James Stewart, a 2nd Earl of Moray, was murdered by George Gordon, the 6th Earl of Huntly, on the 7th of February, 1592.
Two Earls went a fighting; a fighting they did go. Well, the nobility have been fighting each other for centuries. However, calling them noble could be akin to an oxymoron. According to Tom Johnston’s 1909 “book that rocked the nobles” seventy-five percent of the Scottish aristocracy was descended from “foreign freebooters” post 1066. That’s not much of a distinction as the same could be said of the Norman-English, but Johnston’s “excoriating polemic” went on to show that most ‘Scots’ were “descended from border thieves and land pirates.” A key premise of ‘Our Scots Noble Families’ was that the blood of those rogues had, over the centuries and aided by “a process of snobbery”, become ‘blue blood’. Johnston also wrote that the title deeds of our noblemen were forged by “Court harlotry” and rapine, murder and massacre. That makes for a pretty good summary of the feud between the Gordons and the Morays.
In fact, name any two so-called noble families and they were probably at each other’s throats. As example, James Stewart, the 2nd Earl of Moray, only gained that title, which he assumed ‘jure uxoris’ (in right of his wife), after marrying the daughter of the 1st Earl on the 23rd of January, 1581. But Elizabeth Stewart had inherited the title, 2nd Countess of Moray, ‘suo jure’ (in her own right), as heir to another James Stewart, ‘The Good Regent’ Moray, when that man was assassinated in Linlithgow on the 23rd of January, 1570, by James Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh. The new 2nd Earl was the son of James Stewart, the 1st Lord Doune, and grandson of yet another James Stewart, that one of Doune who was made Commendator of Inchcolm Abbey around 1540. As blue blood goes, the 2nd Earl was also a direct male-line descendent of Robert II, the grandson of ‘The Bruce’, through the 1st Duke of Albany, the 2nd son of that 2nd Robert.
The killing of James Stewart is remembered in the ballad ‘The Bonny Earl o’ Moray’ with that epithet being significant on two counts. The Stewart Earl was reputed to be quite handsome and deserving of the appellation, but he was also romantically linked with the Queen, Anne of Denmark, the wife of James VI, as this bit verse signifies:
“He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the glove;
And the bonny Earl o’ Murray,
Oh he was the Queen’s love!”
A funny thing about this tale of two Earls is that at one point, the Earl of Huntly was also the Earl of Moray. When James Stewart, illegitimate son of James IV and the 4th created 1st Earl of Moray died childless, the title became extinct. It was later given to the Gordon 4th Earl of Huntly, who held the 5th creation of the Moray title until 1460, when he fell out of favour. That Gordon died in 1462 and the title forfeited. Then the 6th creation made ‘The Good Regent’ and illegitimate son of James V into the 6th 1st Earl of Moray. When he died as you’ve read, his daughter became Countess and, when she married, her bonny husband became the 2nd ever 2nd Earl.
The feud betwixt the Gordons and Morays began with the 4th Huntly and the 4th 1st Moray back in the days of the 1st Mary. At one point, the two were erstwhile allies, having been in joint command of an army against the English, in 1542. But they couldn’t agree on tactics and Moray rode home in a sulk. While Moray brooded over his former ally turned unfriend, the Scottish army was defeated. The petulant Moray died in 1544, but the mutual dislike continued between the families until 1562, when the future 6th 1st Moray drove north towards Banchory and Gordon territory. There at Corrichie, on the 28th of October, the Protestant Regent Moray, on behalf of his Catholic Queen, entered battle with the Catholic former 5th 1st Moray, the ancient 4th Huntly, known as “the wylest lad that lyved.” Laughably, the Gordon was too old for such capers; he fell off his horse and died. The feud then simmered on through the 5th Huntly and ‘The Good Regent’ and ultimately, to the 6th Huntly and the Regent’s son-in-law.
By that time, James VI was King and married to his Dane who took a liking to the bonny Moray, which wouldn’t have pleased the King overmuch, but not for obvious reasons. It would’ve had more to do with not wanting anything to come between him and the English throne. The 6th Huntly was both a supporter of and schemer against his King. According to Francis James Child of ‘Child Ballad’ fame, Huntly was keen to prove that Moray was plotting rebellion with Francis Stewart, the Earl of Bothwell, against the King. No doubt as a smokescreen for his own double dealings in cahoots with the Spanish, Huntly got his King’s permission to bring Moray to trial. But instead of simply apprehending Moray, Huntly rampaged through his northern territory, causing death and destruction. On the 6th of February, when Moray was on route to Edinburgh of his own volition, Huntly cornered him at Donibristle House in Fife.
Late that evening, approaching midnight, Huntly’s men fired the house. Early in the morning of the 7th, Moray made a dash for the rocks on the seashore, but his headpiece had caught alight and betrayed his attempt at escape through the trees. He was cut down by Huntly’s men and slashed across the face by George Gordon’s own sword. Bonny Moray’s last words as he lay dying were, “Man, ye hae spoilt a better face than yer ain.” Moray’s mother sought revenge for her son, but despite ghoulishly exhibiting the corpse for several months in its coffin, Huntly wasn’t punished by the King, beyond a week long house arrest. In truth, Huntly was always one of the King’s close favourites, but he spent his entire life falling into and out of favour with his monarch. A painting of Moray’s body, gruesomely showing off his multiple wounds, was paraded through Edinburgh in an attempt at propaganda. It can be seen today in the Great Hall at Darnaway.
Significantly, Huntly, who was later charged with treason over the matter of the ‘Spanish Blanks’; excommunicated; absolved; victor over the King’s army at Glenlivet in October, 1594; tolerated by James VI; and who periodically abjured Romanism; was created the 1st Marquess of Huntly on the 7th of April, 1599. Later, he was again excommunicated; imprisoned several times; signed one Reformist confession and refused another; accused of intrigue; set free on the King’s order; joined James’ Court in London; absolved again; and involved in a feud with the Crichtons. Released by Charles I in 1636, Huntly died in Dundee on the 13th of June, after declaring his Catholic faith.
The son of the murdered 2nd Earl of Moray became the 3rd Earl and Lieutenant of the North. He later married Huntly’s daughter and put an end, once and for all, to the Moray/Gordon feud.
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
James Braid
James Braid, golfer and course architect, was born on the 6th of February, 1870.
Forget Sandy Lyle, forget Colin Montgomerie, forget Sam Torrance, Bernhard Gallagher, Uncle Tom Morris and all, the greatest Scottish golfer of all time is a figure from the past – James Braid. For his record and overall achievements, the moustachioed Braid stands figuratively head and shoulders above any other golfing Scot. He probably did the same by stature as he grew braid-like into a long man. Long before the days of carbon-fibre and titanium clubs, Braid held the world record for the longest drive. That distance was measured in 1905, at Walton Heath in England, as 395 yards. And he made it look easy, using what looks like an awesomely awkward club of hickory and pig iron with ‘gutty’ balls. Over a hundred years later, very few golfers of the modern era, equipped with their state-of-the-art drivers and aerodynamic balls have ever beaten that distance of Braid’s.
There is a case for naming Braid one of the greatest British golfers of all time, not withstanding the likes of Nick Faldo and Tony Jacklin. In Braid’s era, his domestic rivals included Harry Vardon and John H. Taylor. Collectively, they were known as the ‘Great Triumvirate’ and unsurprisingly, most sources seem to pick out Vardon as the preeminent golfer. However, as the ‘Scotsman’ reported in a well written and unbiased article by Christopher Cairns in June, 2006, there seem to be many contemporary accounts that conferred on Braid the honour of ‘best golfer in the world’. Back in the day, there wasn’t the over saturated list of professional tournaments we now see. In fact, there was only one tournament of global significance. That was the Open Championship, which Braid won five times; the first man so to do. Braid won the British Matchplay Championship an unprecedented four times, finished second in the Open on three occasions, and added the one French Open title for good measure. Surely, he must’ve done something only twice? Yes he did, he was runner-up in the British Open in 1897 and 1909.
