart Papers_. George Lockhart had married his daughter Euphemia, or _Lady Effie_, as she was commonly called. In the _Edinburgh Annual Register_ there is preserved a letter from Lord Eglintoune to his son, replete with good sense as well as paternal affection.

[164] The earl was forty-nine and Miss Kennedy twenty.

[165] The anecdote which follows is chiefly taken from _The Tell-tale_, a rare collection, published in 1762.

[166] Notes by C. K. Sharpe in Stenhouse’s edition of the _Scots Musical Museum_, ii. 200.

[167] As a specimen of the complimentary intercourse of the poet with Lady Eglintoune, an anecdote is told of her having once sent him a basket of fine fruit; to which he returned this stanza:

‘Now, Priam’s son, ye may be mute, For I can bauldly brag wi’ thee; Thou to the fairest gave the fruit— The fairest gave the fruit to me.’

The love of raillery has recorded that on this being communicated by Ramsay to his friend Eustace Budgell, the following comment was soon after received from the English wit:

‘As Juno fair, as Venus kind, She may have been who gave the fruit; But had she had Minerva’s mind, She’d ne’er have given ’t to such a brute.’

[168] An old gentleman told our informant that he never saw so beautiful a figure in his life as Lady Eglintoune at a Hunters’ Ball in Holyrood House, dancing a minuet in a large hoop, and a suit of black velvet, trimmed with gold.

FEMALE DRESSES OF LAST CENTURY.