by Alan Taylor
We now pursued our journey to the northwestward, at a rate much slower than that at which we had achieved our nocturnal retreat from England. One chain of barren and uninteresting hills succeeded another, until the more fertile vale of Clyde opened upon us, and with such dispatch as we might we gained the town, or, as my guide pertinaciously termed it, the city of Glasgow. Of late years, I understand, it has fully deserved the name, which, by a sort of political second sight, my guide distinguished it. An extensive and increasing trade with the West Indies and American colonies, has, if I am rightly informed, laid the foundation of wealth and prosperity, which, carefully strengthened and built upon, may one day support an immense fabric of commercial prosperity; but, in the earlier time of which I speak, the dawn of this splendour had not arisen. The Union had, indeed, opened to Scotland the trade to the English colonies; but, betwixt want of capital, and the national jealousy of the English, the merchants of Scotland were as yet excluded, in a great measure, from the exercise of the privileges which that memorable treaty conferred upon them. Glasgow lay on the wrong side of the island for participating in the east country or continental trade, by which the trifling commerce as yet produced in Scotland chiefly supported itself. Yet, though she then gave small promise of the commercial eminence to which, I am informed, she seems now likely one day to attain, Glasgow, as the principal central town of the western district of Scotland, was a place of considerable rank and importance. The broad and brimming Clyde, which flows so near its walls, gave the means of an inland navigation of some importance. Not only the fertile plains in its immediate neighbourhood, but the districts of Ayr and Dumfries regarded Glasgow as their capital, to which they transmitted their produce, and received in return such necessaries and luxuries as their consumption required.
The dusky mountains of the Western Highlands often sent forth wilder tribes to frequent the marts of St Mungo’s favourite city. Hordes of wild, shaggy, dwarfish cattle and ponies, conducted by Highlanders, as wild, as shaggy, and sometimes as dwarfish as the animals they had in charge, often traversed the streets of Glasgow. Strangers gazed with surprise on the antique and fantastic dress, and listened to the unknown and dissonant sounds of their language, while the mountaineers, armed even while engaged in this peaceful occupation with musket and pistol, sword, dagger, and target, stared with astonishment on the articles of luxury of which they knew not the use, and with avidity which seemed somewhat alarming upon the articles which they knew and valued. It is always with unwillingness that the Highlander quits his deserts, and at this early period it was like tearing a pine from its rock to plant him elsewhere. Yet even then the mountain glens were over-peopled, until thinned occasionally by famine or by the sword, and many of their inhabitants strayed down to Glasgow – there formed settlements – there sought and found employments, though different, indeed, from those of their native hills. This supply of a hardy and useful population was of consequence to the prosperity of the place, furnished the means of carrying on the few manufactures which the town already boasted, and laid the foundation of its future prosperity.
The exterior of the city corresponded with these promising circumstances. The principal street was broad and important, decorated with public buildings, of an architecture rather striking than correct in point of taste, and running between rows of tall houses, built with stone, the fronts of which were occasionally richly ornamented with mason-work, a circumstance which gave the street an imposing air of dignity and grandeur, of which most English towns are in some measure deprived, by the slight, unsubstantial, and perishable quality and appearance of the bricks with which they are constructed.
GLASGOW INVADES EDINBURGH, 1819
Henry Thomas Cockburn
Towards the end of 1819 economic distress was acute and there were many popular disturbances throughout Britain. These were called the ‘Radical War’. There were few such disturbances in Scotland, but a rumour spread that ‘the Radical Army’ would march from Glasgow and ‘capture’ Edinburgh on the last night of the year. The following extract shows just how seriously this supposed threat was taken. Henry Cockburn (1779–1854) was Edinburgh born, bred and educated. He was called to the Bar in 1800 and in 1830 he became Solicitor-General for Scotland. A year later he was elected Rector of Glasgow University. He was the author of Memorials of His Time (1856), from which the following is taken.