Unfortunately for Braid, but otherwise for his rivals, especially those abroad, Braid suffered from motion sickness and couldn’t travel; neither by steam train, plain old boat nor even automobile. Poor man; the Scotsman article reports that he was often sick in the cars sent to pick him up from railway stations. Poor taxi driver. So he never made it to the United States, unlike Vardon, who did add the US Open title to his collection. In terms of ‘head-to-heads’ against Vardon, Braid won 40 out of 83 contests, with his arch rival taking 36 and the remainder being halved (that’s a draw for anyone ignorant of gowf). Braid also included 18 ‘holes-in-one’ in his career (that’s a bit like Nayim scoring from the half way line 18 times).
Another thing for which Braid is famous, is his record as a golf course architect. His legacy can be seen in the six ‘James Braid Trails’ that have been produced in partnership with VisitScotland and 30 Scottish golf courses. They go by the names of Angus, Gleneagles, Highland, Links, Lothian and West Coast and should be high on any golfer’s agenda. During his distinguished career, Braid designed, reconstructed or advised on more than 250 golf courses (sources state over 300) throughout the British Isles.
Braid was ‘The Authority’ on golf course design and his layouts are amongst the finest courses in the world. In his book, ‘Advanced Golf’ which was published by Methuen and Company in 1908, Braid set out his rules for the general features he felt every good course should possess. As example, his principles stated that there “should be a complete variety of holes, not only as regards length, but in their character” and that, with regard to bunkers “the player who does not gain [a desired] position should have his next shot made more difficult …or should be obliged to take an extra stroke.” Braid’s ‘sixth law’ of course design stated that there should be “as frequently as possible two alternative methods of playing a hole, an easy one and a difficult one, and there should be a chance of gaining a stroke when the latter is chosen and the attempt is successful.”
James Braid was born in Earlsferry, near St. Andrews, the birthplace of golf, on the 6th of February, 1870. James’ earliest recollection of golf was playing with a child’s club when he was about four. Thereafter, he became fascinated with the game and learned to play golf at Elie links, where he won his first tournament at the age of eight. He trained to be a carpenter and joiner and became a reasonably successful amateur golfer. Later, Braid set to reconditioning old clubs for his own use and developed a skill as a club maker. That enabled him to leave Scotland in 1893, to take up such a position at the Army and Navy in London. That employment led to his gaining professional status, in 1896, and in turn to his appointment as Club Professional at Romford. Braid stayed in Essex for eight years before taking moving to Walton Heath, in Surrey, where he remained until his death.
Although Braid started his career as a poor putter, he soon recovered, through single minded dedication, hours of practice and a new putter. Thereafter, he became lethal on the greens. His spectacular success began in 1901, when he won his first Open. Within ten years he had become the first man to win the event five times, a milestone he reached before either of his contemporaneous rivals, Vardon and Taylor. Braid’s record of five ‘Opens’ is only matched by Taylor, Peter Thomson and Tom Watson, although Vardon won the ‘Claret Jug’ six times. Braid retired from competitive golf in 1912, with not much left to achieve on the course, so he promptly took to designing golf courses.
Braid was a pioneer in his field and used established architectural techniques and topographical analysis. Braid realised that whilst the natural terrain was useful for certain holes, it could be radically altered to create new and more imaginative designs, based on shot strategy. Braid worked on a number of links courses, but his best courses tended to be inland parkland tracks. He is regarded as the inventor of the dogleg hole, which featured in many of his courses, however, holes of similar design had been known for centuries in Scotland. Braid found them to be ideal for inland layouts that very often wound their way through trees and around hillsides. Braid formalised the practice of positioning bunkers specifically to establish landing areas from the tee, and also developed the plateau green and the pot bunker, along with sophisticated drainage systems.
Braid’s third major claim to fame was the establishment of the Professional Golfers’ Association of which he later became President. James Braid died in London on the 27th of November, 1950, and, in reporting his death, the ‘Scotsman’ said that in his heyday, he was “an awesome figure” of a golfer.
Forget Sandy Lyle, forget Colin Montgomerie, forget Sam Torrance, Bernhard Gallagher, Uncle Tom Morris and all, the greatest Scottish golfer of all time is a figure from the past – James Braid. For his record and overall achievements, the moustachioed Braid stands figuratively head and shoulders above any other golfing Scot. He probably did the same by stature as he grew braid-like into a long man. Long before the days of carbon-fibre and titanium clubs, Braid held the world record for the longest drive. That distance was measured in 1905, at Walton Heath in England, as 395 yards. And he made it look easy, using what looks like an awesomely awkward club of hickory and pig iron with ‘gutty’ balls. Over a hundred years later, very few golfers of the modern era, equipped with their state-of-the-art drivers and aerodynamic balls have ever beaten that distance of Braid’s.
There is a case for naming Braid one of the greatest British golfers of all time, not withstanding the likes of Nick Faldo and Tony Jacklin. In Braid’s era, his domestic rivals included Harry Vardon and John H. Taylor. Collectively, they were known as the ‘Great Triumvirate’ and unsurprisingly, most sources seem to pick out Vardon as the preeminent golfer. However, as the ‘Scotsman’ reported in a well written and unbiased article by Christopher Cairns in June, 2006, there seem to be many contemporary accounts that conferred on Braid the honour of ‘best golfer in the world’. Back in the day, there wasn’t the over saturated list of professional tournaments we now see. In fact, there was only one tournament of global significance. That was the Open Championship, which Braid won five times; the first man so to do. Braid won the British Matchplay Championship an unprecedented four times, finished second in the Open on three occasions, and added the one French Open title for good measure. Surely, he must’ve done something only twice? Yes he did, he was runner-up in the British Open in 1897 and 1909.
Unfortunately for Braid, but otherwise for his rivals, especially those abroad, Braid suffered from motion sickness and couldn’t travel; neither by steam train, plain old boat nor even automobile. Poor man; the Scotsman article reports that he was often sick in the cars sent to pick him up from railway stations. Poor taxi driver. So he never made it to the United States, unlike Vardon, who did add the US Open title to his collection. In terms of ‘head-to-heads’ against Vardon, Braid won 40 out of 83 contests, with his arch rival taking 36 and the remainder being halved (that’s a draw for anyone ignorant of gowf). Braid also included 18 ‘holes-in-one’ in his career (that’s a bit like Nayim scoring from the half way line 18 times).
Another thing for which Braid is famous, is his record as a golf course architect. His legacy can be seen in the six ‘James Braid Trails’ that have been produced in partnership with VisitScotland and 30 Scottish golf courses. They go by the names of Angus, Gleneagles, Highland, Links, Lothian and West Coast and should be high on any golfer’s agenda. During his distinguished career, Braid designed, reconstructed or advised on more than 250 golf courses (sources state over 300) throughout the British Isles.
Braid was ‘The Authority’ on golf course design and his layouts are amongst the finest courses in the world. In his book, ‘Advanced Golf’ which was published by Methuen and Company in 1908, Braid set out his rules for the general features he felt every good course should possess. As example, his principles stated that there “should be a complete variety of holes, not only as regards length, but in their character” and that, with regard to bunkers “the player who does not gain [a desired] position should have his next shot made more difficult …or should be obliged to take an extra stroke.” Braid’s ‘sixth law’ of course design stated that there should be “as frequently as possible two alternative methods of playing a hole, an easy one and a difficult one, and there should be a chance of gaining a stroke when the latter is chosen and the attempt is successful.”
