Books: The Fair Maid of Perth

S >> Sir Walter Scott >> The Fair Maid of Perth

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41

This etext was produced by Martin Robb

THE FAIR MAID OF PERTH

or

St. Valentine's Day

by Sir Walter Scott, Bart.

INTRODUCTORY.

The ashes here of murder'd kings Beneath my footsteps sleep; And
yonder lies the scene of death, Where Mary learn'd to weep.

CAPTAIN MARJORIBANKS.

Every quarter of Edinburgh has its own peculiar boast, so that the
city together combines within its precincts, if you take the word
of the inhabitants on the subject, as much of historical interest
as of natural beauty. Our claims in behalf of the Canongate are
not the slightest. The Castle may excel us in extent of prospect
and sublimity of site; the Calton had always the superiority of
its unrivalled panorama, and has of late added that of its towers,
and triumphal arches, and the pillars of its Parthenon. The High
Street, we acknowledge, had the distinguished honour of being
defended by fortifications, of which we can show no vestiges. We
will not descend to notice the claims of more upstart districts,
called Old New Town and New New Town, not to mention the favourite
Moray Place, which is the Newest New Town of all. We will not match
ourselves except with our equals, and with our equals in age only,
for in dignity we admit of one. We boast being the court end of the
town, possessing the Palace and the sepulchral remains of monarchs,
and that we have the power to excite, in a degree unknown to the
less honoured quarters of the city, the dark and solemn recollections
of ancient grandeur, which occupied the precincts of our venerable
Abbey from the time of St. David till her deserted halls were once
more made glad, and her long silent echoes awakened, by the visit
of our present gracious sovereign.

My long habitation in the neighbourhood, and the quiet respectability
of my habits, have given me a sort of intimacy with good Mrs. Policy,
the housekeeper in that most interesting part of the old building
called Queen Mary's Apartments. But a circumstance which lately
happened has conferred upon me greater privileges; so that, indeed,
I might, I believe, venture on the exploit of Chatelet, who was
executed for being found secreted at midnight in the very bedchamber
of Scotland's mistress.

It chanced that the good lady I have mentioned was, in the discharge
of her function, showing the apartments to a cockney from London
--not one of your quiet, dull, commonplace visitors, who gape,
yawn, and listen with an acquiescent "umph" to the information doled
out by the provincial cicerone. No such thing: this was the brisk,
alert agent of a great house in the city, who missed no opportunity
of doing business, as he termed it--that is, of putting off the
goods of his employers, and improving his own account of commission.
He had fidgeted through the suite of apartments, without finding
the least opportunity to touch upon that which he considered
as the principal end of his existence. Even the story of Rizzio's
assassination presented no ideas to this emissary of commerce,
until the housekeeper appealed, in support of her narrative, to
the dusky stains of blood upon the floor.

"These are the stains," she said; "nothing will remove them from
the place: there they have been for two hundred and fifty years,
and there they will remain while the floor is left standing--
neither water nor anything else will ever remove them from that
spot."

Now our cockney, amongst other articles, sold Scouring Drops,
as they are called, and a stain of two hundred and fifty years'
standing was interesting to him, not because it had been caused
by the blood of a queen's favourite, slain in her apartment, but
because it offered so admirable an opportunity to prove the efficacy
of his unequalled Detergent Elixir. Down on his knees went our
friend, but neither in horror nor devotion.

"Two hundred and fifty years, ma'am, and nothing take it away? Why,
if it had been five hundred, I have something in my pocket will
fetch it out in five minutes. D'ye see this elixir, ma'am? I will
show you the stain vanish in a moment."

Accordingly, wetting one end of his handkerchief with the all
deterging specific, he began to rub away on the planks, without
heeding the remonstrances of Mrs. Policy. She, good soul, stood
at first in astonishment, like the abbess of St. Bridget's, when a
profane visitant drank up the vial of brandy which had long passed
muster among the relics of the cloister for the tears of the blessed
saint. The venerable guardian of St. Bridget probably expected the
interference of her patroness--she of Holyrood might, perhaps, hope
that David Ruzzio's spectre would arise to prevent the profanation.
But Mrs. Policy stood not long in the silence of horror. She uplifted
her voice, and screamed as loudly as Queen Mary herself when the
dreadful deed was in the act of perpetration--

"Harrow, now out, and walawa!" she cried.

