Town-life in old times. Dirtiness of the streets. Clubs. Hutton
and Black in Edinburgh. A feast of snails. Royal Society Club.
Bailies ‘gang lowse.’ Rothesay fifty years ago. James Smith
of Jordanhill. Fisher-folk of the Forth. Decay of the Scots
language. Receipt for pronouncing English.
Town-life a hundred years ago presented many contrasts to what it is
now in Scotland. Means of locomotion being comparatively scanty and
also expensive, communication with England was too serious a matter
to be undertaken by any but those who had plenty of money or urgent
business. And the number of Englishmen who found their way north of
the Tweed was correspondingly small. The Scottish towns, too, though
connected by lines of road and stage coaches, were far more cut off
from each other than they have now become, since they have been
linked together by railways. They still to some extent continued to
be centres, to which the landed gentry betook themselves for part
of the winter. Hence they retained some old-world ways and local
peculiarities, which modern intercourse has more or less completely
effaced. They were much smaller in size and more compact, for the vast
acres of suburban villadom, now surrounding our cities and larger
towns, had hardly begun to come into existence. They were likewise so
much less populous, that each of them rather resembled an overgrown
family, where everybody of special note was known more or less
familiarly to the whole community.
[Sidenote: DIRTINESS OF THE STREETS]
There can be little doubt that Scottish towns were once almost
incredibly dirty. Drainage, in the modern sense of the word, was
unknown. Edinburgh, especially at night, must have been one of the most
evil-smelling towns in Europe, when with shouts of ‘Gardyloo’ the foul
water and garbage of each house were pitched out of the windows. The
streets were thus never decently clean, save immediately after a heavy
rain had swept the refuse into the central gutter, which then became
the channel of a rapid torrent. Laws had indeed been framed against
throwing foul water from the windows, and Boswell tells us that in his
time the magistrates had taken to enforce them, but that owing to the
want of covered drains the odour still continued. When he walked up the
Canongate with Johnson, who had just arrived, he could have wished his
companion ‘to be without one of his five senses on this occasion;’ for
he could not keep the lexicographer from grumbling, ‘I smell you in
the dark.’ In Byron’s youth the same state of things continued, and he
could still say tauntingly to Jeffrey,
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets,
And showers their odours on thy candid sheets.
The state of the Edinburgh streets in a snowy winter must have been
deplorable. Sydney Smith, writing from the town in 1799, after a thaw,
remarked that ‘except the morning after the Flood was over, I should
doubt if Edinburgh had ever been dirtier.’ By the time that proper
sanitary arrangements came into practice, the well-to-do citizens had
forsaken their abodes in the high tenements of the Old Town, and the
houses came to be tenanted by a poorer class. Although the nocturnal
cascades were prohibited, the refuse was carried down and deposited
in the streets. I can remember when these thoroughfares were still
disgustingly odoriferous and unsightly, until the dustman had been
round with his cart and a perfunctory brush, which seemed never to find
its way into the narrow closes.
The domestic habits of the townsmen were in many respects less
luxurious and more homely than they are now-a-days, and people saw more
of each other in a friendly unostentatious way. Instead of the modern
stiff, ceremonious dinner party, receding further and further into
the late hours of the evening, there was the simple and often frugal
supper, the praises of which have been so enthusiastically recorded by
Cockburn. It was customary to ask friends, especially strangers, to
breakfast, a usage which still survived in my youth, especially among
the University Professors. As already mentioned, long after I had left
college, I used to enjoy the breakfasts given by Pillans, and the
company he gathered round his table for that meal.
[Sidenote: CONVIVIAL CLUBS]
The people of an older generation gave themselves to social
intercourse much more freely and simply than we do now. One feature of
town-life, formerly conspicuous in Scotland, is now almost gone--the
multiplication of convivial clubs. During the seventeenth and the early
part of the eighteenth century, every town in the country had its
clubs, to which the male inhabitants would adjourn once a week, or even
every evening. In the larger towns these gatherings included the most
intellectual and well-born members of the community, who met for the
discussion of literary, philosophical or scientific topics, as well
as for free social companionship. But no doubt in these towns and in
the smaller centres of population throughout the country, there were
many associations which had no such laudable aims, but fully deserved
Butler’s description of them:
The jolly members of a toping club,
Like pipe-staves, are but hooped into a tub;
And in a close confederacy link
For nothing else but only to hold drink.