The perfect facility with which a party of forty or fifty thousand weavers could march from Glasgow, and seize upon the Banks and Castle of Edinburgh, without ever being heard of till they appeared in our streets, was demonstrated. Our magistrates therefore invited all loyal citizens to congregate, with such arms as they had, at various assigned posts. I repaired to the Assembly rooms in George Street, with a stick, about eight in the evening. The streets were as quiet as an ordinary Sunday; but their silence was only held by the excited to forebode the coming storm. There seemed to be nobody abroad except those who, like myself, were repairing to their forlorn hopes. On entering the large room, I found at least 400 or 500 grown gentlemen, pacing about, dressed coarsely, as if for work, according to taste or convenience, with bludgeons, fowling pieces, dirks, cane-swords, or other implements. A zealous banker laboured under two small swivels set on stocks, one under each arm. Frivolity, though much provoked, and a good deal indulged in corners, was reproved as unbecoming the crisis. At last, about ten p.m., the horn of the Glasgow coach was heard, and the Lord Provost sent us word from the council chamber that we might retire for the night. We never met again.
THE RITUAL OF PUNCH-MAKING, 1819
J.G. Lockhart
Born in Lanarkshire, the son of a Church of Scotland minister, John Gibson Lockhart (1794–1854) spent his boyhood in Glasgow, where he graduated from the High School to college. Aged 13, he went up to Balliol College, Oxford, where in 1813 he took a first in classics. In 1820 he married Sophia, the eldest daughter of Sir Walter Scott, whose first and fabled biographer he subsequently became. A caustic wit and occasionally savage critic, his book, Peter’s Letters to his Kinsfolk (1819) makes fun at the expense of the Edinburgh intellectuals and the bourgeoisie.
The sugar being melted with a little cold water, the artist squeezed about a dozen lemons through a wooden strainer, and then poured in enough water almost to fill the bowl. In this state, the liquor goes by the name of sherbet, and a few of the connoisseurs in his immediate neighbourhood were requested to give their opinion of it – for in the mixing of the sherbet lies, according to the Glasgow creed, at least one half of the whole battle. This being approved by an audible smack of the lips of the umpires, the rum was added to the beverage, I suppose, in something about the proportion of one to seven. Last of all, the maker cuts a few limes, and running each section rapidly round the rim of his bowl, squeezed in enough of this more delicate acid to flavour the whole composition. In this consists the true tour de maitre of the punch-maker.
Glasgow punch should be made of the coldest spring water taken from the spring. The acid ingredients above mentioned will suffice for a very large bowl.
AN INVINCIBLE NOSE, 1819
Robert Southey
The son of a Bristol linen-draper, Robert Southey (1774–1843) was brought up by an eccentric aunt who indulged his love of reading. He was appointed poet laureate in 1813, a position he grew to loathe and for which he received much mockery from among others Lord Byron. He wrote copiously, prose as well as poetry, on subjects as diverse as the history of Brazil, the Peninsular War and Admiral Nelson. He also liked to travel and was often drawn, as this excerpt from his Journal of a Tour of Scotland shows, to things usually overlooked.
A City like Glasgow is a hateful place for a stranger, unless he is reconciled to it by the comforts of hospitality and society. In any other case the best way is to reconnoitre it, so as to know the outline and outside, and to be contented with such other information as books can supply. Argyle Street is the finest part; it has a mixture of old and new buildings, but is long enough and lofty enough
to be one of the best streets in G. Britain. The Cathedral is the only edifice of its kind in Scotland which received no external injury at the Reformation. Two places of worship have been neatly fitted up within. I observed, however, three things deserving of reprobation. The window in one of these kirks had been made to imitate painted glass, by painting on the glass, and this of course had a paltry and smeary appearance. The arches in those upper passages which at Westminster we used absurdly to call the nunneries, and of which I do not know the name, are filled up with an imitation of windows: these are instances of the worst possible taste. The other fault belongs to the unclean part of the national character; for the seats are so closely packed that any person who could remain there during the time of service in the warm weather, must have an invincible nose. I doubt even whether any incense could overcome so strong a smell.
