Although Edinburgh does not appear to manifest any consciousness of the fact, the 1st of September is the feast of her patron saint. There was a time when solemn celebrations marked the event. But centuries have passed since then; and it would not be very rash to assume that, at the present day, for every thousand of its Presbyterian population, at any rate, the city does not contain one man, woman, or child who knows of any connection between St. Giles and any special day in the year.

In this respect, it is true, Edinburgh is not more indifferent than Glasgow. Every year the 13th of January passes by without the slightest official recognition on the part of the commercial metropolis. In spite of that, however, St. Mungo and St. Giles stand on a very different footing in their respective cities. All Glaswegians know something of their saint. Indeed, their municipal coat of arms makes it impossible for them to be wholly ignorant of his story. The very children amongst them are familiar with the incidents which the bird, the tree, and the ring commemorate; and reference to the capital of the West as the city of St. Mungo is by no means uncommon. But whoever heard Edinburgh call herself the city of St. Giles? Nor is this difference in the esteem in which the two patrons are held unnatural or unaccountable. For, whilst Glasgow's tutelar saint was a true Scot, he under whose special protection the capital chose to put itself was simply an alien. Not but what he was a well-born and eminently venerable person. We are told that St. Giles, or, to give him his Latin name, Egidius, was born in Greece in the seventh century. According to the Roman Breviary, he was of royal lineage. The same authority states that from his youth he showed a great love for sacred learning and for works of charity, and that, at the death of his parents, he bestowed his whole inheritance on the poor. The miracles which he was reported to have wrought brought him a fame which was distasteful to him. To escape from it he retired to Arles, in France. He remained there but a short time, however, having determined to lead the life of a hermit. For this purpose he betook himself to a forest near Gards, in the diocese of NÎmes. There he lived for a long time upon the roots and herbs and the milk of a hind which came to him at regular hours—an act of kindness for which the charitable and faithful animal was not to go unrewarded, and to which, indeed, she owes the honour of figuring in the arms of the city of Edinburgh, of which she is the sinister supporter. One day the hind was chased by the King's hounds, and took refuge in Giles's cave. "Thereby," says the Breviary, "the King of France was moved earnestly to entreat that Giles would allow a monastery to be built in the place where the cave was. Yielding to the pressing solicitations of the King, he took the rule of this monastery, although himself unwilling, and discharged this duty in a wise and godly manner for some years, until he passed away to heaven."[230]

The biographical sketch supplied by the Breviary suggests no connection between Giles and any part of Britain—north or south; neither does there seem to be anything extant to account for his being chosen as the tutelar saint of Edinburgh. There are, however, documents which prove that, as far back as the thirteenth century, the parish church was dedicated to him. Arnot states, on the authority of a charter in the Advocates' Library, that, in the reign of James II, Preston of Gortoun, having got possession of a relic which was alleged to be an arm-bone of St. Giles, bequeathed it to the mother kirk.[231] In gratitude for this gift, the magistrates of the city granted a charter in favour of the heirs of Preston, entitling the nearest heir of the donor, being of the name of Preston, to carry this sacred relic in all processions. The magistrates, at the same time, obliged themselves to found in this church an altar, and to appoint a chaplain, for celebrating an annual mass of requiem for the soul of the donor. They also ordered that a tablet, displaying his arms and describing his pious donation, should be put in the chapel. The relic, enshrined in silver, was kept amongst the treasures of the church till the Reformation.[232]

The outburst of iconoclasm which is chronicled by John Knox as one of the marks of progress of the Reformation in Scotland proved fatal to St. Giles. "The images were stolen away in all parts of the country," says the historian, "and in Edinburgh was that great idol called St. Giles first drowned in the North Loch, and after burned, which raised no small trouble in the town." This was in 1557. But twelve months later there occurred what may be looked upon as the public and formal denial by Edinburgh of her patron saint, and his violent and shameful deposition by his whilom devotees. This "tragedy of St. Giles" is recorded by Knox with that grim humour which is characteristic of him. He relates that, on the approach of St. Giles's day, the bishops gave charge to the Provost, Bailies, and Council of Edinburgh, either to get the old St. Giles again, or else to provide a new image at their expense. To this the Council answered, in words that breathe the very spirit of the reformer himself, "That to them the charge appeared very unjust. They understood that God, in some places, had commanded idols and images to be destroyed, but where He had commanded images to be set up, they had not read; and they desired the Archbishop of St. Andrews to find a warrant for his commandment."

In spite of this refusal, the priests and friars determined to have "that great solemnity and manifest abomination which they accustomably had upon St. Giles's day", or, in other words, to hold the annual procession. To replace the statue that had come to grief the year before, "a marmoset idol" was borrowed from the Grey Friars; who, as security for its safe return, required the deposit of "a silver piece". It was made fast with iron nails to a feretory, or portable shrine. "There assembled priests, friars, canons, and rotten Papists, with tabours and trumpets, banners and bagpipes. And who was there to lead the ring but the Queen Regent herself, with all her shavelings, for honour of that feast?" For all her unpopularity, Mary exercised a restraining influence on the mob. But that day she was to dine "in Sandie Carpetyne's house, betwixt the Bows"—that is to say, between the West Bow and the Nether Bow; and so when, after going down the High Street and as far as the foot of the Canongate, "the idol returned back again, she left it and passed in to her dinner".

The Regent's withdrawal from the procession was the signal for the outbreak of the riot which Knox dignifies with the title of "the enterprise". They that were of it at once approached to the statue, and pretended they were anxious to help in bearing it. Having got the feretory upon their shoulders, they began to shake it roughly, thinking that this would bring down the "idol". But the iron nails resisted such slight efforts, and, casting aside all pretence, they pulled it down violently to the cry of "Down with the idol! down with it!" "Some brag made the priests' patrons at the first," records Knox; "but they soon saw the feebleness of their god, for one took him by the heels, and dadding his head to the causeway, left Dagon without head or hands, and said, 'Fie upon thee, thou young St. Giles, thy father would have tarried for such!' This considered, the priests and friars fled faster than they did at Pinkie Cleuch! Down go the crosses, off go the surplices, and the round caps corner with the crowns. The Grey Friars gaped, the Black Friars blew, the priests panted and fled, and happy was he that first go into the house; for such a sudden fray came never among the generation of Antichrist within this realm before."[233]

These riotous proceedings chanced to be witnessed by a "merry Englishman", who, seeing that there was more noise and confusion than hurt or injury, and that the discomfiture was bloodless, thought he would add some merriment to the matter. And the gibes in which he indulged so tickled Knox's sense of humour that he duly records them: "Fie upon you, why have ye broken order? Down the street ye passed in great array and with great mirth. Why fly ye, villains, now without order? Turn and strike every man a stroke, for the honour of his god! Fie, cowards, fie, ye shall never be judged worthy of your wages again!" "But," adds the chronicler, "exhortations were then unprofitable; for after Baal had broken his neck there was no comfort to his confused army."

From that memorable fall of his, on September 1, 1558, St. Giles has never recovered. His name, indeed, is not wholly forgotten, and cannot be, so long as Edinburgh's venerable cathedral bears it; but if he be in honour anywhere, it is not in the city which once chose him for its patron, even in preference to any in the respectable company of home-bred saints that lay ready at hand in the calendar.