The history of the Scottish people is
largely a history of Scotsmen who have emigrated from the land of their
birth. The Fates decreed, apparently, that it was to be the dark lot of
Caledonia to educate her sons and then send them to far places. All through
the centuries this has been so, nor will we see it changed, for the
practical genius of the Scot, and the more pleasing aspects of his nature,
do not expand freely in Scotland. In order that he may grow, the Scot must
be transplanted while young. Rooted in his native soil he remains hard,
gnarled, and knotty, like a Scotch fir leaning stubbornly against the winds
of a rocky headland.
During the past ten years, 391,903 Scots
left their native land, reducing the population of the country from
4,882,497 to 4,842,980. Of the 391,903 emigrants, 328,000 sailed from these
islands. What became of the remaining 60,000? There is only one answer—they
trekked across the border and settled down in England. No other country in
the world received such copious transfusions of vigorous blood at so little
cost.
Yet Scotland, somehow, survives this
perennial blood-letting. Indeed, in spite of her appalling losses of
population, she has grown, slowly, like the oak, and, like the oak,
hardening her texture in the tedious process. At the time of Parliamentary
Union there were 1,093,000 people in Scotland ; it has taken more than two
centuries to achieve an increase in population of 3,749,980. When we compare
these population figures with those of England, for the same period, we
begin to understand what has been called The Tragedy of Scotland. Only a
hardy breed could survive the conditions that these figures connote.
The earliest Scots did not leave their
country. On the contrary, they clung tenaciously to their barren acres and
their primitive huts, fighting savagely against a succession of covetous
invaders. They defended their dismal hinterland against the disciplined
Roman legions, and with a degree of success that puzzled and irritated the
military masters of Europe. Agricola, with all his skill as a military
strategist, had a hard time battling his way north to the Firth of Forth,
and in that airt he ran into the red-headed Caledonians. It was no use
pitting Romans against these wild men from the Highlands, so, just as a
precautionary measure, Agricola built his line of forts from the Firth of
Forth to the Firth of Clyde. The Caledonians remained in their mountains
till Agricola went back to Rome, then they pushed the forts over.
Rome, however, was too proud to overlook
this sort of thing, and the Emperor Hadrian went north to take a look at
things. He must have seen a good deal of the Caledonians, for he backed up
and built his sod wall between the Tyne and the Solway. This soft barricade
only aroused the curiosity of the Picts and the Scots of the Lowlands, and
after inspecting it carefully they swarmed over it, invaded South Britain,
did some killing, and headed home with booty. Another good Roman reputation
was tarnished.
Lollius Urbicus was the next great Roman
general to be sent against the tribesmen of North Britain. He followed
Agricola's road to the Firth of Forth, and built another huge wall across
the waspish waist of the country, naming it in honour of his emperor
Antoninus. It was a fine achievement in military architecture, but it did
not keep the redheaded raiders in their own territory, and Lollius had to
admit that he was beaten. The Caledonians opposed his massed troops with
guerilla tactics, and in this type of warfare, with cold steel to the fore,
the men from the Highlands were, as they have always been since, unbeatable.
Something had to be done about them,
however. The prestige of Roman arms was at stake. Ignoring his generals, the
Emperor Severus took the problem in hand himself. With an immense army at
his command, he marched into North Britain, and kept on marching till he was
within sight of Lossiemouth. He had killed a number of Caledonians, but when
he came to make a tally of his own army on the shores of the Moray Firth, he
discovered that he had 50,000 fewer soldiers than when he started on his
march. That settled Severus. He made a dignified but smartly executed
retreat to the border, built a stone wall between the Tyne and the Solway,
and sent his regrets to Rome. That was the last
attempt made to keep the Picts and Scots out of
England. Rome, with trouble piling up nearer home, was quite content to
leave the tribes of North Britain [This term is still used to signify
Scotland, and the English are blamed for perpetuating its use. As a matter
of fact, the diminutive letters "N.B." are printed on the notepaper of most
of the county families and successful tradespeople of Scotland to-day.] to
their own devices.
In their turn, the Norsemen
and the Danes had their fling at Caledonia. Sometimes they met with success
; often they were repulsed; always they were stubbornly resisted. They, too,
left traces of their successive invasions, for many of them remained in the
country to which they came to ravish, raising fair-haired, horse-faced,
high-shouldered children. The blood of those vigorous pagans from across the
seas flows strongly in the Orkneys to-day, and further south. Phlegmatic
blood, but strong in courage and with the old love of questing in it. The
pagan pirates came to North Britain to weaken and conquer it; they left it
stronger, and unconquered, but facing the worst enemy it had yet
encountered—England. The fibre of the northern tribesmen was to be tested
and toughened by nearly five centuries of savage warfare with their southern
neighbours.
