Chapter X: The Antiquary

Washington Irving's story of a week spent with Scott at Abbotsford always leaves in my mind an indescribable thrill of pleasure. Partly because Irving really did have a delightful experience such as falls to the lot of few men and partly because he knew, better than others, how to transfer his own pleasurable emotions to the minds of other people, it is certain that, to my mind at least, there is no single sketch in all the Scott literature, not even in Lockhart's brilliant work, that throws a stronger light upon the Great Wizard's character or illuminates a more attractive picture.

It was a happy week for the American visitor, and I imagine it contained no happier moment than when the younger author nestled by the side of his warm-hearted friend, under the lee of a sheltering bank during a shower, the plaid of the Scotchman closely wrapped around them both, while the enchanting flow of anecdote, reminiscence, and whimsical suggestion went merrily on in spite of the Scottish mist. It was in the course of their walk on this particular morning that Scott stopped at the cottage of a labourer on his estate to examine some tongs that had been dug up in the Roman camp near by. 'As he stood regarding the relic,' says Irving, 'turning it round and round, and making comments on it, half grave, half comic, with the cottage group around him, all joining occasionally in the {146} colloquy, the inimitable character of Monkbarns was again brought to mind and I seemed to see before me that prince of antiquarians and humourists, holding forth to his unlearned and unbelieving neighbours.' There was something peculiarly delightful about Scott's antiquarianism. He seemed to feel that those who were without his own knowledge of values were inclined to smile at his enthusiasm, and whenever he talked on his favourite subject there was an undercurrent of sly humour which gave an exquisite flavour to his conversation. The discovery of anything ancient, whether a ruined castle, a broadsword or sporran from the Highlands, or a scrap of some old ballad, gave him the greatest pleasure, and nothing afforded his friends more enjoyment than to be able to present him with such relics and curiosities as they knew he would appreciate. A casual walk through the Entrance Hall and Armory of Abbotsford, where hundreds of helmets, suits of armour, swords, guns, pistols, and curiosities of infinite variety are displayed, is enough to suggest to any one that Sir Walter himself was the real Jonathan Oldbuck of 'The Antiquary.' A glance at the Library, with its collection of twenty thousand rare old volumes, is enough to prove that Scott, like Monkbarns, was not only an antiquary but a bibliophile as well. Who but a genuine enthusiast could have written that chapter in which the worthy Mr. Oldbuck exhibits the treasures of his sanctum sanctorum to Mr. Lovel? 'These little Elzevirs are the memoranda and trophies of many a walk by night and morning through the Cowgate, the Canongate, the Bow, St. Mary's Wynd,--wherever, in fine, there were to be found brokers and trokers, those miscellaneous dealers in things {147} rare and curious. How often have I stood haggling on a half penny, lest, by a too ready acquiescence in the dealer's first price, he should be led to suspect the value I set upon the article!--how have I trembled, lest some passing stranger should chop in between me and the prize, and regarded each poor student of divinity that stopped to turn over the books at the stall as a rival amateur, or prowling bookseller in disguise!--And, then, Mr. Lovel, the sly satisfaction with which one pays the consideration, and pockets the article, affecting a cold indifference, while the hand is trembling with pleasure!'

It was during the visit to Prestonpans, previously mentioned, that Scott, a child of six, first made the acquaintance of George Constable, an old friend of his father's, who resided near Dundee. He must have learned from this gentleman something which started in him the antiquarian instincts, for, as he himself has remarked, 'children derive impulses of a powerful and important kind in hearing things which they cannot entirely comprehend.' Certainly he put enough of Mr. Constable into the description of Jonathan Oldbuck to cause various friends to recognize him; and as Constable's intimacy with Scott's father was well known, this gave colour to the suspicion that Scott himself was the unknown author of 'The Antiquary.' But even a more faithful delineation of George Constable than the book contains would have failed to bring out the real charm of the delightful Oldbuck. It is the Scott part of his nature that we really enjoy.

Next to the Antiquary himself, old Edie Ochiltree is the character who is chiefly responsible for the pleasant {148} flavour of this book. He is a mendicant whom it is a real pleasure to meet. His amiable nature, his sly good humour, and his genuine friendliness win your affection in the beginning and hold it to the very end. He is a picture drawn from real life, though it is probable that old Andrew Gemmels, his prototype, did not possess the many endearing qualities with which the novelist invested Edie.