The clubs, whatever might be their object, did not then number in
each case hundreds of members, most of them unknown to one another,
and frequenting a luxuriously furnished mansion, such as the word
club suggests now, but consisted of mere handfuls of men, all knowing
each other, and meeting in a tavern. These associations often boasted
of jocular names, which referred to their origin or customs. Thus,
in Edinburgh, the _Antemanum Club_ was so named from its members
declaring their hands of cards before beginning play, or as has been
suggested, because they ‘paid their lawing’ before they began to
consume the liquor. The _Pious Club_ was so named because it met every
night in a pie-house. The _Spendthrift Club_ received its title from
its members disbursing as much as fourpence-halfpenny each night. Then
there were the _Oyster Club_, the _Dirty Club_, the _Mirror Club_, the
_Friday Club_ (so called because they met on Sunday), and many others.
Robert Chambers, in his _Traditions of Edinburgh_, has preserved some
interesting reminiscences of these institutions.
[Sidenote: AN EDINBURGH CLUB]
Lord Cockburn has left a graphic picture of a scene in his boyhood when
he saw the Duke of Buccleuch, with a dozen more of the aristocracy of
Midlothian, assembled in the low-roofed room of a wretched ale-house in
the country, and spending the evening in roaring, laughing, and rapidly
pushing round the claret. As an illustration of the way in which even
the most intellectual members of society would forsake their own homes
for convivial intercourse in a tavern, the following anecdote may be
given. Among the citizens of Edinburgh none were more illustrious than
Joseph Black, the discoverer of carbonic acid, and James Hutton, the
author of the _Theory of the Earth_. These two men, who were intimate
friends, and took a keen interest in their social meetings, were once
deputed by a number of their literary acquaintances to look out for a
suitable meeting-place in which they might all assemble once a week.
The two philosophers accordingly ‘sallied out for this purpose, and
seeing on the South Bridge a sign with the words, “Stewart, Vintner
down stairs,” they immediately went into the house and demanded a sight
of their best room, which was accordingly shown to them, and which
pleased them much. Without further enquiry the meetings were fixed by
them to be held in this house, and the club assembled there during the
greater part of the winter, till one evening Dr. Hutton, being rather
late, was surprised, when going in, to see a whole bevy of well-dressed
but somewhat brazen-faced young ladies brush past him, and take refuge
in an adjoining apartment. He then for the first time began to think
that all was not right, and communicated his suspicions to the rest
of the company. Next morning the notable discovery was made, that our
amiable philosophers had introduced their friends to one of the most
disreputable houses in the city.’
[Sidenote: A DISH OF SNAILS]
The record of another incident in the close intercourse of Black and
Hutton has been preserved, and may be inserted here. ‘These attached
friends agreed in their opposition to the usual vulgar prejudices, and
frequently discoursed together upon the absurdity of many generally
received opinions, especially in regard to diet. On one occasion
they had a disquisition upon the inconveniency of abstaining from
feeding on the testaceous creatures of the land, while those of the
sea were considered as delicacies. Snails, for instance--why not use
them as articles of food? They were well known to be nutritious and
wholesome--even sanative in some cases. The epicures, in olden time,
esteemed as a most delicate treat the snails fed in the marble quarries
of Lucca. The Italians still hold them in esteem. The two philosophers,
perfectly satisfied that their countrymen were acting most absurdly in
not making snails an ordinary article of food, resolved themselves to
set an example; and accordingly, having procured a number, caused them
to be stewed for dinner. No guests were invited to the banquet. The
snails were in due season served up; but, alas! great is the difference
between theory and practice. So far from exciting the appetite, the
smoking dish acted in a diametrically opposite manner, and neither
party felt much inclination to partake of its contents. Nevertheless,
if they looked on the snails with disgust, they retained their awe for
each other; so that each, conceiving the symptoms of internal revolt
to be peculiar to himself, began with infinite exertion to swallow, in
very small quantities, the mess which he internally loathed. Dr. Black
at length broke the ice, but in a delicate manner, as if to sound the
opinion of his messmate:--“Doctor,” he said in his precise and quiet
manner, “Doctor, do you not think that they taste a little--a very
little--queer?” “D---- queer! d---- queer, indeed!--tak’ them awa’,
tak’ them awa!” vociferated Dr. Hutton, starting up from the table, and
giving full vent to his feelings of abhorrence.’[35]
The most noted survivor of these old social gatherings in Edinburgh
is the ‘Royal Society Club,’ to which allusion has already been made.
