Alexander Monro (Primus), physician, anatomist and co-founder of Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, was born on the 8th of September, 1697.
Alexander Monro or Alexander Primus, as he is usually called, was the first in a long line (as long as three) of the Monro family who held the Chair of Anatomy at Edinburgh for one hundred and twenty-eight years. He became the first Professor of Anatomy and Surgery at the newly founded University of Edinburgh in 1720 and, along with Lord Provost Drummond, was a founding father of the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, which was designed by William Adam. He was responsible for fulfilling his father’s dream of establishing Edinburgh as a major centre of medical teaching and research to rival Paris and Leiden (Leyden). Alexander Primus did much to make medicine accessible by lecturing in English, rather than in Latin as was the norm at the time. He was a brilliant teacher and demonstrator who never used notes in his lectures, and his international reputation attracted students from all parts of Britain, Europe and the North American Colonies.
18th Century anatomy was a bit of a ‘grey area’ and marked more by advances in the field of description than by major new discoveries. Funnily enough, anatomy was seen as more academic than surgery, which suffered from the effects of prejudice. Surgery was perceived to be a manual craft (I’m sure Sweeney Todd would agree) rather than an intellectual discipline and consisted of just a few lectures grudgingly appended to the University’s Anatomy course. Alexander Primus was the pre-eminent character in the furtherance of anatomy. His extraordinary industry, remarkable accuracy of observation, and inquiring mind often led him to conclusions that were correct, but which were only verified by later sophistications. He was also a gifted technician who advanced many new ideas in surgical instruments and dressings, including the use of preserving fluid, which secret he had learned from the Dutch anatomist, Frederik Ruysch. Monro’s major work was ‘The Anatomy of the Human Bones’, which remained a standard reference for over a century as it continued to be reprinted until as late as 1828. By that time it had been given the extremely long title of ‘The Anatomy of the Human Bones with an Anatomical Treatise of the Nerves, and Account of the Reciprocal Motions of the Heart and a Description of the Human Lacteal Sac and Duct’ – pause for breath. It went through nineteen English editions and appeared in several translations. In his lifetime he published two books and fifty-three separate papers, all of which were collected in a single volume by his son, Alexander Secundus (the third Alexander was called Tertius, just in case you were wondering). Primus also edited the six volumes of ‘Medical Essays and Observations’ for the ‘Society for the Improvement of Medical Knowledge’. These too became a standard work of reference in many editions and several languages.
Alexander Monro, Primus, was born on the 8th of September, 1697. He was the son of a military surgeon, John Monro, who settled in Edinburgh in 1700. Alexander entered Edinburgh University in 1710, where he studied classics (Latin and Greek) and Philosophy for three years. He also learned French, arithmetic, and bookkeeping, under private tuition, and received instruction in fencing, dancing, music, and painting. Ah, the life of a gentleman. Thankfully, for posterity, he didn’t graduate in arts, but decided on a medical career. He was apprenticed to his father in 1713 and also attended local medical courses, which, frankly, didn’t amount to much. Between 1717 and 1719, Alexander went to London, Paris and Leiden, where he studied all manner of disciplines associated with medical science. He attended lectures and demonstrations by a raft of eminent personages of the day on many subjects such as physics and anatomy. He also performed operations and was instructed in midwifery and bandaging; all very practical. Monro captured some of the flavour of his time in London in his ‘commonplace book’ and used that in the writing of his autobiography. He claimed that he was "furnished with more [bodies] than with the utmost Application he could make use of." He did not explain the source of such abundance, but you should realise that this was the era of the Barber-Surgeons’ Company and the practice of grave robbing.
In 1719, Alexander Monro went back to Edinburgh, where soon after his return he was admitted to the Incorporation of Surgeons of Edinburgh. On the 29th of January, 1721, as a result of strenuous politicking, particularly by his father, he was named Professor of Anatomy in the University. He began teaching in the winter of 1721, but it wasn’t until 1725 that he was given a room at the University. That room, where he lectured for nearly forty years, was on the ground floor sunk below street level, with poor light, which Monro complained was never adequate. His duties included a yearly public dissection before the College of Surgeons and his course on anatomy and surgery, which consisted of over one hundred lectures between October and May. Monro developed an ‘Edinburgh manner’ of anatomy, using few cadavers and relying on other methods such as the use of animals, dead and alive. Perhaps that was because of the continuing suspicions of body snatching, which were probably justified. He once wrote that there was "a general Prejudice of the People to dissections of human Bodies, who foolishly believed that he [Monro] stole living People to dissect them alive." As a matter of fact, his move into the University in 1725 was triggered by a violent mob having attacked the Surgeons’ Hall. It seems that in delivering a lecture on anatomy, the aesthetics of the presentation were critical. Monro’s instructions emphasise the "Prettyest preparation", rather than the most practical and ghoulishly wrote that "a little fresh blood rubbed on a part naturally red but too pale in the particular Subject we are then dissecting has frequently wonderfull good Effect."
Notwithstanding how Monro’s life and times might be perceived today, the Faculty of Medicine in the University of Edinburgh was responsible for the rapid development of systematic medical teaching on a sound scientific basis and Alexander Monro was the prime mover. But that wasn’t why he was called ‘Primus’. After Monro’s son Alexander had taken his M. D. in 1755, the father was given the epithet of ‘Primus’ to make the distinction between the two and the dynasty was established. Alexander ‘Primus’ Monro died from cancer on the 10th of July, 1767, at his home in Covenant Close, Edinburgh, and he was buried in Greyfriars Kirkyard.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
Captain John Porteous
Captain John Porteous of the City Guard of Edinburgh was dragged from prison and lynched by an angry mob on the 7th of September, 1736.
The ‘Porteous Riots’ erupted on the 14th of April, 1736, when Andrew Wilson, one of three men convicted of robbing a customs officer, was publicly hanged in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket. Earlier in the year, Wilson and his two accomplices, George Robertson and William Hall were sentenced to death by hanging. Hall had his sentence altered to life transportation to the colonies; Robertson escaped, with Wilson’s help, while being brought to church, as was the custom, on the Sunday before the date set for his execution; but Wilson was not so fortunate. On the appointed day, Wilson finished his devotions, ascended the ladder and was ‘turned off’ (a quaint, 18th Century expression for being hanged). When the hangman went to cut him down, the already wildly agitated crowd started to throw stones and a riot ensued. Enter John Porteous, stage left, as Captain of the Guard.
Porteous first ordered shots to be fired above the head of the crowd. That had no effect on the riotous mob, but it did result in some collateral damage amongst the tenants above at the windows. Porteous then ordered the Guard to “Fire and be damned”. Nine rioters were killed and perhaps as many as twenty were wounded. That very same afternoon, the Lord Provost, no doubt angry at so many deaths, but also miffed that procedures hadn’t been followed, ordered the arrest of Porteous for firing on the crowd without reading ‘The Riot Act’. Porteous was later convicted of murder and sentenced to death by hanging. However, he was later reprieved, which infuriated the Lynch Mob, who had been waiting for more fun at his public hanging. A mob of around four thousand stormed the Tolbooth in outraged fury, escorted Porteous to the Grassmarket, did some nasty things to him and finally lynched him from a dyer's pole on the 7th of September, 1736. The magistrates of Edinburgh were fined £2,000 for neglect of duty and removed from office. A Royal Proclamation was issued, in which a reward of £200 was offered for information leading to the arrest of the ringleaders. Porteous was unpopular; there were no takers and no one was ever brought to justice.
John Porteous was born in 1695 at The Glen, Quair Water, near Traquair. He was the son of Stephen Porteous, who established a business as a tailor in Edinburgh’s Canongate. Little is known of his early life, except that he was bound apprentice to his father, but soon found he was not suited to that calling. There is a story that a former Lord Provost of Edinburgh paid Porteous to marry his mistress, of whom he had grown tired. The sweetener for the lady was the tidy sum of five hundred pounds, but Porteous seemingly squandered the major part and eventually Mrs Porteous returned to her old acquaintance, the by now compromised ex-Provost, for help. The result of that plea was that Porteous filled a vacancy as Captain of a Company of the City Guard on an annual salary of £80, together with a resplendent scarlet uniform. Prior to those events, Porteous had done military service and served with the Scots Dutch Brigade in Flanders. Something of his character may be assumed from the rumour that during that time, he cut the throat of a Captain in a revenge attack. In any case, by 1718, Porteous had indeed become an Ensign of one of the three companies in the Town Guard, after having seemingly served as Drill Master for two years. By 1726 he was certainly Captain of the City Guard.
