(Meg Merrilies.)
The original of this character has been already pointed out and described in various publications. A desire of presenting, in this work, as much original matter as possible, will induce us to be very brief in our notice of Jean Gordon.
It is impossible to specify the exact date of her nativity, though it probably was about the year 1670. She was born at Kirk-Yetholm, in Roxburghshire, the metropolis of the Scottish Gipsies, and was married to a Gipsy chief, named Patrick Faa, by whom she had ten or twelve children.
In the year 1714, one of Jean’s sons, named Alexander Faa, was murdered by another Gipsy, named Robert Johnston, who escaped the pursuit of justice for nearly ten years, but was then taken and indicted by his Majesty’s Advocate for the crime. He was sentenced to be executed, but escaped from prison. It was easier, however, to escape the grasp of justice than to elude the wide spread talons of Gipsy vengeance. Jean Gordon traced the murderer like a blood-hound, followed him to Holland, and from thence to Ireland, where she had him seized, and brought him back to Jedburgh. Here she obtained the full reward of her toils, by having the satisfaction of seeing him hanged on Gallowhill. Some time afterwards, Jean being at Sourhope, a sheep-farm on Bowmont-water, the goodman said to her, “Weel, Jean, ye hae got Rob Johnston hanged at last, and out o’ the way?” “Ay, gudeman,” replied Jean, lifting up her apron by the two corners, “and a’ that fu’ o’ gowd hasna done’t.” Jean Gordon’s “apron fu’ o’ gowd” may remind some of our readers of Meg Merrilies’ poke of jewels; and indeed the whole transaction forcibly recalls the stern picture of that intrepid heroine.
The circumstance in “Guy Mannering,” of Brown being indebted to Meg Merrilies for lodging and protection, when he lost his way near Derncleugh, finds a remarkably precise counterpart in an anecdote related of Jean Gordon:—A farmer with whom she had formerly been on good terms, though their acquaintance had been interrupted for several years, lost his way, and was benighted among the mountains of Cheviot. A light glimmering through the hole of a desolate barn, that had survived the farmhouse to which it once belonged, guided him to a place of shelter. He knocked at the door, and it was immediately opened by Jean Gordon. To meet with such a character in so solitary a place, and probably at no great distance from her clan, was a terrible surprise to the honest man, whose rent, to lose which would have been ruin to him, was about his person. Jean set up a shout of joyful recognition, forced the farmer to dismount, and, in the zeal of her kindness, hauled him into the barn. Great preparations were making for supper, which the gudeman of Lochside, to increase his anxiety, observed was calculated for at least a dozen of guests. Jean soon left him no doubt upon the subject, but inquired what money he had about him, and made earnest request to be made his purse-keeper for the night, as the “bairns” would soon be home. The poor farmer made a virtue of necessity, told his story, and surrendered his gold to Jean’s custody. She made him put a few shillings in his pocket, observing, it would excite suspicion, were he found travelling altogether penniless. This arrangement being made, the farmer lay down on a sort of shake-down, upon some straw, but, as will easily be believed, slept not. About midnight the gang returned with various articles of plunder, and talked over their exploits in language which made the farmer tremble. They were not long in discovering their guest, and demanded of Jean whom she had there? “E’en the winsome gudeman o’ Lochside, poor body,” replied Jean; “he’s been at Newcastle seeking for siller to pay his rent, honest man, but de’il-be-licket he’s been able to gather in, and sae he’s gaun e’en hame wi’ a toom purse and a sair heart.” “That may be, Jean,” said one of the banditti, “but we maun rip his pouches a bit, and see if it be true or no.” Jean set up her throat in exclamation against this breach of hospitality, but without producing any change in their determination. The farmer soon heard their stifled whispers and light steps by his bed-side, and understood they were rummaging his clothes. When they found the money which the providence of Jean Gordon had made him retain, they held a consultation if they should take it or no; but the smallness of the booty, and the vehemence of Jean’s remonstrances, determined them in the negative. They caroused and went to rest. So soon as day dawned, Jean roused her guest, produced his horse, which she had accommodated behind the hallan, and guided him for some miles till he was on the high-road to Lochside. She then restored his whole property, nor could his earnest entreaties prevail on her to accept so much as a single guinea.
It is related that all Jean’s sons were condemned to die at Jedburgh on the same day. It is said the jury were equally divided; but a friend to justice, who had slept during the discussion, waked suddenly, and gave his word for condemnation, in the emphatic words, “Hang them a’.” Jean was present, and only said, “The Lord help the innocent in a day like this!”
Her own death was accompanied with circumstances of brutal outrage, of which Jean was in many respects wholly undeserving. Jean had, among other merits or demerits, that of being a staunch Jacobite. She chanced to be at Carlisle upon a fair or market-day, soon after the year 1746, where she gave vent to her political partiality, to the great offence of the rabble of that city. Being zealous of their loyalty, when there was no danger, in proportion to the tameness with which they surrendered to the Highlanders in 1745, they inflicted upon poor Jean Gordon no slighter penalty than that of ducking her to death in the Eden. It was an operation of some time; for Jean Gordon was a stout woman, and, struggling hard with her murderers, often got her head above water, and while she had voice left, continued to exclaim, at such intervals, “Charlie yet! Charlie yet!”
Her propensities were exactly the same as those of the fictitious character of Meg Merrilies. She possessed the same virtue of fidelity, spoke the same language, and in appearance there was little difference; yet Madge Gordon, her grand-daughter, was said to have had the same resemblance. She was descended from the Faas by the mother’s side, and was married to a Young. She had a large aquiline nose; penetrating eyes, even in her old age; bushy hair, that hung around her shoulders from beneath a gipsy bonnet of straw; a short cloak, of a peculiar fashion; and a long staff, nearly as tall as herself. When she spoke vehemently (for she had many complaints), she used to strike her staff upon the floor, and throw herself into an attitude which it was impossible to regard with indifference.
From these traits of the manners of Jean and Madge Gordon, it may be perceived that it would be difficult to determine which of the two Meg Merrilies was intended for; it may therefore, without injustice, be divided between both. So that if Jean was the prototype of her character, it is very probable that Madge must have sat to the anonymous author of “Guy Mannering” as the representative of her person.
To the author whose duty leads him so low in the scale of nature, that the manners and the miseries of a vicious and insubordinate race, prominent in hideous circumstances of unvarnished reality, are all he is permitted to record, it must ever be gratifying to find traits of such fine enthusiasm, such devoted fidelity, as the conduct of Jean Gordon exhibits in the foregoing incidents. They stand out with a delightful and luminous effect from the gloomy canvas of guilt, atoning for its errors and brightening its darkness. To trace further, as others have done, the disgusting peculiarities of a people so abandoned to all sense of moral propriety, would only serve to destroy the effect already created by the redeeming characters of Jean Gordon and her nobler sister, and more extensively to disgrace the general respectability of human nature.