Chapter XII: Old Mortality

In the grounds of the Observatory at Maxwelltown, across the river from Dumfries, is a small pavilion, enclosing two sculptured figures. One represents an old Scotchman, half reclining on a tombstone, a chisel in his left hand and a mallet resting by his side; the other is a pony, apparently waiting for his master to arise. The sculptures were the work of a local artist. They were disposed of by lottery to a young man, who died by accident the next day, and they are here deposited as a curious 'memorial to departed worth.'

The figures, thus used as a monument to the man who chanced to own them, were intended to represent a very different person. 'Old Mortality' and his pony were familiar to the people of Dumfriesshire and other parts of Scotland for more than forty years. His real name, as is well known, was Robert Paterson. He was a mason or stone-cutter by trade, who operated a small quarry. In middle life he became so thoroughly imbued with the religious enthusiasm of the Cameronians, of which austere sect he was a zealous member, that he felt impelled to desert his wife and five children, in order that he might perform the duty which, he conceived, had devolved upon him. This was to travel about the country and repair the gravestones of the martyred Covenanters. He would clear off the moss from the old stones and recut the half-defaced inscriptions, doing this often in {167} remote and almost inaccessible recesses of the mountains and moors. Scarcely a churchyard in Ayr, Galloway, or Dumfriesshire is without some evidences of his work.

In spite of his eccentricity there was a fine sincerity of purpose in the old man's devotion to his self-appointed task. He believed that each grave should serve as a warning to posterity to defend their religious faith, and he purposed to make every one, however obscure, a beacon light, so to speak, to proclaim to all the world the sufferings and devotion of the Covenanters, and thus to perpetuate the ideals for which they strove. However mistaken he may have been as to the wisdom of his methods, his calling was apparently as real to himself and as sincere as that of any minister of the Gospel. He was found dying on the highway one day in his eighty-sixth year, the little old white pony standing patiently by his side. Thus he wore out his life in the service of his religion, as truly devoted to it as any of the martyrs who perished on battle-field or scaffold. His grave is marked by an appropriate stone in the churchyard of Caerlaverock, south of Dumfries.

Scott, who once met the old man in the churchyard of Dunottar and saw him actually engaged in his usual task, sought an interview, but in spite of a good dinner and some liquid refreshments, which were quite acceptable, was unable to induce him to speak of his experiences. This was when the novelist was a young lawyer and long before he had thought of looking for materials for a novel.

'Old Mortality,' which many, including Lord Tennyson, have regarded as the greatest of Scott's novels, was {168} introduced to the public in a curious way. The real author, as usual, concealed his identity. The ostensible writer is Jedediah Cleishbotham, a schoolmaster, who in turn denies the actual authorship of the story, but claims to be merely the possessor of some posthumous papers of his late pupil, Peter Pattieson, who has only transcribed some tales he had heard from the landlord of Wallace Inn. Even the landlord was not original, for he received his information from the lips of 'Old Mortality.' Thus, by a circuitous route, the novelist derives this lengthy but extremely interesting tale from old Robert Paterson, whom he never saw but once, and then failed to make him talk!

After the Introduction and the first chapter, in which 'Old Mortality' is briefly presented, we hear no more of him. In this respect the novel irresistibly reminds me of the celebrated American humourist, who advertised his lecture on 'Milk.' When his usual large audience had assembled, he would step to the front of the platform and pour out, from a pitcher conveniently provided for the purpose, a glass of milk, which he would drink with great deliberation before uttering a word. The lecture then followed in which he kept his hearers convulsed with laughter, but there was never a word about milk.

Three events, all within the space of two months, form the historical basis of 'Old Mortality.' These are the murder of Archbishop Sharp on May 3, 1679, the skirmish at Drumclog on June 1, and the battle of Bothwell Bridge, June 22. It was during the era of the persecution, in the reign of Charles II, of the Scottish Covenanters, who persistently resisted the 'Conventicle Act' forbidding the gathering of more than five persons for {169} religious worship, except in accordance with the Established Church. James Sharp, Archbishop of St. Andrews, had incurred the hatred of the Covenanters by selfishly betraying the Scottish Kirk. An attempt upon his life was made in 1668 by Robert Mitchell, who was not arrested until six years later. He confessed under Sharp's personal promise of pardon, but was sent to Bass Island, where he remained a prisoner without trial for four years. Sharp then denied his promise, though it was proved by the court records, and demanded Mitchell's death. His base action met with speedy revenge. While driving with his daughter he was set upon by a party of nine men and put to death with the most atrocious cruelty.