Porteous had a reputation for harshness and brutality, and was known for stepping outside the decent bounds of his commission. It is reputed that the treated prisoners with cruelty, knocking them about with the stock of his musket and frequently breaking limbs. Once, he was sent to keep the peace in a dispute over who should lecture in a church. Not an event over which you would expect much of barney, but those Presbyterians were staunch folk. Anyway, Porteous pitched up and discovered the disappointed candidate had taken possession of the pulpit. Without as much as a “by your leave”, Porteous dragged him down so violently that he died a few weeks later from his injuries. The other poor fellow was set upon by the friends of the first chappie and received such a beating, that he too died. Several others were injured in the fray, including innocent women and children, and all because the Captain liked an affray. It certainly seems that he was a man with an inflated sense of his own importance. He was very officious and widely disliked, even despised, throughout the City – but mainly by the underclass, it has to be said. I dunno, give a man a uniform…
Porteous’ trial lasted four days (the 5th, 16th, 19th and 20th of July); he was found guilty and sentenced to be hanged by the neck on the 8th of September until dead. However, he was granted a reprieve through the intervention of the Prime Minister, Sir Robert Walpole. On the evening of the 7th of September, 1736, a large body of men, incensed by such leniency, took to the streets calling for reinforcements and yelling, “All those who dare avenge innocent blood, let them come here.” Then the mob, taking the law into its own plentiful hands, marched to the Tollbooth and after setting the gates alight, brought out Porteous, protesting in vain. They dragged him to the Grassmarket, found a rope, fixed it round his neck, threw the other end over a Dyer’s pole and hoisted him skywards. Endeavouring to save his life, the put his hands between the rope and his neck, but one of the lynch party struck at him with and axe, whereupon he quit his hold on his neck and soon after, his very life.
Captain John Porteous was buried in Greyfriars Kirkyard the following day with a small headstone simply inscribed ‘P. 1736’ (‘P’ for perished). However, more recently, his headstone was replaced by one inscribed ‘John Porteous, a Captain of the City Guard of Edinburgh, murdered 7 September 1736. All Passion Spent, 1973’. As a postscript, George Robertson, who escaped to Holland, was still living in the year 1756 and kept a public-house with great credit in Rotterdam.
Monday, 6 September 2010
John James Richard Macleod
John James Richard Macleod, the Nobel Prize winning Scottish physician and physiologist, was born on the 6th of September, 1876.
John James Richard Macleod will forever be associated with the discovery of insulin, the name he gave to the breakthrough treatment for diabetes that he and his team discovered in 1921 and for which he and Frederick Banting were awarded the 1923 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine. You might get picky-picky and suggest that Macleod himself didn’t personally discover insulin, especially as he was back home in Scotland at the moment of discovery, but his was the inspiration and the direction that made it happen. During the early part of the 20th Century, Macleod made his name in medical research, initially collaborating with the physiologist Sir Leonard Hill on a study of caisson sickness, otherwise known as ‘the bends’, which is what deep sea divers experience if they rise too rapidly to the surface without gradual decompression. Early on, he also became interested in carbohydrate metabolism, particularly in relation to diabetes. He became a noted pioneer in diabetes research and built his reputation as an authority on that subject, delivering many important articles and lectures. He was much sought after and when he joined the University of Toronto, in 1918, as Professor of Physiology, they had held the post vacant on his behalf for two years.
During his career, Macleod published eleven books, including his major work, ‘Diabetes: Its Physiological Pathology’, and ‘Carbohydrate Metabolism and Insulin’. He also produced a standard textbook ‘Physiology and Biochemistry in Modern Medicine’, which placed increased emphasis on the importance of chemistry in physiology and eventually became a classroom standard and went through seven editions before his death. Shortly before his team began the research that would lead to the discovery of insulin, Macleod delivered an important paper, ‘Methods of Study of Early Diabetes’, to the May 1921 symposium of the Ontario Medical Association. That same year, Macleod was appointed President of the American Physiological Society and his other honours included becoming a Fellow of the Royal Societies of Canada, London and Edinburgh, in addition to that of the Royal College of Physicians, in London. He was also a member of the League of Nations health committee. Macleod’s subsequent work and publications involved a variety of physiological and biochemical topics, including carbamates, the purine metabolism, the breakdown of liver glycogen, hyperglycemia, intracranial circulation, ventilation, and surgical shock.
John James Richard Macleod was born on the 6th of September, 1876, in Clunie, near Dunkeld in Perthshire. When his family moved to Aberdeen, Macleod went to the Grammar School and later entered Marischal College at the University of Aberdeen to study medicine. In 1898, he graduated with an honorable distinction, earning an M. B. and Ch. B., and was awarded the Anderson Traveling Fellowship. In 1899, thanks to that scholarship, he attended the Institute for Physiology at the University of Leipzig, where he studied physiological chemistry for a year. The following year, at the turn of the Century, he was made Demonstrator of Physiology at the London Hospital Medical School and, in 1902, was given the position of Lecturer in Biochemistry and granted the McKinnon Research Studentship of the Royal Society of Medicine. It was during his time in London that he worked with Sir Leonard Hill on caisson sickness. Macleod's work and reputation had attracted the notice of officials at Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio, and they offered him the position of Professor of Physiology. So in August, 1903, Macleod sailed off to the United States of America and it was whilst in Ohio that he became interested in carbohydrate metabolism. Then, in 1918, Macleod was elected Professor of Physiology at the University of Toronto, where he was also made Director of the Physiological Laboratory and Associate Dean of the Faculty of Medicine. He had been offered the position two years previously, but had been unable to take it at that time. The University was so keen to obtain his services that the position was left open until Macleod was able to accept.
It was Macleod’s reputation that drew Frederick G. Banting to Toronto and into history. Macleod had come to believe that the pancreas was involved in diabetes, but he had been unable to discover exactly how. Neither had the research team of Sharpey-Schafer, which had suggested as early as 1916 that the pancreas produced an internal secretion that controlled the metabolism of sugar. Those scientists had named the hypothetical substance ‘insuline’. Banting came to Macleod with an idea that he could isolate and extract the pancreatic hormone and Macleod ultimately set up a laboratory team with that objective. The research team of Banting, Charles H. Best, James Bertram Collip and Macleod were able to prove the link between diabetes mellitus and the failure of the pancreas to produce the secretion. Not only that, by January, 1922, these amazing guys were able to successfully extract what Macleod called ‘insulin’ and prove its miraculous efficacy on a fourteen years old diabetic boy.
The discovery was publicly announced in February, 1922, but the next step was to refine methods of extracting and purifying the insulin for which Macleod sought the aid of the Connaught Anti-Toxin Laboratories. Eventually, as the researchers didn’t have the facilities to mass-produce insulin, the pharmaceutical manufacturer, Eli Lilly and Company, based in Indianapolis, became the first large scale producers of insulin. Macleod was also responsible for coordinating the patenting of insulin in Great Britain and the United States. However, all financial proceeds from the patent were given to the British Medical Research Council for the Encouragement of Research. None of Macleod’s team gained any profit from their discovery, but when Macleod and Banting were awarded the 1923 Nobel Prize, they shared the prize money with Best and Collip. Note that insulin does not cure diabetes; it does, however, improve management of the condition to prevent diabetic coma. It has been rightly hailed as one of the most important medical discoveries of the 20th Century.
John James Richard Macleod returned to Aberdeen in 1928, where he died on the 16th of March, 1935.