James Braid was born in Earlsferry, near St. Andrews, the birthplace of golf, on the 6th of February, 1870. James’ earliest recollection of golf was playing with a child’s club when he was about four. Thereafter, he became fascinated with the game and learned to play golf at Elie links, where he won his first tournament at the age of eight. He trained to be a carpenter and joiner and became a reasonably successful amateur golfer. Later, Braid set to reconditioning old clubs for his own use and developed a skill as a club maker. That enabled him to leave Scotland in 1893, to take up such a position at the Army and Navy in London. That employment led to his gaining professional status, in 1896, and in turn to his appointment as Club Professional at Romford. Braid stayed in Essex for eight years before taking moving to Walton Heath, in Surrey, where he remained until his death.
Although Braid started his career as a poor putter, he soon recovered, through single minded dedication, hours of practice and a new putter. Thereafter, he became lethal on the greens. His spectacular success began in 1901, when he won his first Open. Within ten years he had become the first man to win the event five times, a milestone he reached before either of his contemporaneous rivals, Vardon and Taylor. Braid’s record of five ‘Opens’ is only matched by Taylor, Peter Thomson and Tom Watson, although Vardon won the ‘Claret Jug’ six times. Braid retired from competitive golf in 1912, with not much left to achieve on the course, so he promptly took to designing golf courses.
Braid was a pioneer in his field and used established architectural techniques and topographical analysis. Braid realised that whilst the natural terrain was useful for certain holes, it could be radically altered to create new and more imaginative designs, based on shot strategy. Braid worked on a number of links courses, but his best courses tended to be inland parkland tracks. He is regarded as the inventor of the dogleg hole, which featured in many of his courses, however, holes of similar design had been known for centuries in Scotland. Braid found them to be ideal for inland layouts that very often wound their way through trees and around hillsides. Braid formalised the practice of positioning bunkers specifically to establish landing areas from the tee, and also developed the plateau green and the pot bunker, along with sophisticated drainage systems.
Braid’s third major claim to fame was the establishment of the Professional Golfers’ Association of which he later became President. James Braid died in London on the 27th of November, 1950, and, in reporting his death, the ‘Scotsman’ said that in his heyday, he was “an awesome figure” of a golfer.
Saturday, 19 February 2011
John Witherspoon
John Witherspoon, clergyman, writer, President of Princeton University and signatory to the American Declaration of Independence, was born on the 5th of February, 1722.
Whiter you may go and whether you come back, John Witherspoon was a Scot, there’s no denying that fact. John Witherspoon was born in Scotland, but he was also a very important and influential American, being one of the signatories of the 1776 Declaration of Independence. In fact, of the fifty-six men who signed that historic document, twenty-one had some Scottish ancestry and Witherspoon was the only clergyman to sign. Witherspoon not only signed the Declaration, he was influential in its construction and in its very signing. The first draft of the Lee Resolution, otherwise known as the Resolution of Independence, and which became the United States Declaration of Independence of the 4th of July, 1776, contained a phrase that complained of the King having had sent to America “not only soldiers of our common blood, but Scotch and foreign mercenaries.” To a native Scotsman like Witherspoon, that was an insult and so he demanded the phrase be deleted.
Interestingly, for a man who became an American revolutionary, Witherspoon had earlier, in 1745, raised his own band of Beith Volunteer Militia “for the …defence of our only rightful and lawful sovereign, King George, against his enemies engaged in the Jacobite rebellion.” Years later, when some of the representatives from the Thirteen Colonies became apprehensive over taking on the might of Geordie’s British Empire, it was Witherspoon who urged them to sign the Declaration of Independence. In reply to an objection that the country wasn’t ready for such a step, Witherspoon witheringly replied that it was “not only ripe for the measure, but in danger of rotting for the want of it” and he went on to add, famously, that “There is a tide in the affairs of men, a nick of time. We perceive it now before us. To hesitate is to consent to our own slavery.”
John Witherspoon was born in Gifford, in the parish of Yester, a few miles from Edinburgh, on the 5th of February, 1722 (O.S.). John was first educated at school in Haddington and later, from 1736, at Edinburgh University. At the age of twenty-one, he finished his collegiate studies and commenced preaching, before being ordained as a Minister of the Auld Kirk on the 11th of April, 1745. Witherspoon then took up a post in Beith in Ayrshire, where he preached for twelve years, during which time he came to be regarded as a brilliant orator. Witherspoon moved to Paisley in 1756, where he spent ten years as Minister of the Laigh Kirk. Whilst there, he further cemented his reputation as a scholar and writer, which status got him, in 1764, an honorary doctorate from St. Andrews and invitations to ‘honourable stations’ in Dublin, Rotterdam and Dundee. Ultimately, his repute extended far beyond the confines of Paisley. In 1766, he was ‘head hunted’ for its Presidency by the College of New Jersey, an institution that later became Princeton University, but declined to leave Scotland. However, two years later, he was persuaded to leave, thanks to Benjamin Rush and letters from Benjamin Franklin.
Witherspoon arrived in Philadelphia in early August of 1768, carrying three hundred books for the college library. A couple of days later, he was greeted a mile out of Princeton by an escort of students and tutors who later illuminated Nassau Hall in celebration of his arrival. The great orator delivered his inaugural speech in Latin on the 28th of September, before “a vast Concourse of People.” Now, the nascent College was deplorably short of funds and so Witherspoon became a bit of an itinerant preacher, travelling from Massachusetts to Virginia raising contributions. On one occasion the ‘Virginia Gazette’ reported that he “preached to a crowded audience in the Capital yard and gave universal satisfaction,” to the extent that he walked away with a collection box containing “upwards of fifty-six pounds.”
According to Rush the ‘Persuader’, Witherspoon’s sermons were “loaded with good sense” and adorned with “elegance and beauty” of expression. Rather less subjectively, Rush recorded that Witherspoon didn’t use notes in the pulpit, which was unusual for the time, when most sermons were simply recited. As President of the College, Witherspoon’s main responsibility was instruction in moral philosophy, divinity, rhetoric, history, and chronology. He also taught French and, in his spare time, he was a practical gardener, but with a sense of humour. When a visitor once remarked on the absence of flowers in his garden, Witherspoon responded dryly, “Ye’ll no see ony flo’ers in my discourses either.”
According to ‘A Princeton Companion’ by Alexander Leitch, Witherspoon was a Scot from an age when the Scottish universities had a vitality possessed by no others in Great Britain. You can read that last sentence twice, if you like. Despite his religious beliefs, Witherspoon was a subscriber to John Locke’s view of the role of sensory perception in the development of the mind and to the ‘Common Sense Philosophy’ of the likes of fellow Scot, John Reid. Witherspoon is quoted as having found both “perfect sense and perfect nonsense” very interesting, but because of his insomnia and when attending the New Jersey legislature, he told his colleagues that “when there is speaking, as there often is, halfway between sense and nonsense, you must bear with me if I fall asleep.”
Witherspoon joined the Committee of Correspondence and Safety, which were collectively, shadow governments organised by the Patriot leaders, in early 1774. In June of 1776, as part of the New Jersey delegation, he was elected to the Continental Congress, a convention of delegates called together from the Thirteen Colonies and which became the governing body of the United States during the Revolution. Witherspoon served in Congress until 1782 and was one of its most influential members, serving on over one hundred committees. Those committees included the powerful Standing Committees, the Board of War and the Committee on Secret Correspondence or Foreign Affairs, in which he played a major role in shaping foreign policy Witherspoon also helped to draft the Articles of Confederation the Peace Agreement which brought an end the war. After leaving Congress in 1779, to spend the remainder of his life as he said, in “otio cum dignitate,” he was re-elected in 1781, but retired for good in November the following year.