This association was founded to promote good fellowship among the
fellows of the Royal Society and to ensure a nucleus for the evening
meetings. The club has from the beginning been limited in numbers, but
has always included the most distinguished and ‘clubbable’ of the
fellows. It meets in some hotel on the evenings on which the Society’s
meetings are held, and after a pleasant dinner, with talk and songs,
its members adjourn in time to take their places in the Society’s hall.
When Neaves, Maclagan, Blackie, Christison, and Macnee were present, it
will be understood how joyous such gatherings were. Many a good song
was written for these occasions, and many an excellent story was told.
A favourite ditty by Maclagan, sung by him with great effect, ended
with the following verse, which illustrates the delightful mixture of
science and fun with which the professor was wont to regale us:
Lyon Playfair last winter took up a whole hour
To prove so much mutton is just so much power;
He might have done all that he did twice as well
By an hour of good feeding in Slaney’s Hotel;
And instead of the tables he hung on the wall,
Have referred to the table in this festive hall;
And as for his facts--have more clearly got at ’em
From us than from Sappers and Miners at Chatham;
Whilst like jolly good souls
We emptied our bowls,
And so washed down our grub
In a style worth the name,
Wealth, honour, and fame
Of the Royal Society Club.
Dr. Terrot, Bishop of Edinburgh, and Professor Pillans were members
of this club. The bishop used to be a pretty constant attendant both
at the dinners and at the Society’s meetings afterwards. Pillans, on
the other hand, while he came to the dinner, shirked the meeting,
the subjects discussed being usually scientific and not especially
intelligible or interesting to him. He would say to those who rallied
him for his absence, ‘I enjoy the play [meaning the dinner] very much;
but I can’t stand the _farce_ [F.R.S.] that comes after it.’
[Sidenote: DISAPPEARANCE OF CONVIVIAL CLUBS]
The change to modern domestic habits, more especially the increasing
lateness of the dinner hour, has gradually extinguished most of the
social clubs that used to make so prominent a feature in the society
of the larger towns of Scotland. An effort was made in Edinburgh some
thirty years ago to start a new club at which the literary, artistic,
and scientific workers in the city might informally meet and enjoy each
other’s company and conversation over a glass of whisky and water,
with a pipe, cigar or cigarette. Its meetings were fixed for Saturday
evening, so as to avoid, as far as might be, dinner engagements, which
were less frequently fixed for that than for the other evenings of the
week. It began with considerable success, and continued for a number of
years to be a chief centre of cultivated intercourse. But it too has
now gone the way of its predecessors.
The proverbial patriotism of a Scot shows itself not merely in his
love of his country. His attachment binds him still more closely to
his shire, to his town, or even to his parish. This intense devotion
to the natal district could not be more forcibly illustrated than by
the remark of an Aberdonian who, in a company of his fellow townsmen
met together in Edinburgh, appealed to them by asking, ‘Tak’ awa’
Aberdeen and twal mile round about, an’ faure are ye?’ There are times
and places, however, where even the most perfervid Scot, Aberdonian or
other, is compelled to be candid. Another native of the granite city,
in his first visit to London, was taken into St. Paul’s Cathedral. He
gazed around for a few moments in silent astonishment, and at last
exclaimed to the friend who accompanied him, ‘My certy, but this makes
a perfect feel (fool) o’ the Kirk o’ Foot Dee.’
