Chapter C: E. S. Chambers (11)

Mackenzie has still a place in the popular imagination in Edinburgh as the _Bluidy Mackingie_, his office having been to prosecute the unruly Covenanters. It therefore happens that the founder of our greatest national library,[189] one whom Dryden regarded as a friend, and who was the very first writer of classic English prose in Scotland, is a sort of Raw-head and Bloody-bones by the firesides of his native capital. He lies in a beautiful mausoleum, which forms a conspicuous object in the Greyfriars Churchyard, and which describes him as an ornament to his age, and a man who was kind to all, ‘except a rebellious crew, from whose violence, with tongue and pen, he defended his country and king, whose virulence he stayed by the sword of justice, and whose ferocity he, by the force of reason, blunted, and only did not subdue.’ This monument was an object of horror to the good people of Edinburgh, as it was almost universally believed that the spirit of the persecutor could get no rest in its superb but gloomy tenement. It used to be ‘a feat’ for a set of boys, in a still summer evening, to march up to the ponderous doors, bedropt with white tears upon a black ground, and cry in at the keyhole:—

‘Bluidy Mackingie, come out if ye daur,
Lift the sneck, and draw the bar!’

after which they would run away as if some hobgoblin were in chase of them, probably not looking round till they were out of the churchyard.

Sir George Mackenzie had a country-house called Shank, about ten miles to the south of Edinburgh,[190] now a ruin. One day the Marquis of Tweeddale, having occasion to consult him about some law business, rode across the country, and arrived at so early an hour in the morning that the lawyer was not yet out of bed. Soliciting an immediate audience, he was admitted to the bedroom, where he sat down and detailed the case to Sir George, who gave him all necessary counsel from behind the curtains. When the marquis advanced to present a fee, he was startled at the apparition of a female hand through the curtains, in an attitude expressive of a readiness to receive, while no hand appeared on the part of Sir George. The explanation was that Sir George’s lady, as has been the case with many a weaker man, took entire charge of his purse.[191]

Several of the descendants of this great lawyer have been remarkable for their talents. None, perhaps, possessed more of the _vivida vis animi_ than his granddaughter, Lady Anne Dick of Corstorphine (also granddaughter, by the father’s side, to the clever but unscrupulous ‘Tarbat Register,’ the first Earl of Cromarty).[192] This lady excited much attention in Edinburgh society by her eccentric manners and her droll pasquinade verses: one of those beings she was who astonish, perplex, and fidget their fellow-creatures, till at last the world feels a sort of relief when they are removed from the stage. She made many enemies by her lampoons; and her personal conduct only afforded them too good room for revenge. Sometimes she would dress herself in men’s clothes, and go about the town in search of adventures. One of her frolics ended rather disgracefully, for she and her maid, being apprehended in their disguise, were lodged all night in the Town Guard-house. It may be readily imagined that by those whom her wit had exasperated such follies would be deeply relished and made the most of. We must not, therefore, be surprised at Scandal telling that Lady Anne had at one period lain a whole year in bed, in a vain endeavour—to baffle _himself_.

Through private channels have oozed out at this late day a few specimens of Lady Anne’s poetical abilities; less brilliant than might be expected from the above character of her, yet having a certain air of dash and _espièglerie_ which looks appropriate. They are partly devoted to bewailing the coldness of a certain Sir Peter Murray of Balmanno, towards whom she chose to act as a sort of she-Petrarch, but apparently in the mere pursuit of whim. One runs in the following tender strain:

‘Oh, when he dances at a ball,
He’s rarely worth the seeing;
So light he trips, you would him take
For some aërial being!
While pinky-winky go his een,
How blest is each bystander!
How gracefully he leads the fair,
When to her seat he hands her!

But when in accents saft and sweet,
He chants forth _Lizzie Baillie_,
His dying looks and attitude
Enchant, they cannot fail ye.
The loveliest widow in the land,
When she could scarce disarm him,
Alas! the belles in Roxburghshire
Must never hope to charm him!

O happy, happy, happy she,
Could make him change his plan, sir,
And of this rigid bachelor,
Convert the married man, sir:
O happy, and thrice happy she,
Could make him change his plan, sir,
And to the gentle Benedick
Convert the single man, sir,’ &c.

In another, tired, apparently, of the apathy of this sweet youth, she breaks out as follows:

‘Oh, wherefore did I cross the Forth,
And leave my love behind me?
Why did I venture to the north,
With one that did not mind me?

Had I but visited Carin!
It would have been much better,
Than pique the prudes, and make a din
For careless, cold Sir Peter!

I’m sure I’ve seen a better limb,
And twenty better faces;
But still my mind it ran on him,
When I was at the races.

At night, when we went to the ball,
Were many there discreeter;
The well-bred duke, and lively Maule,
Panmure behaved much better.

They kindly showed their courtesy,
And looked on me much sweeter;
Yet easy could I never be,
For thinking on Sir Peter.

I fain would wear an easy air,
But, oh, it looked affected,
And e’en the fine ambassador
Could see he was neglected.

Though Powrie left for me the spleen,
My temper grew no sweeter;
I think I’m mad—what do I mean,
To follow cold Sir Peter!’

Her ladyship died, without issue, in 1741.

FOOTNOTES

[187] At the head of the Old Bank Close, to the westward; burned down in 1771.

[188] Only a small portion of this building now remains.

[189] The Advocates’ Library.

[190] In the parish of Borthwick.

[191] This anecdote was related to me by the first Lord Wharncliffe, grandson’s grandson to Sir George, about 1828.

[192] Cromarty, at seventy, contrived to marry ‘a young and beautiful countess in her own right, a widow, wealthy, and in universal estimation. The following distich was composed on the occasion:

Thou sonsie auld carl, the world has not thy like,
For ladies fa’ in love with thee, though thou be ane auld tyke.’