Witherspoon was involved in the rebuilding of Princeton College, which had been destroyed during the war, and he remained its President, from his appointment in 1768 until his death. However, before that, in 1784, and aged over sixty, he was persuaded to brave the dangers of the ocean and a hostile Great Britain, in order to raise funds for Princeton. That wasn’t much of a success, but not for the want of endeavour on the part of Witherspoon. He returned to the United States and, by 1792, had succumbed to blindness, having lost an eye during his fruitless fundraising trip. Nevertheless, he was frequently led to the pulpit to continue his ministry. Finally, on the 15th of November, 1794, the man whom John Adams had pronounced “as high a Son of Liberty as any Man in America” and whom Rush called “our old Scotch Sachem” sank under the accumulated pressure of his infirmities. Born a Scot, he died an American.
Whiter you may go and whether you come back, John Witherspoon was a Scot, there’s no denying that fact. John Witherspoon was born in Scotland, but he was also a very important and influential American, being one of the signatories of the 1776 Declaration of Independence. In fact, of the fifty-six men who signed that historic document, twenty-one had some Scottish ancestry and Witherspoon was the only clergyman to sign. Witherspoon not only signed the Declaration, he was influential in its construction and in its very signing. The first draft of the Lee Resolution, otherwise known as the Resolution of Independence, and which became the United States Declaration of Independence of the 4th of July, 1776, contained a phrase that complained of the King having had sent to America “not only soldiers of our common blood, but Scotch and foreign mercenaries.” To a native Scotsman like Witherspoon, that was an insult and so he demanded the phrase be deleted.
Interestingly, for a man who became an American revolutionary, Witherspoon had earlier, in 1745, raised his own band of Beith Volunteer Militia “for the …defence of our only rightful and lawful sovereign, King George, against his enemies engaged in the Jacobite rebellion.” Years later, when some of the representatives from the Thirteen Colonies became apprehensive over taking on the might of Geordie’s British Empire, it was Witherspoon who urged them to sign the Declaration of Independence. In reply to an objection that the country wasn’t ready for such a step, Witherspoon witheringly replied that it was “not only ripe for the measure, but in danger of rotting for the want of it” and he went on to add, famously, that “There is a tide in the affairs of men, a nick of time. We perceive it now before us. To hesitate is to consent to our own slavery.”
John Witherspoon was born in Gifford, in the parish of Yester, a few miles from Edinburgh, on the 5th of February, 1722 (O.S.). John was first educated at school in Haddington and later, from 1736, at Edinburgh University. At the age of twenty-one, he finished his collegiate studies and commenced preaching, before being ordained as a Minister of the Auld Kirk on the 11th of April, 1745. Witherspoon then took up a post in Beith in Ayrshire, where he preached for twelve years, during which time he came to be regarded as a brilliant orator. Witherspoon moved to Paisley in 1756, where he spent ten years as Minister of the Laigh Kirk. Whilst there, he further cemented his reputation as a scholar and writer, which status got him, in 1764, an honorary doctorate from St. Andrews and invitations to ‘honourable stations’ in Dublin, Rotterdam and Dundee. Ultimately, his repute extended far beyond the confines of Paisley. In 1766, he was ‘head hunted’ for its Presidency by the College of New Jersey, an institution that later became Princeton University, but declined to leave Scotland. However, two years later, he was persuaded to leave, thanks to Benjamin Rush and letters from Benjamin Franklin.
Witherspoon arrived in Philadelphia in early August of 1768, carrying three hundred books for the college library. A couple of days later, he was greeted a mile out of Princeton by an escort of students and tutors who later illuminated Nassau Hall in celebration of his arrival. The great orator delivered his inaugural speech in Latin on the 28th of September, before “a vast Concourse of People.” Now, the nascent College was deplorably short of funds and so Witherspoon became a bit of an itinerant preacher, travelling from Massachusetts to Virginia raising contributions. On one occasion the ‘Virginia Gazette’ reported that he “preached to a crowded audience in the Capital yard and gave universal satisfaction,” to the extent that he walked away with a collection box containing “upwards of fifty-six pounds.”
According to Rush the ‘Persuader’, Witherspoon’s sermons were “loaded with good sense” and adorned with “elegance and beauty” of expression. Rather less subjectively, Rush recorded that Witherspoon didn’t use notes in the pulpit, which was unusual for the time, when most sermons were simply recited. As President of the College, Witherspoon’s main responsibility was instruction in moral philosophy, divinity, rhetoric, history, and chronology. He also taught French and, in his spare time, he was a practical gardener, but with a sense of humour. When a visitor once remarked on the absence of flowers in his garden, Witherspoon responded dryly, “Ye’ll no see ony flo’ers in my discourses either.”
According to ‘A Princeton Companion’ by Alexander Leitch, Witherspoon was a Scot from an age when the Scottish universities had a vitality possessed by no others in Great Britain. You can read that last sentence twice, if you like. Despite his religious beliefs, Witherspoon was a subscriber to John Locke’s view of the role of sensory perception in the development of the mind and to the ‘Common Sense Philosophy’ of the likes of fellow Scot, John Reid. Witherspoon is quoted as having found both “perfect sense and perfect nonsense” very interesting, but because of his insomnia and when attending the New Jersey legislature, he told his colleagues that “when there is speaking, as there often is, halfway between sense and nonsense, you must bear with me if I fall asleep.”
Witherspoon joined the Committee of Correspondence and Safety, which were collectively, shadow governments organised by the Patriot leaders, in early 1774. In June of 1776, as part of the New Jersey delegation, he was elected to the Continental Congress, a convention of delegates called together from the Thirteen Colonies and which became the governing body of the United States during the Revolution. Witherspoon served in Congress until 1782 and was one of its most influential members, serving on over one hundred committees. Those committees included the powerful Standing Committees, the Board of War and the Committee on Secret Correspondence or Foreign Affairs, in which he played a major role in shaping foreign policy Witherspoon also helped to draft the Articles of Confederation the Peace Agreement which brought an end the war. After leaving Congress in 1779, to spend the remainder of his life as he said, in “otio cum dignitate,” he was re-elected in 1781, but retired for good in November the following year.
Witherspoon was involved in the rebuilding of Princeton College, which had been destroyed during the war, and he remained its President, from his appointment in 1768 until his death. However, before that, in 1784, and aged over sixty, he was persuaded to brave the dangers of the ocean and a hostile Great Britain, in order to raise funds for Princeton. That wasn’t much of a success, but not for the want of endeavour on the part of Witherspoon. He returned to the United States and, by 1792, had succumbed to blindness, having lost an eye during his fruitless fundraising trip. Nevertheless, he was frequently led to the pulpit to continue his ministry. Finally, on the 15th of November, 1794, the man whom John Adams had pronounced “as high a Son of Liberty as any Man in America” and whom Rush called “our old Scotch Sachem” sank under the accumulated pressure of his infirmities. Born a Scot, he died an American.
Saturday, 12 February 2011
The S.S. 'Politician'
The S.S. ‘Politician’ ran aground on Eriskay, on the 4th of February, 1941.
There’s a traditional Scottish song about a loch that includes the lines, “how nice it would be if the whisky were free and the loch was full up to the brim.” For the inhabitants of Eriskay in 1941, the whisky did come for free and although there wasn’t a brim full loch, there was a ship whose hold was nearly full to the rim with ‘uisge beatha’. That boat was the S.S. ‘Policitian’ and she ran aground on Eriskay in gale force winds on the night of the 4th of February, 1941. You might not recognise the name of the boat, but you’ll surely ken the story. Of course, it hit the headlines at the time, although the authorities liked to have kept it quiet, and when Sir Compton MacKenzie’s novel was published in 1947, it became an international best seller. MacKenzie’s novel was entitled ‘Whisky Galore’ and it brought the Hebrides to the attention of the world. Soon after, in 1949, it spawned an ‘Ealing Comedy’ of the same name. If you’ve seen the film, you’ll have an idea of what happened, but there’s far more to the story than the events portrayed in the novel or by Basil Radford and Gordon Jackson.
