Chapter XXXII: A Difference of Opinion (2)

Every one has doubtless read _The Antiquary_, and enjoyed the skill with which the keenest archæologist of the literary fraternity raised a laugh against his own favourite studies. The Kaim of Kinprunes and the ‘A.D.L.L.’ furnish the standard jest with which the Oldbucks of every future age will be assailed, and the bodle that he ‘thocht was an auld coin’ helps in the attack. Scotland being thus the scene of the most famous fictional story of this kind, it is curious to find it also the home of one of the best authenticated antiquarian hoaxes known to have been practised.

The story which we are about to narrate dates back to the reign of George the Third; and though now sixty years since, one of the parties to the hoax then perpetrated has just made the details of the story public in a letter read before the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland at an early meeting in the present year. The circumstances which led to the hoax being perpetrated were that, when the ruins of the eastern portion or choir of the old Abbey Church of Dunfermline were to be removed for the erection of what forms now the parish church, great anxiety was manifested to prove the truth of the statement, which, although found in the records, was to some extent believed to be doubtful, that Bruce the patriot king of Scotland was interred there. It may suffice for the purposes of the present sketch to state that the evidence that King Robert Bruce was really buried here is stated by the Rev. Peter Chalmers, in his _History of Dunfermline_, to be ‘clear, varied, and strong.’ Bruce died at Cardross in Dumbartonshire in 1329; and although he had confided to his faithful follower Sir James Douglas the task of conveying his heart to the Holy Land, Dunfermline was chosen by himself as his place of sepulture. Mr Chalmers quotes various entries in the Chartulary of Dunfermline in support of this; while in Barbour’s famous poem the king is spoken of as having been laid

In a fayr tumb, intill the quer.

In Fordun’s _Scotichronicon_ mention is also made of Bruce being interred ‘in the middle of the choir’ of the Abbey Church.

When the excavations were being made in 1818 for the erection of the new church, the operations were watched by many with great interest; and the Barons of Exchequer in Scotland, in whose custody were the royal palaces, &c., took some pains to secure that the remains of the king, if found, should be properly treated. Fulfilling completely the expectations entertained, a body incased in lead was found by the excavators, occupying exactly the place which the king’s remains would be expected to do. It was inwrapped in a double casing of lead; and some fragments of gold-embroidered linen cloth were also found, shewing that here at least was the tomb of no common person. The skeleton was that of a kingly man, six feet in height, with a splendid head, and in every way worthy of Scotland’s hero. And when the body came to be examined, previous to its reinterment, it was found that the _sternum_ or breast-bone had been sawn through longitudinally from top to bottom, this being the method adopted by the anatomists of the fourteenth century to reach the heart, for separate interment. This fact and the position of the body seemed to render it all but certain that the remains were those of Bruce; but still there remained a _possibility_ of mistake.

It was at this point the hoax was perpetrated of which we now proceed to speak. On the exhumation of the body, it was at once returned to the earth, and the place where it was found was closed in, flat stones being placed over the aperture. The discovery was reported to the Barons of Exchequer, and excited great interest in the minds of all Scottish people of patriotic or antiquarian feelings. Considerable delay, however, was made in determining what should be done; and it was not till November 1819 that, with much ceremony, the skeleton was recoffined and reinterred. The tomb was filled up with pitch, carefully built over and inclosed, and an elaborate Latin epitaph was prepared to the effect that the interesting discovery had been made amongst the ruins of the old church, &c. But as we have said, there was a possibility of mistake; and it entered into the heads of two young men that it would be a capital thing to convince the good folk of Dunfermline that their town really did contain the body of the king. One of these was the younger brother of the architect engaged in the new church, and the other an artist comrade. Their design was to get an old or old-looking bronze plate, and after inscribing suitable characters upon it, to find some means of getting it put into the partially opened grave, so that it would be discovered on proceeding with the work. Assisted by the gentleman who now tells the story, a plate was accordingly prepared bearing a device.

When the discovery of the plate was made, its existence jumped so completely with the public wish, that it was hailed with unquestioning and extravagant joy. So much delight was manifested and so seriously was the jest taken, that the perpetrators of it were afraid to confess what they had done.