The lot of the common people
of Scotland at this period was one of perennial poverty, but the stately
ruins which dot the countryside are mute evidence of the certainty that
civilizing influences were at work. The records of the benign and
enlightened ecclesiastical outposts that were established were swept away by
the raging fires of war and religious bigotry; but there is not the
slightest doubt that, nurtured by these centres of culture and learning, the
long-repressed genius of the country flowered briefly in the twelfth
century. [King David I of Scotland (1124-1153) made ecclesiastical history
by his whole-souled support of the Church. He almost beggared the country by
building such famous monasteries as Melrose, Dundrennan, Holyrood, Dryburgh,
and Newbattle.]
We catch glimpses of this
vague but interesting era in the ruins of beautiful monasteries, in
convincing historical evidence that agriculture was on a diversified and
progressive basis in the lowlands, and in the fact that scholars of wide
renown came out of the country. Michael Scot emerged from the mists to
impress England and Europe with his learning :
A wizard of such dreaded
fame, That when, in Salamanca's cave, Him listed his magic wand to wave, The
bells would ring in Notre Dame.
It appears, also, that
Michael studied medicine on the Continent, for he returned to Scotland with
a reputation for the successful treatment of leprosy, gout, and dropsy, and
he compounded a pill called "Pilulae Magistri Michaelis Scoti", which, like
some of these modern pills that are wrapped in pretty boxes, was both
popular and potent. Michael assured Scottish sufferers that it was
"guaranteed to relieve headache, purge the humours wonderfully, produce
joyfulness, brighten the intellect, improve the vision, sharpen hearing,
preserve youth, and retard baldness". Had he lived to-day, this healer would
undoubtedly have thought of many other diseases that would have yielded to
his powerful concoction.
This mysterious character was
born in 1175, and was probably the first Scot who studied at Oxford
University. His passion for mathematics, astrology, and the occult sciences
took him to Paris and Rome, and his genius so impressed Europe that he was
invited to join the glittering galaxy of savants that was a feature of the
Court of Frederick II. While basking in the
sunshine of that monarch's patronage, Michael translated Aristotle and wrote
several books that dealt with astrology, alchemy, and his dark occult
theories. He foretold Frederick's death in 1250, and having guessed well in
that instance, set the date of his own departure from this sphere, adding
the interesting detail that he would be killed by a stone weighing less than
two ounces. From that day onwards he wore an iron helmet. Fate, however,
caught him with his hat off. He was in church one day, and at the Elevation
of the Host removed his helmet. Crack ! A small stone fell from the lofty
roof of the church, killing him instantly but vindicating his reputation as
a prophet of doom. Another faded vignette salvaged from that remote era
shows that the Scots had already begun to take a kindly interest in the
education of the English. It is surely a curious historical fact that Lady
Devorguila, daughter of Alan, the last of the old Kings of Galloway, was the
benefactress of Balliol College, Oxford. Following the death of her husband,
John de Balliol, in 1269, this devout lady built a house in Horsemonger's
Lane, in St. Mary Magdalene's Parish, on the site of the existing college,
and in 1282 gave her scholars statutes under her seal.
Two years later she purchased
a tenement known as Mary's Hall, which was "to be used as a perpetual
settlement for the principal and scholars of
the House of Balliol". This
domicile was called New Balliol Hall. The revenues of the college in those
days would not buy cigarettes for the brilliant lotus-eaters who stroll
through their studies at Balliol to-day. They produced only one shilling and
sixpence per week for each scholar. Lady Devorguila, however, made up the
deficiencies by substantial gifts, and when she died the college was
supported by her son, King Balliol of Scotland. The son's generosity, in
fact, was so boundless that he ended up by handing Scotland over to the
English, and we will catch a revealing glimpse of the conditions that
produced the modern Scot as we pause a moment to see how Balliol was driven
to the miserable extremity of bartering his country for his freedom.
When that incorrigible
meddler, Edward I of England, bullied the Scottish barons into accepting
John Balliol as their king on the 17th of November, 1292, the bloodiest
chapter in Scotland's history opened. Balliol was a weakling. He tried to
stand out against Edward, and by way of counteracting the latter's pressure,
established the Franco-Scottish Alliance. The fight for Scottish
independence was in earnest, and it proved to be the most gruelling test to
which the tenacity of the race has ever been subjected. Edward led an army
against the prosperous town of Berwick-on-Tweed, and to show the Scots that
he was not a man to be treated lightly when coveted new territory, he razed
the town and put its inhabitants—men, women, and children—to the sword. That
slaughter completed, he led his army north to Perth, and there celebrated
his victories. It did look as if he had crushed the Scots completely, and a
day or two later Balliol, stripped to his underwear, handed the Bishop of
Durham the white wand of abject surrender.