The S.S. ‘Politician’ was an 8000-ton cargo vessel that was owned by T & J Harrison of Liverpool, from whence it sailed on the 3rd of February, 1941. She was bound for Kingston, Jamaica, then New Orleans, Louisiana, and her cargo included 28,000 cases of malt Scotch whisky, largely from the Edradour Distillery. If there were twelve bottles per case, that’s 336,000 bottles; if eight, then that’s 224,000 bottles – funny then, that most all of the ‘totals’ you can find on t’Internet are intermediate numbers that don’t equate to a whole number of bottles. It’s as if the crew of fifty-two had each helped themselves to the odd bottle – or ten. Maybe that’s why the ship, which should never have been sailing near Eriskay in the first place, ran aground? The vessel was on route to a rendezvous further north with a wartime transatlantic convoy, but ended up miles off course and buffeted by gales, before foundering on the Hebridean Island.
By the morning of the 5th of February, all the sailors aboard, drunken or not, had been rescued by the Islanders, but as soon as those thirsty folks realised what was in the hold, pandemonium broke loose. The locals swarmed over the vessel, liberating as much as a fifth of the whisky from its captivity, in an impromptu salvage operation. Word quickly spread and men from adjacent Barra, and from as far as Mull and Harris, arrived to claim their share of the spoils. No man could see beyond the liquid godsend, but they weren’t so heidless as to rush in like fools. Nae fear, they trod all over the ship. Cunningly, they dressed up in their womenfolks’ clothing to avoid leaving incriminating oil stains on their own togs. Juisht imagine what those women would have thought the priorities should have been, when there were far more practical items, food, cloth, crockery and furniture, amongst the cargo. For a time, Eriskay became Treasure Island as common sense prevailed and some practical items were indeed purloined, including bales of calico, which for decades afterwards were used for curtains and cushions.
The villain of the piece wasn’t the pompous, English, Home Guard Captain Paul Waggett played by Rathbone. The Islanders’ real life nemesis was a Customs Officer from Mull called Charles McColl, who stands out like a demonic Presbyterian amidst the energetically celebrating, massed Catholic souls of Eriskay, Barra and South Uist. It’s easy to see McColl as a vindictive zealot, but his officious outrage sure whipped up a furore. He had villages raided and crofts turned out, and you can imagine the ingenuity employed to hide the bottled booty. No ploy was off limits and even a coffin was used, with its occupant temporarily stowed under the nearest cot. Dispairingly, McColl the Crusader and the Police brought some forty Islanders to justice. On the 26th of April, at Lochmaddy Sherrif Court, a group of men from Barra were fined between three and five pounds, and amazingly, nineteen were actually jailed for theft; being sentenced to up to six weeks in Peterhead or Inverness. Nevertheless, deservedly or not, McColl gets a decent treatment in the book that tells the true story of ‘Whisky Galore’.
That book was researched and written by former Army Officer Arthur Swinson from St. Albans in Hertfordshire. When his ‘Scotch On The Rocks’ appeared in 1963, it got rave reviews and was even serialised in ‘The Scotsman’. The London Evening Standard called it “a rattling good read,” but Swinson had uncovered a far more intriguing story than MacKenzie’s hilarious novel. Amazingly, aboard the ship that should’ve been called S.S. ‘Political Intrigue’, there several tin boxes of Jamaican ten shilling notes. There are unsubstantiated rumours that up to £3M in cash was intended as a wartime escape fund for the Royal Windsors, should Hitler have invaded. But over the years, despite the ‘Freedom of Information Act’, there has never been a full explanation for the presence of a fortune in legal foreign currency. Allan MacDonald, a native of Eriskay, and Ray Burnett, Director of the Dicuil Institute for Island Studies, more recently spent some time investigating the cash, which MacDonald says is the real story behind ‘Whisky Galore’. Their theories are that the money was either intended to shore up the Jamaican economy, which was bankrupt at the time, or to finance dirty tricks by the colonial regime.
The total value of notes in circulation in the colony, in March of 1941, was £254,000. Compare that with the sum of £360,000, which salvor Percy Holden told Swinson he’d recovered from the ‘Politician’ before she was abandoned and sent to the authorities via the Post Office at Lochboisdale. MacDonald and Burnett uncovered evidence that Sir Arthur Richards, the Governor of Jamaica, was desperately papering over the economic cracks with ‘cash funds’. They also found evidence of a more sinister purpose, which seems to have been a deal between Richards and Alexander Bustamante, a vociferous local opponent of colonial rule, to silence his propaganda campaign. Couple that with the fact that the ship, whisky and all, was ultimately scuppered in the Sound of Eriskay and you’ve got as nice a conspiracy theory as you might want.
Who’d be crazy enough to dynamite a ship’s hold full of whisky? No Scotsman, that’s for sure. Seems like a whole lotta trouble to go to in order to prevent a few cases of Scotch from falling into the hands of a few thirsty Scots. Today, in Eriskay’s only pub, the ‘Am Politician’, one of the original bottles is on display. However, if you want to sample a wee dram, you’ll have to find for yourself one of the bottles hidden by somebody’s grandfather and long forgotten in the Machair.
There’s a traditional Scottish song about a loch that includes the lines, “how nice it would be if the whisky were free and the loch was full up to the brim.” For the inhabitants of Eriskay in 1941, the whisky did come for free and although there wasn’t a brim full loch, there was a ship whose hold was nearly full to the rim with ‘uisge beatha’. That boat was the S.S. ‘Policitian’ and she ran aground on Eriskay in gale force winds on the night of the 4th of February, 1941. You might not recognise the name of the boat, but you’ll surely ken the story. Of course, it hit the headlines at the time, although the authorities liked to have kept it quiet, and when Sir Compton MacKenzie’s novel was published in 1947, it became an international best seller. MacKenzie’s novel was entitled ‘Whisky Galore’ and it brought the Hebrides to the attention of the world. Soon after, in 1949, it spawned an ‘Ealing Comedy’ of the same name. If you’ve seen the film, you’ll have an idea of what happened, but there’s far more to the story than the events portrayed in the novel or by Basil Radford and Gordon Jackson.
The S.S. ‘Politician’ was an 8000-ton cargo vessel that was owned by T & J Harrison of Liverpool, from whence it sailed on the 3rd of February, 1941. She was bound for Kingston, Jamaica, then New Orleans, Louisiana, and her cargo included 28,000 cases of malt Scotch whisky, largely from the Edradour Distillery. If there were twelve bottles per case, that’s 336,000 bottles; if eight, then that’s 224,000 bottles – funny then, that most all of the ‘totals’ you can find on t’Internet are intermediate numbers that don’t equate to a whole number of bottles. It’s as if the crew of fifty-two had each helped themselves to the odd bottle – or ten. Maybe that’s why the ship, which should never have been sailing near Eriskay in the first place, ran aground? The vessel was on route to a rendezvous further north with a wartime transatlantic convoy, but ended up miles off course and buffeted by gales, before foundering on the Hebridean Island.
By the morning of the 5th of February, all the sailors aboard, drunken or not, had been rescued by the Islanders, but as soon as those thirsty folks realised what was in the hold, pandemonium broke loose. The locals swarmed over the vessel, liberating as much as a fifth of the whisky from its captivity, in an impromptu salvage operation. Word quickly spread and men from adjacent Barra, and from as far as Mull and Harris, arrived to claim their share of the spoils. No man could see beyond the liquid godsend, but they weren’t so heidless as to rush in like fools. Nae fear, they trod all over the ship. Cunningly, they dressed up in their womenfolks’ clothing to avoid leaving incriminating oil stains on their own togs. Juisht imagine what those women would have thought the priorities should have been, when there were far more practical items, food, cloth, crockery and furniture, amongst the cargo. For a time, Eriskay became Treasure Island as common sense prevailed and some practical items were indeed purloined, including bales of calico, which for decades afterwards were used for curtains and cushions.
