The town of Dumfries, in
southern Scotland, lies about ten miles inland from the Solway Firth. The
river Nith on which it stands flows beneath a bridge said to be the oldest
in Scotland; it was built, we are told by the Lady Devorgilla, mother of
that John Baliol who was a rival of Robert Bruce in claiming the Scottish
throne. Dumfries is therefore an ancient town of many historical
associations; and standing as it does at the sea-ward end of Nithsdale it
was a great centre of farm produce; for centuries past the inland hills
and the valleys which lead to them have pastured sheep and cattle, the
property of small farmers dwelling in hamlets beside the streams which
swell the Nith.
Let us travel in
imagination along the valley of the Nith, northwards to a point where a
tributary, the Cluden, flows into it. A half ruined abbey looks down from
its hillock on the village of Irongray, a pastoral place such as the
district well knows. Here in the early eighteenth century there were
living two sisters Helen and Isabella Walker, the daughters of a cottar or
farm-labourer: both father and mother were dead at the time of which we
are writing, and Helen, much older than Isabella, looked after her young
and gayer sister with motherly devotion. They earned their living by
spinning and knitting wool and by selling the produce of their chickens, a
simple, homely, happy life, as we picture it.
But the peace of it was
broken up one summer by a terrible shock of fear and shame, when the
younger sister, Isabella (or ‘Tibby ‘as her pet name went) was arrested by
officers from Dumfries, and imprisoned on the charge of child-murder.
The agony of mind for Helen
must have been such as we can hardly imagine; for she was a deeply
religious and upright woman, her family highly respected, her own sense of
truth and goodness such as to make her even a trifle too hard on those who
fell below her standards. Therefore, when the day of trial came, Helen
gave her evidence with simple honesty; no single word could she utter, for
truth’s sake, that might help to lessen the penalty of the law.
And when the death sentence
on Isabella was pronounced, and the poor girl was led from the dock, she
turned towards her sister with bitter words, ‘Oh! Nellie, ye’ve
been the cause of my death.’
But Helen had a plan in her
mind; she had heard it said, ‘The King of England can grant pardons’; why
should not she, Helen, go herself to London, present a petition to the
King, and save her sister’s life? And so the thing took shape in that
faithful, loving, courageous spirit, and quite a practical shape.
Helen procured from a
friend a properly worded and written petition such as could be fitly
presented to King George II.;she learned that she must first
approach a certain nobleman who was at that period (about the year 1788)
Commissioner for Scotland, namely John, Duke of Argyll and Greenwich, and
ask him to present the petition. And she must go herself, and plead with
Did she, we wonder, realize
the difficulties facing her? A distance of 300 miles; no means of
travelling in those days except on foot for those who could afford neither
private nor public coach, nor horseback, few bridges, few fords, roads
often all but impassable: her Scots speech and appearance very strange to
English folk, as their speech and ways to her. Much of this, no doubt, she
did realize, but her love swept all aside.
The day after the trial she
set out, a short sturdy ‘figure of a woman’ in woollen skirt, above her
bare ankles and feet; a plaid wrapping chest and shoulders, her dark hair
covered with a black silk hood beneath which shows the edge of a snowy
cap; the eyes looking out at us are dark, keen, and shrewd. She carries a
bag filled with a few simple necessaries, food for her first stage of
journey, shoes and stockings for use in London town, her precious money,
borrowed from a kind friend, sewed into a linen bag within her clothing.
After leaving Dumfries she
must have followed an easterly road, perhaps only a pack-horse track to a
bridge across the Esk, at an ancient Border crossing-spot, Lochmaben.
There had long been a good ford there; probably by 1788, a bridge.
Thence a road to Carlisle
would bring the traveller to lower ground between the hills where a track
runs eastward to Newcastle. These roads are marked on a map of the
seventeenth century, and we are, therefore, sure that these at least would
be available to Helen for the first important stage of her journey. From
Newcastle to London there runs what we still call the Great North Road,
the Ermyn Street made by the Romans; along this the Roman legions marched
on their way between London and the wall of Hadrian.
But during the Middle Ages
these splendid roads, made by the Romans, were neglected; only in the
seventeenth century was there a revival of the art of road making. So from
Newcastle as far south as Grantham the old Roman road was but a causeway
where a coach might barely pass. Along this causeway Helen walked day
after day, often meeting strings of pack-horses laden with goods, and now
and then a coach, a wonderful sight to her. She would possibly, now and
again, allow herself a stage of riding in a public coach; we know that her
feet were ‘sorely blistered’ and also that it took her only fourteen days
to accomplish the distance.
