“For a dog of a Whig, Mr. Boswell,” observed he, “you seem strangely lost in admiration of his Majesty King Charles III.”
With a start I realized why the plaster busto was so familiar to me. Such effigies of the beloved Prince were widely dispersed in Scotland; and indeed they were openly displayed for sale in London, in Red Lion Square, as long ago as my first visit thither.
“You are a Jacobite indeed,” I retorted upon my quizzing friend, “to recognize your King when you have never seen him.”
“Why, Bozzy,” retorted Dr. Johnson, “’twas no feat of divination, but the mere use of my eyes. They are not what they were, ’tis true; but he who will look may see.”
He raised the candle before the image, and I saw an inscription on the plaster, traced in faded paint. With difficulty I read it off:
THEN ALL CLASP HANDS ABOUT THE RING,
BRING FORTH THE PIPES, LET ALL MEN SING:
LONG LIFE UNTO OUR PRINCE AND KING!
THUS SHALL WE MAKE THE WELKIN RING
WHEN THE KING SHALL COME INTO HIS OWN.
“’Tis an old song of the ’45,” said Margaret Macdonald, “of my father’s own making. I remember, he taught it me before the battle of Culloden. In later years he limned it above the plaster busto, as you may see, and always kept it bright; but we have not renewed it since he died. ’Tis but doggerel, but he set great store by it.”
Dr. Johnson was studying the plaster busto, peering at it with an inscrutable countenance.
“’Tis a noble countenance,” he remarked, “and indeed ’tis a commonplace, that the face of any man is nobler in plaster than in the vicissitudes of flesh.”
“Not so,” exclaimed Flora Macdonald warmly, with indignation thrilling in her musical voice, “the face of Prince Charles as I saw it last, worn and bronzed and suffused with tears, was nobler and more beautiful than any plaster busto.”
To this there was no answer, and Dr. Johnson swiftly turned the conversation to deal with less immediately interesting matters connected with the sculptor’s art.
“’Tis observable, ma’am,” he remarked, “that in the numerous equestrian memorials that adorn our metropolises, the horse is commonly the finer animal. This is because, depicting the same creature over and over, each time with a new rider, the artist perfects and refines his concept of equine nobility.”
“You say true,” exclaimed Flora Macdonald, whose Edinburgh education and refined travels had equipped her to pass upon the truth of my ingenious friend’s observation.
“The like is observable,” continued he, pointing to the side of the plaster head, “of ears. Observe the uncommon delicacy and perfection of this ear. This is not Charlie’s ear, ma’am; this is the Platonick ideal of ear.”
“Nay, Dr. Johnson,” replied our hostess, smiling, “there you are out again. This is the bonnie laddie’s very ear, for I have observed it myself. Indeed the whole busto is very like. Dr. King relates, that when the Prince was in London in 1750, his serving-man recognized him from just such a head.”
“In London in 1750!” I exclaimed incredulously.
Flora Macdonald laughed.
“The Prince,” she said, “comes and goes at will. He is totally without fear. He was at the Hanoverian’s coronation in ’61; and they tell me he was at Inverness not five years past.”
“Do you say so!” exclaimed Dr. Johnson. “Now that we have met Miss Flora Macdonald”—he bowed with his rare old-fashioned courtesy—“nothing remained to hope for unless we could meet the Prince himself face to face; you encourage me to believe that even this is not impossible in the Western Islands.”
Kingsburgh shook his head.
“Nay, Dr. Johnson,” he said, “you must e’en satisfy yourself with gazing on the busto; for we learn that upon his father’s death the original is wedded at last, to a beautiful miss of twenty, and a princess to boot, and now he renews his youth as Benedick the married man. Depend upon it, his Majesty the King will come no more to Skye.”
“Then, sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “we must make do with what we have. I have kissed the hand of the celebrated Flora Macdonald; and now, as the hour grows late and the poonch-bowl empty, let me prefer a last request.”
“Anything,” smiled the lady graciously.
“That I may rest tonight in the very bed that sheltered the Prince so many years ago.”
“You ask much,” said Kingsburgh doubtfully.
“But not,” said Flora quickly, “more than we will grant. Come with me, gentlemen.”