The villain of the piece wasn’t the pompous, English, Home Guard Captain Paul Waggett played by Rathbone. The Islanders’ real life nemesis was a Customs Officer from Mull called Charles McColl, who stands out like a demonic Presbyterian amidst the energetically celebrating, massed Catholic souls of Eriskay, Barra and South Uist. It’s easy to see McColl as a vindictive zealot, but his officious outrage sure whipped up a furore. He had villages raided and crofts turned out, and you can imagine the ingenuity employed to hide the bottled booty. No ploy was off limits and even a coffin was used, with its occupant temporarily stowed under the nearest cot. Dispairingly, McColl the Crusader and the Police brought some forty Islanders to justice. On the 26th of April, at Lochmaddy Sherrif Court, a group of men from Barra were fined between three and five pounds, and amazingly, nineteen were actually jailed for theft; being sentenced to up to six weeks in Peterhead or Inverness. Nevertheless, deservedly or not, McColl gets a decent treatment in the book that tells the true story of ‘Whisky Galore’.
That book was researched and written by former Army Officer Arthur Swinson from St. Albans in Hertfordshire. When his ‘Scotch On The Rocks’ appeared in 1963, it got rave reviews and was even serialised in ‘The Scotsman’. The London Evening Standard called it “a rattling good read,” but Swinson had uncovered a far more intriguing story than MacKenzie’s hilarious novel. Amazingly, aboard the ship that should’ve been called S.S. ‘Political Intrigue’, there several tin boxes of Jamaican ten shilling notes. There are unsubstantiated rumours that up to £3M in cash was intended as a wartime escape fund for the Royal Windsors, should Hitler have invaded. But over the years, despite the ‘Freedom of Information Act’, there has never been a full explanation for the presence of a fortune in legal foreign currency. Allan MacDonald, a native of Eriskay, and Ray Burnett, Director of the Dicuil Institute for Island Studies, more recently spent some time investigating the cash, which MacDonald says is the real story behind ‘Whisky Galore’. Their theories are that the money was either intended to shore up the Jamaican economy, which was bankrupt at the time, or to finance dirty tricks by the colonial regime.
The total value of notes in circulation in the colony, in March of 1941, was £254,000. Compare that with the sum of £360,000, which salvor Percy Holden told Swinson he’d recovered from the ‘Politician’ before she was abandoned and sent to the authorities via the Post Office at Lochboisdale. MacDonald and Burnett uncovered evidence that Sir Arthur Richards, the Governor of Jamaica, was desperately papering over the economic cracks with ‘cash funds’. They also found evidence of a more sinister purpose, which seems to have been a deal between Richards and Alexander Bustamante, a vociferous local opponent of colonial rule, to silence his propaganda campaign. Couple that with the fact that the ship, whisky and all, was ultimately scuppered in the Sound of Eriskay and you’ve got as nice a conspiracy theory as you might want.
Who’d be crazy enough to dynamite a ship’s hold full of whisky? No Scotsman, that’s for sure. Seems like a whole lotta trouble to go to in order to prevent a few cases of Scotch from falling into the hands of a few thirsty Scots. Today, in Eriskay’s only pub, the ‘Am Politician’, one of the original bottles is on display. However, if you want to sample a wee dram, you’ll have to find for yourself one of the bottles hidden by somebody’s grandfather and long forgotten in the Machair.
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
The Lesser Great Fire of 1700 in Edinburgh
On the 3rd of February, 1700, a major fire occurred in Edinburgh.
Every day for centuries, lots and lots of people have lit fires in Edinburgh. Whether logs or coal or briquettes or moss peat, folks need some heat. However, once or thrice, at least, fires have raged out of control through Auld Reekie’s streets. On one particular occasion, on the 3rd of Feburary, 1700, just over three years before the formation of Edinburgh’s first ever official Fire Brigade, a severe fire destroyed many buildings around Parliament Close. At that time, the population of Edinburgh was estimated to have been between 50,000 and 60,000 souls – that’s live human beings, not imagined ‘afterlife-lings’. The Lesser Great Fire of 1700 was truly dreadful and, according to ‘Maitland’s History of Edinburgh’, it “broke out at the north eastern corner of the Meal Market, about ten of the clock on Saturday night, on the third of February, all that magnificent pile of buildings (exclusive of the Treasury Room) on the eastern and southern sides of the Parliament Close, with the Exchange, were destroyed.”
Some of the buildings destroyed in the fire of 1700 were fifteen storeys high – Europe’s original skyscrapers. In fact, as reported in Blackwood’s Magazine of December 1824, the later Greater Great Fire of 1824 “broke out in the upper floor of a house on the south side of the Parliament Square remarkable as being the highest building in Edinburgh and further as having been built on the site of a house of no less than fifteen floors which was destroyed along with all the other buildings on the south and east sides in a memorable fire which happened in 1700.” The overcrowding in the limited space of the Old Town was what led to the buildings being expanded skywards. The lower floors were inhabited by merchants and artisans like Deacon Brodie, who had their own shops and, on the upper floors, where you might expect to find the upper class, you’d find instead the poorest of Edinburgh’s residents. In between is where you’d find the likes of advocates and doctors.
Some of the tallest tenements in the City were built on the south side of Parliament Square, because of the steep fall of the ground down to the Cowgate. And originally, George IV Bridge, northwards from today’s Central Library, also consisted of tenements towering over the Grassmarket and West Bow. Quite unbelievable you might think, but Robert Louis Stephenson captured the City’s authentic heights in the latter stages of ‘Kidnapped’, when his character of David Balfour passed in by the West Kirk and the Grassmarket on his way into the City. About noontime, as the novel’s first person hero approaches, he recollects that the height of the buildings ran “up to ten and fifteen storeys.” Young David goes on to describe “narrow arched entries that continually vomited passengers,” and breathes life into a scene where “the wares of the merchants, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the fine clothes… struck [him] into a kind of stupor of surprise.”
In the 1700s, Parliament Square was the hub of the Old Town. There you could find book sellers, watchmakers and goldsmiths shops, just like you can today, albeit now mixed up with souvenir shops and the like. Back in the 18th Century, merchants met to conduct their business at the Mercat Cross, where incidentally, the Marquess of Montrose was executed, and lawyers could be seen heading for the courts. The famous quadrant was first constructed in 1632 and Parliament House, which ultimately gave its name to the Square, was built in 1641. It was intended not only to accommodate the Parliament, but also the Court of Session and it was erected on the site of the old graveyard of St. Giles’ Kirk. The graveyard was officially closed in 1566, but tradition has it that an exception was made for John Knox, whose last resting place is said to marked by a yellow square, near to the statue of Charles II – where these days, folks can park their cars. Ye maun wonder what the ‘Great Reformer’ would mak o’ that transformation.
Parliament House was threatened by the Lesser Great Fire of 1700. It was used by the Scottish Parliament until the Treaty of Union, in 1707, and has remained largely unchanged since the time when it could be described as “the busiest and most populous nook of the Old Town.” Much of what you can see in the Square today was created in the early 1800s, with Parliament House getting its new classical facade courtesy of Robert Reid. At the time of the fire, in 1700, Parliament House was also home to what are now the National Archives of Scotland; what in those days was known as the Scottish Record Office. The archives date back to at least the 13th Century and its records were, for a time, held in Edinburgh Castle. Between 1662 and 1689, they were removed to the Parliament House on the Royal Mile. Maybe the fire was started by some auld mannie trying to do something about the terrible damp that saw cupboards in the House running with moisture? The damp surely didnae dae the archives much good, but a fire was potentially fatal. As Parliament House was threatened by the fire, the records were removed, temporarily, to St. Giles’ Kirk, for safety’s sake.