I was much struck with the picturesque appearance of the monuments in the Church yard – such large ones as we have in our churches, being here ranged along the wall, so that even on the outside their irregular outline makes an impressive feature in the scene. They were digging a grave near the entrance of the Church; had it been in any other situation, I should not have learnt a noticeable thing. A frame consisting of iron rods was fixed in the grave, the rods being as long as grave was deep. Within this frame the coffin was to be let down and buried, and then an iron cover fitted on to the top of the rods, and strongly locked. When there is no longer any apprehension of danger for the resurrection-men, the cover is unlocked and the frame drawn out: a month it seems is the regular term. This invention, which is not liable to the same legal obligations as the iron coffins, is about two years old. The price paid for its use is a shilling a day.
THE ROGUERIES OF THE BROOMIELAW, 1825
John Gibson Lockhart
It is often said that Sir Walter Scott invented tourism in Scotland. But long before his novels and poems sent folk flocking to the Trossachs, Glaswegians had discovered the delight of a trip down the Clyde. Here John Gibson Lockhart, Scott’s son-in-law and biographer, recalls a memorable occasion when the ‘Wizard of the North’ experienced Glasgow hospitality at first hand. Broomielaw, situated on the north bank of the Clyde immediately west of Glasgow Bridge, means a ‘gorse or broom-covered slope’.
A voyage down the Firth of Clyde is enough to make anybody happy; nowhere can the home tourist, at all events, behold, in the course of one day, such a succession and variety of beautiful, romantic, and majestic scenery: on one hand, dark mountains and castellated shores – on the other, rich groves and pastures, interspersed with elegant villas and thriving towns – the bright estuary between, alive with shipping, and diversified with islands.
It may be supposed how delightful such a voyage was in a fine day of July, with Scott, always as full of glee on any trip as a schoolboy; crammed with all the traditions and legends of every place we passed; and too happy to pour them out for the entertainment of his companions on deck. After dinner, too, he was the charm of the table. A worthy old Bailie of Glasgow sat by him, and shared fully in the general pleasure; although his particular source of interest and satisfaction was, that he had got into such close quarters with a live Sheriff and Court of Session, – and this gave him the opportunity of discussing sundry knotty points of police law, as to which our steerage passengers might perhaps have been more curious than most of those admitted to the symposium of the cabin. Sir Walter, however, was as ready for the rogueries of the Broomielaw, as for the mystic antiquities of Balclutha, or the discomforture of the Norsemen at Largs, or Bruce’s adventures in Arran. I remember how this new acquaintance chuckled when he, towards the conclusion of our first bowl of punch, said he was not surprised to find himself gathering much instruction from the Bailie’s conversation on his favourite topics, since the most eminent and useful of the police magistrates of London (Colquhoun) had served his apprenticeship in the Town Chamber of Glasgow. The Bailie insisted for a second bowl, and volunteered to be the manufacturer; ‘for’, quoth he (with a sly wink), ‘I am reckoned a fair hand, though not equal to my father the deacon.’ Scott smiled in acquiescence, and the ladies having by this time withdrawn, said he was glad to find the celebrated beverage of the city of St Mungo had not fallen into desuetude. The Bailie extolled the liquor he was brewing, and quoted Sir John Sinclair’s Code of Health and Longevity for the case of a gentleman well known to himself, who lived till ninety, and had been drunk upon it evry night for half-a-century. But Bailie *** was a devout elder of the kirk, and did not tell his story without one or two groans that his doctrine should have such an example to plead. Sir Walter said, he could only hope that manners were mended in other respects since the days when a popular minister of the last age (one Mr Thom), renowned for satirical humour, as well as for high-flying zeal, had demolished all his own chances of a Glasgow benefice, by preaching before the Town-Council from this text in Hosea: ‘Ephraim’s drink is sour, and he hath committed whoredom continually.’ The Bailie’s brow darkened (like Nicol Jarvie’s when they misca’d Rab); he groaned deeper than before and said he feared ‘Tham o’ Govan a ne’erdoweel.’ He, however, refilled our glasses as he spoke; and Scott, as he tasted his, said, ‘Weel, weel, Bailie, Ephraim was not so far wrong as to the matter of drink.’
