becoming of their dignity, that they had assembled there to consult on the best mode of ending the riot. Mr. Lindsay, the member of Parliament for the city, was there with them, and he volunteered to carry a message to general Moyle, who was quartered with the troops in the suburbs. Lindsay, with much difficulty and danger, accomplished his mission, and requested Moyle to force the barricade at the Netherbow Port, and march upon the rioters. But Moyle refused to do this without a warrant from the magistrates, and Lindsay declared that if he were found carrying any such document, the mob would tear him limb from limb. Moyle, having the example of Porteus before his eyes, refused to move, and Lindsay continued in vain to urge him. Moyle, not prevailing with Lindsay, sent to Andrew Fletcher, lord justice clerk, whose house was about three miles off, for an order, but it was some time before the message could reach Fletcher, and procure the order, and it was one o'clock in the morning when the order was delivered, and then, by some strange mistake, not to the general, but to Lindsay. The governor of the castle was sent to, but, like Moyle, refused to act without an order from the magistrates. The magistrates, instead of seeing such an order sent to one or both of the commanders, sallied from their tavern, and attempted to descend the High Street towards the Tolbooth — perhaps a more convincing evidence than any other that they were, as reported, far from sober. They were instantly stopped and sent back by the mob. Moyle afterwards, when questioned as to the reason for not hastening to quell the riot, declared that Lindsay was drunk when he came to him, and Lindsay retorted on the general his shameful want of alacrity. Owing to all these circumstances no military arrived, and the mob had plenty of time to storm the Tolbooth. Finding all other means vain, there was at last a cry of "Try fire!" This was no sooner heard than adopted. Tar-barrels and other combustibles were collected and heaped upon the stubborn old door. It soon began to burn; presently there was a hole in the centre of it, and the gaoler, seeing all resistance over, flung the keys through to the besiegers. The mob rushed in almost before the fire could be moved, and, disregarding all other objects, made for the cell of the trembling Porteus. All the other prisoners were allowed to escape at will. The Wretched Porteus, hearing the roar of the mob outside, and his name mingled with it, had comprehended the object of the attack, and had endeavoured to escape his horrible fate. He had climbed up into the chimney, but soon found himself stopped by a grate which was fixed across it, as is usual in prisons. The mob, on entering his room, gave a yell of disappointment at finding no one there. They searched every nook, and were not long in detecting and dragging him from his concealment. All entreaties for his life were disregarded, but they allowed him to consign his money and his papers to the care of a friend, a prisoner for debt, on behalf of his family. A man of a venerable aspect assumed the office of clergyman, and exhorted the dying man to prepare for his end. He was then conducted by the triumphant mob towards the Grass Market, the place where Wilson was hanged, the ordinary place of execution, and where Porteus having fired on the people, they determined that he should receive his punishment. Portous refused to walk, but they mounted him on the hands of two of the rioters, forming what in Scotland is called "the king's chair." Not finding a regular gallows, they seized a dyer's pole, and made it serve their turn. For a rope they broke open a dealer's booth, and, taking a coil, left a guinea in payment. The death of Porteus was hard, but the mood of his captors was harder. They waited for his last struggle, and then those who had arms threw them away, and the crowd began to disperse quietly to their homes. When day dawned, there were only the scattered arms of the city guard and the dangling corpse of Porteus to evidence the awful work of the night.
The news on reaching London was received with astonishment. The daring of the deed was equalled by the orderly, systematic, and successful manner in which it had been conducted. It was clear that the whole was executed under the direction of men of superior rank and education. The care to injure no one but the victim, paying a guinea for the rope, and turning back ladies who were out in their sedans going to parties, but with all courtesy, and guarding them to their homes, all evinced this.
Sir Walter Scott mentions a female relative of his who was thus escorted, and received a bow on entering her house from a youth in the garb of a baker, as he handed her out, which, she said, was never learned beside the oven. When Porteus lost one of his slippers, the crowd stopped till it was recovered and put it on again. The little success which attended the endeavours to discover the ringleaders of this remarkable mob was further proof of the kind of leading which it had had. The queen exhibited great indignation at this systematic defiance of authority. She exclaimed to the duke of Argyll that, sooner than submit to such things, she would make Scotland a hunting-field; on which Argyll replied, with a profound bow and meaning look, "Then I will take leave of your majesty, and go down to my own country to get my hounds ready."
It was the earl of Isla, Argyll's brother, nevertheless, who was sent down to discover the leaders of the riot, and to bring them to punishment. It was useless; the whole feeling of the country was with the punishers of Porteus. Isla, in reporting to Walpole, says, "The most shocking circumstance is, that it plainly appears the highflyers of our Scotch church have made this infamous murder a point of conscience. One of the actors went straight to a country church, where the sacrament was given to a vast crowd of people, as is the fashion here, and there boasted what he had done. All the lower rank of the people, who had distinguished themselves by pretences to a superior sanctity, talk of this murder as the hand of God doing justice, and my endeavours to punish murderers arc called grievous persecutions. I have conversed with several of the parsons, and, indeed, I could hardly have given credit to the public reports of the temper of these saints if I had not been witness to it." Thus all attempts to discover any of the chief perpetrators failed, and no more than the general facts have ever come to light.
But the more the mystery, the greater was the rage of the English government. On the opening of the session of parliament for 1737 a bill was brought in of a most frantic and unwise character: — To abolish the charter of the city of Edinburgh, to rase the city gates, disband the city guard,