I happened to be taking my morning walk in the adjoining gallery,
pondering in my mind why the kings of Scotland, who hung around me,
should be each and every one painted with a nose like the knocker
of a door, when lo! the walls once more re-echoed with such shrieks
as formerly were as often heard in the Scottish palaces as were
sounds of revelry and music. Somewhat surprised at such an alarm
in a place so solitary, I hastened to the spot, and found the well
meaning traveller scrubbing the floor like a housemaid, while Mrs.
Policy, dragging him by the skirts of the coat, in vain endeavoured
to divert him from his sacrilegious purpose. It cost me some trouble
to explain to the zealous purifier of silk stockings, embroidered
waistcoats, broadcloth, and deal planks that there were such things
in the world as stains which ought to remain indelible, on account
of the associations with which they are connected. Our good friend
viewed everything of the kind only as the means of displaying the
virtue of his vaunted commodity. He comprehended, however, that he
would not be permitted to proceed to exemplify its powers on the
present occasion, as two or three inhabitants appeared, who, like
me, threatened to maintain the housekeeper's side of the question.
He therefore took his leave, muttering that he had always heard the
Scots were a nasty people, but had no idea they carried it so far
as to choose to have the floors of their palaces blood boltered, like
Banquo's ghost, when to remove them would have cost but a hundred
drops of the Infallible Detergent Elixir, prepared and sold by
Messrs. Scrub and Rub, in five shilling and ten shilling bottles,
each bottle being marked with the initials of the inventor, to
counterfeit which would be to incur the pains of forgery.

Freed from the odious presence of this lover of cleanliness, my
good friend Mrs. Policy was profuse in her expressions of thanks;
and yet her gratitude, instead of exhausting itself in these
declarations, according to the way of the world, continues as lively
at this moment as if she had never thanked me at all. It is owing
to her recollection of this piece of good service that I have the
permission of wandering, like the ghost of some departed gentleman
usher, through these deserted halls, sometimes, as the old Irish
ditty expresses it--

Thinking upon things that are long enough ago;

--and sometimes wishing I could, with the good luck of most editors
of romantic narrative, light upon some hidden crypt or massive
antique cabinet, which should yield to my researches an almost
illegible manuscript, containing the authentic particulars of some
of the strange deeds of those wild days of the unhappy Mary.

My dear Mrs. Baliol used to sympathise with me when I regretted
that all godsends of this nature had ceased to occur, and that an
author might chatter his teeth to pieces by the seaside without a
wave ever wafting to him a casket containing such a history as that
of Automates; that he might break his shins in stumbling through
a hundred vaults without finding anything but rats and mice;
and become the tenant of a dozen sets of shabby tenements without
finding that they contained any manuscript but the weekly bill for
board and lodging. A dairymaid of these degenerate days might as
well wash and deck her dairy in hopes of finding the fairy tester
in her shoe.

"It is a sad and too true a tale, cousin," said Mrs. Baliol,
"I am sure we all have occasion to regret the want of these ready
supplements to a failing invention. But you, most of all, have right
to complain that the fairest have not favoured your researches--
you, who have shown the world that the age of chivalry still exists
--you, the knight of Croftangry, who braved the fury of the 'London
'prentice bold,' in behalf of the fair Dame Policy, and the memorial
of Rizzio's slaughter! Is it not a pity, cousin, considering the
feat of chivalry was otherwise so much according to rule--is it
not, I say, a great pity that the lady had not been a little younger,
and the legend a little older?"

"Why, as to the age at which a fair dame loses the benefit of
chivalry, and is no longer entitled to crave boon of brave knight,
that I leave to the statutes of the Order of Errantry; but for the
blood of Rizzio I take up the gauntlet, and maintain against all
and sundry that I hold the stains to be of no modern date, but to
have been actually the consequence and the record of that terrible
assassination."

"As I cannot accept the challenge to the field, fair cousin, I am
contented to require proof."

"The unaltered tradition of the Palace, and the correspondence of
the existing state of things with that tradition."

"Explain, if you please."

"I will. The universal tradition bears that, when Rizzio was
dragged out of the chamber of the Queen, the heat and fury of the
assassins, who struggled which should deal him most wounds, despatched
him at the door of the anteroom. At the door of the apartment,
therefore, the greater quantity of the ill fated minion's blood was
spilled, and there the marks of it are still shown. It is reported
further by historians, that Mary continued her entreaties for his
life, mingling her prayers with screams and exclamations, until
she knew that he was assuredly slain; on which she wiped her eyes
and said, 'I will now study revenge.'"