One of the buildings destroyed in the Lesser Great Fire of 1700 was a house off Parliament Close, which housed a library. That book repository was the embryonic National Library of Scotland – as envisaged. Finally, in 1925, the National Library formally come into existence; in the distinctive building that now stands opposite the Central Library on George IV Bridge. Amongst the Library’s treasures is Blind Harry’s ‘Wallace’ and it’s a very good thing that survived the fire. The National Library also contains numerous documents, including letters by Mary I, Queen of Scots; one of the copies of the National Covenant of 1638; and the order that brought about the Massacre of Glencoe in 1692.
Every school boy knows that the Bank of England was founded by a Scotsman, William Paterson, in 1694. So, not to be outdone, the very next year of 1695, an Englishman, John Holland it is said, rode north and founded the oldest bank in Scotland, the eponymous Bank of Scotland. The Bank’s first office was in Myln Square, until 1696, when it moved to Parliament Close. A poor decision it proved to be as it too became a victim of the Lesser Great Fire of 1700. After that, the Bank moved its office to Gourley’s Close. And finally, Maitland’s ‘History’ also quotes an Act of Parliament of the time, which enacted that “no building to be erected in the City thereafter, shall exceed five stories in height” and, in addition, even gave directions as to the thickness of the walls. Blackwood’s Magazine, the same of 1824, also noted that latter aspect of the Act had “not been attended to in any building erected within these fifty years.”
Every day for centuries, lots and lots of people have lit fires in Edinburgh. Whether logs or coal or briquettes or moss peat, folks need some heat. However, once or thrice, at least, fires have raged out of control through Auld Reekie’s streets. On one particular occasion, on the 3rd of Feburary, 1700, just over three years before the formation of Edinburgh’s first ever official Fire Brigade, a severe fire destroyed many buildings around Parliament Close. At that time, the population of Edinburgh was estimated to have been between 50,000 and 60,000 souls – that’s live human beings, not imagined ‘afterlife-lings’. The Lesser Great Fire of 1700 was truly dreadful and, according to ‘Maitland’s History of Edinburgh’, it “broke out at the north eastern corner of the Meal Market, about ten of the clock on Saturday night, on the third of February, all that magnificent pile of buildings (exclusive of the Treasury Room) on the eastern and southern sides of the Parliament Close, with the Exchange, were destroyed.”
Some of the buildings destroyed in the fire of 1700 were fifteen storeys high – Europe’s original skyscrapers. In fact, as reported in Blackwood’s Magazine of December 1824, the later Greater Great Fire of 1824 “broke out in the upper floor of a house on the south side of the Parliament Square remarkable as being the highest building in Edinburgh and further as having been built on the site of a house of no less than fifteen floors which was destroyed along with all the other buildings on the south and east sides in a memorable fire which happened in 1700.” The overcrowding in the limited space of the Old Town was what led to the buildings being expanded skywards. The lower floors were inhabited by merchants and artisans like Deacon Brodie, who had their own shops and, on the upper floors, where you might expect to find the upper class, you’d find instead the poorest of Edinburgh’s residents. In between is where you’d find the likes of advocates and doctors.
Some of the tallest tenements in the City were built on the south side of Parliament Square, because of the steep fall of the ground down to the Cowgate. And originally, George IV Bridge, northwards from today’s Central Library, also consisted of tenements towering over the Grassmarket and West Bow. Quite unbelievable you might think, but Robert Louis Stephenson captured the City’s authentic heights in the latter stages of ‘Kidnapped’, when his character of David Balfour passed in by the West Kirk and the Grassmarket on his way into the City. About noontime, as the novel’s first person hero approaches, he recollects that the height of the buildings ran “up to ten and fifteen storeys.” Young David goes on to describe “narrow arched entries that continually vomited passengers,” and breathes life into a scene where “the wares of the merchants, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the fine clothes… struck [him] into a kind of stupor of surprise.”
In the 1700s, Parliament Square was the hub of the Old Town. There you could find book sellers, watchmakers and goldsmiths shops, just like you can today, albeit now mixed up with souvenir shops and the like. Back in the 18th Century, merchants met to conduct their business at the Mercat Cross, where incidentally, the Marquess of Montrose was executed, and lawyers could be seen heading for the courts. The famous quadrant was first constructed in 1632 and Parliament House, which ultimately gave its name to the Square, was built in 1641. It was intended not only to accommodate the Parliament, but also the Court of Session and it was erected on the site of the old graveyard of St. Giles’ Kirk. The graveyard was officially closed in 1566, but tradition has it that an exception was made for John Knox, whose last resting place is said to marked by a yellow square, near to the statue of Charles II – where these days, folks can park their cars. Ye maun wonder what the ‘Great Reformer’ would mak o’ that transformation.
Parliament House was threatened by the Lesser Great Fire of 1700. It was used by the Scottish Parliament until the Treaty of Union, in 1707, and has remained largely unchanged since the time when it could be described as “the busiest and most populous nook of the Old Town.” Much of what you can see in the Square today was created in the early 1800s, with Parliament House getting its new classical facade courtesy of Robert Reid. At the time of the fire, in 1700, Parliament House was also home to what are now the National Archives of Scotland; what in those days was known as the Scottish Record Office. The archives date back to at least the 13th Century and its records were, for a time, held in Edinburgh Castle. Between 1662 and 1689, they were removed to the Parliament House on the Royal Mile. Maybe the fire was started by some auld mannie trying to do something about the terrible damp that saw cupboards in the House running with moisture? The damp surely didnae dae the archives much good, but a fire was potentially fatal. As Parliament House was threatened by the fire, the records were removed, temporarily, to St. Giles’ Kirk, for safety’s sake.
One of the buildings destroyed in the Lesser Great Fire of 1700 was a house off Parliament Close, which housed a library. That book repository was the embryonic National Library of Scotland – as envisaged. Finally, in 1925, the National Library formally come into existence; in the distinctive building that now stands opposite the Central Library on George IV Bridge. Amongst the Library’s treasures is Blind Harry’s ‘Wallace’ and it’s a very good thing that survived the fire. The National Library also contains numerous documents, including letters by Mary I, Queen of Scots; one of the copies of the National Covenant of 1638; and the order that brought about the Massacre of Glencoe in 1692.
Every school boy knows that the Bank of England was founded by a Scotsman, William Paterson, in 1694. So, not to be outdone, the very next year of 1695, an Englishman, John Holland it is said, rode north and founded the oldest bank in Scotland, the eponymous Bank of Scotland. The Bank’s first office was in Myln Square, until 1696, when it moved to Parliament Close. A poor decision it proved to be as it too became a victim of the Lesser Great Fire of 1700. After that, the Bank moved its office to Gourley’s Close. And finally, Maitland’s ‘History’ also quotes an Act of Parliament of the time, which enacted that “no building to be erected in the City thereafter, shall exceed five stories in height” and, in addition, even gave directions as to the thickness of the walls. Blackwood’s Magazine, the same of 1824, also noted that latter aspect of the Act had “not been attended to in any building erected within these fifty years.”
Thursday, 3 February 2011
The Battle of Inverlochy
The Battle of Inverlochy took place on the 2nd of February, 1645.
