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A few years after the
accession of George III, to the throne, when Edinburgh was still contained
within its ancient walls, the inhabitants retained their ancient
simplicity of manners, and every individual was known, in some degree, to
his fellow. The Kirk-treasurer, or Treasurer of the Charity Workhouse as
he is called now, was a bookseller, and had his shop in the Parliament
Square, on the east side, near the President’s Stairs. As shopman, he had
an interesting young man about seventeen years of age. He was the only son
of a widow, a distant relation of one of the ancient and reduced families
that abounded in Scotland at that time. A full cousin of his was also
shopman or clerk in a clothier’s in the High Street; and between the two
there existed a friendship and affection almost fraternal. In the month of
August— the most pleasant month in the year for an evening walk— the eight
o’clock bell had just begun to ring, and the clatter of shutters,
preparatory to shutting up for the night, were sounded through the
Parliament Square. The happy apprentices, with an alacrity they displayed
at no other avocation, performed the last operation of the day; for it was
the prelude to enjoyments which they could only partake when emancipated
from their labour in their small confined work shops, or the dingy
apartments of the houses of that period The clock of St Giles had struck
the quarter-past eight; the whole square had fallen into the stillness of
midnight; all but the treasurer’s shop was shut and secured; their inmates
even the most dilatory, having left the scenes of their cares or daily
toils; and the only person who now was to be seen loitering in the busy
scenes of the day, was the town-guard soldier, who mounted guard at the
statue of King Charles. Walking backwards and forwards on his allotted
ground, he stopped occasionally to greet some passing acquaintance and
exchange snuff with him. And the cousin of the treasurer’s clerk, who
stood in the foot of the President’s Stairs, fretfully knocking one heel
against the other, or occasionally moving out slowly past the diminutive
shop window, casting a furtive glance into the interior, as if anxious to
ascertain what business detained his friend, or who it was that so deeply
interested the systematic treasurer, as to detain him five minutes after
the hour had struck. All was still within. He could see no individual,
even the friend he waited for. He thought it very strange; became anxious
and alarmed and, ceasing to be contented with a passing glance, stood
still, and scanned, with a scrutinizing glance, the whole interior of the
shop. No human form was visible. The two chairs, by the fireside, were
vacant; the master’s seat, and a spare one for a friend, stood as if they
had not been moved since the morning. What could have happened? Was the
door locked? Was his friend gone to the place of appointment without him?
He could not suppose it for a moment. He put his hand upon the latch of
the door; it yielded to his touch; he opened it, and slowly peered around.
No one was within—no alteration could be seen on the premises. He
looked behind the counter, and, uttering a cry of horror was transfixed to
the spot where he stood. His beloved friend lay dead before him; the upper
part of his body and head in a pool of blood; a Bible still in his hand,
which appeared to be the last thing he had touched alive; his arm
stretched out before him; and his beautiful yellow hair steeped in gore. A
sickness of the heart came over his friend; he would have sunk senseless
upon the floor, but, by a nervous effort, he started up, rushed from the
spot, almost bereft of consciousness, ran to the guard at the statue,
seized him by the arm, and, unable to utter a word, pointed to the shop,
and attempted to drag him towards it. Struck by the horror expressed in
the youth’s countenance, the man hurried with him to the spot, gazed for a
moment on the spectacle and shouted for help.
A crowd of horror-stricken
citizens soon assembled. Surgeons were sent for; but the unfortunate
victim had been dead for some time. A guard was placed upon the door, to
prevent the intrusion of the curious and excited citizens, who all strove
to get a peep at the scene of blood and violence. The surgeons, in the
meantime, examined the body. A fracture of the skull at the back of the
head, caused by a blow, evidently given with the claws of a joiner’s
hammer, was clearly the cause of death. The premises were searched; no
such instrument could be found; but it was ascertained that the strong box
that contained the poor’s money was gone.
