PREFACE
When the late Dr
Taylor conceived the idea of preparing a volume on Craigcrook,
his chief object was to secure the reminiscences of Lord
Moncreiff, whose knowledge of Jeffrey and his cotemporaries
rendered him peculiarly fitted to reproduce the genius of the
place as well as of its most famous occupant. No other living
writer could possibly have given to the public such store of
pleasant memories as is contained in the chapter which forms the
main portion of this book. The great critic lives again in these
pages; and though we are often carried away from the "tea roses”
and “grey towers” to mingle with the men of note and power who
were his friends, Jeffrey is always the centre, and Craigcrook
the happy “muster ground ” of them all.
Apart from this
special association, which is the dominant note of the book, the
story of Craigcrook is well worthy of permanent record. It takes
us back almost to the days of Robert the Bruce. A portion of the
present building probably dates from before the battle of
Pinkie. It was fortified by the “King’s party” in the troublous
times of Queen Mary. Passing through several hands, it was
finally bequeathed in 1719, and the whole property is now
administered by trustees for charitable purposes.
During this
century the Castle has had a variety of tenants, but the glamour
of the place has never failed to exercise its power over them.
Brightness and
hospitality are now, as ever, identified with Craigcrook. Nature
has invested it with the charm of quiet beauty, which seems to
grow with the passing years. The changes which have been
gradually made in the building are in perfect harmony with the
original, and also with its surroundings. These have so far been
carefully detailed by Mr Ross in his valuable note. It remains
only to be said that the present occupant, Mr Robert Croall,
with warm appreciation of the beauty and traditions of
Craigcrook, has recently (1891) enlarged the building in a
manner which enhances its dignity, without in the least degree
detracting from its sweetness and grace. This extension, as
shown at pages 12 and 18, was carried out with characteristic
skill by Mr Thomas Leadbetter. The delay in issuing this volume
is the less to be regretted, as otherwise the photographs by
Messrs Bedford, Lemere & Co., of London, which add so greatly to
its value, would have been incomplete. Of special interest is
the view at page 42, showing the interior of Jeffrey’s study,
and a glimpse of the chair on which the “thunderer” was wont to
sit.
A pathetic
interest is added to the book by the fact that the learned
Editor has not been spared to see the publication of what was to
him a labour of love. With the author of “The Great Historic
Families of Scotland ” there has gone from us a rich treasure of
byegone lore. His love for the past was a passion, and bore many
valuable fruits. Not the least interesting of these is the
present sketch of an ancient Castle, whose history and
associations had always for him a special charm.
A. WALLACE
WILLIAMSON
Edinburgh, May 1892.
CRAIGCROOK,
HE lands of
Craigcrook belonged in the fourteenth century, and probably at a
much earlier period, to the famous family of Graham, ancestors
of the ducal house of Montrose, who early in the preceding
century held extensive possessions in the adjoining district of
Midlothian. It is mentioned in Wood’s History of Cramond,
published in 1794, that in Father Hay’s Collection of Charters
there is preserved a copy of a Resignation made by Patrick de
Graham, Lord of Kinpunt, and David de Graham, Lord of Dundaff,
of all right or claim they could have to the lands of Craigcrook,
in favour of John de Allyncrum, burgess of Edinburgh, bearing
date 9th April 1362. That worthy citizen in turn settled them on
a chaplain officiating at “Our Lady’s altar in the church of St.
Giles, and his successors, for ever, to be nominated by the
magistrates of Edinburgh.” The pious donor sets forth that this
foundation was to be for the salvation of the souls of the
illustrious Robert Bruce, late King of Scotland, of his wife
Queen Elizabeth, and for the safety and prosperity of their son,
the present King David; of William Earl of Douglas, his wife
lady Margaret, and of Archibald Douglas, during their lifetime,
and for the salvation of their souls after death, and of the
souls of the burgesses and commonalty of the city of Edinburgh,
and of their ancestors and successors; for the souls of his own
father and mother, brothers, sisters, and friends, then of
himself and of his spouse, Joanne, and finally of all faithful
souls deceased.
In 1376 the lands
of Craigcrook were let in feu-farm to Patrick and John Leper, on
condition of their paying an annual rent of £6, 6s. 8d. Scots,
for the support of the altar of the Virgin Mary, and of the
chaplain officiating there. In November 1428 John Leper resigned
these lands to John de Hill and his successors, chaplains at
that altar. Sir Simon Pivston of Graigmillar, Provost of
Edinburgh, made them over in 1540 to Sir Edward Marjoribanks,
Prebend of Craigcrook, and he in the following year let the
lands to George Kirkaldy, brother of Sir James Kirkaldy of
Grange, Lord High Treasurer of Scotland, on payment of £27, 6s.
8d. Scots. But in 1542 he restored Craigcrook to Sir Edward, and
the lands were assigned by him, with the consent of the Provost
and Chapter of the Collegiate Church of St. Giles, in perpetual
feu-farm, to William Adamson, burgess of Edinburgh—an example of
the manner in which, on the approaching downfall of the Romish
Church, ecclesiastical property was alienated to secular
purposes. It is probable that the new proprietor of Craigcrook
was the son of a William Adamson, who was one of the magistrates
of Edinburgh, and one of the guardians of the city after the
battle of Flodden. It appears that the second William Adamson,
who was killed at the battle of Pinkie in 1547, had inherited or
acquired considerable property, including Clenniston, Craigleith,
and part of Cramond, in the vicinity of Craigecrook, and it is
probable that the present castle was erected by him. or by his
grandson, who was his immediate successor. The only mention of
Craigcrook in connection with public events was during the
minority of James VI., and his mother Queen Mary’s imprisonment
in England, while the Castle of Edinburgh was held in her
interest by Kirkaldy of Grange. The King’s party, in order to
prevent the “inbringing of victuals” to the garrison, fortified
Merchiston, Gray-cruik (as the fortalice is termed by Keith and
Spottiswood), Lauriston, and “other places of strength about the
town of Edinburgh and “all inhabitainis within two myles to
Edinburgh wer constraint to leave thair houssis and landis to
that effect Edinburgh sould have na furneissing.” Craigcrook
remained for several generations in the possession of the
Adamsons, until in 1659 Robert Adamson disposed of his extensive
estates in the parish of Cramond, and sold Craigcrook to John
Mein, merchant in Edinburgh. Ten years later it was purchased
from Mein’s son by John Hall, one of the bailies, and afterwards
Lord Provost of Edinburgh, created a Baronet in 1687, and the
founder of the family of the Halls of Dunglass.. On his
acquisition of the Dunglaas estate—an old possession of the
great family of Home—he sold Craigcrook to Walter Pringle,
Advocate, from whose son it was purchased by John Strachan,
Clerk to the Signet.
At his death in
1719 Strachan bequeathed the whole of his property, real and
personal—including the estates of Craigcrook, North Clermiston,
and Boddams (with the exception of some small sums to his
brother and two nieces)—“mortified for charitable and pious
uses.” Mr. Strachan’s trustees, consisting of two Advocates, two
Writers to the Signet, and the Presbytery of Edinburgh, resolved
that the benefits of the Craigcrook Mortification should be
conferred on “poor old men, women, and orphans.” They also
determined that no old person should be admitted as a pensioner
under the age of sixty-four, nor any orphan above the age of
twelve. Fifty merks Scots were allotted to the poor of the
Advocates, one hundred merks to those of the Writers to the
Signet. Twenty pounds annually are granted for a Bible to one of
the members of the Presbytery, beginning with the Moderator, and
going through the others in rotation.
About the
beginning of the present century Craigcrook was the residence
for several years of Mr. Archibald Constable, the distinguished
publisher. “It welcomed many a guest distinguished in the
literature of this country,” says Mr. Thomas Constable, “and
there were few eminent foreign visitors to Edinburgh who did not
bring an introduction to its most successful publisher.”
In the spring of
1815 Francis Jeffrey, who had for some years spent his summer
and autumn at Hatton, “transferred his rural deities,” says his
biographer, to Craigcrook. When he first became the tenant the
house was only an old keep, respectable for age, but
inconvenient for a family; and the ground was merely a bad
kitchen garden of about an acre; all in paltry disorder. He
immediately set about reforming. Some ill-placed walls were
removed; while others, left for shelter, were in due time loaded
with gorgeous ivy, and both protected and adorned the garden. A
useful, though humble, addition was made to the house. And by
the help of neatness, sense, evergreens, and flowers, it was
soon converted into a sweet and comfortable retreat. The house
received a more important addition many years afterwards; but it
was sufficient without this for all that his family and his
hospitalities at first required. But by degrees that earth
hunger, which Scotsmen ascribe to the possession of any portion
of the soil, came upon him, and he enlarged and improved all his
appurtenances. Two sides of the mansion were flanked by handsome
bits of evergreened lawn. Two or three western fields had their
stone fences removed, and were thrown into one, which sloped
upwards from the house to the hill, and was crowned by a
beautiful bank of wood; and the whole place, which now extended
to thirty or forty acres, was always in excellent keeping. Its
two defects were—that it had no stream, and that the hill robbed
the house of much of the sunset. Notwithstanding this, it was a
most delightful spot—the best for his purposes that he could
have found. The low ground, consisting of the house and its
precincts, contained all that could be desired for secluded
quiet, and for reasonable luxury. The hill commanded magnificent
and beautiful views, embracing some of the distant mountains in
the shires of Perth and Stirling, the near inland sea of the
Firth of Forth, Edinburgh and its associated heights, and the
green and peaceful nest of Craigcrook itself. Lockhart says:
“The windows open upon the side of a charming hill, which in all
its extent, as far as the eye can reach, is wooded most
luxuriously to the very summit. There cannot be,” he adds, “a
more delicious rest for the eyes than such an Arcadian height in
this bright and budding time of the year.” And Carlyle in his
Reminiscences says: “I remember pleasant strolls out to
Craigcrook (one of the prettiest places in the world), where, on
a Sunday especially, I might hope, what was itself a rarity with
me, to find a really companionable human acquaintance, not to
say one of such quality as this. He (Jeffrey) would wander about
the woods with me, looking on the Forth and Fife hills, on the
Pentlands, and Edinburgh Castle and city: nowhere was there such
a view.”