Edward, however, made the
same mistake that so many other would-be conquerors of Scotland made—he
underestimated the unconquerable spirit of the common people. Balliol had
surrendered the independence of their country ; they had not. So, just when
Edward's English satraps thought they had the country tamed, Sir William
Wallace drew his sword in the town of Lanark, and he did not lay it aside
until he met England's soldiers "beard to beard", and had swept the hated
invaders back into their own country. The first great hero of the common
people of Scotland was betrayed by the landed class, who should have been
the last to desert him, and by their connivance he was hanged, castrated,
and beheaded in London ; but he had shown England what made the heart of
Scotland beat strong and true—the courage of the common people. It was this
courage of which Robert Bruce became the symbol after Wallace's dismembered
body had been scattered throughout Scotland ; it was this courage which
sustained the new King in his wanderings following his shabby coronation ;
and it was this courage which, at Bannockburn, on the 24th of June, 1314,
inflicted upon English arms the greatest defeat they have ever sustained in
fair fighting.
England had learned, as Rome
had learned, that she was dealing with a race that would not accept defeat.
Well might Christopher Marlowe put these words into the mouth of Edward
II:
And as for you, Lord Mortimer
of Chirke,
Whose great achievements in our forrain warre,
Deserve no common place, nor meane reward:
Be you the generall of the levied troopes,
That now are readie to assaile the Scots.
The levied troops did not
succeed, however. Scotland's independence had been fought for and won at
terrible cost, and although the struggle against "the auld enemie" was to
last for centuries, the country had been united by common sacrifice, its
real strength had been revealed, and in the white heat of the endless war
against a more powerful country the people were tempered to the hardness
which was to make their descendants the wonder of the modern world.
Their determination to be
free was immovable. A curious proof of this almost fanatical resistance to
England's attempted domination may be seen in the letter which the Barons of
Scotland addressed to the Pope in April of 1320:
We know [they wrote in
Latin], and from the chronicles and books of the ancients gather, that among
other illustrious nations, ours, to wit the nation of the Scots, has been
distinguished by many honours; which passing from the greater Scythia
through the Mediterranean Sea and the Pillars of Hercules and sojourning in
Spain among the most savage tribes through a long course of time, could
nowhere be subjugated by any people however barbarous; and coming thence one
thousand two hundred years after the outgoing of the people of Israel, they,
had many victories and infinite toil, acquired for themselves the
Possessions in the West which they now hold after expelling the Britons and
completely destroying the Picts, and although very often assailed by the
Norwegians, the Danes, and the English, always kept them free from all
servitude, as the histories of the ancients testify.
The sins committed by the
Edwards against Scotland are solemnly enumerated to the Most Holy Father at
Rome; Robert Bruce is praised for delivering the country from the oppressors
; but this ringing declaration, which carries a warning to the Scottish
King, follows:
But if he were to desist from
what he has begun, wishing to subject us or our kingdom to the Kings of
England or the English, we would immediately endeavour to expel him as our
enemy and the subverter of his own rights and ours, and make another our
king who should be able to defend us. For, as long as a hundred remain
alive, we will never in any degree be subject to the dominion of the
English. since not for Glory, Riches or Honours we fight, but for Liberty
alone, which no good man loses but with his life.
Such was the spirit that
sustained Scotland during the early part of the fourteenth century. In those
dark days it could be kindled only in the hearts of a valiant and
intelligent breed, and we are not surprised, therefore, to find the country
giving promise of its future genius by producing, here and there, men who
became eminent in the intellectual world. Even in those far-off days, these
scholarly men found their way into England. One of the first of them was
John de Duns, sometimes called Scotus. He was born at the end of the
thirteenth century, and was the first of the long line of grim and learned
Scots who have held Professorships at Oxford University. John was almost too
good to be true, if we are to swallow the following tribute to his genius,
penned by a contemporary Cardinal:
Among all the scholastic
doctors, I must regard John Duns Scotus as a splendid sun, obscuring all the
stars of heaven by the piercing acuteness of his genius; by the subtlety and
the depth of the most wide, the most hidden, the most wonderful learning,
this most subtle doctor surpasses all others, and in my opinion, yields to
no writer of any age. His productions, the admiration and despair even of
the most learned among the learned, being of such extreme acuteness, that
they exercise, excite, and sharpen even the brightest talents to a more
sublime knowledge of divine objects, it is no wonder that the most profound
writers join in one voice, "that this Scot, beyond all controversy,
surpasses not only the contemporary theologians, but even the greatest of
ancient or modern times, in the sublimity of his genius and the immensity of
his learning!"