John James Richard Macleod will forever be associated with the discovery of insulin, the name he gave to the breakthrough treatment for diabetes that he and his team discovered in 1921 and for which he and Frederick Banting were awarded the 1923 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine. You might get picky-picky and suggest that Macleod himself didn’t personally discover insulin, especially as he was back home in Scotland at the moment of discovery, but his was the inspiration and the direction that made it happen. During the early part of the 20th Century, Macleod made his name in medical research, initially collaborating with the physiologist Sir Leonard Hill on a study of caisson sickness, otherwise known as ‘the bends’, which is what deep sea divers experience if they rise too rapidly to the surface without gradual decompression. Early on, he also became interested in carbohydrate metabolism, particularly in relation to diabetes. He became a noted pioneer in diabetes research and built his reputation as an authority on that subject, delivering many important articles and lectures. He was much sought after and when he joined the University of Toronto, in 1918, as Professor of Physiology, they had held the post vacant on his behalf for two years.
During his career, Macleod published eleven books, including his major work, ‘Diabetes: Its Physiological Pathology’, and ‘Carbohydrate Metabolism and Insulin’. He also produced a standard textbook ‘Physiology and Biochemistry in Modern Medicine’, which placed increased emphasis on the importance of chemistry in physiology and eventually became a classroom standard and went through seven editions before his death. Shortly before his team began the research that would lead to the discovery of insulin, Macleod delivered an important paper, ‘Methods of Study of Early Diabetes’, to the May 1921 symposium of the Ontario Medical Association. That same year, Macleod was appointed President of the American Physiological Society and his other honours included becoming a Fellow of the Royal Societies of Canada, London and Edinburgh, in addition to that of the Royal College of Physicians, in London. He was also a member of the League of Nations health committee. Macleod’s subsequent work and publications involved a variety of physiological and biochemical topics, including carbamates, the purine metabolism, the breakdown of liver glycogen, hyperglycemia, intracranial circulation, ventilation, and surgical shock.
John James Richard Macleod was born on the 6th of September, 1876, in Clunie, near Dunkeld in Perthshire. When his family moved to Aberdeen, Macleod went to the Grammar School and later entered Marischal College at the University of Aberdeen to study medicine. In 1898, he graduated with an honorable distinction, earning an M. B. and Ch. B., and was awarded the Anderson Traveling Fellowship. In 1899, thanks to that scholarship, he attended the Institute for Physiology at the University of Leipzig, where he studied physiological chemistry for a year. The following year, at the turn of the Century, he was made Demonstrator of Physiology at the London Hospital Medical School and, in 1902, was given the position of Lecturer in Biochemistry and granted the McKinnon Research Studentship of the Royal Society of Medicine. It was during his time in London that he worked with Sir Leonard Hill on caisson sickness. Macleod's work and reputation had attracted the notice of officials at Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio, and they offered him the position of Professor of Physiology. So in August, 1903, Macleod sailed off to the United States of America and it was whilst in Ohio that he became interested in carbohydrate metabolism. Then, in 1918, Macleod was elected Professor of Physiology at the University of Toronto, where he was also made Director of the Physiological Laboratory and Associate Dean of the Faculty of Medicine. He had been offered the position two years previously, but had been unable to take it at that time. The University was so keen to obtain his services that the position was left open until Macleod was able to accept.
It was Macleod’s reputation that drew Frederick G. Banting to Toronto and into history. Macleod had come to believe that the pancreas was involved in diabetes, but he had been unable to discover exactly how. Neither had the research team of Sharpey-Schafer, which had suggested as early as 1916 that the pancreas produced an internal secretion that controlled the metabolism of sugar. Those scientists had named the hypothetical substance ‘insuline’. Banting came to Macleod with an idea that he could isolate and extract the pancreatic hormone and Macleod ultimately set up a laboratory team with that objective. The research team of Banting, Charles H. Best, James Bertram Collip and Macleod were able to prove the link between diabetes mellitus and the failure of the pancreas to produce the secretion. Not only that, by January, 1922, these amazing guys were able to successfully extract what Macleod called ‘insulin’ and prove its miraculous efficacy on a fourteen years old diabetic boy.
The discovery was publicly announced in February, 1922, but the next step was to refine methods of extracting and purifying the insulin for which Macleod sought the aid of the Connaught Anti-Toxin Laboratories. Eventually, as the researchers didn’t have the facilities to mass-produce insulin, the pharmaceutical manufacturer, Eli Lilly and Company, based in Indianapolis, became the first large scale producers of insulin. Macleod was also responsible for coordinating the patenting of insulin in Great Britain and the United States. However, all financial proceeds from the patent were given to the British Medical Research Council for the Encouragement of Research. None of Macleod’s team gained any profit from their discovery, but when Macleod and Banting were awarded the 1923 Nobel Prize, they shared the prize money with Best and Collip. Note that insulin does not cure diabetes; it does, however, improve management of the condition to prevent diabetic coma. It has been rightly hailed as one of the most important medical discoveries of the 20th Century.
John James Richard Macleod returned to Aberdeen in 1928, where he died on the 16th of March, 1935.
Sunday, 5 September 2010
Robert Fergusson
The poet, Robert Fergusson, was born on the 5th of September, 1750.
Robert Fergusson was undoubtedly one of Scotland's greatest poets, and despite Robert Burns having acknowledged Fergusson as the inspiration for his turning to poetry, Fergusson is often called Scotland's forgotten poet. He was much admired amongst his contemporaries in the 18th Century and had he lived and written more than his meager collection of poems, Scotland might now have two National Bards and celebrate Fergusson Night as well as Burns’ Night. Fergusson’s own muse was Allan Ramsay and, like the be-turbaned Ramsey, followed a bit of a bohemian lifestyle in Edinburgh, which was then at the height of an intellectual and cultural tumult as the nerve centre of the Scottish Enlightenment. Fergusson wrote a total of fifty poems in Scottish English and thirty-three in the Scots language, but it is for his remarkable exploits in the latter genre that he should be acknowledged and acclaimed. His poetic subject matter paints vivid accounts of the life and characters of ‘Auld Reekie’ and drunken encounters with the notorious Edinburgh City Guard of Captain Porteous, the ‘Black Banditti’ of ‘The Daft Days’. These poems of Fergusson’s were first printed in 1772, in Walter Ruddiman's ‘Weekly Magazine’, and a ‘collected works’ was first published early in 1773, the year of his last composition and a year before his tragic, untimely death. Fergusson suffered from ill health most of his life and died in Darien House, the public asylum known as ‘Bedlam’, at the tender age of twenty-four. There is no doubt that Burns was a fan and after Fergusson’s death Burns wrote of him, “my elder brother in misfortune, by far my elder brother in the muse.” In 1787, Burns erected a headstone over his long-neglected grave, commemorating Fergusson as ‘Scotia’s Poet’.
Robert Fergusson was born of Aberdeenshire parents in Cap and Feather Close, which stood immediately above Halkerston's Wynd in Edinburgh’s Old Town, on the 5th of September, 1750. The close has long since disappeared, having been demolished during Fergusson’s lifetime to make way for the North Bridge. Robert’s health was always delicate, but he was robust enough in 1758 to go to Edinburgh Royal High School. He also attended the High School of Dundee in 1762, under a bursary, before studying at the University of St Andrews from 1764. He had a proclivity for pranks, which almost got him expelled, but nevertheless, he paid attention to some lessons, particularly those of the author of ‘The Epigoniad’, Professor William Wilkie. It was whilst at St Andrews that the popular, sensitive, but high-spirited and quick-tempered Robert began writing poetry. His first poem was a mock elegy in Scots, which choice of language showed an individuality and flair matched by the poem itself. Sadly, in 1767, Robert’s father died and he had to give up his studies without graduating, in order to support his mother and sister. He took a mundane job as a copyist for the Commissary Office in Edinburgh, but of course, his true passion was for poetry.
Fergusson adopted an unconventional lifestyle as much as his meager wages would alloy and became a vivacious participant in Edinburgh's lively social and literary scene. On the 10th of October, 1772, he became a member of the ‘Cape Club’ based in a pub in the Old Town called ‘The Isle of Man Arms’. Fergusson was as inducted as ‘Sir Precentor’ and elected laureate of the ‘Order’. One of his poems, ‘Auld Reekie’, was written in honour of the ‘Cape Club’ and its members:
“Now many a club, jocose and free,
Gi'e a' to merriment and glee:
Wi' sang and glass they fley the pow'r
0' care that wad harass the hour.