"All this is granted. But the blood--would it not wash out, or
waste out, think you, in so many years?"

"I am coming to that presently. The constant tradition of the
Palace says, that Mary discharged any measures to be taken to remove
the marks of slaughter, which she had resolved should remain as a
memorial to quicken and confirm her purposed vengeance. But it is
added that, satisfied with the knowledge that it existed, and not
desirous to have the ghastly evidence always under her eye, she
caused a traverse, as it is called (that is, a temporary screen of
boards), to be drawn along the under part of the anteroom, a few
feet from the door, so as to separate the place stained with the
blood from the rest of the apartment, and involve it in considerable
obscurity. Now this temporary partition still exists, and, by
running across and interrupting the plan of the roof and cornices,
plainly intimates that it has been intended to serve some temporary
purpose, since it disfigures the proportions of the room, interferes
with the ornaments of the ceiling, and could only have been put
there for some such purpose as hiding an object too disagreeable
to be looked upon. As to the objection that the bloodstains would
have disappeared in course of time, I apprehend that, if measures
to efface them were not taken immediately after the affair happened
--if the blood, in other words, were allowed to sink into the wood,
the stain would become almost indelible. Now, not to mention that
our Scottish palaces were not particularly well washed in those
days, and that there were no Patent Drops to assist the labours
of the mop, I think it very probable that these dark relics might
subsist for a long course of time, even if Mary had not desired or
directed that they should be preserved, but screened by the traverse
from public sight. I know several instances of similar bloodstains
remaining for a great many years, and I doubt whether, after a certain
time, anything can remove them save the carpenter's plane. If any
seneschal, by way of increasing the interest of the apartments, had,
by means of paint, or any other mode of imitation, endeavoured to
palm upon posterity supposititious stigmata, I conceive that the
impostor would have chosen the Queen's cabinet and the bedroom for
the scene of his trick, placing his bloody tracery where it could
be distinctly seen by visitors, instead of hiding it behind the
traverse in this manner. The existence of the said traverse, or
temporary partition, is also extremely difficult to be accounted
for, if the common and ordinary tradition be rejected. In short,
all the rest of this striking locality is so true to the historical
fact, that I think it may well bear out the additional circumstance
of the blood on the floor."

"I profess to you," answered Mrs. Baliol, "that I am very willing
to be converted to your faith. We talk of a credulous vulgar, without
always recollecting that there is a vulgar incredulity, which, in
historical matters as well as in those of religion, finds it easier
to doubt than to examine, and endeavours to assume the credit of
an esprit fort, by denying whatever happens to be a little beyond
the very limited comprehension of the sceptic. And so, that point
being settled, and you possessing, as we understand, the open
sesamum into these secret apartments, how, if we may ask, do you
intend to avail yourself of your privilege? Do you propose to pass
the night in the royal bedchamber?"

"For what purpose, my dear lady? If to improve the rheumatism, this
east wind may serve the purpose."

"Improve the rheumatism! Heaven forbid! that would be worse than
adding colours to the violet. No, I mean to recommend a night on the
couch of the nose of Scotland, merely to improve the imagination. Who
knows what dreams might be produced by a night spent in a mansion
of so many memories! For aught I know, the iron door of the postern
stair might open at the dead hour of midnight, and, as at the time
of the conspiracy, forth might sally the phantom assassins, with
stealthy step and ghastly look, to renew the semblance of the deed.
There comes the fierce fanatic Ruthven, party hatred enabling him
to bear the armour which would otherwise weigh down a form extenuated
by wasting disease. See how his writhen features show under the
hollow helmet, like those of a corpse tenanted by a demon, whose
vindictive purpose looks out at the flashing eyes, while the visage
has the stillness of death. Yonder appears the tall form of the boy
Darnley, as goodly in person as vacillating in resolution; yonder
he advances with hesitating step, and yet more hesitating purpose,
his childish fear having already overcome his childish passion.
He is in the plight of a mischievous lad who has fired a mine, and
who now, expecting the explosion in remorse and terror, would give
his life to quench the train which his own hand lighted. Yonder--
yonder--But I forget the rest of the worthy cutthroats. Help me
if you can."