In a letter to
Mr. Charles Wilkes, his father-in-law, of date 7th May 1815,
Jeffrey gives the most complete description we have met with of
the state of Craigcrook when he took up his residence there. He
says:—
“We are trying to
live at this place for a few days, just to find out what scenes
are pleasant, and what holes the wind blows through. I must go
back to town in two or three days for two months, but in July we
hope to return, and finish our observations in the course of the
autumn. It will be all scramble and experiment this season, for
my new buildings will not be habitable till next year, and the
rubbish which they occasion will be increased by endless pulling
down of walls, levelling and planting of shrubs, etc. Charley
wishes me to send you a description of the place, but it will be
much shorter and more satisfactory to send you a drawing of it,
which I shall get some of my artist friends to make out. In the
meantime, try to conceive an old narrow high house, eighteen
feet wide and fifty long, with irregular projections of all
sorts; three little staircases, turrets, and a large round tower
at one end; On the whole, exhibiting a ground plan like this—
with multitudes
of windows of all shapes and sizes, placed at the bottom of a
green slop, ending in a steep woody hill which rises to the
height of 300 or 400 feet on the west, and shaded with some
respectable trees near the door,—with an old garden, or rather
two, one within the other, stuck close on one side of the house,
and surrounded with massive and aged stone walls fifteen feet
high. The inner garden I mean to lay down chiefly in smooth
grass, with clustered shrubs and ornamental trees. beyond. to
mask the wall, and I am busy in widening the approaches, and
sunk fences for the high stone walls on the lawn. My chief
operation, consists in an additional building, which I have
marked but with double walls in the egant plan above, in which I
shall have one excellent and very large: room of more than
twenty-eight feet in length by eighteen in breadth, and
storeroom below, and two pretty bedchambers above. The windows
are the only ones in the whole house which will look to offer a
sequestered and solemn view, which is the chief charm of the
room.
OLD GATEWAY
DATE, A.D. 1626
It was the
favourite resort of his friends, who knew no such enjoyment as
at that place. And with the exception of Abbotsford, there were
more interesting strangers there than in any house in Scotland.
Saturday, during the summer session of the Courts, was always a
day of festivity; chiefly, but by no means exclusively, for his
friends at the Bar, many of whom were under general invitations.
Unlike some barbarous tribunals which feel no difference between
the last and any other day of the week, but more“ on with the
same stupidity through them all, and would include Sunday if
they could, our legal practitioners, like most of the other sons
of bondage in Scotland, are liberated earlier on Saturday; and
the Craigcrook party began to assemble about three, each taking
to his own enjoyment. The bowling-green was sure to have its
matches, in which the host joined with skill and keenness; the
garden had its loiterers; the flowers, not forgetting the wall
of glorious yellow roses, their worshippers; the hill its
prospect seekers. The banquet that followed was generous, the
wines never spared, but rather too various; mirth unrestrained,
except by propriety; the talk always good, but never ambitious;
and mere listeners in no disrepute. What can efface these days,
or indeed any Craigcrook day, from the recollection of those who
had the happiness of enjoying them!”
In another letter
to Mr. Wilkes, dated 9th May 1818, Jeffrey writes:—
“I have been
enlarging my domain a little, chiefly by getting in a good slice
of the wood on the hill which was formerly my boundary; my field
went square up to it before in this way. Now I have thrown my
fence back 100 yards into the wood so as to hide it entirely and
to bring the wood down into the field; and to do this
gracefully, I am cutting deep scoops and bays into it with the
fence buried in the wood. It is a great mass of wood, you will
remember, clothing all the upper part of a hill more than a mile
long, and 300 feet high; not very old nor fine wood—about forty
years old, but well mixed, of all kinds, and quite thick and
spiry.”
In the same
letter he says:—
“There is
something delicious to me in the sound even of a biting east
wind among my woods; and the sight of a clear spring bubbling
from a rock, and the smell of the budding pines and the common
field daisies, and the cawing of my rooks, and the cooing of my
cushats, are almost enough for me,—so, at least, I think to-day,
which is a kind of parting day for them, and endears them all
more than ever. Do not imagine, however, that we have nothing
better, for we have now hyacinths, auriculas, and anemones, in
great glory, besides sweetbriar, and wallflowers in abundance,
and blue gentians and violets, and plenty of rose leaves, though
no flowers yet, and apple-blossoms and sloes all around.”
“10th May.—The
larches are lovely, and the sycamores in full flush of rich,
fresh foliage; the air as soft as new milk, and the sky so
flecked with little pearly clouds full of larks, that it is
quite a misery to be obliged to wrangle in courts and sit up
half the night over dull papers. We shall come out here,
however, every Saturday.”
This appears to
be the first reference to the Saturday gatherings for the
Sessional Saturnalia, as he termed them, for which Craigcrook
was for more than thirty years so famous.
Whether alone or
with his choicest friends around him, his enjoyment of
Craigcrook and its garden and grounds was intense. Writing to
Mr. Wilkes in 1830, he says—
“The grass is so
green and the pale blue sky so resonant with larks in the
morning, and the loud strong bridal chuckle of blackbirds and
thrushes at sunset, and the air so lovesick with sweetbriar, and
the garden so bright with hepaticas, and primroses, and violets,
and my transplanted trees dancing out so gracefully from my
broken clumps, and my leisurely evenings wearing away so
tranquilly, that they have passed in a sort of enchantment, to
which I scarcely remember anything exactly parallel since I
first left college in the same sweet season, to meditate on my
first love in my first ramble in the Highlands.”
When sweltering
under the heat of July in London in 1833, he writes to Cockburn—
“I wish I were
lolling on one of my high shady seats at Craigcrook, listening
to the soothing wind among the branches.”
And a week later,
writing from Watford, though he had been all day wandering among
the ancient Druidical oaks and gigantic limes of Moor Park, his
heart was still in his Scottish home. “It is sweet weather,” he
says, “and I pine hourly for shades, and leisure, and the Doric
sounds of my mother tongue.”
On his return
from the sunny south, he writes to Empson—
“I am agreeably
disappointed in this here Craigcrook. It is much less rough and
rugged and nettley and thistley, than I expected, and really has
an air that I should not be ashamed to expose to the gentler
part of polished friends from the south. It has rained a little
every day, but nothing to-signify, and there is a crystal
clearness on the steep shores of the Forth, and a blue
skyisliness on the distant mountains of the west, that at most
makes amends for your emerald lawns, and glorious woods of
Richmond and Roehampton.”
In the cold and
wet April of 1837 he describes himself to Rutherford as
“exercising a frugal and temperate hospitality at Craigcrook,
reading idle books, and blaspheming the weather and on 11th
November of that year he writes to Empson—
“Postremum hunc
Arcthusa—We go to Edinburgh to-morrow, and I shall indite no
more to you this year from rustic towers and coloured woods.
They have been very lovely and tranquil all day, and with no
more sadness than becomes parting lovers; and now there is a
glorious full moon looking from the brightest pale sea-green sky
you ever saw in your life.”
In 1835 he
completed the beauty and comfort of Craigcrook by making his
last and greatest addition to the house. “I am going to make an
addition to Craigcrook,” he wrote to Mrs. Colden, 29th April,
“and am pulling down so much of the house that I fear we shall
not be able to inhabit there this year.” On September 30th he
wrote to Dr. Macleod, “My Craigcrook buildings have been roofed
in for some time, and everything finished but the plastering.”
The enlargement
of Craigcrook enabled Lord Jeffrey to extend his hospitality,
and his letters show that he received frequent and often
lengthened visits not only from old friends like John
Richardson, but also from numerous individuals who had attained
high eminence in literature and science, in artistic, and even
military pursuits. Lord Cockbum mentions that on the 21st of
October 1837 he dined at Craigcrook with the veteran soldier
Lord Lynedoch, one of the finest specimens of an old gentleman;
his head finer than Jupiter’s; his mind and body, at the age of
eighty-eight, both perfectly entire; with a memory full of the
most interesting scenes, and people of the last seventy years.
It is pleasant to think of the eminent critic and judge
dispensing generous hospitality to such veterans as Lord Chief
Commissioner Adam and Lord Lynedoch, and to Macaulay, Talfourd,
and Dickens, along with his own personal friends Cockbum,
Moncreiff, Mackenzie, Fullarton, and Rutherford, and enlivening
the conversation with a play of fancy, wit, humour, shrewd and
sound sense rarely equalled.
Not less
interesting, though in a different way, is the picture of the
venerable judge sauntering in his garden or in his grounds,
hand-in-hand with his precocious little grandchild, explaining
to her the materials of her clothes, and the difference between
plants and animals; pointing out the goodness of God in making
flowers so beautiful; expounding the mysteries of numeration,
and the benefits to be derived from attendance at church. To
him, in these circumstances, we may apply with additional
interest the description which Burns gives of Sir Thomas Miller
of Glenlee, President of the Court of Session, at his beautiful
seat of Barskimming:—
“Through many a
wild romantic grove,
Near many a hermit-fancied cove,
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love),
In musing mood,
An aged judge, I saw him rove Dispensing good.”