[Sidenote: PROVOSTS AND BAILIES]
Local patriotism was fostered by the multiplication of clubs, even
in small towns. But in these places also the advance of the modern
spirit seems to have destroyed the old club-life. There remain,
however, the trade corporations, or guilds, and the magistracy, which
in the old burghs still form centres round which much of the life and
human interests of these communities cluster. To be a bailie, still
more to attain to the dignity of provost, has long been an object of
ambition, even in the most insignificant place, and much scheming and
string-pulling continue to be carried on in order to obtain the coveted
position:
For never title yet so mean could prove
But there was eke a mind which did that title love.
The old proverb expresses a truth which has been time-out-of-mind
exemplified in every burgh in the country: ‘Ance a bailie, aye a
bailie; ance a provost, aye My Lord.’ Many anecdotes have been related
of the consequential airs assumed by local magnates, who have been
as fair game for the caustic remarks of outsiders as even ministers
themselves. An English traveller on board of a Clyde steamer, sailing
down the firth, got into talk with a native on deck, who good-naturedly
pointed out the various places of interest along the coast. When
they were passing Largs, the stranger asked some questions about the
town. ‘It seems a nice large place. Have they magistrates there?’
‘Ow ay; they have a provost and bailies at the Lairgs.’ ‘And do these
magistrates when they meet wear chains of office, as they do with us in
England?’ ‘Chains! no, no, bless your sowl, they aye gang lowse.’[36]
[Sidenote: A ROTHESAY WORTHY]
During the last forty years the steamboat traffic down the Clyde has
so enormously increased, locomotion is so much easier, cheaper, and
more rapid, that the temptation to escape from Glasgow to the pleasant
shores of the Firth has grown strong in all classes of society.
Villages on the coast have accordingly grown into towns, until an
almost continuous row of villas and cottages has grown up on both
sides of the estuary. Hence, as the older towns have been invaded and
increased by a population from the outside, they have lost most of
their former peculiarities. Rothesay furnishes a good illustration
of this growth and transformation. I can remember it as a place with
an individuality of its own, when everybody might be said to know
everybody else. But it has now become almost a kind of marine suburb
of Glasgow. When I first came to it, one of its conspicuous inhabitants
was known familiarly as ‘the Bishop,’ not from any ecclesiastical
office which he filled, but on account of his somewhat pompous and
consequential manner. He was in many respects a worthy man, glad to
take his share in any useful work, and to be on friendly terms with
everybody. One of his peculiarities consisted in the misuse of words,
and as he had no hesitation about speaking in public, his mistakes
often gave great amusement. His daughter had been shipwrecked, and
in referring to her experiences he declared her to be a ‘perfect
heron, for she was the last man to leave the ship.’ The Free Church
congregation at Ascog had been for some time without a pastor. When
at last one was chosen, a soiree was held to celebrate the event, and
the ‘Bishop’ was invited to it. In the speech which he made on the
occasion he congratulated the meeting, and expressed the hope that ‘now
that they had got a new _incumbrance_, they would have a long time of
prosperity and peace.’
When the parliamentary representation of Bute was contested by Mr.
Boyle, afterwards Earl of Glasgow, and Mr. Lamont of Knockdhu, the
‘Bishop’ acted as one of Mr. Lamont’s committee in Rothesay. The
ballot had not then come into use, and as the result of the polling
in Rothesay, Mr. Lamont at the end of the day obtained a majority of
votes. On the other hand, Mr. Boyle had an excess of supporters in
Cumbrae. All depended on the result of the voting in Arran, and the
arrival of the steamer from that island was anxiously awaited. Mr.
Lamont’s committee were sitting in their room when at last the news
arrived. The majority in Arran for Mr. Boyle proved to be so large as
to turn the scale, and decide the election in his favour. The silence
of disappointment hung for a few moments over the committee. The first
man to break it was the ‘Bishop,’ who consoled his colleagues with
these words, ‘Well, well, what can we say? what can we say? but that
God always overdoes everything.’ He probably meant ‘overrules.’