The real leader in this murder was John Balfour of Burley, one of the fiercest and most fanatical of the proscribed sect. Though he professed the utmost religious fervour, Burley was more noted for the violence and zeal with which he undertook the most desperate enterprises and for his courage and skill with the sword. The murder of Sharp aroused the Government to new activities and no less stimulated the zeal of the Covenanters. Burley and a handful of his followers openly defied their enemies. On the anniversary of the Restoration, May 29, they interrupted the holiday, which they considered 'presumptuous and unholy.' They rode into the town of Rutherglen, extinguished the bonfires in honour of the day, burned the acts of Parliament for the suppression of the conventicles and other obnoxious laws, and concluded their 'solemn testimony' with prayer and psalms.

Three days later a conventicle was held near Loudon {170} Hill, at which no doubt sermons like those of Gabriel Kettledrummle and Habakkuk Mucklewrath were preached with fiery vehemence. The Covenanters seemed to depend upon their religious enthusiasm, for they were poorly armed and badly organized. Men and women who had no arms marched out to battle, relying upon 'the spirit given forth from the Lord.' They did not wait to be attacked, but advanced eastward about two miles from Loudon Hill to the farm of Drumclog, singing psalms all the way. Whether by accident or design they made their stand on peculiarly favourable ground behind a marsh too soft to support the weight of cavalry. As it was covered with green herbage and only a few yards in width, the attacking party, led by John Grahame of Claverhouse, did not know of its existence.

'No quarter' was the word passed along on both sides. Claverhouse and his dragoons, despising their foe, dashed down the declivity. The horses' feet were entangled in the marsh and the ranks thrown into confusion. The Covenanters, seizing the opportunity for which they had waited, made a spirited attack and completely routed the cavalry, Claverhouse himself having a narrow escape. Thirty-six dragoons were killed, while the victors lost only three. The successful skirmish aroused tremendous enthusiasm among the Covenanters, and had they been able to maintain harmony in their own ranks, might have led to a serious rebellion.

It did lead to the battle of Bothwell Bridge which took place on the 22d of the same month, June, 1679. The Government leader was the Duke of Monmouth, who was anxious to preserve peace and avoid bloodshed. {171} The more moderate of the insurgents sent a message offering terms upon which they would surrender. The Duke offered to interpose with the King on their behalf, provided they would first lay down their arms. The Cameronians violently opposed the moderate policy and favoured a fierce and even desperate resistance. While they were debating the question, the sound of the enemy's guns broke in upon them. In their disorganized condition, the cause of the Covenanters was hopeless and the Government gained an easy victory. Claverhouse rode at the head of his own troop, who were thus able to avenge the disgraceful defeat at Drumclog.

It was the portrait of John Grahame of Claverhouse, hanging in the library of Abbotsford, which, according to Lockhart, first suggested the idea of the novel. Joseph Train had called to present the purse of Rob Roy and 'a fresh heap of traditionary gleanings, which he had gathered among the tale-tellers of his district.' Noticing the handsome features revealed by the portrait of a man whom most Scotchmen regarded as 'a ruffian desperado, who rode a goblin horse, was proof against shot, and in league with the Devil,' Train expressed his surprise. After Scott had defended his hero's character, Train, always alive to the possibilities of a new story, asked whether he might not 'be made, in good hands, the hero of a national romance, as interesting as any about either Wallace or Prince Charlie.' Upon receiving the novelist's conditional assent, Train resumed: 'And what if the story were to be delivered as if from the mouth of "Old Mortality?"' Train then told what he knew of old Paterson, offering to learn more and report later. Though Scott did not mention it at the time, the {172} conversation recalled his earlier meeting with Paterson, and led to the immediate writing of the novel.

The scenery of 'Old Mortality' required us to explore the course of the river Clyde for almost its entire length. This picturesque stream rises in the high country near Moffat. An old rhyme, as repeated to us by a native of Moffat, runs thus:--

Evan, Annan, Tweed and Clyde
All flow out from ae hillside.

