Chapter XXV
Scott’s Border ‘Raids’—Shortreed—Scott’s Circuit Work—Jedburgh Anecdotes—Edinburgh Days—Fortune’s—The Theatre Royal—Oyster Parties—Social Functions—General Reading.
For many years after his first donning of the gown, Scott made use of every holiday for those ‘raids’ into Liddesdale and rambles through various parts of Scotland which long caused his father anxiety and vexation. It was not given to the old man, eager to see his son immersed in what he considered far more important pursuits, to foresee the marvellous results of these erratic tours. There were some, however, who could, and one of these was Robert Shortreed, Sheriff-Substitute of Roxburghshire, who was his guide and companion in all his Border raids. His remark will serve very well to sum up our reference to these expeditions, which are ‘outwith’ the limits of his Edinburgh life. ‘He was makin’ himsell a’ the time,’ was Shortreed’s emphatic comment; ‘but he didna ken maybe what he was aboot till years had passed. At first he thought o’ little, I daresay, but the queerness and the fun.’
Of his circuit work one or two anecdotes will suffice. He made his first appearance as counsel in a criminal case at the Jedburgh assizes, where he successfully defended a veteran poacher. When the verdict was pronounced, Scott whispered to his client, ‘You’re a lucky scoundrel.’ ‘I’m just o’ your mind,’ quoth the desperado, ‘and I’ll send ye a maukin (a hare) the morn, man.’ Shortly after he defended a certain notorious housebreaker, who, however, in spite of counsel’s strenuous efforts, was found guilty. The man, knowing that he could not escape, the evidence of his guilt being clear, yet felt grateful, in his way, to the young lawyer who had stood by him manfully and seen fair play. He requested the advocate to visit him in his cell, and Scott complied. When they were alone together in the condemned cell, the poor outcast said, ‘I am very sorry, sir, that I have no fee to offer you—so let me beg your acceptance of two bits of advice which may be useful, perhaps, when you come to have a house of your own. I am done with practice, you see, and here is my legacy. Never keep a large watch-dog out of doors—we can always silence them cheaply—indeed if it be a dog, ’tis easier than whistling—but tie a little tight yelping terrier within; and secondly, put no trust in nice, clever, gimcrack locks—the only thing that bothers us is a huge old heavy one, no matter how simple the construction,—and the ruder and rustier the key, so much the better for the housekeeper.’ Lockhart heard Scott tell the story some thirty years after at a Judge’s dinner at Jedburgh, and he summed it up with a rhyme—‘Ay, ay, my Lord,’ (addressing Lord Meadowbank)—
‘Yelping terrier, rusty key,
Was Walter Scott’s best Jeddart fee.’
If his life in Edinburgh was not quite as enjoyable as the summer wanderings or the spring and autumn circuits, it certainly had its compensations. There was a good deal, no doubt, of what he describes in Redgauntlet as ‘sweeping the boards of the Parliament House with the skirts of his gown.’ But then there was the consolation of the merry men of the Mountain, with mirth and youthful jollity, to which he could always contribute more than his share. There was plenty of claret-drinking at Bayle’s, Fortune’s, Walker’s, the favourite resorts of the Bar. Claret was still the only drink, in spite of the growing enmity to France. It is a curious fact, however, that this feeling caused the Edinburgh Town Council in 1798 to pass a resolution that claret should not be drunk either at the King’s Birthday orgy or any other civic feast. This ‘self-denying ordinance’ was not observed. In spite of conviviality and amusements a young man’s expenses in Edinburgh in those days did not require to be great, when a good dinner at Fortune’s would cost half-a-crown, and a bottle of claret a shilling. Fifty years before, in the days when a man brought his own fork and knife, and glass if he wanted one for his own separate use, one dined at an ‘ordinary’ in Edinburgh for fourpence, which even included all the small beer that was called for till the cloth was removed. Scott was a frequent visitor at the old Theatre Royal—‘his dressing-table with old play-bills, etc.’ This building stood in Shakespeare Square, a site now occupied by the General Post Office. It was eventually purchased by Mr. Henry Siddons, and there, under his management, the admirers of the drama ‘had the satisfaction to witness the exertion of the unparalleled talents of Mrs. Siddons, Mrs. Jordan, Mr. Braham, Mr. John Kemble, and others.’ Oyster-parties were now very fashionable. They were quite decorous affairs, though not over-formal, and were attended and enjoyed by ladies as well as gentlemen.
One of these oyster-parties is described from a stranger’s point of view by Topham in his Letters from Edinburgh: ‘The shrine of festivity is nothing more than an oyster-cellar, and its votaries the first people in Edinburgh.... I was ushered into a large and brilliant company of both sexes, most of whom I had the honour of being acquainted with. The table was covered with dishes full of oysters, and pots of porter. By and by the table was cleared, and glass introduced. The ladies were now asked whether they would choose brandy or rum punch. I thought this question an odd one, but I was soon informed that no wine was sold here. The ladies, who always love what is best, fixed upon brandy punch, and a large bowl was immediately introduced. The conversation now became general and lively. A thousand things were hazarded and met with applause, to which the oddity of the scene gave propriety and which could have been produced in no other place.... In this little assembly there was more real happiness and mirth than in all the ceremonies and splendid meetings at Soho. When the company were tired of conversation, they began to dance reels, their favourite dance, which they perform with great agility and perseverance. One of the gentlemen, however, fell down in the most active part of it, and lamed himself. The dance was at an end. The ladies retired, and with them went all the mirth.’
Such scenes as these, along with attendance at ‘assemblies,’ concerts, and the general round of social engagements, filled up, without great fear of dulness, the leisure part of Scott’s existence when in town. His duties were but light, and so was his income.1 There is ample proof too that he found time to continue his literary studies, and kept himself, as the phrase is, ‘abreast of current literature.’ ‘On his desk the new novel most in repute lay snugly intrenched beneath Stair’s Institutes, or an open volume of Decisions.’
Notes
1 The particulars given by Lockhart are: first year’s practice, £24, 3s.; second year’s, £57, 15s.; third, £84, 4s.; fourth, £90; and in his fifth year, that is from November 1796 to July 1797, he made £144, 10s.; of which £50 were fees from his father’s chamber.