The 'blue gowns' of the south of Scotland were a class of licensed beggars, known as the 'King's Bedesmen.' The number of them was supposed to be the same as the years of the King's life, so it was necessary to initiate a new member of the aristocracy of paupers every year. At every royal birthday each bedesman received a new light-blue cloak or gown and a pewter badge, together with a purse containing as many pennies as the years of the King's life. Their sole duty was to pray for long life for the King, which, considering that the older the sovereign the larger the purse, they might very cheerfully do. In return, all laws against beggars were suspended in their favour, and the 'blue gowns' went about from house to house, fairly assured of food and lodging and seemingly free from care.

The service of the 'blue gown' to the community is best set forth in the words of Edie Ochiltree, who apparently considered himself a public benefactor:--

And then what wad a' the country about do for want o' auld Edie Ochiltree, that brings news and country cracks frae ae farm-steading to anither and gingerbread to the lasses, and helps the lads to mend their fiddles and the gudewives to clout their pans, and plaits rush-swords and grenadier caps for the weans and busks the lairds' flees, and has skill o' {149} cow-ills and horse-ills, and kens mair auld sangs and tales than a' the barony besides, and gars ilka body laugh whereever he comes? Troth, my leddy, I canna lay down my vocation; it would be a public loss.

Andrew Gemmels was well known throughout the Border country of Scotland for more than half a century as a professional beggar or 'gaberlunzie.' He had been a soldier in his youth and maintained his erect military carriage even in old age. He was very tall and carried a walking-stick almost as high as himself. His features were strongly intellectual, but marked by a certain fierceness and austerity of expression, the result of his long and peculiar contact with all sorts of hard experiences. Scott, who had often met him, comments upon his remarkable gracefulness. With his striking attitudes he would have made a fine model for an artist. One of his chief assets was an unusual power of sarcasm, coupled with a keen wit, the fear of which often gained for him favours which might otherwise have been denied. He was full of reminiscences of the wars and of adventures in foreign lands, which he told in a droll fashion, coupled with a shrewd wit, that always made him an entertaining visitor. He wandered about the country at pleasure, demanding entertainment as a right, which was accorded usually without question. His preference as to sleeping quarters was the stable or some outbuilding where cattle were kept. He never burdened anybody, usually appearing at the same place only once or twice a year. He always had money--frequently more than those of whom he begged. When a certain parsimonious gentleman expressed regret that he had no silver in his pocket or he would have given him sixpence, Andrew promptly {150} replied, 'I can give you change for a note, laird.' In later years he travelled about on his own horse, a very good one, and carried a gold watch. He died at the age of a hundred and six years, leaving enough wealth to enrich a nephew, who became a considerable landholder. His tombstone in Roxburgh Churchyard, near Kelso, contains a quaint carved figure of the mendicant, above which are the words, 'Behold the end o' it.' This refers to an incident related by a writer in the 'Edinburgh Magazine' in 1817, the year after the publication of the novel:--

Many curious anecdotes of Andrew's sarcastic wit and eccentric manners are current in the Borders. I shall for the present content myself with one specimen, illustrative of Andrew's resemblance to his celebrated representative. The following is given as commonly related with much good humour by the late Mr. Dodds, of the War-Office, the person to whom it chiefly refers: Andrew happened to be present at a fair or market somewhere in Teviotdale (St. Boswell's if I mistake not) where Dodds, at that time a non-commissioned officer in His Majesty's service, happened also to be with a military party recruiting. It was some time during the American War, when they were eagerly beating up for fresh men--to teach passive obedience to the obdurate and ill-mannered Columbians; and it was then the practice for recruiting sergeants, after parading for a due space with all the warlike pageantry of drums, trumpets, 'glancing blades, and gay cockades,' to declaim in heroic strains the delights of the soldier's life, of glory, patriotism, plunder, the prospect of promotion for the bold and the young, and His Majesty's munificent pension for the old and the wounded, etc., etc. Dodds, who was a man of much natural talent, and whose abilities afterwards raised him to an honourable rank and independent fortune, had made one of his most brilliant speeches on this occasion. A crowd of ardent and anxious {151} rustics were standing round, gaping with admiration at the imposing mien, and kindling at the heroic eloquence, of the manly soldier, whom many of them had known a few years before as a rude tailor boy; and the sergeant himself, already leading in idea a score of new recruits, had just concluded, in a strain of more than usual elevation, his oration in praise of the military profession, when Gemmels, who, in tattered guise, was standing close behind him, reared aloft his _meal-pocks_ on the end of his kent or pike-staff, and exclaimed, with a tone and aspect of the most profound derision, 'Behold the end o' it!' The contrast was irresistible--the beau-ideal of Sergeant Dodds, and the ragged reality of Andrew Gemmels, were sufficiently striking; and the former, with his red-coat followers, beat a retreat in some confusion, amidst the loud and universal laughter of the surrounding multitude.