In its short course of less than seventy-five miles to the Firth of Clyde at Dumbarton, it descends toward the sea by leaps and bounds, forming a series of beautiful cataracts. The highest and most famous of these is Corra Linn where Wordsworth composed a poem, inspired by the sight of Wallace's Tower. Here the river takes a triple plunge over the rocks for a distance of eighty-four feet. Not less imposing is Stonebyres Linn, below the city of Lanark, where the fall is seventy-six feet.

Following the downward course of the stream we came to the ruins of Craignethan Castle, at the juncture of the Nethan with the Clyde. 'A crag above the river Nethan' is the literal meaning of the name. This is Tillietudlem, the castle which Scott made the residence of Lady Bellenden and her granddaughter, Edith. A ravine under the old castle of Lanark, near by, known as Gillytudlem, no doubt suggested the name.

In the autumn of 1799, while on a visit to Lord Douglas at Bothwell Castle, on the Clyde, Scott made an excursion to Craignethan and, as he afterwards said, immediately fell in love with it so much that he wanted to live there. Lord Douglas offered him the use for life {173} of a very good house at one corner of the court. It was built in 1665 and we found it still in excellent repair. Scott did not at once decline the offer, but circumstances made it impossible to accept. That he made a very careful examination of the ruin, however, is shown by the unusually accurate descriptions.

The castle stands on a high rock, reached by a long road through the woods, by the side of a deep glen. I climbed some stairways through a corner of the building which still remains intact, and stood on the ruined battlement from which Major Bellenden valiantly defended the castle. Here I had a fine view over the tree-tops and could see the village of Braidwood, two miles away; but the road over which Lady Bellenden saw the troops approaching was not visible to my eyes.

From this point also I had a good view of the court, which I could fancy almost filled with a motley crowd of soldiers, domestic servants, and retainers, including the bluff and stout-hearted Sergeant Bothwell, who died 'hoping nothing, believing nothing--and fearing nothing'; the intrepid Tam Halliday; the infamous Inglis; the old drunken cavaliering butler, John Gudyill; the faithful ploughman, Cuddie Headrigg, with his sweetheart, Jenny Dennison; and even poor little half-witted Goose Gibbie, muffled in a big buff coat, 'girded rather _to_ than _with_ the sword of a full-grown man,' his feeble legs 'plunged into jack-boots' and a steel cap on his head so big as completely to extinguish him. In the centre of the court is the entrance gate, formerly the chapel; on the right a watch-tower and stable, and on the left the very substantial house now occupied by the keeper's family, to which I have referred.

{174}

The keeper next conducted me to the rear of the castle, where he pointed out a well-preserved square tower below which the ground slopes at a sharp angle to the river's edge. The lower part was used as a dungeon, where we may suppose Henry Morton to have been confined. It was once occupied by a nobleman of real life, who, not so fortunate as the hero of the novel, was led away to execution. Above the dungeon was the kitchen and pantry, with windows perhaps twenty feet above the ground. At the corner there was once an old yew, the stump of which may still be seen.

Readers of 'Old Mortality' will recall that during the siege of the castle, Cuddie Headrigg, though an old servant, found himself with the opposing army. With five or six companions he found his way to the rear, where there was less danger, and proceeded to attempt to capture the stronghold by climbing the tree and gaining access through the window of the pantry. All might have gone well had it not been for the fact that Jenny Dennison had chosen the pantry as the safest place of retreat. When, therefore, Cuddie's figure appeared at the window, clad in the steel cap and buff coat which had belonged to Sergeant Bothwell, Jenny not only failed to recognize her lover, but was terribly frightened. With an hysteric scream she rushed to the kitchen, where she had hung on the fire a pot of kail-brose (a kind of vegetable stew), having promised to prepare Tam Halliday his breakfast. Seizing the pot and still screaming, she jumped to the window and poured the whole scalding contents upon the head and shoulders of the unfortunate Cuddie, thus 'conferring upon one admirer's outward man the viands which her fair hands {175} had so lately been in the act of preparing for the stomach of another.'

I had great difficulty in photographing this tower. The declivity was so steep that it was almost impossible either to place the tripod in proper position or to find a footing from which to look into the camera. While in the midst of my preparations the keeper informed me casually that a man had fallen down the slope three weeks before and broken his neck. With this encouragement, I persevered and was finally able to obtain what I believe to be one of the best evidences of the accuracy with which Scott often made his investigations and subsequent descriptions.