But chief, 0 Cape, we crave thy aid
To get our cares and poortith laid”
His first poem was published anonymously on the 7th of February, 1771, in Ruddimans’ periodical, ‘The Weekly Magazine, or Edinburgh Amusement’. That was the first of three ‘pastorals’ entitled ‘Morning’, ‘Noon’ and ‘Night’, and Fergusson went on to enjoy two brief years’ of patronage from that quarter. His first vernacular Scots poem, ‘The Daft Days’, was printed by Ruddimans on the 2nd of January, 1772 and people began to speak of him as the successor to Allan Ramsay. Fergusson’s ‘Poems on Various Subjects’ appeared in 1773, but sadly there was to be no more. In that year of 1773, Fergusson began to suffer from depression.
Biographers have described Fergusson’s condition as ‘religious melancholia’, but regardless of whether or not that was the case, he gave up his job, stopped writing, withdrew completely from his riotous social life, and spent his time reading the Bible. He had heard about an Irish poet, John Cunningham, who had died in an asylum in Newcastle. That inspired 'Poem to the Memory of John Cunningham', and Fergusson became terribly afraid that the same thing was going to happen to him. Tragically, his dark prediction came true. In August, 1774, Fergusson fell down a flight of stairs and received a bad head injury, after which he was deemed ‘insensible’. His mother was unable to care for him and he was admitted to Darien House, Edinburgh’s public asylum. That abysmal place, which stood in the vicinity of today’s Bedlam Theatre, was nicknamed ‘Bedlam’ (after the London asylum). It was originally the offices where plans for the ill-fated Darien scheme had been concluded. Fergusson was put in an annex called 'the Cells' and after several weeks of ‘treatment’, he died, incarcerated in a bed in ‘Bedlam’, on the 16th of October, 1774. He died calling for his mother, but the staff at Darien House refused to let her in, because it was outside visiting hours.
Robert Fergusson died penniless and was buried in an unmarked grave in Edinburgh’s Canongate Kirkyard. Twelve years later, Robert Burns, who was greatly influenced by Fergusson's poetry, paid for a headstone to be made and composed its heartfelt inscription:
“No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompus lay,
No story'd urn nor animated bust;
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.”
In the following Century, Robert Louis Stevenson had the headstone repaired after it had been damaged and, in 2007, a wonderful memorial statue in Fergusson’s honour was erected. It stands outside the Canongate Kirkyard.
Robert Fergusson was undoubtedly one of Scotland's greatest poets, and despite Robert Burns having acknowledged Fergusson as the inspiration for his turning to poetry, Fergusson is often called Scotland's forgotten poet. He was much admired amongst his contemporaries in the 18th Century and had he lived and written more than his meager collection of poems, Scotland might now have two National Bards and celebrate Fergusson Night as well as Burns’ Night. Fergusson’s own muse was Allan Ramsay and, like the be-turbaned Ramsey, followed a bit of a bohemian lifestyle in Edinburgh, which was then at the height of an intellectual and cultural tumult as the nerve centre of the Scottish Enlightenment. Fergusson wrote a total of fifty poems in Scottish English and thirty-three in the Scots language, but it is for his remarkable exploits in the latter genre that he should be acknowledged and acclaimed. His poetic subject matter paints vivid accounts of the life and characters of ‘Auld Reekie’ and drunken encounters with the notorious Edinburgh City Guard of Captain Porteous, the ‘Black Banditti’ of ‘The Daft Days’. These poems of Fergusson’s were first printed in 1772, in Walter Ruddiman's ‘Weekly Magazine’, and a ‘collected works’ was first published early in 1773, the year of his last composition and a year before his tragic, untimely death. Fergusson suffered from ill health most of his life and died in Darien House, the public asylum known as ‘Bedlam’, at the tender age of twenty-four. There is no doubt that Burns was a fan and after Fergusson’s death Burns wrote of him, “my elder brother in misfortune, by far my elder brother in the muse.” In 1787, Burns erected a headstone over his long-neglected grave, commemorating Fergusson as ‘Scotia’s Poet’.
Robert Fergusson was born of Aberdeenshire parents in Cap and Feather Close, which stood immediately above Halkerston's Wynd in Edinburgh’s Old Town, on the 5th of September, 1750. The close has long since disappeared, having been demolished during Fergusson’s lifetime to make way for the North Bridge. Robert’s health was always delicate, but he was robust enough in 1758 to go to Edinburgh Royal High School. He also attended the High School of Dundee in 1762, under a bursary, before studying at the University of St Andrews from 1764. He had a proclivity for pranks, which almost got him expelled, but nevertheless, he paid attention to some lessons, particularly those of the author of ‘The Epigoniad’, Professor William Wilkie. It was whilst at St Andrews that the popular, sensitive, but high-spirited and quick-tempered Robert began writing poetry. His first poem was a mock elegy in Scots, which choice of language showed an individuality and flair matched by the poem itself. Sadly, in 1767, Robert’s father died and he had to give up his studies without graduating, in order to support his mother and sister. He took a mundane job as a copyist for the Commissary Office in Edinburgh, but of course, his true passion was for poetry.
Fergusson adopted an unconventional lifestyle as much as his meager wages would alloy and became a vivacious participant in Edinburgh's lively social and literary scene. On the 10th of October, 1772, he became a member of the ‘Cape Club’ based in a pub in the Old Town called ‘The Isle of Man Arms’. Fergusson was as inducted as ‘Sir Precentor’ and elected laureate of the ‘Order’. One of his poems, ‘Auld Reekie’, was written in honour of the ‘Cape Club’ and its members:
“Now many a club, jocose and free,
Gi'e a' to merriment and glee:
Wi' sang and glass they fley the pow'r
0' care that wad harass the hour.
But chief, 0 Cape, we crave thy aid
To get our cares and poortith laid”
His first poem was published anonymously on the 7th of February, 1771, in Ruddimans’ periodical, ‘The Weekly Magazine, or Edinburgh Amusement’. That was the first of three ‘pastorals’ entitled ‘Morning’, ‘Noon’ and ‘Night’, and Fergusson went on to enjoy two brief years’ of patronage from that quarter. His first vernacular Scots poem, ‘The Daft Days’, was printed by Ruddimans on the 2nd of January, 1772 and people began to speak of him as the successor to Allan Ramsay. Fergusson’s ‘Poems on Various Subjects’ appeared in 1773, but sadly there was to be no more. In that year of 1773, Fergusson began to suffer from depression.
Biographers have described Fergusson’s condition as ‘religious melancholia’, but regardless of whether or not that was the case, he gave up his job, stopped writing, withdrew completely from his riotous social life, and spent his time reading the Bible. He had heard about an Irish poet, John Cunningham, who had died in an asylum in Newcastle. That inspired 'Poem to the Memory of John Cunningham', and Fergusson became terribly afraid that the same thing was going to happen to him. Tragically, his dark prediction came true. In August, 1774, Fergusson fell down a flight of stairs and received a bad head injury, after which he was deemed ‘insensible’. His mother was unable to care for him and he was admitted to Darien House, Edinburgh’s public asylum. That abysmal place, which stood in the vicinity of today’s Bedlam Theatre, was nicknamed ‘Bedlam’ (after the London asylum). It was originally the offices where plans for the ill-fated Darien scheme had been concluded. Fergusson was put in an annex called 'the Cells' and after several weeks of ‘treatment’, he died, incarcerated in a bed in ‘Bedlam’, on the 16th of October, 1774. He died calling for his mother, but the staff at Darien House refused to let her in, because it was outside visiting hours.
Robert Fergusson died penniless and was buried in an unmarked grave in Edinburgh’s Canongate Kirkyard. Twelve years later, Robert Burns, who was greatly influenced by Fergusson's poetry, paid for a headstone to be made and composed its heartfelt inscription:
“No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompus lay,
No story'd urn nor animated bust;
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.”