We followed her up the stair. At the head she unlocked a door with a key, and we stood in Prince Charlie’s room. By the light of the lifted candle we saw that it was a spacious chamber, well dusted and in order. On each side of the fireplace stood a sturdy bedstead, decked orderly with coverlets and hung with tartan curtains. On the hearth a fire was laid; Flora Macdonald lighted it with a spill.
“Ma’am,” said Dr. Johnson earnestly, “it seems that the room has been readied for us.”
“Not for you, Dr. Johnson,” she replied; “for the King. My father-in-law kept it ever aired and redded against the day when Prince Charlie should return to Kingsburgh. The old man died last year; it was his dying wish that we should keep it so.”
“So all is unchanged,” mused Dr. Johnson, “since the unfortunate fugitive slept here.”
“’Tis the same bed,” said Flora, pointing to that on the right of the fireplace. “The hangings are the same, and the coverings. Here is what is left of the linen.”
By the light of the candle she carried she showed us an old press in the corner. In a deep drawer, among various strangely-assorted oddments, lay yellowing a sheet of fine linen.
“Pray, ma’am,” enquired Dr. Johnson, “did Kingsburgh afford the royal fugitive but one sheet?”
“Not so,” replied Flora with a smile, “there was a pair, which we at Kingsburgh have treasured among our dearest possessions. The one which is gone served Lady Kingsburgh for a winding sheet; and this shall do the same for me.”
Dr. Johnson peered shortsightedly into the press. It contained a variety of reliques, which Flora Macdonald turned over with a faraway smile.
“Here is old Kingsburgh’s punch-bowl,” she said, “it suffered an accident on that very night.” It had indeed; it was broken clean in half.
“Here is his shoe,” said she. “It was worn clear through; old Kingsburgh gave him a new pair.”
“Where is the other?” I enquired.
“When the old man died we cut it into strips and gave them away.”
“What is this?” I asked, indicating a roll of pale blue silk.
“’Tis the Prince’s candle,” replied our hostess. “Here is his candle-snuffer; and this is his tinder-box.”
“Where,” enquired Dr. Johnson, drolling, “is the Prince’s warming-pan?”
“Here,” replied our hostess seriously. Sure enough, it hung bright and gleaming by the fire.
“So, Bozzy,” observed Dr. Johnson, smothering a yawn, “tonight we lie royally indeed. I will sleep in the Prince’s bed, I will be warmed by the Prince’s warming-pan, and I will snuff the candle with the Prince’s candle-snuffer.”
Flora Macdonald shovelled coals into the polished warming-pan and set it in the Prince’s bed between the homespun sheets.
“Good night,” said our gracious hostess, “may you sleep soundly, and dream, if you will, of Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
We lay in good comfort in the Prince’s chamber, but for all that I slept but ill. The wind was in the chimney, and I lay long musing on the melancholy fate of the gallant Stuart prince. At last I slept, but fitfully, and in the phantasmagoria of sleep I dreamt that Prince Charlie returned to Skye. Over the moan of the wind I seemed to hear the subdued murmur of welcoming voices, and footsteps in the long hall. Fitfully through my dream I saw the proud white face of the plaster busto.
We lay late, for no one called us.
“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “the happiest mo
ments of a man’s life are those he spends lying in bed in the morning.”
The sun streamed through the leaded panes.
“’Tis when lying in bed in the morning,” said Dr. Johnson, stretching his massive frame, “that a man enjoys the blessings of consciousness, without suffering its inconveniences.”
He grunted prodigiously, settled on his head the kerchief that served him in lieu of a night-cap, and with a great creaking of the bed-cords turned over for another bout with Morpheus.
’Twas late when we descended, and found our host and hostess gone, no one could say whither, and the buxom sister left to do the honours, which she did with an abstracted air. We enjoyed an excellent breakfast: as good chocolate as ever I tasted, tea, bread and butter, marmalade and jelly. There was no loaf-bread, but very good scones, or cakes of flour baked with butter. Miss Macdonald busied herself pouring out tea for my teaophile friend.