So dreadful an event spread
through the great city in as inconceivably short space of time. Deep
groans, mixed with the wailings of females, were heard in the Square; the
feelings of the crowd, urged to utterance by the arrival of the distracted
mother of the youth—her hair dishevelled and floating upon her shoulders;
grief and agony depicted upon her venerable face. She urged forward
through the dense, but, to her, yielding crowd. She made no answer to the
heartfelt words of sympathy addressed to her; her heart was too full to
give utterance to her thoughts. Pressing on, she tossed her arms in the
air; clutched her grayish locks, tore them out, and scattered them around.
Her eyes either wandered eagerly about, as if in search of some object, or
were turned to Heaven in silent prayer. She seemed urged on by some
involuntary impulse; for she looked not at any one, heeded not over what
obstacle she made her way onwards; but, rushing to where the object of all
her soul held dear on earth lay a bloody corpse, she entered the shop—she
stood for a few moments, pale as the boy who lay lifeless before her;
then, uttering one long and piercing shriek, that no one who heard it
could ever forget, she sank upon her boy insensible. The same bearers
carried to her house the mother and her murdered son, and the same company
attended the funeral of both to the Grey-friars’ Churchyard.
Every exertion was made by
the authorities; rewards were offered for the apprehension of the
murderer. Every citizen, high and low, rich and poor, joined in the search
for one who had been guilty of the most revolting of all crimes—murder,
and the next in guilt, sacrilege; for he had carried off the money of the
poor, the farthing of the lone widow, and the silver of the rich, given in
the love of God to feed the destitute. But no discovery was made; the
guilty wretch lived on unpunished, save by his own unsparing conscience.
Nearly twenty years had rolled away, and the event, though not forgot, was
only remembered as one of the many traditions of the city.
There lived at the head of
the Cowgate an old man, a wealthy master joiner, and an elder of the
church, with a numerous family. He had been for some time very poorly and
declining in health; a lowness of spirits and restlessness seemed to
consume him, and he never left his house. His son, a married man, had
conducted the business for several years; all the former acquaintances of
the father were denied access to him, nor were any of the neighbours
admitted into the house. The circumstance attracted little attention; for
many do not choose to allow strangers to see their sick friends; but it
was also remarked, that no physician attended the old man, and this
excited the remarks of the observant neighbours, who became more watchful
than they perhaps would have otherwise been. The children were not
favourably thought of; for not having a physician to their father, and
their harshness in denying, though civilly, the visits of his
acquaintances. The old man’s cries and groans were heard night and day, by
those who were passing up or down the stair; and the next neighbours, in
the still hour of midnight, could hear threats and remonstrances used to
cause him to cease the utterance of his cries. They could make out
distinctly—"Oh, allow me to confess to any one!—I am lost!—lost!—lost!"
This he would repeat until his voice failed from exhaustion; then, and
after a pause, he would shriek—"Oh! what will wash away innocent blood!"
These cries caused a great sensation in the neighbourhood, and gave rise
to many conjectures. Several of the older inhabitants about the place
called to recollection the murder of the youth by a joiner’s hammer. They
also remembered that he who uttered those cries was, at the time of the
murder, a poor man, with a young and numerous family, and, about the time
of the murder and robbery, began to mend in his circumstances, and the
appearance of his family was altered, much for the better, without any
assignable cause. He did not put on the appearance of wealth suddenly, but
left off being a journeyman, and became a master, at first in a small way,
and gradually extended his business. No one could account for the way he
had contrived to become rich in so short a space of time. The conclusion
drawn by the neighbours was, that he had been the ruffian who perpetrated
the double crime. Whether just or unjust, the conviction became general.
Whether he was guilty or not, his own family, by his deathbed confession,
if he made one, could only know; but so great was the horror of the man
and crime, that his children were the sufferers; for few would hold
intercourse with them, or wished to be thought of their acquaintance.
Those who were in business, found their employers suddenly desert them;
and they were all forced to emigrate from the city to other towns. |
