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FOR more than a year
before his death, those acquainted with Sandy had marked symptoms of
failing vitality. Although the black curly hair was still unmixed and
the piercing eye undimmed, the once erect frame began to stoop, and the
step was less light and springy than it had been. He was aware of all
this himself; and probably knew more than he cared to disclose. He now
spoke more frequently of his death than he was wont, and seemed to look
upon it as an event by no means likely to be distant
“I hope,” he was often heard to say, “that when my time to die comes, it
may take place among the bonnie blooming heather, with the glorious sun
pouring down his rays of heat and light upon my perishing body.”
That wish was granted him. On the morning of the 23rd of August, 1843,
passing through Ballater, he met the late Dr. Sheriffs, who, observing
something about Sandy’s appearance he did not like and on being
permitted to examine him as to the state of his health, strongly
dissuaded him from going to the moors that day. The warning was
unheeded; he must follow that bent of mind which he could never resist,
and which made him appear to the poetical onlooker, to be the genius of
his native mountains.
Next morning he was discovered on the hills of Glenbucket, lying on his
back, with his faithful companion, the little brown pointer, seated on
his breast, keeping watch over him. At first knowing his habits, the
party who discovered him believed him to be asleep; but it was the sleep
that knows no waking. Passing the same place about an hour afterwards
and finding the supposed sleeper still in the same position, their
apprehensions were aroused, and it was resolved to make an
investigation.
It has often been observed of dogs that have been attached to man, that
they have a perception of death in their masters as a change that
requires them to undertake duties they had never before practised. Had
Sandy been concealing himself from the keepers or even asleep, his dog,
as it had long been trained to do, would have crouched closely by his
side to avoid being observed; but now it took its stand openly upon his
breast, and when a stranger approached, instead of concealing itself,
the faithful creature attacked savagely, and it was not without a
strenuous resistance that it allowed the remains of its master to be
conveyed to the nearest human dwelling.
Thus passed away the last poacher of the olden type, under conditions
befitting the life he led. Without justifying that life, it is only
simple truth to say that in his own eyes it was no violation of the laws
of God; and in the eyes of those best capable of judging, it was more
the result of a peculiarly romantic and chivalrous turn of mind than of
any low or lawless disposition. Whatever be the opinion entertained by
some on this matter, no one who knew him intimately—and he had a wider
circle of acquaintance than any native of the north of Scotland of his
day—will deny to his memory the testimony that he was imbued with the
highest sentiments of honour and religion, while his actions were
characterized by the strictest integrity of purpose, and the loftiest
generosity.
He was interred by his sisters in the family burying ground in the
churchyard of Glenmuick, where his grave is marked by an undressed
headstone, on which are cut in rude characters the initials of some of
his forefathers, with the date “1715 ” attached to one of them.
Having for some time previous to his death had a presentiment that it
might occur without much warning, he had told his sisters that he wished
his dog to be given to Mr. Mactier of Durris, as a mark of his esteem
for that gentleman. That wish was given effect to; but Sandy’s dog was
found to have modes of working that unfitted it for co-operating with
others of its kind; and it was accordingly seldom required to perform
any service, but passed the rest of its days at Durris House in indolent
luxury.
A life so romantic could scarcely pass away without evoking some poetic
tears; and many an elegy was poured on Sandy’s grave from the poet’s
comer of the northern press. Of other tributes to his memory the
following, with which we close the memoir of this remarkable man, was
written by the late Rev. Robert Scott, minister of Glen-bucket, the
parish in which his body was discovered, as above stated. It was
published at the time in the Aberdeen newspapers, and afterwards, at the
solicitation of the friends of the deceased, printed separately for
private distribution among them—
“Brave Sandy, art thou dead?” says a rustic bard, in an elegaic
production transmitted to us, on the death of Alexander Davidson, the
famed poacher of Braemar; and so say we—for more than once have we heard
of the character and exploits of this mountaineer, and while we
deprecated his occupation, felt a respect for the man. Sandy Davidson
was no ordinary poacher. The deteriorating influence of his trade, that
in general leads, step by step, to the utter demoralization of those who
pursue it, had no such effect upon him. The simplicity and integrity of
his character remained unchanged amid all the vicissitudes of his
lawless—though we be loath to use the word—and strangely-chequered life.
He was one among a thousand—a perfect specimen of the mountaineer. Sandy
scorned the habiliments of the Sassanach; and when clad in the “garb of
old Gaul,” with his dog and his gun, with a step as elastic as ever rose
from the springy heather, and an eye whose dark glance long years could
not dim, he might have been taken, while emerging from among die mists
of a September morning, for the very genius of his native hills.
There was a romance about Sandy’s character and his way of life that
rendered him a dangerous example. He was gifted in an eminent degree
with those qualities that insure popular favour—fearless, generous, and
kind-hearted.
“His foot was foremost in
the dance,
His laugh the loudest rang;
Nae e'e could match his mirthful glance,
None sung so sweet a sang.”
Nor is this random
quotation misapplied. Sandy had “borne the bell ” over hundreds at
competitions in the “ fantastic art ” at Edinburgh, and in all parts of
the country; and although in the “ vale of years,” and scarcely so lithe
in limb as in his early days, an invitation was found on him at his
death from the Earl of March, to attend and take part in some
merry-doings at Gordon Castle the other day.
His feats in eluding the keepers were innumerable. While closely chased,
he has more than once plunged into a moss pit, and lain there with his
face alone above water, till the baffled pursuers gave up the search. If
caught, however, he yielded without resistance. He knew the penalty that
his pursuits incurred; and, although an adept in the various sciences of
defence, he was never known to raise his hand against those who
attempted to apprehend him, even when the odds were in his favour.
Indeed, on his last coming within the reach of the law, which was a few
months ago, he not only quietly accompanied his captor from Dufftown to
Elgin, but treated him at every public-house in the way. Sandy was a
perfect child of Nature—as complete a Hawk-eye of the old country as the
times would admit of. He had no home, and he wished for none—no place of
residence but the broad face of the Highlands. His gun might have one
day been heard ringing among the hills of Perthshire, and on another
among the wilds of Lochaber; now, among the moors of Braemar and the
fastnesses that bound the “infant rills of Highland Dee”—then, beneath
the black shadow of Cairngorm, at the rocky sources of the Avon and the
Don; to-day in Strathspey, and to-morrow far to the north-west, among
the hills of Moray and Inverness. Everywhere Sandy was well known, and,
wherever he was known, there was an open door and a Highland welcome
awaiting him. Little he cared, however, for such accommodation.
Armed by Nature against the power of inclement skies, the shelter of a
bush or rock on the hillside was at all seasons sufficient. There, with
his faithful dog to watch over his slumbers, he slept soundly the
live-long night; and thus he was found, on the 24th August, 1843, by a
party of sportsmen, a corpse cold and stiff, on the moors of Glencaimey.
Many a quondam visitor to Ballater, who had heard of Sandy and seen him,
will, we believe, breathe a sigh of regret to the memory of the bold
poacher when they hear that he is no more. His way of life made him
often amenable to the game-laws; but, although a poacher, he had little
in common with that class. He was the Robin Hood of the freebooters of
the forest and moorland. Poaching to him was not the effect of idle
habits. It was part of the vocation of a simple but wild and untameable
spirit, that scorned all restraint on the natural liberty of man. He was
decently interred by his two sisters at Ballater.
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