In the following Century, Robert Louis Stevenson had the headstone repaired after it had been damaged and, in 2007, a wonderful memorial statue in Fergusson’s honour was erected. It stands outside the Canongate Kirkyard.
Saturday, 4 September 2010
Doc Knox. Who's there? Burke and Hare
Doctor Robert Knox, the anatomist who received his specimens from Burke and Hare, was born on the 4th of September, 1791.
Robert Knox MD, FRCSEd, FRSEd, was the anatomist and ethnologist who shall forever be linked with the gruesome tale of Burke and Hare. He appears a man of contradiction. On the one hand, he was the distinguished Lecturer in Anatomy at the University of Edinburgh and the leading teacher at Barclay’s School of Anatomy, which regularly attracted record levels of students. He was also an enthusiast of practical dissection who required a steady supply of ‘subjects’. I guess that when Burke and Hare offered him a ready supply of fresh cadavers, it was just too good an offer to refuse. When that gruesome and macabre scandal was discovered during 1828, Knox was implicated, but he was not summoned to give evidence. No doubt the ubiquitous ‘they’, the under-evidenced shadowy figures that inhabit the imagination of conspiracy theorists everywhere, saw to it that he was not involved. Knox claimed never to have met either of the two murderers, but certain of his assistants including perhaps William Fergusson, certainly did. Hare turned King’s evidence whilst Knox tried to keep a low profile; not as low as poor old Burke, who was hanged and dissected. The feelings of the populace were made clear when an angry mob demonstrated outside his home in Newington and he was vilified by his soon to be ex-colleagues. His rivals surely took some pleasure in his downfall and as a result of his decline, he became the Conservator at the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons. Later, in 1842, he moved to London and, in 1856 became a pathological anatomist at the Royal Marsden Cancer Hospital at Brompton.
Robert Knox was born in Edinburgh on the 4th of September, 1791. He contracted smallpox at an early age, which left him disfigured and with no sight in his left eye. Later, he became known as ‘Old Cyclops’ – or maybe that’s just an apocryphal tale. He was educated at what is now the Royal High School, in Edinburgh, where he had a brilliant scholastic record amongst notable contemporaries such as Francis Horner, Henry Brougham and Henry Cockburn. In 1810, before moving on to the Medical Faculty of Edinburgh University and as a special prize for academic excellence and exemplary conduct, he received a Folio volume of the works of Virgil from the Lord Provost and Town Council of Edinburgh. As an undergraduate he achieved the remarkable distinction of being twice elected to the Presidency of the Royal Physical Society, but strangely, in view of his subsequent career, he failed in Anatomy in his first examination, before graduating, in 1814, with degree of M. D. His recovery was due to having joined the extra-mural Anatomy class of the famous anatomist, Dr John Barclay, who became Knox’s mentor. Knox acquired an encyclopaedic knowledge of human and comparative anatomy from Barclay and, in 1815, he produced his first scientific paper for the Edinburgh Medical Journal.
In 1821, Knox spent some time in Paris, studying under several of the greatest names in medical science; men such as Cuvier and Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire. Back in Edinburgh, in 1822, Knox took up the post of assistant to Barclay until that man’s death, whereupon Knox became the main man. His widespread fame as a teacher led to his classes having to be repeated three times a day and, by 1827-8, there were over five hundred students enrolled. His ‘entertaining’ lectures, where students were guaranteed to see the human body completely dissected, were in marked contrast to the dullness of some of his rivals, particularly ‘Tertius’ Monro. Not surprisingly, he aroused jealousies amongst those contemporaries, which his intellectual arrogance only served to exacerbate.
Discounting his lapse in getting involved with the ‘resurrectionists’ (grave robbers by a posh name) Knox should occupy a more distinguished place in the illustrious history of the Edinburgh Medical School. He had the attributes of genius and became a rival to Alexander Monro ‘Tertius’, third of yon Ilk, but instead of lasting fame, he got infamy almost to the same extent as Sweeney Todd or Jack the Ripper. A man of several failings, the arrogant Knox had been an army surgeon at Waterloo and in South Africa during the fifth Kaffir War, and was convinced he was the best anatomist in Edinburgh. Nevertheless, during his chequered career, he contributed many important articles to the Edinburgh Medical Journal. These covered a remarkable variety of subjects including the pathology of necrosis, the regeneration of bone, pericarditis and the treatment of tapeworm infestation. In the field of ophthalmic anatomy, Knox was the first to appreciate the role of the ciliary muscle and to recognise that it is a muscle and not a ligament. In 1823, he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh and, in 1860, he was made an Honorary Fellow of the Ethnological Society of London. Shortly before his death in 1862, he was made Honorary Curator of that Society’s museum. When all is said and done, it could be claimed that he was one of the greatest medical teachers of all time.
A further aspect of the flaws in the character of Knox, appeared in 1846, when he almost obsessively put forward his anti-Semitic theories on ‘The races of men’. His ethnological theories originated from his anatomical studies of the indigenous peoples of South Africa during his time in Cape Province. Such racial theories had no scientific validity and were akin to those nasty Nazi doctrines or even to those of Apartheid. Funnily enough, compounding the contradictions in Knox the man, he maintained strong condemnation of the effects of European colonialism upon Africa. He was also a keen amateur violinist who enjoyed the works of Schubert and Rossini and his violin is on display in the museum of the Royal College of Surgeons.
Robert Knox worked at the Royal Marsden Cancer Hospital right up until the day he died, which was the 10th of December, 1862, and as a result of a major stroke sustained during his sleep. He had no memorial until 1966, when a granite stone was erected by the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh. The simple inscription states, “Robert Knox – Anatomist 1791-1862”, however, a more fitting epitaph may be his own words, “I would rather be the discoverer of one fact in science than have a fortune bestowed upon me.”
Robert Knox MD, FRCSEd, FRSEd, was the anatomist and ethnologist who shall forever be linked with the gruesome tale of Burke and Hare. He appears a man of contradiction. On the one hand, he was the distinguished Lecturer in Anatomy at the University of Edinburgh and the leading teacher at Barclay’s School of Anatomy, which regularly attracted record levels of students. He was also an enthusiast of practical dissection who required a steady supply of ‘subjects’. I guess that when Burke and Hare offered him a ready supply of fresh cadavers, it was just too good an offer to refuse. When that gruesome and macabre scandal was discovered during 1828, Knox was implicated, but he was not summoned to give evidence. No doubt the ubiquitous ‘they’, the under-evidenced shadowy figures that inhabit the imagination of conspiracy theorists everywhere, saw to it that he was not involved. Knox claimed never to have met either of the two murderers, but certain of his assistants including perhaps William Fergusson, certainly did. Hare turned King’s evidence whilst Knox tried to keep a low profile; not as low as poor old Burke, who was hanged and dissected. The feelings of the populace were made clear when an angry mob demonstrated outside his home in Newington and he was vilified by his soon to be ex-colleagues. His rivals surely took some pleasure in his downfall and as a result of his decline, he became the Conservator at the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons. Later, in 1842, he moved to London and, in 1856 became a pathological anatomist at the Royal Marsden Cancer Hospital at Brompton.
Robert Knox was born in Edinburgh on the 4th of September, 1791. He contracted smallpox at an early age, which left him disfigured and with no sight in his left eye. Later, he became known as ‘Old Cyclops’ – or maybe that’s just an apocryphal tale. He was educated at what is now the Royal High School, in Edinburgh, where he had a brilliant scholastic record amongst notable contemporaries such as Francis Horner, Henry Brougham and Henry Cockburn. In 1810, before moving on to the Medical Faculty of Edinburgh University and as a special prize for academic excellence and exemplary conduct, he received a Folio volume of the works of Virgil from the Lord Provost and Town Council of Edinburgh. As an undergraduate he achieved the remarkable distinction of being twice elected to the Presidency of the Royal Physical Society, but strangely, in view of his subsequent career, he failed in Anatomy in his first examination, before graduating, in 1814, with degree of M. D. His recovery was due to having joined the extra-mural Anatomy class of the famous anatomist, Dr John Barclay, who became Knox’s mentor. Knox acquired an encyclopaedic knowledge of human and comparative anatomy from Barclay and, in 1815, he produced his first scientific paper for the Edinburgh Medical Journal.