The character of the old 'gaberlunzie,' as revealed in this anecdote, was so faithfully transferred by the novelist to Edie Ochiltree, that in spite of some embellishments he was immediately recognized.

To study the scenery of 'The Antiquary,' we went to Arbroath, a town on the east coast of Scotland, which traces its beginnings back to the twelfth century. This is the original of Fairport, and we found all of the scenery of the novel in the immediate neighbourhood. In the midst of a shower which threatened destruction to all photographic attempts, we made our first visit to the ruins of the Abbey of St. Thomas, the original of St. Ruth's. It was a disappointment to find this ruin in the heart of the city, instead of a 'wild, sequestered spot,' where a 'pure and profound lake' discharged itself into a 'huddling and tumultuous brook.' But the Wizard always reserved the right to transplant his ruined castles and abbeys to suit his taste, and he was quite justified {152} in transferring St. Ruth's to more romantic surroundings, particularly as there is a deep ravine known as Seaton Den, on the coast north of Arbroath, which answers every requirement.

Thanks to the British Government, which took charge of the abbey in 1815, there is still left enough of the walls to make a picturesque ruin of considerable extent. For two centuries previously the people of the village freely used the stones for building purposes. It is necessary to go back six centuries to find the church in its full perfection, when it was one of the richest and most sumptuously furnished establishments in Scotland. In the year 1320, a parliament was held in the abbey by King Robert the Bruce, and a letter, regarded as one of the most remarkable documents in early British history, was sent to the Pope, appealing for a recognition of Scottish independence.

The original abbey was founded in the year 1178 by William the Lion, a Scottish monarch whose name is associated with nearly all of the principal buildings which form the scenes of 'The Antiquary.' It was dedicated to St. Thomas of Canterbury, the famous Thomas à Becket, whom William had met at the court of the English King, Henry II, when a young man. From ancient documents it would seem that the monastery was maintained in a state of great opulence and that it was open to all comers, rich and poor alike.

The predominating feature of the ruin, as it stands to-day, is the south wall, containing what the people of Arbroath call the 'Roond O,' a window twelve feet in diameter, immediately over the altar of St. Catharine. Beneath this opening is a gallery with seven arches of {153} carved stone, suggesting the scene in 'The Antiquary' where the impostor, Dousterswivel, and Sir Arthur Wardour are digging for treasure in the ruins, while Lovel and Edie Ochiltree watch the performance from just such a place of concealment. We could almost smell the fumes of the 'suffumigation' and hear the violent sneezes of old Edie and the terrified ejaculation of Dousterswivel, 'Alle guten Geistern, loben den Herrn!'

Monkbarns, the home of Jonathan Oldbuck, is closely associated with the history of the abbey. When the fame of that establishment had spread throughout Scotland and England, there were many pilgrimages to the shrine of St. Thomas à Becket. Many of these pilgrims arrived sick and exhausted. To provide for them, a rude hospital was ordered built, about two miles away from the abbey, on lands now occupied by a handsome building known as Hospitalfield. In Scott's day this house was very much less pretentious and might well have corresponded with his description of an 'irregular and old-fashioned building, some part of which had belonged to a grange, or solitary farmhouse, inhabited by the bailiff, or steward of the monastery, when the place was in possession of the monks. It was here that the community stored up the grain which they received as ground-rent from their vassals; ... and hence, as the present proprietor loved to tell, came the name of Monkbarns.' Readers of 'The Antiquary' will remember the altercation between Oldbuck and his sister when the latter was requested to make a bed ready for Mr. Lovel. '"A bed? The Lord preserve us!" ejaculated Grizel. "Why, what's the matter now? Are there not beds and rooms enough in the house? Was it not an ancient _hospitium_ {154} in which, I am warranted to say, beds were nightly made down for a score of pilgrims?"'