"Summon up," said I, "the postulate, George Douglas, the most active
of the gang. Let him arise at your call--the claimant of wealth
which he does not possess, the partaker of the illustrious blood of
Douglas, but which in his veins is sullied with illegitimacy. Paint
him the ruthless, the daring, the ambitious--so nigh greatness,
yet debarred from it; so near to wealth, yet excluded from possessing
it; a political Tantalus, ready to do or dare anything to terminate
his necessities and assert his imperfect claims."

"Admirable, my dear Croftangry! But what is a postulate?"

"Pooh, my dear madam, you disturb the current of my ideas. The
postulate was, in Scottish phrase, the candidate for some benefice
which he had not yet attained. George Douglas, who stabbed Rizzio,
was the postulate for the temporal possessions of the rich abbey
of Arbroath."

"I stand informed. Come, proceed; who comes next?" continued Mrs.
Baliol.

"Who comes next? Yon tall, thin made, savage looking man, with the
petronel in his hand, must be Andrew Ker of Faldonside, a brother's
son, I believe, of the celebrated Sir David Ker of Cessford; his
look and bearing those of a Border freebooter, his disposition
so savage that, during the fray in the cabinet, he presented his
loaded piece at the bosom of the young and beautiful Queen, that
queen also being within a few weeks of becoming a mother."

"Brave, beau cousin! Well, having raised your bevy of phantoms, I
hope you do not intend to send them back to their cold beds to warm
them? You will put them to some action, and since you do threaten
the Canongate with your desperate quill, you surely mean to novelise,
or to dramatise, if you will, this most singular of all tragedies?"

"Worse--that is less interesting--periods of history have been,
indeed, shown up, for furnishing amusement to the peaceable ages
which, have succeeded but, dear lady, the events are too well known
in Mary's days to be used as vehicles of romantic fiction. What
can a better writer than myself add to the elegant and forcible
narrative of Robertson? So adieu to my vision. I awake, like John
Bunyan, 'and behold it is a dream.' Well enough that I awake without
a sciatica, which would have probably rewarded my slumbers had I
profaned Queen Mary's bed by using it as a mechanical resource to
awaken a torpid imagination."

"This will never do, cousin," answered Mrs. Baliol; "you must get
over all these scruples, if you would thrive in the character of a
romantic historian, which you have determined to embrace. What is
the classic Robertson to you? The light which he carried was that
of a lamp to illuminate the dark events of antiquity; yours is a
magic lantern to raise up wonders which never existed. No reader
of sense wonders at your historical inaccuracies, any more than he
does to see Punch in the show box seated on the same throne with
King Solomon in his glory, or to hear him hallooing out to the
patriarch, amid the deluge, 'Mighty hazy weather, Master Noah.'"

"Do not mistake me, my dear madam," said I; "I am quite conscious
of my own immunities as a tale teller. But even the mendacious Mr.
Fag, in Sheridan's Rivals, assures us that, though he never scruples
to tell a lie at his master's command, yet it hurts his conscience
to be found out. Now, this is the reason why I avoid in prudence all
well known paths of history, where every one can read the finger
posts carefully set up to advise them of the right turning; and
the very boys and girls, who learn the history of Britain by way
of question and answer, hoot at a poor author if he abandons the
highway."

"Do not be discouraged, however, cousin Chrystal. There are
plenty of wildernesses in Scottish history, through which, unless
I am greatly misinformed, no certain paths have been laid down from
actual survey, but which are only described by imperfect tradition,
which fills up with wonders and with legends the periods in which
no real events are recognised to have taken place. Even thus, as
Mat Prior says:

"Geographers on pathless downs
Place elephants instead of towns."

"If such be your advice, my dear lady," said I, "the course of my
story shall take its rise upon this occasion at a remote period of
history, and in a province removed from my natural sphere of the
Canongate."

It was under the influence of those feelings that I undertook the
following historical romance, which, often suspended and flung
aside, is now arrived at a size too important to be altogether
thrown away, although there may be little prudence in sending it
to the press.

I have not placed in the mouth of the characters the Lowland Scotch
dialect now spoken, because unquestionably the Scottish of that
day resembled very closely the Anglo Saxon, with a sprinkling of
French or Norman to enrich it. Those who wish to investigate the
subject may consult the Chronicles of Winton and the History of Bruce
by Archdeacon Barbour. But supposing my own skill in the ancient
Scottish were sufficient to invest the dialogue with its peculiarities,
a translation must have been necessary for the benefit of the general
reader. The Scottish dialect may be therefore considered as laid
aside, unless where the use of peculiar words may add emphasis or
vivacity to the composition.