In 1844 we find
him writing to Mrs. Empson describing his enjoyment in the
company of his eldest grandchild Charlotte, who was at that time
little more than four years old :—
“One other
Scottish Sunday blessing on you before we cross the Border; and
a sweet, soothing, Sabbath-quiet day it is, with little sun and
some bright showers, but a silver sky, and a heavenly listening
calm in the air, and a milky temperature of 67; with low-flying
swallows, and loud-bleating lambs, and sleepy murmuring of bees
round the heavy-headed flowers, and freshness and fragrance all
about. Granny [Mrs. Jeffrey] went to the Free Church at
Muttonhole, and Tarley and I had our wonted walk of speculation,
I showing her over again how the silk, and the muslin and the
flannel of her raiment were prepared; with how much trouble and
ingenuity; and then to the building of houses in all their
details; and to the exchange of commodities from one country to
another—woollen cloth for sugar, and knives and forks for wine,
etc.; all of which she followed and listened to with the most
intelligent eagerness. She then had six gooseberries of my
selection in the garden, and then she went up to Ali [a nursery
maid], I went to meet Granny on her way from the Free, whom I
found just issuing from it with the ancient pastor’s wife—the
worthy Doctor himself having prayed and preached, with great
animation, for better than two hours, in the eighty-second year
of his age. Soon after we came home Rutherfurd came up from
Lauriston, and we strolled about for a good while, when
Charlotte and I conducted him on his way back, and are just come
in at five o’clock. An innocent day it has been at any rate, I
think. ... It would do any heart good to see the health and
happiness of these children! The smiling, all-endearing, good
humour of little Nancy, and the bounding spirits, quick
sensibility, and redundant vitality of Tarley. ... I wish you
could see our roses, and my glorious white lilies, which I kiss
every morning with a saint’s devotion. We have been cutting out
evergreens, and extending our turf, on the approach; and it
looks a great deal more airy and extensive!*
Again, he wrote
to Mrs. Empson describing a walk which he and his granddaughter
had “all over the fields,” gathering a basket of mushrooms :—
“Our talk
to-day,” he said, “was of the difference between plants and
animals, and of the half-life and volition that were indicated
by the former; and of the goodness of God in making flowers so
beautiful to the eye, and us capable of receiving pleasure from
their beauty, which the other animals are not; and then a
picture by me of the first trial, flight, and adventures of a
brood of young birds, when first encouraged by their mother to
trust themselves to the air—which excited great interest,
especially the dialogue parts between the mother and the young.
She has got a tame jackdaw, whose voracity in gobbling slips of
raw meat, cut into the semblance of worms, she very much
admires, as well as his pale blue eyes. She was pleased to tell
me yesterday, with furious bursts of laughter, that I was an old
man, very old and was with difficulty persuaded to admit that
Flush (the true original old man) was a good deal older.”
In this dignified
and happy position, in the full enjoyment
“Of that which
should accompany old age,
Honour, love, obedience, troops of friends."
Lord Jeffrey
passed the closing years of his life. On the 9th of November
1849 he left Craigcrook for the last time. On that day he wrote
to Empson:—
“Novissimu hoc in
agro conscribenda! I have made a last lustration of all my walks
and haunts, and taken a long farewell of garden, and terrace,
and flowers, seas and shores, spiry towers, and autumnal fields.
I always bethink me that I may never see them again, and one day
that thought will be a fact; and every year the odds runs up
terribly for such a consummation. But it will not be the sooner
for being anticipated, and the anticipation brings no real
sorrow with it.’’
North Side
The consummation
was nearer than he anticipated. On the 22nd of January he was in
Court for the last time. He was then under no apparent illness;
insomuch that before going home he walked round the Castle Hill,
with his usual quickness of step and alertness of gait. But he
was taken ill that night of bronchitis and feverish cold, though
seemingly not worse than he had often been. On the evening of
the 25th he dictated the last letter he ever wrote to the
Empsons. He died on the evening of the next day, the 26th of
January 1850, in his seventy-seventh year.
“This event,”
says Lord Cockburn, “struck the community with peculiar sadness.
On the occasion of no death of any illustrious Edinburgh man in
our day was the public sorrow deeper or more general.”
“15 Great Stuart
Street, “Edinburgh, 27th November 1886.
“Dear Dr.
Taylor,—You have been good enough to ask me to furnish for your
intended book about Craigcrook my personal recollections of the
place, and of its celebrated occupant, Jeffrey.
“It is not always
easy to break down into intelligible or readable fragments a
general remembrance extending, as in this case, over the greater
part of a long lifetime. Neither is it easy to express in words
the emotions and associations which the theme you propose to me
calls up. I do not remember a time when it was not identified
with visions, growing more defined as age advanced, of interest,
brilliancy, and pleasure. Old Craigcrook, with its gray towers,
tea-roses, and its overhanging woods, is indelibly associated in
my memory not only with sunshine and flowers, but with the
sowing of the seeds in literature and politics, which produced
so plentiful a harvest. Time moderates many enthusiasms, and
reduces boyish idols to smaller proportions; but I have not
found it so in the present instance. In the course of my life I
have come in contact with many distinguished standards by which
my early admiration might be tested; and looking back through
more than sixty years, I still bow before the images I first
worshipped.
“But while the
vivid impression remains, single details become dim. I knew
Craigcrook as a child, as a schoolboy, and as a college lad. But
the men were, of course, my father’s friends, and not my own. It
was only after those periods had passed that I could pretend to
have observed cotemporary events on any footing of intimacy. In
token of our long friendship, and memory of past kindness, I
very gladly comply with your request, but I think I can only
discharge the task I have undertaken by simply putting down,
almost at random, some thoughts and recollections which your
request awakens. They will insensibly take the form more of
reflection and dissertation than of reminiscence, and I shall
confine them entirely to Jeffrey and his cotemporaries.—Believe
me, yours very sincerely, Moncreiff.”
Posterity is
generally just in its awards, but they constitute only average
justice, and not unfrequently individual injustice. I doubt if
the popular estimate is as high as it ought to be of what we owe
to the circle of vigorous and accomplished men, of which Jeffrey
was throughout the centre, and Craigcrook for long the
muster-ground. Men who have given a great impulse to human
thought, and have left indelible marks on intellectual progress,
are apt to be judged, especially in the next generation, more by
the standards they have themselves created than by those which
they abolished. The true measure of the claims of such men to
grateful remembrance can only be attained by comparing the
condition in which they found the current of national thought
with that in which they left it—by estimating the obstacles
which they encountered and surmounted, the dead weight which
their leverage removed, and the thick mists of ignorance and
apathy which in the end their exertions dissipated and
dispersed.
The Edinburgh
circle, of whom I now speak, have been described by Henry
Cockburn, one of the most distinguished of their number, in the
vivid and graphic style of which he was so great a master. They
were for some years a circle apart in the northern metropolis,
herding with each other, and visiting, dining, and taking their
recreation together. Politics ran very high in the beginning of
this century; and as these men were of the unfashionable school
of Fox, there was little social intercourse between the rival
armies. When I first began, with schoolboy eyes, to look out on
the world of Edinburgh, twenty years afterwards, the party
organisation was as stringent as ever; and although the ramparts
were gradually broken down, it required ten years more, and the
first Reform Bill, to complete the change. The rising
generation, however, happier than their predecessors,
disregarded in social life the old lines of separation, and many
of them found, as I did, some of their fastest and truest
friends in the opposite camp.
The original
fraternity was composed of a knot of college lads— they were
hardly more—who came together in Edinburgh in days when the
French Revolution had stimulated thought all over Europe, and
when the avidity for the acquisition of knowledge was intense.
They had for the most part been associated within the walls of
the Speculative Society of Edinburgh, a Debating Club of some
fame which has a certain University sanction. At the beginning
of this century many of them had been drafted off into various
lines of life. Most of them went to the Scottish Bar; some of
them, more ambitious, tried their fortune at that of England;
some joined the ranks of Science; but all in the end made their
mark, and not a few with distinguished success. The names of the
most eminent were Francis Jeffrey, Henry Brougham, George
Cranstoun, James Moncreiff, Francis Horner, and his brother
Leonard, John Playfair, Henry Cockburn, Thomas Thomson, John
Allan, John Fullerton, John Archibald Murray, and a young
English clergyman of the now famous name of Sydney Smith. To
these I should add the names of George Joseph Bell, John
Playfair, John Leslie, Dugald Stewart, Thomas Brown, and John
Richardson. They were all friends of my father’s; and my
grandfather, old Sir Harry Moncreiff, was never better pleased
than when any of this young and vigorous band came, as they
often did, to join his supper-party.
Of the men whose
names are included in this list, the after career was
remarkable. When the Edinburgh Review started in 1802, Sydney
Smith was the eldest of the band, being in his thirty-first
year. Jeffrey was thirty, and Brougham and Cockbum, I take it,
were the youngest, being twenty-four. In the end not one of
those I have named failed to rise to honour. Brougham became
Lord Chancellor, and for a time the arbiter of the political
world. Homer, dying at forty-one, was the subject of a
resolution in the House of Commons, moved by Canning, expressive
of the regret felt at his decease. Sydney Smith, although he
never attained the more glittering prizes of the Church,
acquired fame enough to have satisfied the most ambitious. Of
the Edinburgh section, although they belonged for many years to
the proscribed side of politics, Cranstoun, Fullerton, Moncreiff,
Jeffrey, Cockbum, and Murray rose to the Scottish Bench, after
having for many years absorbed a large proportion of the leading
practice, and after occupying a prominent position in politics.
Jeffrey and Murray both held the position of Lord Advocate, and
Cockbum was Solicitor-General for some years. Of those in other
intellectual pursuits, the names of Dugald Stewart, Thomas
Brown, John Playfair, and John Leslie stood, and still stand, as
high as Science or Philosophy can raise their votaries.
Such was the
Brotherhood. They were not all contributors to the Review.
Cranstoun and Moncreiff devoted themselves to legal practice, to
the high rank in which they both soon attained. I find from a
letter of Jeffrey’s in 1804 that he had endeavoured to enlist
Cranstoun for the Review, but had failed to induce him to join.
