Greyfriars is a place of many associations.  There was one window in a house at the lower end, now demolished, which was pointed out to me by the gravedigger as a spot of legendary interest.  Burke, the resurrection man, infamous for so many murders at five shillings a-head, used to sit thereat, with pipe and nightcap, to watch burials going forward on the green.  In a tomb higher up, which must then have been but newly finished, John Knox, according to the same informant, had taken refuge in a turmoil of the Reformation.  Behind the church is the haunted mausoleum of Sir George Mackenzie:  Bloody Mackenzie, Lord Advocate in the Covenanting troubles and author of some pleasing sentiments on toleration.  Here, in the last century, an old Heriot’s Hospital boy once harboured from the pursuit of the police.  The Hospital is next door to Greyfriars — a courtly building among lawns, where, on Founder’s Day, you may see a multitude of children playing Kiss-in-the-Ring and Round the Mulberry-bush.  Thus, when the fugitive had managed to conceal himself in the tomb, his old schoolmates had a hundred opportunities to bring him food; and there he lay in safety till a ship was found to smuggle him abroad.  But his must have been indeed a heart of brass, to lie all day and night alone with the dead persecutor; and other lads were far from emulating him in courage.  When a man’s soul is certainly in hell, his body will scarce lie quiet in a tomb however costly; some time or other the door must open, and the reprobate come forth in the abhorred garments of the grave.  It was thought a high piece of prowess to knock at the Lord Advocate’s mausoleum and challenge him to appear.  ‘Bluidy Mackingie, come oot if ye dar’!’ sang the fool-hardy urchins.  But Sir George had other affairs on hand; and the author of an essay on toleration continues to sleep peacefully among the many whom he so intolerantly helped to slay.

For this INFELIX Campus, as it is dubbed in one of its own inscriptions — an inscription over which Dr. Johnson passed a critical eye — is in many ways sacred to the memory of the men whom Mackenzie persecuted.  It was here, on the flat tombstones, that the Covenant was signed by an enthusiastic people.  In the long arm of the church-yard that extends to Lauriston, the prisoners from Bothwell Bridge — fed on bread and water and guarded, life for life, by vigilant marksmen — lay five months looking for the scaffold or the plantations.  And while the good work was going forward in the Grassmarket, idlers in Greyfriars might have heard the throb of the military drums that drowned the voices of the martyrs.  Nor is this all:  for down in the corner farthest from Sir George, there stands a monument dedicated, in uncouth Covenanting verse, to all who lost their lives in that contention.  There is no moorsman shot in a snow shower beside Irongray or Co’monell; there is not one of the