[Sidenote: FISHER HAMLETS]
One of the most familiar objects on the Clyde and in Rothesay Bay fifty
years ago was the little sailing yacht of James Smith, of Jordanhill.
During the summer he lived on the water, and took a share in all
that was going on around him there. As far back as 1839 he was the
first to detect, in the clays along the shores of the Kyles of Bute,
remains of Arctic shells which no longer live in our seas, but still
flourish in the north of Norway, and in the Arctic ocean. When I made
his acquaintance, he had long ceased to carry on original scientific
researches, or at least to publish anything new, but he retained his
interest in the subjects which had early engaged his attention. In his
little cabin he had a shelf of geological and other scientific books as
his travelling companions, and kept himself in touch with the progress
of enquiry in his own department. But it was in yachting all round
the Firth of Clyde and its islands that he found the chief employment
and solace of his old age. I shall treasure as long as I live the
recollection of him in his yacht, attired as a genuine old seaman, his
face ruddy with sun and sea-air, and beaming with the heartiest good
nature.
On the east side of the kingdom it has long been noted how tenaciously
the fisher folk cling to their old habits and customs. Red-tiled,
corby-stepped houses, thrusting their gables into the street, climbing
one above another up the steep slope that rises from the beach, and
crowned by the picturesque old church or town hall with its quaint
spire, give a picturesqueness to the shores of the Forth such as no
other part of the coast-line can boast. Then the little harbours with
their fleets of strong fishing boats, rich brown sails, ‘hard coils of
cordage, swarthy fishing nets,’ and piles of barrels and baskets, bear
witness to the staple industry of the inhabitants. The men are square,
strongly built, and bronzed with exposure to sea-air. The women may
be seen sitting in groups at their doors, mending nets or baiting the
lines for next night’s fishing. Such places as St. Monans, Pittenweem,
Anstruther, Crail, and St. Andrews, afford endless subjects for the
artist, whether he selects the buildings or their inhabitants. These
places lie outside the main lines of traffic through the country;
they have only in recent years been connected together by a line of
railway, and have thus been brought into direct touch with the outer
world. Thanks to this seclusion, they have preserved their antique
character, and their natives are among the most old-fashioned Scots in
the lowlands. An anecdote told by Dr. Hanna serves to illustrate the
state of backwardness in some of these coast villages. A clergyman,
in the course of a marriage ceremony at Buckhaven, repeated several
times to the bridegroom the question whether he would promise to be a
faithful, loving, and indulgent husband, but got no response from the
man, who remained all the while stiff and erect. At last a neighbour,
who had learnt a little more of the ways of the world, was so provoked
by the clownishness of his friend that he came forward, and giving him
a vigorous thump on the back, indignantly exclaimed, ‘Ye brute, can ye
no boo to the minister?’ Dr. Chalmers’ comment on this scene was--‘the
heavings of incipient civilisation!’[37]
[Sidenote: FORTH FISHER-FOLK]
On the south side of the Forth the fishwives of Newhaven, Fisherrow,
and Musselburgh have long been famous for their conservatism in the
matter of the picturesque costume which they wear. Dunbar, once a busy
port, and the centre of an important herring fishery, used to boast
a number of queer oddities among its sea-faring population. One of
these men would now and then indulge in a prolonged carouse at the
public-house. After perhaps a day or two thus spent, he would return
to his home, and, standing at the door, would take off one of his
large fisherman’s boots, which he would pitch into the house, with the
exclamation, ‘Peace or war, Meg?’ If the goodwife still ‘nursed her
wrath to keep it warm,’ she would summarily eject the boot into the
street. Whereupon the husband, knowing that this was Meg’s signal of
war, returned to his cronies. If, on the contrary, the boot was allowed
to remain, he might hope for forgiveness, and crept quietly into the
house.