He seems to have had a high estimate, and rightly, of
Cranstoun’s general accomplishments, but his vows had been paid
to his profession, and he was averse to divert his
South Side
attention from
it. He was a year or two older than the others, was of good
family, and had at one time thought of entering the army. I had
the good fortune to visit him on two occasions at his seat at
Cora House, on the Clyde, a most beautiful and remarkable spot,
and not more distinguished than its proprietor. He was a
courtly, somewhat reserved, formal and fastidious man, but when
he unbent was full of resources, varied knowledge, learning, and
familiarity with the world.
Of my father I
need not speak here. The quiet and unassuming force of his
character was known throughout all Scotland. His powerful grasp
of legal reasoning made him the most distinguished pleader of
his time at the Scottish Bar, and his recorded judgments on the
Bench are an imperishable monument to his judicial ability. Lord
Cockbum says of him that his name among the Brotherhood was,
“The Whole Duty of Man.” I think it was well bestowed: he was
the best man I ever knew. It was the fashion among them to say
that he was devoted to his profession, which in truth he was,
knowing that to be the only talisman to ensure success, and
having genuine pleasure in the dialectic exercise. In the end he
reached a mastery in the Art which few ever attained. He had,
besides, an intensity of energy which never flagged, and which
served him in great things as well as in small. But he had other
tastes—not suspected of any but his intimates. He was
exceedingly fond of music, and no mean judge of it. It was a
taste which, I think, few of the others shared with him. He was
an ardent politician, apart altogether from all notions of
personal interest; and although as far removed from the Radical
ranks as a follower of Fox could be, I believe he thought the
early numbers of the Review not true blue enough for his
standard. Latterly, I think, a seat in the House of Commons was
the real object of his quiet and unexpressed ambition. He felt
that he had so full a knowledge of the commercial and
agricultural interests of Scotland, and was so conversant with
its affairs, that he might be of some practical utility in that
position. But those were only castles in the air. He had been
raised to the head of the Scottish Bar by his election as Dean
of the Faculty of Advocates in 1826. In 1829 he accepted a seat
on the Bench, which he had been offered and declined two years
before. Had he foreseen that the political sun was about to
shine on the Whig side so soon, it is not improbable that he
would have continued longer at the Bar. A third characteristic
was a love of athletics and field sports. Grouse-shooting,
dog-breaking, feats of walking and running, were common topics
in his after-dinner talk with us, and in his later years he was
often seen as a spectator on the cricket-ground. General
Hutchinson, in his Book on Dog-Breaking, mentions a dog-story
told him by my father at his own table, where the General was a
welcome guest. In his youth (in his Oxford days) Lord Moncreiff
was a renowned pedestrian. He and Sir John Stoddart, who was
afterwards his brother-in-law, once walked from Edinburgh to
London for amusement. I think they were twelve or fourteen days
on the way, exclusive of two days spent with Wordsworth at the
Lakes. Stoddart was a German scholar, which Moncreiff was not,
and he found, I think, the two days of Goethe and Schiller the
most fatiguing of the fortnight.
He was always a
great favourite with the circle, and with Brougham, Jeffrey, and
Cockbum in particular; and they looked upon each other with the
eyes of affectionate schoolboys. His simplicity, want of
self-assertion, and manly truth and straightforwardness,
attracted them; and they respected although they did not always
sympathise with the earnestness which was his characteristic. It
might have been well, perhaps, if some of it had been
transferred. With Brougham his friendship and correspondence
continued unbroken to the end. In 1834 he spent a fortnight at
Brougham's house in London while the latter was Chancellor. I
accompanied him to London, and during that period I met Jeffrey
and Brougham at dinner at the house of Dr. Maton, who was then
the Court Physician. The party, as far as I recollect, consisted
of Brougham, Jeffrey, Sir Benjamin Brodie, Lord Moncreiff, and
myself. It was an interesting dinner-party. The talk was very
good, Brougham was rather voluble, and Jeffrey not as much so as
I have known him; but it was an evening to remember.
On Henry Cockbum,
better known now as Lord Cockbum, I shall not enlarge. I did
once attempt to estimate his character and services as a
testimony not more of gratitude than of admiration. What I owed
personally to his constant and persistent friendship I cannot
express, and I only pass his name now that I may not be diverted
from my present theme. His ability was equal to that of any of
the circle, and he had in addition the rare gifts of originality
and genius.
None of the
others, as far as I know, excepting Cockbum, took any interest
in field sports or athletics, or open-air pursuits of any kind.
A quiet game at bowls was the utmost exertion which served for
amusement. Cockbum had one accomplishment certainly which argued
athletic training and power: he skated beautifully. To witness
the Judge’s graceful figure, with the sweep of his measured
dignified outside edge, looking like the monarch of the ice, was
a sight worth remembering. One bright frosty Saturday I remember
well, when Lochend was frozen to its core with a thick
transparent cover, showing the weeds bending below. I was
pleading a case before Patrick Robertson (Lord Robertson), when
Lord Cockbum appeared at the back of the bench, and this
dialogue ensued:—
Cockburn : You
must let Moncreiff off for to-day. He and I have a meeting of
trustees to attend.
Peter : Who are the trustees?
Cockburn : Loch’s trustees.
Peter : Where do they meet?
Cockburn : At Lochend.
Peter: Oh!
We attended the
meeting, and years afterwards I was shown a letter from Cockbum
to a correspondent which he had written on the following day, in
which he described our skating, and said, “We careered like
angels upon an inverted sky,” an association of which I was
proud but unworthy.
Of all the
circle, Cockbum had the most influence with Jeffrey, and was
nearest his everyday life, although from obvious causes this
does not come out in Jeffrey’s correspondence. For the most
part, Cockbum was at hand. In his editorial work he was not the
man to bring his name into prominence; but in the Craigcrook
festivities, the Saturday’s Saturnalia, as they were called, few
were organised without Cockbum’s aid. He arranged the bowling
parties, and very often chose the guests. Thus we find Jeffrey
writing in 1827 to Cockburn : “Pray dine here on Thursday,. . .
and ask Thomas (Thomson) and the Rutherfurds, and any others you
think worthy.” And in 1828 be laments Cockbum’s absence. He
says, “Cockburn has deserted us more than usual; first, for his
English friends, and then for those in the North, having been a
week or more with the Lauder Dicks, and passing twice by
Rothiemurchus.”
My old
grandfather, Sir Harry Moncreiff, was a powerful and
characteristic man, and much appreciated by those younger
lights. He had been a man of mark almost before most of them
were born. A man of strong, self-reliant capacity, of large
views and sympathies, and known to high and low from one end of
Scotland to the other. His encouragement to the rising Whigs of
the younger generation did not a little to promote the
confederacy which afterwards became so powerful. I knew him very
well, as far as a lad of fourteen could know a man of
seventy-six; for during the two last years of his life, when his
footsteps had grown feeble, he used me as a walking-stick, and I
had the advantage, which I have ever since valued, of his
interesting and powerful conversation. He was a kind of landmark
for the Whig party in the North.
Cockburn has
sketched him very faithfully, and in Jeffrey’s letters we find
him referred to once and again in terms which indicate both
respect and intimacy. Thus, in 1811, during the Grey and
Granville negotiation, we find Jeffrey rejoicing over the party
prospects. He says: “Our Whigs here are in great exultation, and
had a fourth more at Fox’s dinner yesterday than ever attended
before. There was Sir H. Moncreiff sitting between two
Papists!—and Catholic emancipation drank with great applause—and
the lamb lying down with the wolf—and all millennial.”— 25th
June 1811. Sixteen years afterwards, in August 1827, we find him
again mentioned: “Alas! for poor Sir Henry and ancient Hermand
[they died on the 9th August 1827]. It is sad to have no more
talk of times older than our own, and to be ourselves the
vouchers for all traditional antiquity. I fear, too, that we
shall be less characteristic of a past age than those worthies
who lived before manners had become artificial and uniforms and
opinion guarded and systematic.” He says further on: “I wish I
could summon up energy enough to write a panegyric on old Sir
Henry; and if I were at home, I think I should. But I can do
nothing anywhere else.” But what Jeffrey meditated, Brougham
did; and devoted a paper in the Edinburgh Review in January 1828
to this tribute of kindly remembrance.
Some, or rather
most of the others, I knew familiarly in after life, but they
had scattered before I took part in the world’s affairs. I never
saw Horner. He and Brougham went to London about 1805 or 1806.
Playfair died in 1815, and Homer in 1817. From Brougham I had
much kindness in after years, and his close friendship with my
father never abated. Leonard Homer migrated later. He and his
family are among my earliest and brightest recollections, and
his house in Lauriston Lane in Edinburgh was the scene of the
gayest and noisiest of children’s parties, which still retain
the glorified remembrance of childish or boyish years.
Jeffrey, writing
from London in 1823, says, “I was surprised this morning to run
against my old friend Tommy Moore, who looks younger, I think,
than when we met at Chalk Farm some sixteen years ago.” And-in a
subsequent letter in May of the same year, he says, “I also saw
a good deal of Miss Edgeworth and Tommy Moore,” and goes on to
say that “Moore is even more delightful in society than he is in
his writings.” I refer to these things, because they recall some
of the phantoms of my youth. Moore was in Edinburgh either in
that year or the next. I never saw him, but I well recollect my
father and mother going in 1824 to dine with Sir Harry on an
occasion to which they seemed to attach unusual interest. It was
to meet two rather incongruous guests—Tom Moore and Dr. Andrew
Thomson, then the most popular Evangelical preacher in
Edinburgh. I recollect that they returned delighted. Tom Moore
and Thomson fraternised at once. The bond of union was their
passion for music. Moore had sung several of the Melodies; and
Andrew Thomson, who had a fine voice, and was an accomplished
musician, had finished the evening by singing Moore’s song of
the “Meeting of the Waters.” The party embraced, I am told,
Chalmers, Jeffrey, and old Henry Mackenzie.