In 1821, Knox spent some time in Paris, studying under several of the greatest names in medical science; men such as Cuvier and Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire. Back in Edinburgh, in 1822, Knox took up the post of assistant to Barclay until that man’s death, whereupon Knox became the main man. His widespread fame as a teacher led to his classes having to be repeated three times a day and, by 1827-8, there were over five hundred students enrolled. His ‘entertaining’ lectures, where students were guaranteed to see the human body completely dissected, were in marked contrast to the dullness of some of his rivals, particularly ‘Tertius’ Monro. Not surprisingly, he aroused jealousies amongst those contemporaries, which his intellectual arrogance only served to exacerbate.
Discounting his lapse in getting involved with the ‘resurrectionists’ (grave robbers by a posh name) Knox should occupy a more distinguished place in the illustrious history of the Edinburgh Medical School. He had the attributes of genius and became a rival to Alexander Monro ‘Tertius’, third of yon Ilk, but instead of lasting fame, he got infamy almost to the same extent as Sweeney Todd or Jack the Ripper. A man of several failings, the arrogant Knox had been an army surgeon at Waterloo and in South Africa during the fifth Kaffir War, and was convinced he was the best anatomist in Edinburgh. Nevertheless, during his chequered career, he contributed many important articles to the Edinburgh Medical Journal. These covered a remarkable variety of subjects including the pathology of necrosis, the regeneration of bone, pericarditis and the treatment of tapeworm infestation. In the field of ophthalmic anatomy, Knox was the first to appreciate the role of the ciliary muscle and to recognise that it is a muscle and not a ligament. In 1823, he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh and, in 1860, he was made an Honorary Fellow of the Ethnological Society of London. Shortly before his death in 1862, he was made Honorary Curator of that Society’s museum. When all is said and done, it could be claimed that he was one of the greatest medical teachers of all time.
A further aspect of the flaws in the character of Knox, appeared in 1846, when he almost obsessively put forward his anti-Semitic theories on ‘The races of men’. His ethnological theories originated from his anatomical studies of the indigenous peoples of South Africa during his time in Cape Province. Such racial theories had no scientific validity and were akin to those nasty Nazi doctrines or even to those of Apartheid. Funnily enough, compounding the contradictions in Knox the man, he maintained strong condemnation of the effects of European colonialism upon Africa. He was also a keen amateur violinist who enjoyed the works of Schubert and Rossini and his violin is on display in the museum of the Royal College of Surgeons.
Robert Knox worked at the Royal Marsden Cancer Hospital right up until the day he died, which was the 10th of December, 1862, and as a result of a major stroke sustained during his sleep. He had no memorial until 1966, when a granite stone was erected by the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh. The simple inscription states, “Robert Knox – Anatomist 1791-1862”, however, a more fitting epitaph may be his own words, “I would rather be the discoverer of one fact in science than have a fortune bestowed upon me.”
Thursday, 2 September 2010
The Battle of Dunbar
The Battle of Dunbar took place on the 3rd of September, 1650.
The 1650 Battle of Dunbar was the second battle to take place at Dunbar; at least the second worthy of the name and the common theme for both battles was a defeat for the Scottish forces. The previous battle had been a victory for Edward I, in 1296. This one was effectively a defeat for Charles II, although he wasn’t there in person, unlike the warlike Edward Longshanks. This was a defeat for Charles’ Covenanter army, led by David Leslie against the Puritan Roundhead Oliver Cromwell. Funny how things worked out; Leslie had been Cromwell’s ally at the Battle of Marston Moor in 1644 and there he was six years later, leading the Scottish Army of the Covenant against Ironsides and his by now no longer pristine New Model Army. Cromwell’s army had dirtied its hands in Ireland during 1649-50 and fresh from having sent every Catholic in Ireland to Hell or Connacht, the veteran butchers arrived in Scotland in May, 1650, with Irish curses ringing in their ears.
The ‘Curse of Cromwell’ didn’t have any affect during his time in Scotland, but early signs were promising, when at first, the campaign went badly. Cromwell’s army of 16,000 men, crossed the Scottish border on the 22nd of July, 1650. Whatever experience it had gained in Ireland was more related to butchery than bakery as the bread the soldiers had to eat was described as “very well baked bread”, which was a euphemism for ‘virtually unbreakable and almost everlasting’ i.e., inedible. It also lacked tents and any sensible protection against the Scottish weather. General Leslie, of course, was on home ground and was an excellent and very experienced military commander, not given to rashness or arrogance. His tactic was to wage a classic guerrilla campaign, letting the terrain fight for the Scots and against the English who were frustrated at every turn. Leslie’s Dragoons perfected the mountain pass ambush and played hide and seek, leading the Roundhead army a merry dance through the glens. The Scots also laid waste to the countryside in their wake and that scorched earth policy in East Lothian meant Cromwell was fast running out of supplies. When the weather turned, the lack of tents meant thousands of his men went down with disease and were unable to fight. The Lord Protector might have thought his Puritan God had also turned – nah, I guess not; fanatics don’t have doubts.
By early August, Cromwell had retreated to Musselburgh and after ferrying out sick and wounded soldiers by the boat load, continued south-eastwards. The Scots’ incessant guerrilla attacks continued, like wasps at a picnic, except sometimes it was a midnight feast. Cromwell’s army was described by one officer as “a poor, shattered, hungry, discouraged army.” By the end of August, the 11,000 English troops, still a decent number for a remnant, were boxed into a narrow strip of coastal land near Dunbar, with Leslie in a commanding position on the top of Doon Hill escarpment, the last outpost of the Lammermuirs. Leslie was now offering a fight, but on his terms. The route south was blocked and Cromwell, experienced General that he was, recognised he was in a tight corner. So how come the Scots lost at Dunbar?
There were several factors, which contrived to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory for Leslie. The first had been the inconceivably mad purge of around 3000-5000 of Leslie’s best professional soldiers, including many of his officers. These ‘Engagers’, who in the past had supported Charles I and his Bishops and served with distinction under Montrose, were deemed by the Clerics, led by Sir Archibald Johnston of Warriston, Lord Clerk Register, the Kirk’s principle legal luminary, to be ‘malignants’ and unfit to draw the “sword of the spirit” against the ‘Sectaries’, namely Cromwell and his puritanical hordes. The ‘advisory council’ of Presbyterian ministers, with the joint authority of the Covenanting Parliamentary Committee of Scotland and God, had decided that Cromwell was the anti-Christ and had to be “driven from Canaan by the swords of the righteous.” One angry Scottish colonel said the religious fanatics had left Leslie with an army of “nothing but useless clerks and ministers’ sons, who have never seen a sword, much the less used one.” But they had God on their side as the battle flag of the Covenanters showed in its motto – ‘For Christ's Crown and Covenant’. Unfortunately, that Deity was more apparently on Cromwell’s side.
The second mistake was again of the Covenanting Ministers’ doing as, on the morning of Monday, the 2nd of September, their religiously-imbued arrogance and impatience to be at the Puritans caused them to overrule Leslie. These ‘military strategists’ demanded Leslie advance from his impregnable position on Doon Hill to the ground below, opposite the Brox Burn in readiness for an attack the following morning. When Cromwell saw what was happening, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Up to that point, his only options would have been to charge uphill against the much superior Scottish army or wither and die on the coast. “The enemy hath blocked up our way to Berwick at the pass through which we cannot get without almost a miracle,” he said.
Cromwell ordered an audacious pre-dawn attack across the Brox Burn and fired up his troops by reminding them of their version of God “Put your trust in God, my boys and keep your powder dry!” He perhaps didn’t know it, but keeping their powder dry was the third problem for the Scottish army. Its inferior matchlocks relied on a spluttering fuse, whereas the New Model Army was equipped with flintlocks. When Generals Lambert and Monck drove into the Scots right wing sometime before 6.00am on the morning of the 3rd of September, it was a surprise attack. Suddenly, Leslie’s unprepared men had to contend with waking up, forming up and being able to return any kind of fire with their powder damp and the thin smirr of rain in their faces. What followed became the rout that Cromwell later regarded as his greatest military victory. Despite initially rallying and putting up a ferocious defence, effectively halting Lambert and Mock in their tracks, Leslie’s army was thrown into disarray by the charge of Cromwell’s Ironsides on his right flank. Leslie’s ‘attacking’ position had left him insufficient room to manoeuvre and counteract Cromwell’s last throw of the dice; the charge of his reserves against Leslie’s exposed right, which won the day. Cromwell had his miracle.
