“On the day preceding that of Porteous’ death, a whisper went through the country, upon what information or authority this person knew not, that an attempt was to be made, on the succeeding evening, to put Captain Porteous to death. To avenge the blood of a relation who had been killed at the execution of Wilson, he conceived himself bound in duty to share the risk of the attempt. Wherefore, upon the following day, he proceeded to Edinburgh, and towards the evening stopped in the suburb of Portsburgh, which he found crowded with country people; all of whom, however, kept aloof from each other, so that there was no conversation about the purpose of their assembling. At a later hour, he found the inferior sort of inns in the Grassmarket full of people, and saw many persons, apparently strangers, lurking in the different houses. About eleven at night, the streets became crowded with men, who, having in some measure organized their body, by beating a drum and marching in order, immediately proceeded to secure the gates and make for the prison.”
* * * * * * *
“As the multitude proceeded with Porteous down the West Bow, some of their number knocked at the door of a shop and demanded ropes.[30] A woman, apparently a maid-servant, thrust a coil of ropes out of a window, without opening the door, and a person wearing a white apron, which seemed to be assumed for disguise, gave in return a piece of gold as the price,” etc.
THE CITY GUARD.
The City Guard, of which so much mention is made in the Tale before us, was originally instituted in 1648. Previous to that period, the City had been watched during the night by the personal duty of the inhabitants, a certain number of whom were obliged to undertake the office by rotation. In order to relieve the inconveniency of this service, a body of sixty men was first appointed, with a captain, two lieutenants, two sergeants, and three corporals; but no regular funds being provided for the support of the establishment, it was speedily dissolved. However, about thirty years thereafter, the necessity of a regular police was again felt; and forty men were raised. These, in the year 1682, were augmented, at the instigation of the Duke of York, to 108 men; and, to defray the expense of the company, a tax was imposed upon the citizens. At the Revolution, the Town Council represented to the Estates of Parliament, that the burden was a grievance to the City; and their request to have it removed was granted. So speedily, however, did they repent this second dismissal of their police, that the very next year they applied to Parliament for authority to raise a body of no fewer than 126 men, and to assess the inhabitants for the expense. Since that period the number of the Town Guard had been very fluctuating, and, before its late final dissolution, amounted only to about 75 men. For many years previous to this event, they had been found quite inadequate to the protection of the City. Riots seemed to be in some measure encouraged by the ridicule in which the venerable corps was held; and from their infirmities and other circumstances, as well as from their scantiness, the more distant parts of the rapidly increasing capital were left defenceless and open to the attacks of nightly depredators. Their language, their manners, and their tempers, so uncongenial with those of the citizens whom they protected, were also found to be almost inapplicable to the purposes for which they served, and, of course, operated as causes of their being disbanded. Besides, a few years before their dismissal, a regular police, similar to that of London, had been established in Edinburgh; which soon completely set aside all necessity of their services. The Town Guard were therefore convoked for the last time, we believe, in February, 1817; and, after receiving some small gratuity from the magistrates, and having a pension settled upon them still more trifling than their trifling pay, proportioned to the rank they held in the corps, were finally disbanded. The police of Edinburgh is now almost unrivalled in Britain for vigilance and activity—how different from the unruly and intemperate times when magisterial authority could be successfully set at defiance, when mobs could unite into such a system of co-operation as even to beard royalty itself, when (in 1812) a scene of violence could be exhibited that would not have disgraced the middle ages, and when, still more to be lamented, the protection of property was so uncertain, that, according to the city-arms, it was but too literally true that—
“Unless the Lord the City kept,
The watchmen watched in vain!”
Another event occurred about the same time in Edinburgh, which was appropriately contemporaneous with the abolition of the City Guard,—namely, the demolishment and final removal of the Tolbooth. This building, which makes so conspicuous a figure in the present Tale, was originally the Town-house of Edinburgh, and afterwards afforded accommodation for the Scottish Parliament and Courts of Justice, and for the confinement of debtors and malefactors. It had been used solely as a jail since 1640. It was not deficient in other interesting recollections, besides being the scene of the Porteous mob. Here Queen Mary delivered, what are termed by John Knox her Painted Orations; and on its dreary summits had been successively displayed the heads of a Morton, a Gowrie, a Huntly, a Montrose, and an Argyll,—besides those of many of inferior note.
A part of this edifice had been devoted to the use of the City Guard, ever since the removal of their former rendezvous in the High Street. Many will still remember of seeing a veteran or two leaning over a half-door in the north side of the Jail. Could their eyes have penetrated farther into the gloomy interior, a few more indistinct figures might have been perceived smoking round a fire, or reading an old newspaper, while the unintelligible language which they spoke might aid the idea of their resemblance to a convocation of infernals in some of the cinder-holes of Tartarus. In fine weather, a few of the venerable corps might be seen crawling about the south front of the prison, with Lochaber axes over their shoulders, or reposing lazily on a form with the white-haired keeper of the Tolbooth door, and basking in the sun, in all the lubber luxury of mental and corporeal abandonment. But now (sic transit gloria mundi!) their ancient Capitol is levelled with the dust, and they themselves are only to be ranked among the “things that were.” All trace of their existence is dispersed over a waste of visioned recollection; and future generations will think of the City Guard, as they think of the forty-five, of the Friends of the People,—or of the last year’s snow!
It is said, in the “Heart of Midlothian,” that “a phantom of former days,” in the shape of “an old worn-out Highlander, dressed in a cocked hat, bound with white tape instead of silver lace, and in coat, waistcoat and breeches, of a muddy-coloured red,” (the costume of the Guard,) “still creeps around the statue of Charles the Second, in the Parliament Square, as if the image of a Stuart were the last refuge for any memorial of our ancient manners.” This venerable spectre is neither more nor less than the goodly flesh and blood figure of John Kennedy, who served in the corps ever since the American war, and who is now employed by Mr. Rae, keeper of the Parliament House, to sweep the arcade, and to prevent little ragged urchins from disturbing by their noisy sports the weightier business of the law. John Kennedy was one of the band; and was well known to the heroes of the High School forty years ago. Like him, the greater part of his surviving brethren have changed into new shapes. One or two may be observed now and then, staggering about the outskirts of the town, or dozing away the last years of life upon the seats in the Meadow Walk and the King’s Park. Their old musty coats, in such instances, are dyed in some colour less military than red, and generally otherwise modernized by abscission of the skirts. A pair of their original spatterdashers still case their legs,—but which still less scarcely fend than formerly