Another of these Dunbar worthies had arranged with old Mr. Jeffray,
the parish minister, to have his infant baptised at the manse. On the
evening fixed he duly made his appearance, but not until after he had
fortified himself for the occasion by sundry applications to the whisky
bottle. When he stood with the child in his arms, he seemed so unsteady
that the minister solemnly addressed him, ‘John, you are not fit to
hold up that child.’ The stalwart sailor, thinking his personal prowess
called in question, indignantly answered, ‘Haud up the bairn, I could
fling’t ower the kirk,’ the church being the loftiest building and most
prominent landmark in the burgh.
[Sidenote: GOLFING HUMOUR]
A fisherman from another hamlet in the same district had found a set of
bladders at sea which he claimed as his property. The owner of them,
however, sued him for restitution of the property, which bore, in large
letters, P.S.M., the initials of his name and seaport, as proof of his
assertion. The East Lothian man, nothing daunted, exclaimed loudly to
the presiding bailie, ‘Naething o’ the kind, sir, P.S. stands for
Willie Miller, and M. for the Cove.’
These lowland regions of the Lothians and Fife, with their strips of
sand-hills and links along the shore, have for centuries been the
headquarters of Golf--a game which has now naturalised itself over the
whole civilised globe. Golfing anecdotes are innumerable and form a
group by themselves, of which only one or two samples may be culled
here.
A landed proprietor and his son were playing at North Berwick when the
young man drove a ball close to his father’s head. The observant caddie
remarked quietly to him, ‘Ye maunna kill Pa!’ and then after a pause
added, ‘Maybe ye’ll be the eldest son?’
Strong language appears to be a natural accompaniment of the game. A
laird in trying to get his ball out of a ‘bunker’ swore so dreadfully
that his caddie threw down the bundle of clubs on the ground
exclaiming, ‘Damn it, sir, I wunna carry clubs for a man that swears
like you.’
An English caddie on a links in Kent, who was listening to a discussion
among the players as to the proper way of spelling the word ‘golf,’
broke into the conversation with the remark, ‘Surely there’s no h’_l_
in it’ (aspirating the letter in Cockney fashion). ‘Is there not?’
exclaimed a young Scotswoman, ‘You should just hear my father on the
St. Andrews links.’
A marked and regrettable change has passed and is passing over lowland
Scotland--the decay of the old national language--the Doric of Burns
and Scott. The local accents, indeed, still remain fairly well-marked.
The Aberdonian is probably as distinguishable as ever from a Paisley
‘body,’ and the citizen of Edinburgh from his neighbour of Glasgow.
But the old national words have almost all dropped out of the current
vocabulary of the towns. Even in the country districts, though a good
many remain, they are fast becoming obsolete and unintelligible to the
younger generation. It is sad to find how small a proportion of the
sons and daughters of middle aged parents in Scotland can read Burns
without constant reference to the glossary. A similar inevitable change
was in progress for many centuries on the south side of the Tweed,
though it has become extremely slow now:
Our sons their fathers’ failing language see,
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.
I can remember men and women in good society, who if they did not
ordinarily speak pure Scots, at least habitually introduced Scots
words and phrases, laying emphasis on them as telling expressions, for
which they knew no English equivalents. I have watched the gradual
vanishing of these national elements from ordinary conversation, until
now one hardly ever hears them. Lord Cockburn used to lament the decay
of the old speech in his day; it has made huge strides since then.
[Sidenote: HOW TO SPEAK ENGLISH]
Not only have the old words and phrases disappeared, but there has
arisen an affectation of what is supposed to be English pronunciation,
which is sometimes irresistibly ludicrous. The broad, open vowels, the
rolling _r_’s and the strongly aspirated gutturals, so characteristic
of the old tongue, are softened down to a milk and water lingo, which
is only a vulgarised and debased English. There was unconscious satire
in the answer given by a housemaid to her mistress who was puzzled to
conjecture how far the girl could be intelligible in London whence she
had returned to Scotland.
‘You speak such broad Scotch, Kate, that I wonder how they could
understand you in London.’
‘O but, mam, I aye spak’ English there.’
‘Did you? And how did you manage that?’
‘O, mam, there’s naethin’ easier. Ye maun spit oot a’ the _r_’s and
gi’e the words a bit chow in the middle.’