The defeat at Dunbar became known sardonically as the “Race of Dunbar” as the Scots fled by the thousands and were chased down, killed or captured by Cromwell’s cavalry. Three thousand Scots lay dead on the field and ten thousand more were captured and force-marched to Durham. Those poor unfortunates, the ones who didn’t die on route or in Durham Cathedral, were banished to the ‘Plantations’, which is altogether another tragic story. Cromwell, it is reported, burst into uncontrollable laughter after the victory, with one Puritan preacher describing him as “drunken of the spirit and filled with holy laughter.” That should’ve been “unholy laughter as from the De’il himsel’.”
The 1650 Battle of Dunbar was the second battle to take place at Dunbar; at least the second worthy of the name and the common theme for both battles was a defeat for the Scottish forces. The previous battle had been a victory for Edward I, in 1296. This one was effectively a defeat for Charles II, although he wasn’t there in person, unlike the warlike Edward Longshanks. This was a defeat for Charles’ Covenanter army, led by David Leslie against the Puritan Roundhead Oliver Cromwell. Funny how things worked out; Leslie had been Cromwell’s ally at the Battle of Marston Moor in 1644 and there he was six years later, leading the Scottish Army of the Covenant against Ironsides and his by now no longer pristine New Model Army. Cromwell’s army had dirtied its hands in Ireland during 1649-50 and fresh from having sent every Catholic in Ireland to Hell or Connacht, the veteran butchers arrived in Scotland in May, 1650, with Irish curses ringing in their ears.
The ‘Curse of Cromwell’ didn’t have any affect during his time in Scotland, but early signs were promising, when at first, the campaign went badly. Cromwell’s army of 16,000 men, crossed the Scottish border on the 22nd of July, 1650. Whatever experience it had gained in Ireland was more related to butchery than bakery as the bread the soldiers had to eat was described as “very well baked bread”, which was a euphemism for ‘virtually unbreakable and almost everlasting’ i.e., inedible. It also lacked tents and any sensible protection against the Scottish weather. General Leslie, of course, was on home ground and was an excellent and very experienced military commander, not given to rashness or arrogance. His tactic was to wage a classic guerrilla campaign, letting the terrain fight for the Scots and against the English who were frustrated at every turn. Leslie’s Dragoons perfected the mountain pass ambush and played hide and seek, leading the Roundhead army a merry dance through the glens. The Scots also laid waste to the countryside in their wake and that scorched earth policy in East Lothian meant Cromwell was fast running out of supplies. When the weather turned, the lack of tents meant thousands of his men went down with disease and were unable to fight. The Lord Protector might have thought his Puritan God had also turned – nah, I guess not; fanatics don’t have doubts.
By early August, Cromwell had retreated to Musselburgh and after ferrying out sick and wounded soldiers by the boat load, continued south-eastwards. The Scots’ incessant guerrilla attacks continued, like wasps at a picnic, except sometimes it was a midnight feast. Cromwell’s army was described by one officer as “a poor, shattered, hungry, discouraged army.” By the end of August, the 11,000 English troops, still a decent number for a remnant, were boxed into a narrow strip of coastal land near Dunbar, with Leslie in a commanding position on the top of Doon Hill escarpment, the last outpost of the Lammermuirs. Leslie was now offering a fight, but on his terms. The route south was blocked and Cromwell, experienced General that he was, recognised he was in a tight corner. So how come the Scots lost at Dunbar?
There were several factors, which contrived to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory for Leslie. The first had been the inconceivably mad purge of around 3000-5000 of Leslie’s best professional soldiers, including many of his officers. These ‘Engagers’, who in the past had supported Charles I and his Bishops and served with distinction under Montrose, were deemed by the Clerics, led by Sir Archibald Johnston of Warriston, Lord Clerk Register, the Kirk’s principle legal luminary, to be ‘malignants’ and unfit to draw the “sword of the spirit” against the ‘Sectaries’, namely Cromwell and his puritanical hordes. The ‘advisory council’ of Presbyterian ministers, with the joint authority of the Covenanting Parliamentary Committee of Scotland and God, had decided that Cromwell was the anti-Christ and had to be “driven from Canaan by the swords of the righteous.” One angry Scottish colonel said the religious fanatics had left Leslie with an army of “nothing but useless clerks and ministers’ sons, who have never seen a sword, much the less used one.” But they had God on their side as the battle flag of the Covenanters showed in its motto – ‘For Christ's Crown and Covenant’. Unfortunately, that Deity was more apparently on Cromwell’s side.
The second mistake was again of the Covenanting Ministers’ doing as, on the morning of Monday, the 2nd of September, their religiously-imbued arrogance and impatience to be at the Puritans caused them to overrule Leslie. These ‘military strategists’ demanded Leslie advance from his impregnable position on Doon Hill to the ground below, opposite the Brox Burn in readiness for an attack the following morning. When Cromwell saw what was happening, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Up to that point, his only options would have been to charge uphill against the much superior Scottish army or wither and die on the coast. “The enemy hath blocked up our way to Berwick at the pass through which we cannot get without almost a miracle,” he said.
Cromwell ordered an audacious pre-dawn attack across the Brox Burn and fired up his troops by reminding them of their version of God “Put your trust in God, my boys and keep your powder dry!” He perhaps didn’t know it, but keeping their powder dry was the third problem for the Scottish army. Its inferior matchlocks relied on a spluttering fuse, whereas the New Model Army was equipped with flintlocks. When Generals Lambert and Monck drove into the Scots right wing sometime before 6.00am on the morning of the 3rd of September, it was a surprise attack. Suddenly, Leslie’s unprepared men had to contend with waking up, forming up and being able to return any kind of fire with their powder damp and the thin smirr of rain in their faces. What followed became the rout that Cromwell later regarded as his greatest military victory. Despite initially rallying and putting up a ferocious defence, effectively halting Lambert and Mock in their tracks, Leslie’s army was thrown into disarray by the charge of Cromwell’s Ironsides on his right flank. Leslie’s ‘attacking’ position had left him insufficient room to manoeuvre and counteract Cromwell’s last throw of the dice; the charge of his reserves against Leslie’s exposed right, which won the day. Cromwell had his miracle.
The defeat at Dunbar became known sardonically as the “Race of Dunbar” as the Scots fled by the thousands and were chased down, killed or captured by Cromwell’s cavalry. Three thousand Scots lay dead on the field and ten thousand more were captured and force-marched to Durham. Those poor unfortunates, the ones who didn’t die on route or in Durham Cathedral, were banished to the ‘Plantations’, which is altogether another tragic story. Cromwell, it is reported, burst into uncontrollable laughter after the victory, with one Puritan preacher describing him as “drunken of the spirit and filled with holy laughter.” That should’ve been “unholy laughter as from the De’il himsel’.”
'Hauf-hangit Maggie' Dickson
Margaret ‘Maggie’ Dickson was hanged in Edinburgh on the 2nd of September, 1724.
Margaret Dickson’s birth was anonymous and unremarkable, but her ‘resurrection’ has become the stuff of legend and her story is used to ‘scare the living daylights’ out of tourists visiting Edinburgh. She was born in early 18th Century Scotland, most probably in Musselburgh, and made a living as a hawker of fish or seller of salt, both of which were common occupations. Like many local folk, she would have brought her wares to the City and ‘called’ them through the streets of Edinburgh. In 1723, Maggie found herself without her husband, who was a fisherman. Around that time, he had either been press-ganged on board a man o’ war or was working away in the fisheries at Newcastle or had simply deserted her. Regardless of the details, twenty-two years old Maggie ended up working for an innkeeper and, once again, details are murky as that job was either in Kelso or in Edinburgh. Whether in the Borders or in Auld Reekie, Maggie became pregnant by the landlord’s son. He was called William Bell and was considerably younger than Maggie, so you may question who did the seducing.