PREFACE.

In continuing the lucubrations of Chrystal Croftangry, it occurred
that, although the press had of late years teemed with works of
various descriptions concerning the Scottish Gad, no attempt had
hitherto been made to sketch their manners, as these might be supposed
to have existed at the period when the statute book, as well as
the page of the chronicler, begins to present constant evidence of
the difficulties to which the crown was exposed, while the haughty
house of Douglas all but overbalanced its authority on the Southern
border, and the North was at the same time torn in pieces by
the yet untamed savageness of the Highland races, and the daring
loftiness to which some of the remoter chieftains still carried
their pretensions.

The well authenticated fact of two powerful clans having deputed
each thirty champions to fight out a quarrel of old standing, in
presence of King Robert III, his brother the Duke of Albany, and
the whole court of Scotland, at Perth, in the year of grace 1396,
seemed to mark with equal distinctness the rancour of these mountain
feuds and the degraded condition of the general government of the
country; and it was fixed upon accordingly as the point on which
the main incidents of a romantic narrative might be made to hinge.
The characters of Robert III, his ambitious brother, and his
dissolute son seemed to offer some opportunities of interesting
contrast; and the tragic fate of the heir of the throne, with its
immediate consequences, might serve to complete the picture of
cruelty and lawlessness.

Two features of the story of this barrier battle on the Inch of Perth
--the flight of one of the appointed champions, and the reckless
heroism of a townsman, that voluntarily offered for a small piece
of coin to supply his place in the mortal encounter--suggested
the imaginary persons, on whom much of the novel is expended. The
fugitive Celt might have been easily dealt with, had a ludicrous
style of colouring been adopted; but it appeared to the Author that
there would be more of novelty, as well as of serious interest,
if he could succeed in gaining for him something of that sympathy
which is incompatible with the total absence of respect. Miss
Baillie had drawn a coward by nature capable of acting as a hero
under the strong impulse of filial affection. It seemed not impossible
to conceive the case of one constitutionally weak of nerve being
supported by feelings of honour and of jealousy up to a certain
point, and then suddenly giving way, under circumstances to which
the bravest heart could hardly refuse compassion.

The controversy as to who really were the clans that figured
in the barbarous conflict of the Inch has been revived since the
publication of the Fair Maid of Perth, and treated in particular
at great length by Mr. Robert Mackay of Thurso, in his very curious
History of the House and Clan of Mackay. Without pretending to say
that he has settled any part of the question in the affirmative,
this gentleman certainly seems to have quite succeeded in proving
that his own worthy sept had no part in the transaction. The Mackays
were in that age seated, as they have since continued to be, in
the extreme north of the island; and their chief at the time was a
personage of such importance, that his name and proper designation
could not have been omitted in the early narratives of the occurrence.
He on one occasion brought four thousand of his clan to the aid of
the royal banner against the Lord of the Isles. This historian is
of opinion that the Clan Quhele of Wyntoun were the Camerons, who
appear to have about that period been often designated as Macewans,
and to have gained much more recently the name of Cameron, i.e.
Wrynose, from a blemish in the physiognomy of some heroic chief
of the line of Lochiel. This view of the case is also adopted by
Douglas in his Baronage, where he frequently mentions the bitter feuds
between Clan Chattan and Clan Kay, and identifies the latter sept
in reference to the events of 1396, with the Camerons. It is perhaps
impossible to clear up thoroughly this controversy, little interesting
in itself, at least to readers on this side of Inverness. The names,
as we have them in Wyntoun, are "Clanwhewyl" and "Clachinya," the
latter probably not correctly transcribed. In the Scoti Chronicon
they are "Clanquhele" and "Clankay. Hector Boece writes Clanchattan"
and "Clankay," in which he is followed by Leslie while Buchanan
disdains to disfigure his page with their Gaelic designations at
all, and merely describes them as two powerful races in the wild
and lawless region beyond the Grampians. Out of this jumble what
Sassenach can pretend dare lucem? The name Clanwheill appears so
late as 1594, in an Act of James VI. Is it not possible that it
may be, after all, a mere corruption of Clan Lochiel?