Miss Edgeworth,
too, is one of these shadowy apparitions. I was once told off
about the same year—1823 or 1824—to escort her to the Went
Church in Edinburgh to hear Sir Harry preach, and I well
remember the kindly charm of her manner. About the same time and
in the same place I encountered Sir James Mackintosh. As I was
much impressed with the dignity of my position on these
occasions, being greatly overawed by the celebrity of my
companions, I fear that as I sat opposite to them in the square
pew in the West Church, I never took my eyes off them; not much
to the credit of my good manners, but I learned the features of
these famous ones by heart. I never saw either again.
Drawing Room
One of the
original Brotherhood, and one of the first to yield to the
attraction of London, was John Richardson, a man whose mind was
cast in a gentle and poetic mould, but who was for many long
years the Crown Solicitor in Scottish affairs in London, and a
most able and efficient administrator. It was after most of
those whose names I have recounted had departed that I became
intimate with him, and a more charming companion, or a
pleasanter circle than that which he collected round him in
London, I never knew. He had an attractive vein of the poetic
running through the whole strain of his genial conversation; and
in the quiet evenings I have spent with him I learned more of
the early ways and characteristics of the “Order” than from any
other source. He was a great friend of Campbell the poet, and I
find in Jeffrey’s correspondence a letter which Jeffrey wrote to
Campbell with reference to Richardson’s leaving Edinburgh (p.
52, 17th March 1801). Among many other notable incidents at his
house in London, I have a vivid recollection of one occasion on
which Carlyle and Lord Chancellor Campbell were of the party,
and engaged in an interesting and well-sustained, though
courteous, single combat on the merits of the Lives of the
Chancellors. Sir David Dundas was also present, and from time to
time slyly fomented the conflagration. We thought that the
Chancellor, on the whole, had the best of the encounter.
But, like others,
Richardson had other tastes nearer his heart than business, or
poetry, or London. A trouting-rod by the banks of the Teviot or
the Ale was what he yearned for and enjoyed, and at his
beautiful property of Kirklands, in Roxburghshire, he had what
he prized more than all the projects of ambition.
These were the
men, some of them known to the larger world, and some less so,
but they were all in the front rank in the North. Scotland at
that time may have been regarded as provincial by those other
side the Tweed; may have been thought so then, and some
benighted Southrons may think so still. But at that day it was
in some respects less provincial than at present, and in some
respects more cosmopolitan than England. There may be some in
the present day who prate of nationalities, but they are few and
underbred. There is no doubt, however, that nothing contributed
so much to enhance the respect paid to Scotland among English
politicians and scholars as the success of the Edinburgh Review.
The circle which
I have described was for the most part forensic, but yet the
band ranged over the whole field of human knowledge in all its
branches. They had extensive reading, fair scholarship, some of
them were profoundly versed in the ancients, and Playfair,
Leslie, and Brougham were great and formidable representatives
of physical science, as Dugald Stewart and Thomas Brown were of
mental philosophy. I doubt if in the circuit of the British
Isles at that day there could have been found fifteen personal
intimates who presented such a combination of knowledge and
intellectual power.
Some critics, who
constantly assure the world that they are the true aesthetes,
while often they have not a ray of the diviner flame, have a
fashion of sneering at the magnates of the Edinburgh Review, as
if they had done nothing. I only know that in their society
these cavillers could not have held their place for a moment.
Their farthing candles would at once have been extinguished, for
those men were not dreamers over fanciful emotions, but were
stored with the results of hard and varied study. Those were
days in which conversation was an art, and I do not believe it
was ever more successfully cultivated than in that remarkable
circle. Of course, it was long after the date of which I write
that I can speak from personal experience; but I do remember one
bright summer evening, at a date when those feelings of
political separation had long since disappeared, when at the
hospitable board of Lord Mackenzie, the son of The Man of
Feeling, and a man of remarkable cultivation, we sat till the
shadows lengthened, while our host and Jeffrey discussed, with
amazing vivacity, wit, and eloquence, the dramatists of the
Elizabethan era. Whether in the present day it would have been
accounted slow, I cannot say; but we, a party of eight or ten,
were all sorry when it ended; and a greater wealth of
illustration, fancy, and acute appreciation than the dialogue
displayed, I have never found elsewhere. They did not harangue
or “orate,” as our American friends have it, or strive for the
lead, or seem to request any one to listen, but played into each
other’s hands, as if the exercise had been a delight to them.
Mackenzie, for the most part, started each view and topic,
Jeffrey caught it up and covered it with flowers. Indeed,
versatile as Jeffrey was in all departments of intellectual
exercise, his special attributes were best displayed in his
conversation. Instinct with a vivid fancy rather than with
imagination, and a rapid incisive wit rather than humour, his
talk was such that one could not listen to him and mark the
fertile suggestions of his mobile brain without admiration. One
of the last occasions on which I was in his company was in a
walk with him alone from Craigcrook to Edinburgh, a distance
under three miles, through the grounds of the old residence of
Ravelston. It was a few months before his death. What he talked
of, I cannot recollect; I only know his discourse was wonderful,
and full of melody, instruction, and wisdom.
When I came to be
intimate in his later years with this truculent Minos, he was
the gentlest, kindest, and most considerate of men. Years of
success and fame may have tempered the outspoken vivacity of his
manners, and smoothed over the rough edges of his speech or
thoughts, but as I knew him, and as many others had the best
reason to know— though some did not always remember—he was full
of warmth, of feeling, and of generosity. He had no jealousies
and no antipathies, and neither open spite nor covert detraction
could find endurance at his hands, whoever the author and
whoever the object of them.
In the light of
retrospect no one can fail to see that the commencement of the
Edinburgh Review marks an epoch in periodical literature as
clearly as did The Toiler and The Spectator in their day.
Periodical journalism, devoted in the main to criticism, is
necessarily ephemeral in its nature. It is meant for the present
reformation of literary taste; and when it has done its work,
and literary taste has been so completely reformed that the old
corruptions are forgotten, no wonder that the critic appears at
the distance of three-quarters of a century to be a trifle
commonplace and a mere beating of the air. The real question is,
Did it do its work? And that it did in this instance is
unquestionable, or that journal would never have acquired the
astonishing celebrity which it at once commanded.
It is thus merely
idle for feeble minds to decry Jeffrey’s literary judgments as
being erroneous. They were addressed to the public of 1803, and
the public of 1803 were perfectly able to judge of them,
probably much better than some of the public of 1886. They did
substantially approve them, to the extent of buying the Review.
Some of our modem scribes are never tired of cavilling at
Jeffrey’s strictures on Wordsworth, Coleridge, and what were
called the Lake school. I do not say that Jeffrey fully
appreciated the merits of those men, or may not have been too
severe on their unquestionable faults. They had the genius, as
all the world now allows. Poetry of the emotions, poetry of
feeling, not of action, poetical analysis of the inner
consciousness, was of a style to a certain degree not familiar
in those days to our countrymen, and I think not congenial to
Jeffrey’s cast of thought. The school had a German mystical
dreamy element which the great critic too much resented, and the
want of masculine vigour which seemed to characterise it threw
into the shade with him the real depth, pathos, and truth of its
delineations. Addison and Steele and Swift and Johnson were as
often wrong as right in their estimate either of literature or
of manners, but no one on that account denies them their places
as pioneers in the literary progress of the nation. Jeffrey was,
of course, not infallible, but he stirred the public mind to
solve great problems in literature and politics, and few men
have done as much, and still fewer have done or can do more.
Nor am I by any
means prepared to concede that Jeffrey’s criticisms on the Lake
school, although imperfect and to some extent misleading, were
entirely erroneous. I do not think that they were so in
themselves, or as regarded the effect of these writers on the
national literature. That the poets had genius, and rare genius,
is certain, but their real fault was affectation—affectation of
simplicity, and affectation of mysticism. I know this will be
considered heresy. But what has been the result of the reaction
which they led?—that poetry has in great measure ceased to be
written, and that what has been written has to a large extent
ceased to be read. Readers have grown tired of groping about to
find an unexpressed meaning in unmeaning words, and decline to
accept spasmodic and ambiguous utterances as indicating any
inspiration. I except the Laureate, who may have his own sins to
answer for, but he has the true inspiration, and can be manly
when he chooses.
I was in my
younger days a diligent student of the earlier numbers of the
Edinburgh Review. I found them a repertory of vivacity, of
vigour, and of intelligence. I learned from them many lessons,
which I have found of service in my subsequent life. I am glad
to find that the appreciation which I then had is confirmed by a
great name, which even the most critical can hardly disparage.
Macaulay says in a private letter, just before the collected
reviews of Jeffrey were published: “Jeffrey is at work on his
Collection. It will be delightful, no doubt, but to me it will
not have the charm of novelty, for I have read and re-read his
old articles until I know them by heart.” And he says in a
subsequent letter: “What do you think of Jeffrey’s book? The
variety and fertility of Jeffrey’s mind seem to me more
extraordinary than ever. I think there are few things in the
four volumes which one or two other men could not have done as
well. But I do not think that any one man except Jeffrey—nay,
that any three men—could have produced such diversified
excellence. When I compare him with Sydney and myself, I feel
with humility perfectly sincere that his range is immeasurably
wider than ours; and this is only as a writer. But he is not
only a writer, for he has been a great advocate, and he is a
great judge. Taking him for all in all, I think him more nearly
a universal genius than any man of our time.”