We were waited upon by a young girl bare-headed but very decently dressed. She kept directing at Miss Macdonald looks full of trouble and appeal, and finally, fetching the barley-bannocks, she burst forth in an odd sort of Gaelick and English:
“’Tis the Burlow Beanie, ma’am, and not my fault at all, he’s pried loose the chimney bricks and turned out the lint we laid up in the old man’s time, and now here’s one of your Dutch tiles you set such store by gone out of the sitting-room fireplace, and the plaster head is off the bracket and stole quite away, for I can’t find it anywhere.”
Miss Macdonald dropped the sugar-tongs and stooped to retrieve them, but I was before her.
“You are an ignorant girl,” she said severely; “be quiet and fetch some fresh tea.”
“We’ll all be in our graves,” wailed the girl, “for there’s a new grave dug by the byre where the old man had the kale-yard … Yes, ma’am, fresh tea.” The girl retreated before Miss Macdonald’s stern visage, only to return in new distress:
“The Burlow Beanie has stole the cheese!”
“That,” said Miss Macdonald to us, “sounds more like the Burlow Beanie.”
“What is the Burlow Beanie?” I enquired.
“A foul fiend,” replied Miss Macdonald, laughing, “which lives under the bed and requires to be placated with victuals; which failing, he takes to stealing and smashing.”
“An institution of great utility,” commented Dr. Johnson gravely.
“Thus it comes about,” replied Miss Macdonald, “that in Scotland no housemaid ever breaks a dish or steals an end of cheese; ’tis all done by the Burlow Beanie.”
After breakfast I retreated to our chamber to write up those notes which I am accustomed to keep on the proceedings and discourse of my illustrious friend. No better entertainment offering itself, in the absence of our host and hostess, Dr. Johnson joined me there at the conclusion of the mid-day meal and devoted himself to correspondence.
We supped late with Miss Macdonald, whose discourse proving a little wearisome, we mounted betimes to bed. We were courteously lighted thither by the lady herself, who with deputed zeal must needs inspect the appointments of the chamber.
“Alas, Dr. Johnson,” she cried suddenly, turning from his bed in dismay, “you can never lie here tonight!”
“Why not, ma’am?” demanded the philosopher, peering between the curtains.
“’Pon my soul, sir,” exclaimed I, glancing over his shoulder, “you should have spoke better of the Burlow Beanie!”
The bed was sodden with water. Miss Macdonald stared distractedly into the top of the tester.
“A leak—” she cried. “Come, Dr. Johnson, you shall lie in comfort just down the passage.”
She marshalled us to the back of the house and installed us in a room which stood providentially ready, two good beds fresh cloathed and a fire laid; and there she left us.
“Hah!” snorted Dr. Johnson. “A leak! The Burlow Beanie! This is mere malice and petty persecution. Someone on this island makes sport of our discomfort.”
“’Tis clear,” I returned, “that Miss Macdonald believes in her Burlow Beanie. I met her in the lower passage after dinner, and trust me, she was carrying the lubber fiend the best part of the joint.”
“So do not I,” retorted Dr. Johnson, “and I’ll lie in the Prince’s chamber tonight though I lie with the Burlow Beanie. I’ll e’en beg the loan of the edge of your bed, Bozzy, and we’ll see what the lubber fiend is after.”
Returning stealthily to the Prince’s chamber, we lay in tolerable comfort for perhaps an hour, concealed by the tartan curtains close-drawn. Then suddenly there was a light step in the passage, the door opened, and in stepped our gentle little hostess with a candle in her hand. She was followed by her husband and a tall stranger, a slim strong-built man in middle life. Kingsburgh carried a crow, which with no word spoken he applied to the bricks of the chimney-piece.
“Now fie upon my curiosity,” muttered Dr. Johnson in my ear, “I had expected the serving-maid.” He swept aside the tartan curtain and rose to his feet.
Kingsburgh dropped the crow with a clatter; Flora Macdonald drew in her breath with a little cry. Only the stranger was unmoved. He regarded my friend with a level gaze; I saw his eyeballs gleam in the light of the candle he held beside his head.
“Pray,” he said with composure, “make Dr. Johnson known to Mr. Douglas.”
I was piqued at the inversion of courtesy by which Kingsburgh presented my venerable friend to Mr. John Douglas. However, Dr. Johnson scanned the stranger’s face keenly for a moment, by candle light, and then inclined from the waist with his rare stately courtesy.