The property has a beautiful situation and is otherwise so desirable that it passed from the monks into private hands centuries ago. It finally came into the possession of Patrick Allan-Fraser, who made such extensive additions that whatever is left of the original building owned by the monks is completely covered up. This public-spirited gentleman, who died in 1890, left the estate in trust for the benefit and encouragement of young men who desired to study painting, sculpture, wood-carving, architecture, or engraving, and the house is now occupied by teachers and students. It has an art gallery containing some valuable paintings, sculptures, and wood-carvings, and a library of old documents and rare folios that would delight the soul of Jonathan Oldbuck himself.

It was the most natural thing in the world for us, after visiting Monkbarns, to seek the residence of his Tory friend and fellow antiquarian, Sir Arthur Wardour, although we did not find it within easy walking distance as might have been inferred. Ethie Castle has been generally fixed upon by local writers as the original of Knockwinnock. The present building is one of the country-seats of the Earl of Northesk. It is a red-stone structure of considerable antiquity and irregular design, which nevertheless made a pleasing picture when seen at a distance of several hundred yards from the front. A tiny brook crossed by a wooden bridge and flanked by huge rhododendrons in full bloom made a charming foreground. Beyond was a sloping field of tall grass, which had been mown only enough to make a broad path in {155} the midst of which were countless thousands of dainty pink-and-white daisies. On either side were ample groves of well-foliaged trees, making a vista in which the old red mansion appeared to excellent advantage.

Ethie Castle was part of the endowment which William the Lion granted to the Abbey of Aberbrothock. It therefore dates back to the year 1178. In the sixteenth century it was the residence of Cardinal Beaton, who seems to have bequeathed to it the 'Cardinal's Chapel,' by which name a room in the house is still known and 'the tramp of the Cardinal's leg,' a weird, ghostly sound of footsteps on the old stone stairs, with which the castle is haunted. After the death of the Cardinal, a natural daughter laid claim to the estate. Thus, as with Knockwinnock, the 'bar-sinister' appears on the escutcheon of the family.

Directly east of Ethie Castle and not far distant are the cliffs of Red Head. The coast for some miles north of Arbroath is a series of huge cliffs, with many strange caverns and curious rock formations. Almost any of them, but Red Head perhaps better than the others, would serve as the scene of the thrilling incident in 'The Antiquary,' in which Sir Arthur Wardour and his daughter are overtaken by the tide and rescued with great difficulty by Saunders Mucklebackit, ably assisted by Lovel and Edie Ochiltree. Two huge rocks rise almost perpendicularly from the shore. It is easily conceivable that any attempt to walk around them, in the face of a swiftly rising tide, would be fraught with dangerous, if not fatal, consequences.

The village of Auchmithie, the home of the Mucklebackits, is situated on one of the cliffs south of Red {156} Head. This is the most realistic of all the scenes of 'The Antiquary.' The village, with the exception of a new hotel, is practically as it was when Scott was a visitor in 1814. There is but one street, and that has no name; but the houses are numbered, city-fashion. The post-office address of an inhabitant would, therefore, give the number of the house and the name of the town, omitting any mention of a street; thus the old fisherman, who posed for me and to whom I mailed a photograph, lives at Number 58, Auchmithie, Scotland. This old fellow is a type of the neighbours of Saunders Mucklebackit. The habits of life of the people, their dress, their occupations, their houses, their furniture, even their names, are the same as they were a hundred years ago. I asked the old man how old his house was. He replied, 'Ou, I dinna ken hoo auld. I'se seventy-two mysel' and I was born here and my grandfeyther, too.' Several others of whom I asked the same question gave substantially the same answer.