With the view of
renewing my Craigcrook associations, and recalling some minor
traits which my memory had let slip, I have re-read the whole of
Jeffrey’s letters, at least those published by Cockburn, which
must be but a minute fraction of those he wrote. I found it a
very interesting and very instructive occupation. His letters
tell the story of his life in very clear outline. They bring out
the rapid brilliancy of his thoughts very perfectly, as well as
the kindly courage and sweetness of his temper. One element is
disclosed which in my knowledge of the man I had not detected or
expected. There was a tinge of melancholy running through the
golden thread of his genius, arguing a depressed and nervous
temperament, even when fame and fortune favoured him most.
Prosperity did not mark him for her own for some tedious years
after he joined the Bar, and the death of his first wife left an
element of sadness which not unfrequently recurs. His earlier
life at the Bar was not at once successful or cheerful; at
least, as often happens, the consciousness of unappreciated
power seemed, if he may be judged by his correspondence, to
produce a chronic depression, deepening as the years went on.
But this is a phase from which few successful lawyers have been
free. We find him, after two or three years had passed,
beginning to wonder if he had mistaken the bent of his
intellect, and full of schemes, some of them wild enough, for
making a new start.
Dining Room
Thus in 1796 he
says: “I wish I had learned some mechanical trade, and would
apply to it yet, were it not for a silly apprehension of silly
observation. At present I am absolutely unfit for anything, and
with middling capacities, and an inclination to be industrious,
have as reasonable a prospect of starving as most people I
know.”
Again, on 6th
March 1799 he says: “As to the goods of fortune, I can say but
little for myself. I have got no legacies and discovered no
treasures since you went away, and for the law and its honours
and emoluments, I do not seem to be any nearer than I was the
first year that I called myself practitioner.” On the 3rd
January 1801, he writes to his brother: “I make but little
progress, I believe I may say none at all, at the Bar; but my
reputation, I think, is increasing, and may produce something in
time.” And again, on the 1st of August 1801: “I do not make a
hundred a year, as I have told you, by my profession.”
But with the
assured success of the Review these apprehensions as to his
worldly prosperity vanished, and as his literary fame grew, so
did his professional success. In 1807 he writes: “I write at the
Review still, and might make it a source of considerable
emolument, if I set any value on money. But I am as rich as I
want to be, and should be distressed with more, at least if I
were to work more for it.”
The tale of the
Edinburgh Review, its inception, its instantaneous success, the
struggles to maintain a reputation so rapidly gained, and the
strong broad flood which in the end swept so steadily on, may be
discerned in these letters, which formed but a fragment of his
current thoughts after all. The original projectors were
certainly Brougham. Jeffrey, and Sydney Smith, and the last
claims, I have no doubt justly, the credit of the original
proposition. Sydney himself tells the secret without disguise,
and the motto which he proposed for the work, which is too well
known to be quoted, affords real evidence of the truth of his
claim. I think I have heard my father say that Brougham did not
contribute to the two first numbers, although he was
unquestionably one of the original projectors. Sydney Smith
edited the first number, and then he left for London, and
Jeffrey ascended the throne which he held for so many years. It
was not a bed of roses, for one by one his comrades left
Edinburgh. In a charming commination which he directs against
Homer in 1805, and against all evil-doers of the same class, we
have, under his own hand, a list of the faithless ones. He says,
“If you will not write reviews, I cannot write anything else.
This number is out, thank Heaven! without any assistance from
Homer, Brougham, Sydney Smith, Thomas Brown, Allen, Thomson, or
any others of those gallant supporters, who voted their blood
and treasure for its assistance.” But although absent from the
headquarters of the Review, Brougham, Homer, and Sydney Smith
continued to be frequent contributors to the end of their lives.
Reading over the
memoirs of those remarkable men, one cannot help being struck by
the tone of affection, and often tenderness, which prevailed
among them. Jeffrey wails over the impending dissolution of
their circle in 1802, and will not be comforted. Sydney Smith’s
newborn babe was purloined by him from the nurse, in order to
show it to Jeffrey and the Edinburgh Reviewers. Smith often
recurs to the old faces and supper parties of his Edinburgh
companions, and actually goes so far as to wish that he had been
born a Scotsman, “to have people care so much about him,” as he
says.
On the other
hand, Jeffrey’s affection for him was maintained to the last. He
says of him, writing in 1827 to his sister in New York: “He is
the gayest man and the greatest wit in England; and yet, to
those who know him, this is his least recommendation. His kind
heart, sound sense, and universal indulgence, making him loved
and esteemed by many to whom his wit was unintelligible.”
There can be no
doubt it was the accident of Smith’s visit to Edinburgh in 1798
which led to the suggestion of the Review. In May 1802 Jeffrey
writes: “Our Review has been postponed until September.” And
then he adds: “Few things have given me more vexation of late
than the prospect of the dissolution of that very pleasant and
animated society in which I have spent so much of my time for
these last four years. And I am really inclined to be very sad
when I look forward to the time when I shall be deserted by all
the friends and companions who possessed much of my confidence
and esteem.” But the colour of his thoughts changed rapidly
after the first number of the Review was published at the end of
1802. Such was its instantaneous success that he could write to
Homer in May 1803, speaking of Longman’s terms, “The terms are,
as Mr. Longman says, ‘without precedent;’ but the success of the
work is not less so.” From this time the triumphant march is
unbroken. Much discord, no doubt, the pungent pages made
throughout their literary victims, and many and murderous were
the threats launched against the aggressors, although “Little’s
leadless pistol” was the nearest approach to bloodshed, and the
not too deadly English Bards and Scotch Reviewers the most
effective retaliation. It is singular, and concludes the romance
fitly, that in both instances the incensed combatants ultimately
vowed eternal friendship, Moore finding in Jeffrey his bosom
companion, and poor Byron at the other end of Europe wishing he
were drinking his claret with Jeffrey at Craigcrook.
For such was the
bright and sunny goal to which all these events had tended. It
was in 1815 that Jeffrey first set up his household gods at
Craigcrook. At that date he had defied and conquered fortune—not
indeed without a struggle or without wounds. His practice
advanced steadily until the introduction of trial by jury in
civil causes in Scotland. Under that system he from the first
assumed and held a commanding position. His brilliant rhetoric
found in that branch of practice an outlet not afforded by
procedure in ordinary legal questions. He says himself in a
letter written, I think, in 1815: “We are getting jury trial in
certain civil causes too, and that will give me more work. You
must know I am a great juryman in the few cases that are now
tried in that way, and got a man off last week for murdering his
wife, to the great indignation of the Court and discontent of
all good people.” But in the ordinary work of the Courts his
fame as a pleader stood in the first rank.
One reflection as
I went over this correstimepondence struck me forcibly, that as
the greater extent of reading has been the destruction of the
art of conversation, so the penny postage and the telegraph have
terminated the art of letter-writing. There was much virtue in
the time, which was the price at which the glory of a London
letter was to be had among us in former days, and the writer
always tried to give value for the money in painful crossings
and re-crossings. Jeffrey’s correspondents had a still greater
trial in his handwriting, of which he used to say that he had
three kinds—one which his friends and the printer could read,
one which the printer could read but his friends could not, and
the third class completely illegible to both. In May 1822
Jeffrey was desirous of a visit from Sydney Smith, and wrote to
him to invite him to come. Sydney’s reply was, “We are much
obliged by your letter, and should have been still more so had
it been legible. I have tried to read it from left to right, and
Mrs. Sydney from right to left, but neither of us can decipher a
single word of it.” Nevertheless, the task of deciphering
Jeffrey’s letters was generally amply repaid by the contents. We
shall never see such letters again—lively, affectionate, full of
strong feeling, lighted up with gleams of fancy and merriment,
and a crisp, concise succession of sentences. They have all the
qualities which letters ought to have, and which in the old days
they sometimes had.
It is interesting
to trace through the correspondence the transition of this man
of rather depressed temperament from disappointment to
success—from a failure to a hero. It is rather like Carlyle’s
description of Cromwell mournfully meditating on the banks of
the Ouse, not dreaming how great a man he was to be. The
widespread reputation of the Edinburgh Review spread also that
of its editor; and accordingly we find him, in the first glimpse
we have of him in London in 1811, free of the best and most
exclusive circles in the metropolis, and alongside of the most
renowned men of the day. He writes on the 12th May 1811: “Came
home rather late for dinner, and went to Nugents (a great
traveller), a brother of Lord N-, where we had an assemblage of
wits and fine gentlemen—our old friends Ward and Smith, and
Brougham and Mills, who threatened to be Chancellor of the
Exchequer last year, and Brummell, the most complete fine
gentleman in all London, and Luttrell, and one or two more.”
He goes on to
describe how he spent the evening at Holland House, and the
magnates he met there, including the old Duke of Norfolk. We
find him again in London in 1817, when he writes: ‘ I saw a good
deal of Frere, and a little of Canning; neither of whom appeared
to me very agreeable, though certainly witty and well bred.
There is a little pedantry, and something of the conceited
manner of a first form boy, about both.” He says he met Burdett
once or twice, but was not impressed by him; and he adds:
“Tierney is now the most weighty speaker in the House of
Commons, and speaks admirably for that House; Brougham is the
most powerful, active, and formidable; Canning is thought to be
falling off, and certainly has the worst of it in all their
encounters.” This letter was written a few weeks after the death
of Homer at Pisa, and of him Jeffrey says: “It is really
impossible to estimate the loss which the cause of liberal and
practical opinions has sustained by this death. I, for my part,
have lost the kindest friend, and most exalted model, that ever
any one had the happiness of possessing. This blow has quite
saddened all the little circle in which he was head, and of
which he has ever been the pride and the ornament.”