It is perhaps advisable to
add that the testimonial was not written by a Scot. It may seem to be a
trifle lacking in scholarly reserve, and the cynic might point out that John
left very little evidence of his sublime genius. Nevertheless, this most
subtle doctor was an authentic character, for he was appointed Professor of
Divinity at Oxford University in the year 1301. Only a hazy picture of him
comes across the intervening centuries, but it is one, if we may judge by
his writings, of a monkish, pragmatic pedant who specialized in turgid
denunciations of unbelievers.
Three centuries were to pass
before Scottish scholars were heard of again, for the weary struggle with
England reduced the country to a state of poverty and ignorance. The clashes
became more serious as the years rolled on. Hatred of England had been bred
into the blood and bones of the Scots; from the end of the thirteenth
century they hated their southern neighbours with a hatred that lay cold in
their very vitals. Back in 1388, just before the bloody battle of Otterburn,
the Earl of Douglas said to his French ally, De Vienne: "My friend, you
shall see that our army shall not be idle, and as for our Scottish people,
they will endure pillage, and they will endure famine, and every other
extremity of war, but they will not endure English masters."
In view of the almost magical
manner in which Scotsmen rise to positions of authority in England to-day,
the last observation of the Douglas was prophetic.
War had become the normal
condition in Scottish life. Armies moved back and forth across the border,
leaving chaos and death behind them. Raiders rode at night through the
debatable lands. There was no peace or security for anybody, and under these
disturbed conditions of existence trade languished, agriculture became a
lost art, and the people sank deeper and deeper into the mires of poverty
and ignorance.
AEneas Sylvius, afterwards
Pius II, paid the country a visit in 1413, and he
had this to say about it when he got back to Rome:
It is an island joined to
England, stretching two hundred miles to the north, and about fifty broad, a
cold country, fertile of few sorts of grain, and generally void of trees,
but there is a sulphureous stone dug up which is used for firing. The towns
are unwalled, the houses commonly built without lime, and in villages roofed
with turf, while a cow's hide supplies the place of a door. The commonalty
are poor and uneducated, have abundance of flesh and fish, but eat bread as
a dainty. The men are small in stature, but bold ; the women fair and
comely, and prone to the pleasures of love, kisses being esteemed of less
consequence than pressing the hand is in Italy. Nothing gives the Scots more
pleasure than to hear the English dispraised.
Much blood was to be spilled
on both sides of the border before the ancient enmity was softened ; but
even so, it is possible to discern, in the turbulent reigns of the Stuart
kings, a gradual but inevitable converging of the destinies of the two
countries. Perhaps the feeling grows upon the student of history because the
Stuarts, with all their faults, indicated that they had a larger conception
of statesmanship than the great majority of the rowdy Scottish barons who
surrounded them.
So, as we enter the sixteenth
century, we see the dawn of peace glimmering dimly on the border. The
darkness lifted when James IV of Scotland married
Margaret Tudor in 1503. That talented man died at Flodden, and his son,
James V, died at Solway Moss; but the very
violence of the fighting which these tragic events connoted seemed to
presage the end of it all, and the light still glimmered over the Pentland
Hills.
Mary, the infant daughter of
James V, succeeded to the throne, and the curtain
rose slowly on the most poignant tragedy of Scottish history. Both countries
drifted further into the angry waters of religious intolerance:
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
Was beat with fist instead of a stick.
Inflamed by the harsh
eloquence of John Knox, Scotland rallied to the Reformation. In England the
fanatics burned bishops at the stake, and Queen Elizabeth became head of the
Anglican Church.
The drama of the century
rushed to its climax. Mary came back from France, married the degenerate
Darnley, fought her protracted duel with the implacable Knox, and at the end
of the pathetic struggle abdicated the throne in favour of her infant son
James. For Mary Stuart nothing remained but the insults of the Scottish
rabble, the long years in English prisons, and the axe at Fotheringay. For
her son James a great destiny loomed up, for on the night of 24th March,
1603, Sir Robert Carey, riding a jaded horse, arrived at Holyrood Palace
with the news that Queen Elizabeth was dead, and two days later another
messenger brought the Scottish King word that the Privy Council of England
had chosen him to succeed the Maiden Queen.