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.
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.
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.
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.’
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.’
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.’
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.’
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.’
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 Knock-dhu, 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.’ 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 Jordan-hill. 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! ’1 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
gooawife 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.
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 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’/ 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,
atv 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.
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.’ |