A ludicrous incident occurred at the time. The provost of Dunfermline, a banker, sent for the artist, who joyfully waited on the chief magistrate, anticipating employment. This it was indeed, but of unexpected and unwelcome kind, for it was to make a drawing of his own plate, for the Transactions of one of the learned societies! His heart sunk, and his hand was tremulous; and he suggested to the provost that he could make the drawing better if allowed to take the plate home. The answer was startling. Amazed at the audacity of the request, the banker said: ‘I have more money in the bank just now than ever I had before; but I would rather give you the whole of it than let that plate out of my custody for an hour, until its destination is decided by the highest authorities.’ So the young artist had to sit down and make the drawing, afraid to hint at the ‘solemn mockery’ in which he was engaged. After a time suspicion fell on the plate, and it was generally believed to be a fabrication, although the details of the story were not known till now. The Rev. Mr Chalmers, whose work was published more than forty years ago, speaks of the plate as having been ‘satisfactorily ascertained not to be ancient.’ In Black’s _Guide to Scotland_, it is stated that the plate—of the _bona fides_ of which no doubt is expressed—may be seen in the Museum of the Society of Antiquaries at Edinburgh. But the estimation in which this relic (which would have been priceless if genuine) was held by the Society may be judged from the statement made by the Secretary at the meeting where the above story was made public, that he had had to search for the plate in the cellar in order to exhibit it to the Fellows.

The narrator of the story of which the above is an outline is Mr John Nimmo, whose name is associated with two journals of widely different repute. A printer by trade, he left Edinburgh for Paris in the year 1821, and was for many years one of the principal employés on _Galignani_. He is now enjoying well-earned repose after a lengthy life of labour. The cause of Mr Nimmo’s leaving Scotland recalls the history of a painful event, he having been the printer of the _Beacon_, a newspaper which gained unenviable notoriety by its virulent personal attacks on men obnoxious to the government of the day. The newspaper is memorable in the local history of Scotland from the tragic event in which Mr Stewart of Dunearn was engaged. Mr Stewart had endeavoured in vain to ascertain by whom the articles were written, and when the name of Mr Nimmo was given, he refused to accept him as responsible. After a while the _Beacon_ was given up, and a successor of the same character was started in Glasgow. Mr Stewart discovered that some of the articles in the latter were in the handwriting of Sir Alexander Boswell, the eldest son of Johnson’s biographer. He challenged Sir Alexander; and in the duel which ensued the latter was mortally wounded; and Mr Stewart, who was subsequently tried for the offence, was acquitted. The fact that Mr Nimmo did not return to Scotland for many years after the perpetration of the hoax in which he was concerned, and that then he found the question, if not forgotten, certainly exciting no interest, may explain why he has only now made public, in a letter to an old friend in Edinburgh, the above curious story.

VILLAGE VETERANS.

We are somewhat proud of the number of hale old people in our village, the salubrity of which outsiders are apt to question, on account of its proximity to the Fens. No doubt ague is still known amongst us in some degree; but the intending visitor who for that reason equips himself with stores of quinine, evinces just such an exaggerated dread as that which inspired Dr Johnson to provide himself with pistols on his memorable journey to the Highlands. Our death-rate is quite within the average, and longevity is one of our strong points. We must admit of course that many of our veterans are placed rather early on the list by rheumatism or asthma; but it is astonishing how long they contrive to continue there in spite of coughs and stiff joints. We keep a mental register of them one and all, know each of them personally, and take a lively interest in their condition, as becomes a parish doctor. There is an additional zest to our observations in the marked individualities amongst them, which a protracted village life has always a tendency to produce; but over and above local and professional pride in their length of years and the pleasure which mere character-study yields, there are certain general and loftier human grounds on which we might excuse a few remarks regarding our village veterans.

One sunny spot hard by the southern wall of the old bridge forms the favourite haunt of the old men in fine weather. There they muster in strength on the balmy summer mornings, and there the hardier of them forgather whenever there is a blink of sunshine.

Most of them walk by the aid of two sticks, the halest amongst them requiring the assistance of at least one, and on these they lean as they rest their backs against the warm red-brick wall. It is curious to note the heartiness of their morning greetings, and the ‘I’m bravely, thank ye,’ with which an octogenarian doubled up with suffering will answer the challenge as to his health. Their next task is to compare notes as to the past night’s experience, this mutual review of coughs and other specific ailments being often couched in phrases more quaint than elegant; as when dear old Jemmy Baxter said to his listeners the other day: ‘Dash my wig, if I didn’t think I wor agoin’ to die.’ Then follows much babbling of olden times, of strange things which happened when they were hale and hearty, of the sacks of corn they could carry, of the acres they could reap, of the hard work and big pay they had when the great drains were making, and not unseldom of the merry-makings and junketings of half a century ago. Or they talk with a keenness of interest, sadly suggestive, of the event of the day, be it the arrival of a new steam-plough or the latest twin-birth in the parish. Sometimes a scrap of news from the great world without, falls among them—a great shipwreck, a fresh battle, or a general election—and sets them agog with wonder and curiosity.