MOLLY’S HISTORY, 1826
The Glasgow Room of the Mitchell Library is the greatest repository of the city’s history, much of which was of an ephemeral nature. The story of Molly the Stuffer is to be found in the collection, in a broadsheet which appeared in 1826 and which was reprinted in Elspeth King’s indispensable The Hidden History of Glasgow’s Women (1993).
Account of the Life and Transactions of M---y G--- otherwise Molly the Stuffer, who died in the Gorbals of Glasgow, on Tuesday the 1st of August last, and who kept a Lodging House there, giving an account of the numerous scenes she was engaged in with various Lodgers who frequented her house for near 30 years, consisting of Beggars, Fortunetellers, Rowly powly Gentry, and a host of other travelling characters, to the number of 50,000, who have, at times, been with her since she began lodgings.
The above woman was born near Lisburn in Ireland. At an early period of life, she left her native country and came to Scotland, where she, for some time, earned a livelihood, by making stiffeners for the neck, by which she gained a little money. Being of a pushing temper, and careful habits, she resolved upon bettering her condition, if possible, and accordingly took up a Lodging House in the Gorbals of Glasgow, where she continued from its commencement to the day of her death, a period of nearly 30 years, during which period, on a moderate calculation, she has afforded shelter to 50,000 stragglers, who have comfortably dozed under her hospitable roof, except when assailed by the yells of drunkards, or the moving phalanx of black and grey horsemen, aided by infantry, clothed in red, who often made an attack on their bodies, and disturbed their peaceful slumber.
Every person who had 3d. to pay for a bed, had an open door at Molly’s; the beggar here could lay down his wallets, and take repose for the night; the tinker could range town and country with his vice and other implements, and return in the evening to his lodgings; the Fair attenders, with all their implements, consisting of puppets, E O tables, dice, gingerbread and sweetmeat baskets, could safely deposit them into the hands of Molly, who paid particular attention to their various articles. It would require sheets to give a definition of the motley group who attended this lodging house; travellers told one another where she resided, which soon made her a favourite all over the country, and made them flock to her hospitable roof, when their travels led them that way.
Molly, though a courageous woman, had her own to do amongst them to preserve order. In the evenings, many high words took place for the use of the fire, one wanting his pot on, another his pan, and a third his kettle, till, in the general scuffle, the contents were emptied on the floor, or on their bodies. Another party now claims the right, and the fizzing of bacon is heard, when some of the rest claiming the turn before the bacon party, whee
l it off, and, in the scuffle, gravy and bacon descends to the ashes, and a scramble ensues for the fragments. Thus it goes on, either by one party or another, the whole evening, till Molly’s tongs, or some other weapon, comes across the back of some of the most outrageous.
Molly’s situation was not to be envied – she had many duties to perform – but none was ever fitter for a situation of the kind. The drunkard she could advise to bed – the known thief she kept out – and if there were any in her house, of whom she was suspicious, she at the expense of rest, watched them narrowly, for she had great responsibility on her.
Molly was about 60 years of age when she died, was several times married, and it is said, had earned some little. She was kind, hospitable and charitable, and was respected (notwithstanding her vocation) in the neighbourhood where she resided. The stranger never wanted food or a bed, though he had no money, did Molly but know the circumstances.
BREAD, BEEF AND BEER, 1832
William Cobbett
In bygone times travellers in Scotland rarely had a good word to say about its food and drink. No one was more scathing than Samuel Johnson, whose definition of ‘oats’ – ‘A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people’ – still rankles. William Cobbett (1763–1835) was clearly a more charitable, open-minded and enlightened fellow. The son of a farmer, he was born in Surrey. A political radical, he was a champion of the poor. He travelled widely, teaching, farming and writing. Latterly, he became a Member of Parliament. His book, Rural Rides (1830) is a delightful picture of a world disappearing almost as fast as Cobbett could record its passing.