The post-office was in one of these ancient cottages, with a new front, but otherwise unchanged. Its occupant was quite communicative. He said it was the original Cargill Cottage, and that George Cargill, who occupied it a century ago, was the original Mucklebackit. 'When Walter Scott came to Auchmithie,' said he, 'he came by boat. There was n't any way to land except through the breakers and he could n't do that without getting his feet wet. So Cargill had to carry him ashore on his back. When he set him down on dry land, Scott clapped him on the back and said, '"What a muckle backed fellow you are, Geordie, to be sure!" Muckle, you see, sir, means "much" or "big," and George had a {157} great big broad back, so that's how Walter Scott got the name, Mucklebackit.' He let me take a photograph of the interior of the cottage, where a single room served for bedroom, breakfast-room, kitchen, and numerous other purposes. I suppose the cottage of Saunders Mucklebackit must have presented much the same appearance to Monkbarns when he walked in to attend the funeral of young Steenie Mucklebackit and won the hearts of all by performing the office of chief mourner, according the family the rare honour of having the laird 'carry the head of the deceased to the grave.'

I found a very pleasant family group in front of the next cottage, and after a few moment's conversation asked permission to take their picture. Not hearing a dissenting voice, I understood my request would be granted and began to set up my camera in the street. Before I had half made ready, the entire group had disappeared. The police department of the town then marched up to me,--one man strong,--and for a moment I felt afraid I had been violating some law. But he was only curious, and told me that the people had a strange aversion to being photographed. I left my camera all focused and ready in the street and sauntered with the constable to the side of the road. In a few minutes a picturesque old fishwife, carrying two large empty pails in each hand, came out of her house, all unconscious of the awful presence of a loaded camera and I quickly stepped out and pressed the bulb. 'That's Coffee Betz you got then,' laughed the constable. 'She would n't let you take her picture, but she's one of the Cargills.' In this way I came as near as possible to getting a photograph of the original Luckie Mucklebackit {158} with whom Monkbarns haggled over the price of a bannock-fluke and a cock-padle. For the fishwives of to-day are the same as those of a century ago,--'they keep the man, and keep the house, and keep the siller, too.' The men consider their own work ended when the boat is pulled up on the beach. It is the wife who must market the fish, which she does by carrying them on her back to the nearest town, where she must 'scauld and ban wi' ilka wife that will scauld and ban wi' her' until the fish are sold. 'Them that sell the goods guide the purse--them that guide the purse rule the house,' and therefore by common consent in these communities, the wife is the head of the family.

Back from Auchmithie is the mansion house of Kinblethmont, surrounded by some fine old woods. It will be remembered that Edie Ochiltree was passing this place on his return from the Earl of Glenallan's castle when he was arrested on a charge of assaulting Dousterswivel. Colonel Lindsay, of Kinblethmont, and the Laird of Hospitalfield were the leaders who took the direction of affairs when a French privateer named the 'Dreadnought' threatened the town of Arbroath in very much the same way as Fairport was menaced in 'The Antiquary.' The same scenes of excitement so vividly described in the novel were there enacted.

Scott, however, had passed through a similar experience himself, which enabled him to write the dramatic event with greater ease. For several years, in the early part of the nineteenth century, the people of England and Scotland were kept in a state of nervous dread by the expectation of an invasion by the French. Beacons were erected all along the coast ready to give instant {159} alarm, and militia organizations were everywhere kept in a state of readiness. A false alarm on February 2, 1804, brought out the volunteers of Berwickshire, Roxburghshire, and Selkirkshire with surprising rapidity. Scott had gone with his wife for a visit to Gilsland, the scene of their courtship. He was then a member of the Edinburgh Volunteers. When the alarm came he promptly mounted his horse and rode with all speed to Dalkeith, a distance of one hundred miles, within twenty-four hours. The alarm had subsided when he reached his destination, and after a few jolly evenings with his fellow volunteers he returned to the south. It was on this hurried trip that he composed a poem, entitled, 'The Bard's Incantation.'

'The Antiquary' thus closes as it began, with a leaf out of the author's personal experience. I have no doubt that he heartily enjoyed its composition. It must have been an exquisite pleasure to one so appreciative of genuine humour to caricature his own antiquarian foibles; to weave into the pages of romance the many tales he had heard in his youth of a character so interesting as the old 'gaberlunzie'; and to make the people of his fancy walk the streets of the ancient seaport town, visit the old abbey, saunter along the cliffs of the seashore, or roam about over the adjacent country, where he had spent many pleasant hours in the company of well-loved friends.

Although Scott's own opinion at first was that 'The Antiquary' lacked the romance of 'Waverley' and the adventure of 'Guy Mannering,' yet in subsequent years he came to regard it as his favourite among all the Waverley Novels.

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