Old age, like most other inevitable things, is a great leveller, and our group sometimes consists of individuals who have held very various positions in life. The chief spokesman and referee in all matters of gossip is an old man-of-war sailor. He has many a tale to tell of ’board ship, but is best known as the village Zadkiel; a title given, we fancy, in derision rather than flattery. He has been every inch a seaman, and is even yet a good type of an old salt, in spite of rheumatism and crutches. The other veterans have for the most part been farm-labourers; some have been mechanics; several innkeepers and tradesmen; and one or two have been farmers in a small way. All now meet, however, on the common ground of age and infirmity. Old Dalboys, at one time the hectoring farmer of Longley, smokes the pipe of equality with Tommy Hill, whom for thirty years he had bullied as his horse-tender; while the superannuated schoolmaster gossips amicably with his ancient enemy the now retired sexton. They have buried old grudges, feuds, and animosities under that wall with the sunny southern exposure, as thoroughly as they must in any case do ere long under the chill walls of the old churchyard. No doubt they have their little childish jealousies still, but these are of a fresh growth. Sam Payne and Bill Shipley are both fond of the easy position afforded by the obtuse angle of a bend in the wall, and grumble a little when the other contrives to secure it. Occasionally John Shore, in the pride of his practical knowledge, will make a stir in the camp by doggedly disputing such a statement as that London lies north-east of Cambridge. At times, too, Billie Wright, who we fear is the butt of these veteran schoolboys, will totter off in dudgeon, because, being no smoker himself, some of the more vivacious of his mates get on the weather-side of him with their pipes. But these tiffs are harmless and ephemeral, and one can well afford to smile at and forget them in view of the genuine friendship and good-will that prevail.

There is, by the way, a certain hour on a certain day of every week—Wednesday, we believe—which never fails to bring a number of our veterans to the old bridge, wet or dry, cloud or sunshine, westling wind or downright nor’-easter. On such occasions they have company in the shape of a limited number of widows, most of them also well up in years, who, let us remark, deserve a full share of whatever sympathy we may be disposed to grant to our cronies of the other sex. The occasion of this special weekly gathering is one which a stranger would consider eminently sad and painful. They are waiting to receive their dole from the relieving officer, who, having many districts to visit, and no sheltered stations at any of them, is compelled to perform his interesting duty in the open air. The poor old souls, especially in bad weather, look anxiously down the road for the appearance of the gig and gray pony which conveys their ‘father,’ as, with a kind of grim humour, they have styled the official. Knowing them as we do, however, and their general cheerfulness and contentment, we are not disposed to claim any undue commiseration for their lot in this respect. The distressing side of such a scene presents itself to the reflecting onlooker rather than to themselves. They have drifted gradually—in almost every case be it said by sheer stress of circumstances—into the condition of outdoor paupers, and their wants have vanished one by one with the decrease of their means. Besides, none of them is altogether dependent on the parochial allowance. One has several grandchildren who earn a little; another has a married daughter who struggles to spare a trifle; and a third has a wife, younger and stronger than himself, who goes out as nurse or charwoman; while all of them are the objects of many small kindnesses at the hands of their better-off and sympathetic neighbours. Their actual aliment indeed contrasts favourably with that of several others, whose pinched incomes, derived from their own savings, place them outside the pale of both public and private charity.

The humble annals of some veterans of the latter class are, when rightly read, the record of doughty deeds, of amazing fortitude, and unwavering self-respect. Their old age is beset with petty cares that might daunt the hearts of younger men and women. Some are entirely alone in the world, having outlived kith and kin. They have to pinch and scrape, in the sternest and least lovely sense of that phrase, to make ends meet. Their daily anxiety is to keep out of debt; a dinner here and a supper there are ceded in the struggle, but there is no thought of surrender while life lasts. One old lady (we use the title advisedly, although she is only the widow of a jobbing carpenter) is now in her eighty-second year. She has buried all her family except one son, who is the village scapegrace and a sad thorn in his mother’s side. The cottage she occupies is her own; but her entire income from several other small properties is, when cleared of charges, only some seventeen pounds a year. She has no word of complaint to make, however, and her philosophy may be summed up in the few words she said to us the other day: ‘I am hearty for my years, sir. I have been able to pay my way all along and, God willing, I shall to the end. My only trouble is about Harry, and who knows but he may alter yet?’ Brave old heart and brave old comrades, who thus stand firm and undaunted in the last assault of the world and its cares!

But whatever their lot and whatever claim some may have to special interest and regard, the mere fact that they are all veterans in the great human array, entitles them without distinction to the sympathy of a younger generation. What need to pry too closely into their careers? To what purpose the reflection, that this one or that one did not acquit himself according to the strict standards of thrift, prudence, or perseverance? Let us accept the helplessness of age, which may have been reached through failures and weaknesses, in the same tender spirit that we do the helplessness of childhood, whose inherent weaknesses are yet untried. They are all under the wall now whose shadow lengthens across their forms in the setting of the sun. May the light of human sympathy also linger with them to the end, till veteran after veteran has quitted the old bridge for his long home, and his earthly haunts know him no more.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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_All Rights Reserved._

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[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text:

Page 348: beaf to beef—“corned beef”.]