On one of our excursions from Melrose, we followed the course of the Yarrow, from its junction with the Ettrick to its source in St. Mary's Loch; then continuing to the southwest, we traced the course of Moffat Water, which forms the outlet of the Loch of the Lowes, to a point just above the place where the stream meets the Evan and the Annan; then turning westward and passing through the town of Moffat, we followed the course of the Tweed northward and eastward from its source to our starting-place. For a large part of this drive, we were in wild, desolate regions, which presented to us, we were well assured, exactly the same aspect as they did to Sir Walter Scott, and to the Covenanters a century or more before his time. From St. Mary's Loch to Moffat and from the latter northward for at least fifteen or twenty miles, we were in the very region where the Covenanters were wont to find a safe retreat from persecution.

Scott was fond of riding through these wild mountain {176} passes, and often did so with his friend, Skene, of Rubislaw, who has left an entertaining account of one of these expeditions:--

One of our earliest expeditions was to visit the wild scenery of the mountainous tract above Moffat, including the cascade of the Grey Mare's Tail and the dark tarn called Loch Skene. In our ascent to the lake we got completely bewildered in the thick fog which generally envelops the rugged features of that lovely region; and as we were groping through the maze of bogs, the ground gave way, and down went horse and horsemen pell-mell into a slough of peaty mud and black water, out of which, entangled as we were with our plaids and floundering nags, it was no easy matter to get extricated. Indeed, unless we had prudently left our gallant steeds at a farmhouse below and borrowed hill-ponies for the occasion, the result might have been worse than laughable. As it was, we rose like the spirits of the bogs, covered _cap-à-pie_ with slime, to free themselves from which our wily ponies took to rolling about on the heather, and we had nothing for it but following their example. At length, as we approached the gloomy loch, a huge eagle heaved himself from the margin and rose right over us, screaming his scorn of the intruders; and altogether it would be impossible to picture anything more desolately savage than the scene which opened, as if raised by enchantment on purpose to gratify the poet's eye, thick clouds of fog rolling incessantly over the face of the inky waters, but rent asunder, now in one direction and then in another--so as to afford us a glimpse of some projecting rock or naked point of land, or island bearing a few scraggy stumps of pine--and then closing again in universal darkness upon the cheerless waste. Much of the scenery of 'Old Mortality' was drawn from that day's ride.

James Hogg, who conducted the party on that day, says:--

I conducted them through that wild region by a path, which if not rode by Clavers, as reported, never was rode by {177} another gentleman.... Sir Walter, in the very worst paths, never dismounted save at Loch Skene to take some dinner. We went to Moffat that night, where we met with Lady Scott and Sophia and such a day and night of glee I never witnessed. Our very perils were to him matters of infinite merriment.

The Grey Mare's Tail is a waterfall three or four hundred feet in height, forming the outlet of Loch Skene. It is a narrow stream and the water comes boiling and bubbling in foamy whiteness over the ruggedest of rocks and through the wildest of ravines.

I am inclined to think that Scott, in striving to find a retreat for Balfour, or Burley, poetically in keeping with the stern, fierce, and dangerous character of that terrible individual, combined the awesome features of the Grey Mare's Tail with the wild beauty of another ravine which he had visited. The latter is the deep gulch known as Crichope Linn, near the village of Closeburn, north of Dumfries. A narrow stream, flowing through a thick wood, has cut a deep chasm in the solid rock, through which the water has carved many curious channels. One of these is called 'Hell's Cauldron,' where the water has worn a deep round hole, through which it rushes with terrific force. Near by is the Soutar's Seat, so called from the legend that a 'soutar' or cobbler used to conceal himself there to mend the shoes of the Covenanters.

I had the pleasure of walking up the stream to the falls through the wet woods, in a rainstorm, without a guide. The loneliness of my situation,--for I did not encounter a soul on the journey,--added to the mist in the atmosphere, gave an impression, which I might {178} not otherwise have had, of the absolute security of such a hiding-place. I tried to fancy old Burley appearing at some opening in the rocks and myself leaping across the chasm, as did Henry Morton, to get out of his way. I was not obliged to attempt any such feat. But I felt that a visit to this strange locality had given me a better idea of the closing scenes of the novel than I had ever had before.