“If Charles Stuart,” he said respectfully, “wishes to be known as John Douglas, ’tis not for me to dispute the appellation. I am your humble servant, Mr. Douglas.”
I looked again at the oval face, the eyebrows raised now and the mouth just on the point of smiling. It was a face that had been used hard; the eyes were tired, and the oval was fuller than it had been. But the broad brow, the finely modelled nose, even the keen proud look, were still there.
He was dressed as of old, in Highland costume. He wore kilt and short hose of the red-and-black Stuart tartan. His well-shaped knees were bare; I noted how the full filibeg set off the good shape of his muscular legs. For the rest, he had a black waistcoat and a short cloth green coat with gold cord. On his feet he wore Highland brogues.
He carried himself with composed stateliness. I bowed low as I was presented to him in my turn, meditating on the vicissitudes of fortune that bade Charles Stuart return to the country of his fathers secretly and by night, hiding his presence even from those who in happier times would have been his subjects.
The King was smiling openly now.
“You see I was right,” remarked Charles Stuart, “removing the busto from the bracket could not remove it from the memory of Dr. Johnson.”
“Yet you were likewise wrong, sir,” cried Flora Macdonald, “for you see you stand in no danger from Dr. Johnson, Sassenach though he may be. You might freely have appeared before him in your own person.”
“As I do now,” said Charles. “The better, for we have need of your counsel, Dr. Johnson.”
“I am wholly at your service,” replied my monarchical friend. “What is your difficulty?”
“It is thus, my friend,” replied the royal Stuart, “concealed somewhere in this house is a ruby worth £50,000.”
“If indeed it be in this house,” said Kingsburgh gloomily.
“It is here,” replied Charles with confidence. “I trusted it to your father’s keeping. I will stake my life that he kept it well. But where?”
“We have had up the fireplace tiles,” said Kingsburgh, “we have turned out every chest and press that was here in my father’s day, we have dug where the old kale-yard used to be, all to no purpose. Only this room remains to be searched; and I crave your indulgence, sir,” he turned to Dr. Johnson, “for the crude means by which we sought to have you out of the way.”
“Sir,” said Dr. Johnson, “’tis
folly to put your trust in spades and crow-bars. Your father meant that the ruby should never be found by men with mattocks. No, sir; man is the master, not by reason of crows and shovels, but by virtue of the vision in his head.”
“Then pray, Dr. Johnson,” said the King half humorously, “search in your head and find me my ruby.”
“Sir,” replied Dr. Johnson seriously, “I will do so. Pray let us conduct this search by the sitting-room fire, with a bowl of poonch for the facilitation of the operation.”
Accordingly we removed thither. Dr. Johnson brought the candle. Flora Macdonald lit the fire; Miss Macdonald came with the keys and brewed an excellent punch, which Charles Stuart commended heartily; and we sat as snug around the fire at midnight as though we were all old cronies together, and Bonnie Prince Charlie had never lost his kingdom and a ruby worth £50,000.
“But come,” said Dr. Johnson when the glass had gone round, “I am not to search in my head, for I am a stranger to Kingsburgh; if the ruby is to be found, it must be found in your heads. Pray, let me hear the story of the lost gem.”
“You must know,” replied Charles, “it was one of a pair, the gift of the French King to my granddam Mary Stuart. One of these she gave away; the other descended to my father, and he left it to my brother Henry, the Cardinal. ’Twas the first one which after many years was brought to me at Holyrood and given into my hands for the good cause. I kept it by me for the day of need; ’twas on my person at Culloden.”
“This gem was unset?” enquired Dr. Johnson.
“It was set in a ring,” replied Charles Stuart.
“After Culloden the Prince fled into the Western Islands,” said Flora Macdonald, “and the chiefs of the Isles protected him.”
“I remember the day he came to Kingsburgh,” said Margaret Macdonald, “though I was then no more than seven. Sir Alexander Macdonald was away at Fort Augustus; and when the military came on Skye, Lady Margaret sent for my father in haste, and he left the forms standing and the wax cooling in the vat and went away to her at Monkstadt. The next day he came back at dusk with a muckle, ill-shaken-up wife in an Irish camlet cape with a hood.”
Dr. Sam Johnson, Detector Page 12