What native of
Kirkintilloch, now in the “sere and yellow leaf,” does not remember the
familiar names daily and hourly in use among the inhabitants “when we
were young?—Mr. Thomson of Bellfield, Mr. Bartholomew of Broomhill,
Major Berry of Unthank (now Waverley Park), Mr. Inglis of Walflat,
Bailie Freeland, Bailie Gemmil, and Bailie Dalrymple? the last-named
gentleman being now the only survivor.
The beautiful suburb of
Bellfield—which was named by Mr. Thomson after an aunt whose maiden name
was Bell—although not then studded with handsome villas, had visitors
who were afterwards known to fame. Fortunately Dr. Hedderwick was one of
these, and he has given us his reminiscences:—
“What a host of happy
recollections rise to my mind at the name of Bellfield Cottage,
Kirkintilloch! It was a hospitable abode, and its proprietor, Mr.
William Thomson, a liberal, sagacious, and unique landlord.
He was a bachelor, lame,
and limping in his gait, delighting in the society of young people of
parts, and keeping a singularly open table. At every week’s end, from
Saturday till Monday, he had seldom fewer than ten or a dozen guests.
To be an artist, a
musician, or a man of letters, was an “open sesame” to Bellfield. Of his
numerous circle Mr. Thomson was himself the autocratic ruler, very
precise and stem in his household regulations, but outside of these
allowing the largest amount of freedom, and, even latitude.
Daniel Macnee, pushing to
the foremost rank as a portrait-painter, and already renowned for his
social qualities, was one of Mr. Thomson’s frequent visitors. His rich
geniality, and the amazing collection of stories which he told with a
dramatic effect amounting to genius, rendered him the delight of all
societies. In one of his anecdotes he described himself as brought
professionally into contact with a plain-spoken Scotch farmer. A
neighbouring gentleman had his horse at the farm, and it was arranged
that Macnee should make a sketch of it, with a plough-boy on its back,
so as to make the effect more picturesque.
On presenting himself,
the artist was thus accosted :—
“Is’t you that’s come to
tak’ aff oor Jock an’ the meer?”
A reply in the
affirmative was of course given.
“Man,” continued the
farmer, “ye’re a big buirdly chiel; ye micht Le workin’. The only
painter ever I kent was a bit humphy-backit cratur. Thtrewas some excuse
for him ; but as for you, ye micht be haudin the pleugh.”
From this it may be
inferred that in person Mr. Macnee was of superior height and build. His
countenance was capable of great variety of expression ; he imitated all
sorts of people, but gave offence to none; indeed, he was almost as much
valued for his vigorous good sense and judgment as for his variety and
brilliancy as a raconteur.
But if Macnee was facile
ptinceps as an entertainer, there were some others who gave no little
hclat to Mr. Thomson's lively board. Horatio M ‘Culloch, a great master
of Highland landscape ; John Sherriff, young, good-looking, and of fair
promise as an animal-painter; and Robert Maxwell, an amateur in still
life, but leading a life the reverse of still,— all made Bellfield from
time to time jovial. Maxwell, in particular, had mimical and musical
gifts which rendered his society something to be coveted. Among those
whom he could portray to the life was Mr. Thomson himself, the excellent
host who was beloved and respected by us all. This became known to the
old gentleman, who one merry evening insisted on being treated to a
little of his own "counterfeit presentment.”
“I can understand," he
said, “an imitation of any one with some peculiarity of manner; but for
myself, having no peculiarity at all, I do not see how imitation is in
my case possible.”
This was spoken with a
prim and staccato but not unpleasing mode of utterance peculiar to him,
which Maxwell, after much pressing, proceeded to echo in an
entertaining, though no doubt somewhat exaggerated style.
Mr. Thomson scowled, and
at the conclusion remarked, “A good personal imitation I enjoy above
everything, but I can see nothing amusing in a gross caricature.” Though
the resentment thus exhibited was easily laughed away, the imitation was
never, so far as I am aware, repeated.
Among those, too, whom I
occasionally met at Bellfield were Dr. Macnish, the racy and ingenious
“Modern Pythagorean” of “Blackwood,” and Andrew Macgeorge, a more local
celebrity, of literary and antiquarian tastes, and possessing a bright
and facile pencil for caricature. But strangers of wider note had
likewise been now and then attracted thither. A Russian prince had been
Mr. Thomson’s guest, while his small drawing-room had rung with a voice
which had fascinated the capitals of Europe—that of the famous Madame
Past^, for whom Bellini had composed “Norma,” and one or two of his
finest operas.
A large album formed one
of the usual attractions at Bellfield Cottage. To this all and sundry
were invited to contribute. Eminent artists from a distance sometimes
adorned its pages, and any one looking over the volume with an apparent
lack of appreciation was apt to irritate Mr. Thomson to an extent which
he could hardly conceal.
That the laird of
Bellfield was easily moved to anger I discovered on my first visit. We
were at breakfast, and he noticed that the hot ham-and-eggs had been
served on cold plates. It was too late to correct the mistake, and we
all protested that it made little difference. “Little difference?” he
exclaimed in an excited tone,—"doited deevils!”
Truth to tell, Mr.
Thomson was one of the most amiable of men. His flashes of anger were
momentary; his benevolence shewed itself always. One Sunday afternoon in
August I had a walk with him in the direction of Kirkintilloch. We had
not gone far when we met a couple of decent men, probably handloom
weavers belonging to the village. He was not conscious of having seen
them before, but he stopped, made an affable remark about the weather,
and then handed them the key of his garden, mentioning that the
“gooseberries were ripe,” and that they might “enjoy a little treat.”
They looked astonished,
profusely thanked him, and after being assured that they were entirely
welcome, were requested to “hand the key into the house on leaving.”
I ventured to express a
hope, as we strolled on, that the men would do nothing unworthy of the
privilege he had given them. But his answer was characteristic. “I have
always observed,” he said, “that if you put confidence in human nature,
that confidence is never apt to be abused.” In the evening when we were
all assembled, Mr. Thomson proposed to read aloud for our edification
either a sermon or one of Burns’s poems. The young rogues—we were all
young then—declared a preference for the latter; when he selected and
read with much unction the “ Address to a Mouse,” accompanied every
verse with a little ejaculatory comment, such as “ There’s a world of
fine philosophy there !” and concluded by exclaiming, “O Lord! it’s
worth a thousand sermons.”
It was easy to perceive
from the pathos of the worthy man’s voice that he intended no
irreverence. He was impressed with the beautiful moral of the poem, and
his exclamation was pious and sincere.”
We may add a
characteristic and authentic anecdote of Mr. Thomson.
He was rather fond of
making alterations on his house, and liked to have tradesmen working
about him; and, as was the custom at that time, they were occasionally
treated to a dram by the hands of Mr. Thomson himself.
On one occasion he had a
squad of joiners employed, among whom was “Baldy M‘Keoun,” who happened
to get the first glass of whisky of the round that day. The second man
declined to have any as he was a teetotaller.
Mr. Thomson, whose
old-fashioned courtesy forbade him to offer a rejected glass a second
time, calmly raised his arm, poured the whisky on the ground, and after
having refilled the glass passed it to the next workman.
Baldy, who was very fond
of whisky, was horror-struck at the operation, and his face was a
picture.
After Mr. Thomson left he
expressed himself strongly at what he thought foolish waste, and wound
up with, “Davart, did he never think I could hae ta’en anither glass?” |