'Old Mortality' will always be remembered for its animated picture of the Covenanters and the conditions under which they lived. It was an era of perverted sentiment in politics and religion. The times were 'out of joint' more truly than in the days of Hamlet. A powerful and tyrannical Government was exhibiting cowardly fear of a small minority of determined people, who demanded only the rights that had been previously guaranteed. A policy of intolerant persecution prevailed. The bullies of the Government laughed to scorn the more statesmanlike propositions of moderation and fair dealing. Under these conditions a helpless and miserable people found their strength in an underlying perception of the truth and justice of their cause. They were exhibiting that quality which, from Magna Charta to the present time, has come to the front at every crisis in the history of Britain and America and is at the root of the power of the Anglo-Saxon race--the quality of earnest and sincere faith in the right of man to civil liberty and religious freedom. If, in the excess of their enthusiasm, these people became bigoted and intolerant, and if their frenzied reading of the Scriptures enabled them to find texts to justify every sort of deed of violence and cruelty, the harsh measures of a corrupt, {179} selfish, and incompetent Government would at least explain the unhappy conditions.

Scott's marvellous imagination enabled him to reanimate the people of this excited period. In Habakkuk Mucklewrath we have the extreme of crazy religious fervor and in Balfour of Burley the perfect embodiment of that brute force which was so strangely blended with pious ideals. Henry Morton, the hero of the tale, whose lot is cast with the Covenanters, is out of place in the picture, but he sufficiently typifies that class who were opposed to the extreme measures of the Cameronians.

On the Government side, Claverhouse, to whom Scott endeavours to do justice, General Dalzell, the Duke of Monmouth, and the Duke of Lauderdale are pictured, fairly enough, in the colours of history.

Scott's treatment of the Covenanters aroused great controversy, some of their admirers taking him to task in severe terms for his alleged lack of fairness. Whatever may be said on this point, there is no doubt that he touches the true sublimity of their faith in his account of the torture and death of the Reverend Ephraim Macbriar. The dauntless preacher was brought before the Privy Council and interrogated by the Duke of Lauderdale. Refusing to reply to an important question, he was dramatically confronted with the ghastly apparition of the public executioner and his horrible implements of torture.

'Do you know who that man is?' said Lauderdale in a low, stern voice, almost sinking into a whisper.

'He is, I suppose,' replied Macbriar, 'the infamous executioner of your bloodthirsty commands upon the persons of God's people. He and you are equally beneath my regard; {180} and, I bless God, I no more fear what he can inflict than what you can command. Flesh and blood may shrink under the sufferings you can doom me to, and poor frail nature may shed tears, or send forth cries; but I trust my soul is anchored firmly on the rock of ages.'

By the Duke's command the executioner then advanced and placed before the prisoner an iron case called the Scottish boot, so constructed that it would enclose the leg and knee of the victim with a tight fit. An iron wedge and a mallet completed the equipment. This wedge, when placed between the knee and the unyielding iron frame, and struck a sharp blow with the mallet, was calculated to inflict the most excruciating pain.

Macbriar faced the implement without flinching, while the executioner asked in harsh, discordant tones which leg he should take first.

'Since you leave it to me,' said the prisoner, stretching forth his right leg, 'take the best--I willingly bestow it in the cause for which I suffer.'

Here Scott makes use of the actual words of James Mitchell, who suffered similar torture for his attempt on the life of Archbishop Sharp.

When Macbriar was led to his execution, he thanked the Council for his sentence and forgave them, saying:--

And why should I not?--Ye send me to a happy exchange--to the company of angels and spirits of the just, for that of frail dust and ashes.--Ye send me from darkness into day--from mortality to immortality--and in a word, from earth to heaven! If the thanks therefore, and pardon of a dying man can do you good, take them at my hand, and may your last moments be as happy as mine!

{181} And thus, 'his countenance radiant with joy and triumph,' he was led to his execution, 'dying with the same enthusiastic firmness which his whole life had evinced.'

The book which contains this superb presentation of a thrilling epoch of Scottish history is justly termed, by Lockhart, the Marmion of the Waverley Novels.

{182}