And as she gets nearer the
city of her hope and fear we can imagine even her own courage and faith
more greatly tried. For it was not the bodily effort and weariness that
told on her, but rather the anxiety lest her mighty effort should be after
all in vain.
Let us picture as well as
we can the little London of the early eighteenth century; vast to a
peasant Scotswoman, very small to us.
On the north, London was
bounded by moor-fields, just outside the old wall; to the south there was
little of the town beyond St. George’s in Southwark; London Bridge, the
only link between the banks of Thames. On the west ‘Buckingham House’ was
the farthest towards the country village of Kensington; on the east the
gate called Aldgate led out to open spaces, farms, and, cottages along the
village street of Mile End.
Helen Walker, approaching
London from the north, would travel by lanes between fields where horses
and cattle grazed and where stiles and gates led to field-paths. These are
shown clearly on old picture-maps of the eighteenth century. Her way into
the city would be along Bishopsgate, and if it were dusk she would see
every citizen’s house lighted by a horn lanthorn without, as ordered by
law. London was more crowded in 1738 than it had been in the last thirty
years of the previous century, because after the Great Fire, many open
spaces and private gardens had been built upon to give house-room to the
growing population. A noisier town also, for hackney coaches now rattled
over the cobblestones where only foot-passengers and pack-horses had
jostled each other sixty or seventy years before.
To Helen Walker—fresh from
the wide horizons and purple distances of southern Scotland and from the
quiet market-place of Dumfries—London, even then, must have seemed
bewildering in its crowded streets. We may suppose that she found a
lodging in some good-natured citizen’s house, and that there she would
find out by enquiry how to reach the house of the Duke of Argyll.
As Commissioner for
Scotland and a member of the House of Lords it is likely that the Duke had
a residence in Westminster. It was but a village then, linked to London
City by Fleet Street and the Strand, beyond the market cross of Charing.
Thither Helen was directed
on the day after her arrival. In her picturesque Scottish dress, but with
shoes and stockings on her feet, she set out along Bishopsgate, past the
great pile of St. Paul’s, now fresh from the plans of Sir Christopher
Wren, down Ludgate Hill, across the bridge over the Fleet, and so along
the Strand towards Charing and the river.
Now at last she comes upon
houses which look like those of noblemen; and she is directed to the one
belonging to the Duke of Argyll.
Her goal is before her; her last
effort of courage and faith is needed.
* * * * * *
Why does she hesitate? Is it lack of
courage which makes her stand simply gazing at that door, beyond which
lies the answer to all her agonized effort and fear? Far from it; the
shrewdness of her mother-wit has told her long ago that no servant’s
message, no lackey’s announcement will be likely to procure for such as
she an audience of a Minister of State. She will wait and wait till she
can make her appeal with personal directness.
So, all that first day and
until night-fall she waits; and no sign is given of the great man’s
approach. And again a second day passes in like disappointment. But on the
third day, a coach draws up; no one alights from it; will the Duke appear?
And now that patient
watcher is rewarded; the door of the house opens, a figure emerges; Helen
is before him. She thrusts the petition into his hands, and falling on her
knees implores him, in her soft Scots speech, for the love of God and, of
human kind, to read the paper and to consider its prayer.
She is not repulsed; her
simplicity, her obvious honesty, the pathos of her tale are enough to
touch any man’s heart; she goes back to her lodging with a promise that
all possible effort will be made on behalf of her sister.
* * * * * *
Two days later Helen received the
paper containing a pardon signed by the King and an order for her sister’s
release. With these she returned to Scotland just as she had come, walking
again those weary miles—but now, with such joy and thankfulness in her
heart as we, perhaps, can hardly picture.
* * * * * *
There is little more to tell.
Isabella Walker went to live with her husband at Whitehaven in Cumberland,
whence each year, Helen used to receive some homely gift, a cake or a
cheese of her sister’s making. Helen returned to her own village—Irongray—where,
though well-known and greatly respected, she had the reputation of being
‘a wily body, for whene’er ony o’ the neebors asked onything aboot the
journey to London she aye turned the conversation.’
There were, however, two
persons who knew all the facts, but kept their own counsel so long as
Helen lived. These were—a gentleman who owned the land on which Helen’s
cottage stood, and a Mrs. Goldie whose husband was a high official in the
town of Dumfries. Helen died in 1791, and, nearly forty years later, Sir
Walter Scott heard this story from Mrs. Goldie, who had seen and talked to
Helen Walker when herself on a visit to Irongray village.
To Sir Walter, keenly alive
to the value of the failings and the heroisms of human souls, the
personality of Helen seemed worthy indeed of an enduring record. And so it
comes about that Helen Walker is the historical character from whom Scott
has drawn the Jeanie Deans who is the heroine of ‘The Heart of
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