I set down these
few words of Jeffrey, because they could not have been used by
him of any man not acknowledged to be in the front rank in the
intellectual and political world. That Francis Homer was
eminently so, every one knew, but there has been an unworthy
tendency among the ignorant of his countrymen to undervalue his
services. I am very much tempted to prolong this analysis of
Jeffrey’s London life, in which he met many of the most
distinguished men of the day, and met them on a footing of
perfect and complete equality. There is scarcely a man of
eminence whose name does not occur in these letters. But I shall
content myself with only two further extracts. The first is a
very vivid account of a man of great celebrity, of whom perhaps
less has been said than he deserved,—I mean Lord Althorpe,
afterwards Lord Spencer, who led the House of Commons during the
days of the first Reform Bill. On 12th February 1832, Jeffrey,
writing to Lord Cockbum, says: “I dined yesterday at Lord
Carlisle’s, and to-day at Lord Althorpe’s. . . . Althorpe, with
his usual frankness, gave us a pretended confession of faith,
and a sort of creed of his political morality, and avowed that
though it was a very shocking doctrine to promulgate, he must
say that he had never sacrificed his own inclinations to a sense
of duty without repenting it, and always found himself more
substantially unhappy for having exerted himself for the public
good! We all combated this atrocious heresy the best way we
could; but he maintained it with an air of sincerity, and a
half-earnest, half-humorous face, and a dexterity of statement
that was quite striking. I wish you could have seen his beaming
eye and benevolent lips kindling as he answered us, and dealt
out his natural familiar repartees with the fearlessness as if
of perfect sincerity, and the artlessness of one who sought no
applause, and despised all risk of misconstruction; and the
thought that this was the leader of the English House of
Commons—no speculator, or discourser, or adventurer—but a man of
sense and business, and of the highest rank, and the largest
experience both of affairs and society. We had also a great deal
of talk about Nelson and Collingwood, and other great
Commanders, whom he knew in his youth, and during his father’s
connection with the navy; and all of whom he characterised with
a force and simplicity which was quite original and striking. I
would have given a great deal to have had a Boswell to take a
note of the table talk; but it is gone already.”
Morning Room
I conclude this
part of my reflections by an extract from a letter written after
he had gone on the Bench. There is a tone of repose and
satisfaction in the account he gives of his London life. He
says: “Our old friends have been very kind to us, and I go away
confirmed in my purpose of spending a little time there (London)
every spring. Being there for the first time without any serious
task or occupation, I entered more largely into society than it
was easy for me to do before; and, at all events, crowded into
these five weeks the sociality of a whole long session of
Parliament. I had the good luck, too, to come at a very stirring
time, and to witness the restoration to power of a party to
which I was attached so long as it was lawful for me to belong
to a party. From the height of my judicial serenity I now affect
to look down on those factious doings, but cannot, I fear, get
rid of old predilections. At any rate, I am permitted to
maintain old friendships, and to speak with the openness of
ancient familiarities, with those I most love to meet in
private. As you know but few of those we chiefly lived with, it
would be of no use to give you a list of names, though it would
include almost ail who are much worth seeing in England. Yet we
go back quite contented to our provincial duties and
enjoyments.”
I should also
have liked, did my limits permit, to have traced the gradual
growth of Jeffrey’s political opinions, and particularly his
political vaticinations, commencing before the First Empire in
France, and ending at the first Reform Bill. But, I fear, I
cannot intrude to such an extent on your space. I have brought
this imperfect sketch to a period so recent that the
recollections of a septuagenarian are not required to illustrate
it. I have but a few further reflections to add before I wind
up.
Jeffrey’s style
of oratory was striking and peculiar, and full of both fire and
fancy. His figure was slight, his voice clear and well
modulated, and of a good compass when he was in health. But he
suffered for many years under a bronchial feebleness, which
every now and then recurred. His command of language was
something marvellous, and when he set himself to speak with
eloquence and fire, I do not know that any public speaker
reached, or at least eclipsed, the height to which he could
rise. I have in my mind the first time I heard him. That was
after Lord Liverpool’s death, which shook the whole political
fabric, and changed the general complexion of the political
world. It was after the Canning Government which the Whigs
supported, and after Canning’s death, when the Duke of
Wellington had succeeded to the helm of the State. In the year
1829 the Bill for repealing the Catholic Disabilities was
brought into Parliament, and there was a great meeting in
Edinburgh, attended by both sides of politics—by the old
Brotherhood of the Review on the one hand, and by the
Conservatives on the other. I was present at that meeting, and
it was a great day of very remarkable popular oratory. My
father, who was Dean of Faculty, made the first speech, and he
was followed by Chalmers and Jeffrey. I only mention this now,
because a few of the sentences spoken by Jeffrey on that
occasion have remained in my mind ever since. There was a grace
and vigour and comprehensiveness about them which, especially in
the present juncture of affairs, seem not inappropriate, the
appropriateness, however, being rather by contrast than
resemblance. I do not say that the sentiment they express has
the merit of originality, and perhaps the expressions have
nothing in themselves remarkable. But I remember the breathless
admiration with which I heard the liquid periods rolled out from
his lips, and the deafening burst of cheering which followed
them. The whole speech was one well worthy of being studied. I
remember very well the half-humorous and half-mournful
expression with which he said that he had been unable altogether
to chastise in his mind the ancient mammon of Whiggery so as not
to regret that it had not been reserved for a Whig Government to
carry this important measure. But going on, and warming to the
subject, he said these words: “It is among the worst
consequences of a system of injustice and oppression, that it in
some measure justifies itself by communicating to its victims
the vices which it imputes to them. Those who have been long
objects of distrust will in the end, I fear, be not trustworthy.
Those against whom the law is will but too often be against the
law. Those who are ruled by force will soon require force to
rule them.” Striking words, whether taken in this happier day of
ours as a warning or as a contrast!
At this time
unexpected honours were about to descend on him. In the same
year Sir James Moncreiff was elevated to the Bench, and Francis
Jeffrey succeeded him as the Dean of the Faculty of Advocates—a
position of honour, as it is conferred by the votes of the
Members of the Bar. Sydney Smith could not bring himself to
think of his old friend as “Dean of Faculty.” “With us,” he
said, “in England our Deans have no faculties.” Then came in
rapid succession the death of the King, the French Revolution,
and the three days of July 1830, and the accession of the Grey
Government. Jeffrey found himself installed as Lord Advocate,
and Henry Cockbum was Solicitor-General for Scotland.
The story which I
have been evolving from many scattered threads comes here to its
most effective climax. What a change from dark and dispirited
1802! No man with a heart, politics aside, could fail to
sympathise with the throb of gratifying success which must have
warmed Jeffrey’s heart, when he thought of the rooms in
Buccleuch Street, and remembered that the journal he and his
College friends had established had culminated in this.
Jeffrey entered
Parliament as Member for the Burgh of Maldon; but on the passing
of the Reform Bill, was returned at the head of the poll for
Edinburgh, which seat he retained until he went on the Bench in
1834.
Much criticism
was expended—some friendly, and some the reverse— on Jeffrey’s
first appearance in the House of Commons. That it was entirely
worthy of his high reputation there is no doubt, but the ordeal
was a trying one, to him, probably, more than to any man who
then entered Parliament for the first time; for he was sixty
years old, and had the burden of an immense reputation. That he
acquitted himself ably all are agreed. Sydney Smith says he is
almost the only instance of a man beginning a Parliamentary
career at that age, and doing it with success.
Macaulay, writing
at the time to Macvey Napier (March 8, 1831), says: “The Lord
Advocate (Jeffrey) did wonders. His manner is not as yet suited
to the House. But he fully sustained his character for talent;
and that he should do so was very extraordinary, Mackintosh
says, miraculous.” In another letter he says that if the speech
was not an absolute success, it was only from the extravagant
expectations of his friends. “I rather suppose that
independently of the difficulty which necessarily besets a man
who goes into an unknown arena with a great reputation to
maintain, on that occasion he laboured under one almost fatal
disadvantage—a want of power of voice. For a man to succeed in
the House of Commons, it is necessary that he should be heard.
The oration itself on the Reform Bill was a very fine piece of
oratory, and remains to this day one of the most masterly that
was delivered upon that great occasion. But it is not surprising
to find that a man who had risen to the very heights of fame in
a different sphere should not find himself entirely at home all
at once with the rather formidable and fastidious audience of
the House of Commons. This would detract nothing from his fame,
and indeed on this occasion he added to it, seeing that no one
had failed to mark both the nobility of his sentiments and the
grace of his expression.”
He did not remain
in Parliament above four years. And then he went on the Bench.
It is needless for me to characterise the reputation which he
made as a judge, which indeed surprised many of those that knew
him only by general literary repute. But he showed that he
possessed all the qualities required for success in that great
position. He was rapid, he was patient and courteous, full of
illustration, accurate in his conceptions, never sparing of time
or labour; and after he took his seat in the Inner House, I well
remember, and every one who recollects will bear me out in the
sentiment, that a more complete and perfect judicial tribunal
than the four Judges of the First Division constituted at that
time, it would be difficult to find.
He went on the
Bench in 1834; he died on the 26th of January 1850, having
served in that capacity nearly sixteen years. He died of an
attack of his old enemy, bronchitis, which ran its course very
rapidly. I had seen and spoken to him four days before.
But what, you
will say, is all this to Craigcrook and its denizens? How did
the visitors there comport themselves, and what did they do? As
far as my own recollections go, I can recall nothing unusual
occurring at the occasional dinner parties there, to which in
later years I was bidden; and I am inclined to think that
although the Satulnalia continued to retain their name, they had
for long lost any flavour of Bohemianism, if they ever possessed
it. My father always said that the description in Peter's
Letters was purely imaginary; but it gave the impression that
the old Castle in Jeffrey’s reign was always the scene of
exuberant hilarity. Probably it was so now and then in the years
between 1815 and 1830; but Jeffrey’s absences in London, and his
indifferent health afterwards, probably tempered the frolics of
earlier years.