Of course, Maggie needed to conceal the pregnancy. On her own, albeit still married, and as a young lassie of dubious character and modest means, Maggie had about as many employment options as she had for birth control. She couldn’t afford to be sacked. In those days, social and religious conventions meant that illegitimate or adulterous pregnancies were big problems. She was accused by some neighbours of being pregnant, but fear of being publically shamed in the Kirk led her to deny it, although the symptoms must have become fairly plain. Eventually, the baby was born, but whether it was born alive or stillborn, isn’t known. The fact is that the child was found dead and Maggie had tried to hide its body. She was charged with contravention of the Concealment of Pregnancy Act and as concealment of pregnancy and birth were capital crimes, it was immaterial whether it had been a miscarriage, infanticide, or a tragic 18th Century stillbirth. In her defence, she said that she went into labour prematurely and was in such pain that she was unable to get help. She also claimed that the birth left her in a state of insensibility to such an extent that she couldn’t say what became of the baby. Maggie was taken to Edinburgh where she was tried. Some reports suggest that a surgeon performed an experiment on the lungs of the child to see if they floated in water, which was taken as a sign of its having breathed. It’s not clear what difference that might have made, but in any event, puir Maggie was sentenced to be hanged.
According to JC records at the National Archives of Scotland, her execution took place on Edinburgh’s Grassmarket, on Wednesday the 2nd of September, 1724. It seems not to have been a routine public strangling as the hangman, John Dalgliesh, had to belt her with a stick as she tried to loosen the noose with her hands. He hadn’t tied them tight enough and the crowd even threw stones at him for allowing her hands to get free. In the end, she was ‘turned off’ – a quaint expression – and ‘hanged for the usual length of time’. Afterwards, she was taken down and given up to her family. A bit of a stushie broke out as her friends and relatives had to fend off the usual ‘grave robbing’ representatives of the medical profession wanting her body for dissection, but eventually, she was carted off in the direction of the Kirkyard of Inveresk.
The funeral party stopped for a wee dram at a village called Peffermill, about two miles from Edinburgh, and left the cart outside the public house, near the door. They must have thought they’d consumed a dram too many as all of a sudden they could hear banging and chappin’ from inside Maggie’s coffin. A couple of passing joiners helped to lift off the lid and there was Maggie, sat bolt upright and doin’ the resurrection shuffle, giving a’body “the fleg o’ their lives.” No doubt Maggie got a rare auld fleg hersel’. A phlebotomist was apparently on hand to let blood and the creatur was visited by a Minister before being let home to the house of her weaver brother, James. Even if she hadn’t been deeply religious beforehand, reports of her devoting every Wednesday for the rest of her life to fasting and prayer can be believed.
Now, much of Scottish Law is built on Roman Pandects and accordingly, once the judgment of a Court has been carried out, the condemned is exculpated. The individual, even if they survive an attempt at execution, is regarded as dead in law and, unlike in England, Maggie could not have been re-hanged. Another maxim is that Maggie’s marriage was then considered to have been dissolved, because of her being officially dead. So, Maggie was set at liberty and despite being a non-person, was able to remarry her husband who had, in the meantime, returned to the fold. Amazingly, Maggie lived for another thirty years or so and went on to have several children. The first of those was a son; born a mere nine or ten months after the hanging. The date of Maggie’s eventual death is unknown, but the Newgate Calendar reports that she was still living in 1753.
Margaret Dickson became a familiar figure around Edinburgh, where she returned to selling salt and was known as ‘Half-Hangit Maggie’.
Margaret Dickson’s birth was anonymous and unremarkable, but her ‘resurrection’ has become the stuff of legend and her story is used to ‘scare the living daylights’ out of tourists visiting Edinburgh. She was born in early 18th Century Scotland, most probably in Musselburgh, and made a living as a hawker of fish or seller of salt, both of which were common occupations. Like many local folk, she would have brought her wares to the City and ‘called’ them through the streets of Edinburgh. In 1723, Maggie found herself without her husband, who was a fisherman. Around that time, he had either been press-ganged on board a man o’ war or was working away in the fisheries at Newcastle or had simply deserted her. Regardless of the details, twenty-two years old Maggie ended up working for an innkeeper and, once again, details are murky as that job was either in Kelso or in Edinburgh. Whether in the Borders or in Auld Reekie, Maggie became pregnant by the landlord’s son. He was called William Bell and was considerably younger than Maggie, so you may question who did the seducing.
Of course, Maggie needed to conceal the pregnancy. On her own, albeit still married, and as a young lassie of dubious character and modest means, Maggie had about as many employment options as she had for birth control. She couldn’t afford to be sacked. In those days, social and religious conventions meant that illegitimate or adulterous pregnancies were big problems. She was accused by some neighbours of being pregnant, but fear of being publically shamed in the Kirk led her to deny it, although the symptoms must have become fairly plain. Eventually, the baby was born, but whether it was born alive or stillborn, isn’t known. The fact is that the child was found dead and Maggie had tried to hide its body. She was charged with contravention of the Concealment of Pregnancy Act and as concealment of pregnancy and birth were capital crimes, it was immaterial whether it had been a miscarriage, infanticide, or a tragic 18th Century stillbirth. In her defence, she said that she went into labour prematurely and was in such pain that she was unable to get help. She also claimed that the birth left her in a state of insensibility to such an extent that she couldn’t say what became of the baby. Maggie was taken to Edinburgh where she was tried. Some reports suggest that a surgeon performed an experiment on the lungs of the child to see if they floated in water, which was taken as a sign of its having breathed. It’s not clear what difference that might have made, but in any event, puir Maggie was sentenced to be hanged.
According to JC records at the National Archives of Scotland, her execution took place on Edinburgh’s Grassmarket, on Wednesday the 2nd of September, 1724. It seems not to have been a routine public strangling as the hangman, John Dalgliesh, had to belt her with a stick as she tried to loosen the noose with her hands. He hadn’t tied them tight enough and the crowd even threw stones at him for allowing her hands to get free. In the end, she was ‘turned off’ – a quaint expression – and ‘hanged for the usual length of time’. Afterwards, she was taken down and given up to her family. A bit of a stushie broke out as her friends and relatives had to fend off the usual ‘grave robbing’ representatives of the medical profession wanting her body for dissection, but eventually, she was carted off in the direction of the Kirkyard of Inveresk.
The funeral party stopped for a wee dram at a village called Peffermill, about two miles from Edinburgh, and left the cart outside the public house, near the door. They must have thought they’d consumed a dram too many as all of a sudden they could hear banging and chappin’ from inside Maggie’s coffin. A couple of passing joiners helped to lift off the lid and there was Maggie, sat bolt upright and doin’ the resurrection shuffle, giving a’body “the fleg o’ their lives.” No doubt Maggie got a rare auld fleg hersel’. A phlebotomist was apparently on hand to let blood and the creatur was visited by a Minister before being let home to the house of her weaver brother, James. Even if she hadn’t been deeply religious beforehand, reports of her devoting every Wednesday for the rest of her life to fasting and prayer can be believed.
Now, much of Scottish Law is built on Roman Pandects and accordingly, once the judgment of a Court has been carried out, the condemned is exculpated. The individual, even if they survive an attempt at execution, is regarded as dead in law and, unlike in England, Maggie could not have been re-hanged. Another maxim is that Maggie’s marriage was then considered to have been dissolved, because of her being officially dead. So, Maggie was set at liberty and despite being a non-person, was able to remarry her husband who had, in the meantime, returned to the fold. Amazingly, Maggie lived for another thirty years or so and went on to have several children. The first of those was a son; born a mere nine or ten months after the hanging. The date of Maggie’s eventual death is unknown, but the Newgate Calendar reports that she was still living in 1753.
Margaret Dickson became a familiar figure around Edinburgh, where she returned to selling salt and was known as ‘Half-Hangit Maggie’.
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