Unflattering recollections

Most obituaries of the day extolled the virtues of the deceased, but one for John Mackintosh (Number 31) tempered its praise: ‘His virtues were mixed with striking defects. He was too boastful and confident in his own opinions, and did not hesitate rashly to disparage others from whom he differed. And if he was boastful, his deeds were always at hand to support him, though not exactly to the extent which he claimed. His superabundant self-esteem and want of prudent caution excited considerable opposition among his medical brethren.’

An obituary in a New Zealand newspaper of Theresa Longworth (Yelverton) (Photo - T. Cranfield of Dublin) (Number 31) gave little hint of her feisty character and brave achievements, and carried a sting in its tale: ‘Mrs Yelverton gained some position as a public reader and elocutionist, and made a living that way at home and abroad. She also published a novel, of which she was her own heroine. Its title was Martyr to Circumstances but its success was only temporary. Of late years, Mrs Yelverton lived entirely in South Africa, where her fortunes were of a somewhat uncertain character.’

One wonders if Walter Scott would have judged John Gibson Lockhart’s view of two of his oldest friends to be fair. In Lockhart's biography of his father-in-law, he describes William Erskine (Number 11) thus: ‘The Counsellor (as Scott always called him) was a little man of feeble make… and though capable, I have no doubt, of exhibiting, had his duty called him to do so, the highest spirit of a hero or a martyr, he had very little command over his nerves amidst circumstances such as men of ordinary mould (to say nothing of iron fabrics like Scott’s) regard with indifference.’ Still this was gently barbed compared with his caustic comments about James Ballantyne (Numbers 18 and 26) and his brother. James’ son, John, was quick to publish a repudiation: ‘If Walter Scott’s dearest friends and most constant allies were really such doubtful or ambiguous characters — gluttons or picaroons — as they have been described by him [Lockhart], honest people might inquire how, a gifted being like Scott came to associate with and confide in them throughout every vicissitude of fortune.’ Lockhart was unrepentant and responded with an even harsher portrayal: ‘Birds of evil omen they both were to Sir Walter - the only doubt is which the worst - the Raven or the Magpie - Undoubtedly, the graver brother comes out a shade or two worse than he stood before. I am sorry for it. With all his faults I am still disposed to think charitably of James; he requires tender dealing when we look closely at some things; but we must remember the ancient saying, that it is very difficult for an empty sack to stand erect.’

While Lockhart’s disparaging appraisals were written in full knowledge that they were being published, the great majority of those commenting critically on others in their private letters and journals never would have imagined these might, one day, be made public. However, it is doubtful if Jane Carlyle would have been concerned for others to read her views on poor Dr Fyffe (Number 5). This extract, from a letter written by Jane to her cousin, Eliza Stoddart, has more than a hint of Shakespeare’s Malvolio. ‘I have run against the little gunpowder man of Medicine, in the entry, several times. We ‘moue’ to one another— I toss my head toploftically—he looks as if he could eat me— And that is all! A week or two after we came from Edinburgh he tried another fit of illness—but it did nothing for him— And as we neither sent to enquire for him nor testified sympathy for him in any way his sins were very soon forgiven him — that is to say after having kept his bed for a week—one day dabbling with leeches and the next plashing in warm water—he all at once rose up in good health—dressed himself and drove to town to be present at an operation performed on his Uncle. Now when he perceives that he may bleed or boil himself to the day of Pentecost without interesting this “hard and stony heart” of mine in the least in his favour—he is adopting another mode of attack—instead of shaving his whiskers and using all possible expedients to give him the aspect of a woebegone man he is now trying to dazzle my wits with a white hat, silver headed Jockey whip and bits of leggings of so bright a yellow that it does me ill to look at them!’ In 1881, another bright young woman with an eye for the peculiarities of others, while on one of her regular family summer holidays in Dunkeld, penned a portrait of Mrs Sophie Culbard, the wife of the local doctor. Twenty years earlier, Sophie Culbard had lodged at Number 6 to give birth to her first child. The teenage writer, concerned that prying eyes might discover her jottings, wrote her journal in code. However, a simple code is no barrier to later researchers, and so Beatrix Potter’s view of Mrs Culbard is no longer secret: ‘Mrs Culbard is a somewhat elegant, slight, elderly lady, of plaintively amaiable friendliness, but perfectly incoherent in her conversation. She is very chatty, but her anecdotes have neither head nor tail. …. This we heard in a rambling narrative from Mrs Culbard during an afternoon visit, but the story as usual had no end. I walked back with Mrs Culbard, partly to hear the end of the story, if there was one, and partly to see their new Persian cat, Deb. First I heard the history of her seal-skin cloak, formerly a jacket of my aunt… and then to my intense amusement, a mournful and rather pitiable lament upon the existence of Dr. Dickson, such indiscretions, distinctly libellous, and whenever we met anybody on the footpath she broke off and then rambled on again.’