But the
widespread reputation Jeffrey had earned, and the large circle
of distinguished friends with whom he was intimate, made
Craigcrook in these later years a resting-place for many
strangers of note. Many travellers visiting Edinburgh came with
introductions to him; and his London friends on their way to the
North were frequently his guests in the autumn. Talfourd,
Carlyle, Macaulay, and Dickens were his familiar friends, and
valued the companionship. During his later years he followed a
practice which made him very popular in Edinburgh society—opened
his house twice a week during the winter, on the evenings of
Tuesdays and Fridays, to all his friends who chose to come, and
very pleasant, and sometimes very brilliant, these parties were.
There was no political element in the selection, but Whig and
Tory were alike pleased to spend the evening so attractively. It
was part of my good fortune that I was always welcome on these
occasions.
I have said
already that although I had known Jeffrey substantially all my
life, it was only a few years before his death that I knew him
intimately. Before that time, while he was always kindly and
courteous, I was more regarded as one of the younger generation
than as a comrade. But in 1844 an incident occurred which drew
us more closely together, and which I have always looked back on
with great gratification. I had been asked to write an article
for the first number of the North British Review on Jeffrey’s
contribution to the Edinburgh Review. I executed the task, and
Jeffrey was so much pleased with it that he wrote me a note,
which I still preserve, expressing his desire that we should
become more intimate for the future. The note is full of kindly
and warm expressions of regard for my father and grandfather,
but is too long, and perhaps too personal, to quote at length;
but after saying that he would be glad of a chance of being
cordial and easy with a third generation of Sir Harry’s, he
proceeds, “ I was about as much younger than he, as I fancy you
are than me, when I first ventured to seek his confidence on
something of a footing of equality; although I was probably of a
more venturesome nature than you, yet I cannot but think that he
also was, on the whole, a more formidable personage than me.” It
may be easily supposed that I was not slow to respond to such an
appeal from such a quarter; and from that time until his death,
in the beginning of 1850, his friendship was stedfast and
unremitting.
Library
Among the other
acts of kindness for which I owe him gratitude, was a request
which came from Empson, but which, I doubt not, was prompted by
Jeffrey, that I would review Macaulay’s first and second volumes
of his “History” in the Edinburgh Review in 1849. I found while
engaged in the task that Jeffrey had not altogether laid aside
his sovereignty, although he had abdicated in 1829. He was
succeeded first by Macvey Napier, and on his death by Mr. Empson,
who married Jeffrey’s only daughter, and was a man of great
capacity and cultivation. I have several letters from Jeffrey
during the progress of my work, containing many suggestions of
great value, but conceived in the main in the same spirit of
warning and rebuke of procrastinating habits as that with which
he stimulated Homer and Sydney Smith forty-five years before. I
had the pleasure of learning from Empson that the review was
approved of by Macaulay, who said in a letter to Empson, of
which the latter, writing from Craigcrook in July 1849, sent me
an extract: “I do not like to return thanks for what, as Johnson
says, must be either flattery or justice. But I should be glad
that Moncreiff knew how much pleasure he has given to me, and to
those who care most about me.”
One last
reminiscence before I conclude this rambling communication. In
this year, 1849, I asked Jeffrey’s permission to name my
youngest son after him. In reply, he wrote to me from Craigcrook
in October 1849 a very affectionate and touching letter, in
which, among many other friendly expressions, he says: “ here is
nothing that has lately happened to me, standing, as I now do,
on the very verge of life, which has cheered and soothed me so
much as this proof of affectionate remembrance.” In the close of
this letter he reverts to Macaulay and his critics. He says:
“Have you read Aytoun’s Cavaliers, and especially the Appendix
about Claverhouse and Macaulay? It is by far the most formidable
hit that has yet been made at our historian, and I am afraid
cannot be effectually parried. There is probably ground for a
rejoinder; and I should like to know whether there are any of
your North British Covenant-loving contributors who would be
likely to look for and point out the vulnerable places, or at
any rate, the proper direction of a retort. The Appendix is so
much more temperate in tone and language than the fiery
Jacobitism of the prose introductions, that it is all the more
formidable.”
Such a
Covenant-loving champion was found, whose refutation of these
criticisms, published too late, alas! for Jeffrey to see them,
appeared in an article in the North British Review for February
1850, from the pen, I believe, of Lord Fraser, and very
effectually disposed of them.
I must end these
fragmentary recollections of Francis Jeffrey. I shall be glad if
they interest any of your readers; for it has been a great
pleasure to me to recall these times. Pause reverently on the
threshold of Craigcrook!
The following
description of Lord Jeffrey’s personal appearance, by John
Gibson Lockhart, from “Peter’s Letters to his Kinsfolk,” will
appropriately complete Lord MoncreifFs interesting sketch of the
Home Life at Craigcrook of the eminent critic and judge :—
“Mr. Jeffrey is a
very short and a very active-looking man, with an appearance of
extraordinary vivacity in all his motions and gestures. His face
is one which cannot be understood at a single look—perhaps it
requires, as it certainly invites, a long and anxious scrutiny
before it lays itself open to the gazer. The features are
neither handsome, nor even very defined in their outlines; and
yet the effect of the whole is as striking as any arrangement
either of more noble or more marked features, which ever came
under my view. The forehead is very singularly shaped,
describing in its bend from side to side a larger segment of a
circle than is at all common; compressed below the temples
almost as much as Sterne’s; and throwing out sinuses above the
eyes of an extremely bold and compact structure. The hair is
very black and wiry, standing in ragged bristly clumps out from
the upper part of his head, but lying close and firm lower down,
especially about the ears. Altogether it is picturesque, and
adds to the effect of the visage. The mouth is the most
expressive part of his face, as I believe it is of every face.
The lips are very firm, but they tremble and vibrate, even when
brought close together, in such a way as to give the idea of an
intense, never-ceasing play of mind. There is a delicate kind of
sneer almost always upon them, which has not the least
appearance of ill-temper about it, but seems to belong entirely
to the speculative understanding of the man. . . . What speaking
things are liis eyes! They disdain to be agitated with those
lesser emotions which pass over the lips; they reserve their
fierce and dark energies for matters of more moment; once
kindled with the heat of any passion, how they beam Hash upon
flash! The scintillation of a star is not more fervid. Perhaps,
notwithstanding of this, their repose is even more worthy of
attention. With the capacity of emitting such a flood of
radiance, they seem to take a pleasure in banishing every ray
from their black, inscrutable, glazed, tam-like circles. I think
their prevailing language is, after all, rather a melancholy
than a merry one—it is, at least, very full of reflection. ... A
sharp and, at the same time, very deep-toned voice—a very bad
pronunciation, but accompanied with very little of the Scotch
accent—a light and careless manner, exchanged now and then for
an infinite variety of more earnest expression and address.”
Description of
the Original Structure.
Craigcrook Castle
having always been an inhabited house, it almost inevitably
follows that it should have been considerably altered, and
greatly added to, in the course of generations, so as to adapt
it to changing times and manners; and this we find to have been
the case. Although the latest alterations are of this century,
it is difficult at first sight to detect where these begin or
where they end, so successfully has the new and old work been
brought together and harmonised. But on making a careful survey
of the ground plan, it is found that Craigcrook belongs to the z
type of structure so peculiar to Scotland. Amongst the earliest
examples of this plan is Earlshall, in Fife, dating from 1546,
and most of the examples were built between then and the end of
the century, although at Harthill, Aberdeenshire, and Kilcoy,
Ross-shire, the style lingers on till the early part of the
following century; but these seem to be exceptionally late
examples.
One of the great
advantages of the z plan, and doubtless the reason of its
adoption, was that it enabled the inmates to command the house
on every side, each angle tower protecting two faces. There was
no rule as to the plan of the towers. On some castles they are
both square, as at Notland, Fordel, and Glenbucket; and in
others they are circular, as at Terpersie, Claypotts, and Muness.
While, again, in others, such as at Craigcrook and at Castle
Fraser, Ballone, and Moncur in the Carse of Gowrie, they are
alternately round and square.
Craigcrook was
originally a small structure, measuring about 30 feet by 23
feet, while the round tower is about 20 feet, and the square one
about 17 feet over the walls. These dimensions, however, exceed
those of Terpersie by about 2 feet in every measurement. The
north-east tower contained the entrance door and the staircase
to the first and second floors, entering off which, at the west
end, the usual wheel stair led to the top of the round tower.
The ground floor is vaulted.
In all
probability the Castle was not long in existence before it was
added to by being lengthened 30 feet eastwards, as seen on
hatched part of basement plan, the addition containing the same
number of floors, with the kitchen on the ground floor, which
was not vaulted. Two round tall corner turrets at the east gable
still remain, as will be seen from the illustration. On the east
side there still remains the old entrance gateway, bearing date
1626, and represented on one of the illustrations: the gate or
door was secured by a sliding bar. The garden extending to the
south is surrounded by old walls: a door lintel in one of these
bears the date 1662.
The additions
made to Craigcrook in this century are shown in outline on the
plan. They consist of a new entrance tower, a wing at the
northwest comer, containing drawing-room, etc., and another at
the north-east comer, containing kitchen, offices, and such like
accommodation. This alteration has almost obliterated the square
tower of the Z plan, the stair having been taken out, while the
top of the tower has disappeared. We are enabled, however, to
see what it was like before these alterations were made from a
water-colour sketch in the library of the Royal Scottish
Academy.
This sketch, of
which a copy is here given, so far as I know, has never been
published. It shows Craigcrook from the north-west, with the
round tower on the right hand, and the square one finished with
a gable on the top on the left hand.
Craigcrook seems
to have been built on rising ground on the edge of a marsh; a
portion of the marsh still remains a few hundred yards
northwards. This circumstance of its site would, of course, add
considerably to the value of the Castle as a place of strength.
THOMAS ROSS.
Billiard Room