The Battle of Inverlochy was Montrose’s third battle and a significant battle in several ways. At Tippermuir and Aberdeen, the previous year, James Graham, 5th Earl and 1st Marquess of Montrose, had successfully destroyed the Covenant Armies sent to stop him, mainly because those troops were green, inexperienced soldiers. The Graham’s army included the veterans of Alasdair Mac Colla’s Irish Brigade, and the Highlanders of Clan MacDonald and other Clans, such as Robertson, Cameron, MacKinnon, MacLean, Ogilvy, the Stewarts of Appin. At Inverlochy, Montrose had more or less the same army, albeit significantly reduced in numbers, but his foe was to have been none other than the ‘Mac Cailean Mór’ and his Campbells; Highlanders also, and proud of it.
Montrose’s Clansmen, especially the MacDonalds, bore a grudge against the Campbells and that added to the significance of the battle; in not just the outcome, but also the aftermath. The Campbell Marquess of Argyll was a political animal and one who had played a canny hand in the affairs of the Covenanters, most all of which was to his own benefit. He was no friend of Montrose despite them both being signatories of the National Covenant and indeed, he had been responsible for Montrose having spent a bit of a vacation in Edinburgh Castle in the recent past. But Montrose had declared for the King, Charles I, whilst Argyll had lined up on the side of the King’s enemies. Looking on dispassionately at the time, without the benefit of hindsight and history, perhaps that position looked far less of a gamble.
Bringing Archibald Campbell’s army at Inverlochy up to its total of around three thousand men, were lowland militia regiments; veterans of Marston Moor and Newcastle. This was after all, the Wars of the Three Kingdoms; involving fighting in Ireland as well as in Scotland and England. Significantly, however, on the day of the battle at Inverlochy, Argyll, brave man that he was, didn’t hang around for the festivities. Instead, he retired to the safety of a galley on Loch Linnhe and left his army under the command of General Sir Duncan Campbell, 2nd Baronet and 6th Lord of Auchinbreck. Perhaps more significant, it was the second time that Argyll had preferred to get his feet wet rather than fight in person as, whilst Montrose sacked the Campbell stronghold of Inverary, Argyll had also taken to his galley. So much for the mighty Campbell, more ‘beag’ than ‘mór’.
After Inverary, Montrose headed north with the bulk of his hungry army; a remainder comprising something like fifteen hundred men. Back ashore, Argyll followed him north. Montrose crossed Rannoch Moor into Glencoe, then the high passes into Glen Nevis, before moving around the northern slopes of the Ben, circumventing Inverlochy Castle and continuing up the Great Glen to Kilcummin, where he intended to re-supply. Argyll marched his army through Lorne and crossed Loch Leven by the Ballachulish ferry, before arriving at Inverlochy on the 1st of February. Ahead of Montrose, at Inverness, there awaited another Covenanter army under the Earl of Seaforth, of which he was well aware. Significantly, Montrose also became aware of the presence of Argyll, thirty miles south and behind.
What happened next was very significant and very audacious; something of which Carl Philipp Gottlieb von Clausewitz himsel’ would’ve been very proud. In what has been described as one of the greatest outflanking manoeuvres in British military history, Montrose proposed that his army would about face and march south and about to come up behind that of his fellow Marquess. Easier said than done, of course, which is why it was so very heroic. Not only daring, but difficult as the Royalist army had to negotiate some of the toughest and most inhospitable terrain Scotland had to offer in order to mount its surprise attack. Montrose’s men faced a two-day march in the middle of winter, over paths that were, in places, knee deep in snow. But Montrose was sure of the quality of his hardy Highlanders and of the battle hardened Irish under his able Lieutenant ‘Alasdair Mac Colla Chiotaich Mac Domhnaill’ (Alasdair the son of Colla the Left-handed MacDonald), sometimes mistakenly referred to as ‘Colkitto’, a name of his father’s. Besides, the prospect of a fight with the Campbells gave them an added incentive. In fact, the forced march took over two and a half days, by the end of which time, Montrose and his furtive army had arrived at Inverlochy by the base of ‘Meall-an-t’suidhe’.
Perhaps what sent Argyll aboard the ‘Dubhlinnseach’ was the fleg he got when he looked out from under his plaid just before dawn on the 2nd of February and saw Montrose’s army through the mist. Unlikely, as no doubt he was already aboard the galley. If you were being kind, you might even suggest that he was blissfully unaware that an enemy, which he still believed was still thirty miles to the north, was so close. Argyll spread his dark sails and headed out to sea when the battle didn’t go his way, but his not being there on dry land at the outset surely didn’t do much for the morale of his Clansmen, which was another moment of significance. Also significantly, the MacDonald Bard, Iain Lom MacDonald, made an appearance in the story. Before the Royalist army had drawn up in its battle lines, he’d been seen slipping off to climb a tree. He was challenged by Mac Colla, when the ‘Devastator’ is reputed to have said, “Iain Lom wilt thou leave us?” to which Iain Manntach’s reply was, “If I g-g-go with thee today and fall in b-b-attle, who will sing thy p-p-praises and thy p-p-rowess tomorrow?” The stammering Bard of Keppoch was there, not to fight, but to record the deeds of his Clansmen; immortalise their bravery and praise their butchery of the enemy, which is just what they did.
Apart from Auchinbreck, there were several significant Campbells amongst the Covenanter army. Also there, were the Lairds of Lochnell and Rarra, alongside the Provost of Kilmun and Gillespie, son of Gillespie Og, Laird of Bingingeadhs. None of them made it back to their beds that night. With Montrose were Mac Colla and his Irishmen, including Manus O’Cahan and Colonel James (O’Neill) MacDonald, and notably, Ronald Og MacDonald, Alexander Robertson, the 12th Chief, and Sir Thomas Ogilvie. Despite being outnumbered two to one, Montrose’s men were victorious. There were some isolated pockets of resistance amongst the Covenanter army, Campbell’s and Lowlanders alike, but those were soon overwhelmed and the remnants turned to flee. When they broke and scarpered, their retreat past the castle was blocked by Ogilvie’s cavalry, but poor Sir Thomas was badly wounded by a stray bullet in that action and died a few days later. The Campbells were pursued by the MacDonalds, out for revenge, and only tiredness and exhaustion prevented them from totally massacring their foes in a running slaughter that allegedly continued for fourteen miles. The small garrison in Inverlochy castle surrendered without a fight. In all, over fifteen hundred Covenanter troops were wounded or perished that day, while Montrose is reputed to have lost only eight men, the most notable being Ogilvie.
The final significant act concerned one particular prisoner. Auchinbreck, who had been a commander in the Covenanter army in Ireland, had also been responsible for outrages against Mac Colla’s Irish cousins in Antrim. In addition, he had plotted to assassinate Alasdair when that man had tried to reconcile with the Scottish army, following the defeat at Glen Maquin. With such an enemy at his mercy, Mac Colla is said to have generously offered Auchinbreck two choices; to be made longer or shorter – hanged or decapitated. Auchinbreck’s retort was along the lines of “da dhiu gun aon roghain,” which roughly translated means ‘two alternatives with no real choice’. Whereupon Mac Colla, without more ado, swung his two handed sword and lopped off the top of Auchinbreck’s head, from just above the ears, like the top of a soft-boiled egg. And that signifies the end of the story of the Battle of Inverlochy.
The Battle of Inverlochy was Montrose’s third battle and a significant battle in several ways. At Tippermuir and Aberdeen, the previous year, James Graham, 5th Earl and 1st Marquess of Montrose, had successfully destroyed the Covenant Armies sent to stop him, mainly because those troops were green, inexperienced soldiers. The Graham’s army included the veterans of Alasdair Mac Colla’s Irish Brigade, and the Highlanders of Clan MacDonald and other Clans, such as Robertson, Cameron, MacKinnon, MacLean, Ogilvy, the Stewarts of Appin. At Inverlochy, Montrose had more or less the same army, albeit significantly reduced in numbers, but his foe was to have been none other than the ‘Mac Cailean Mór’ and his Campbells; Highlanders also, and proud of it.
Montrose’s Clansmen, especially the MacDonalds, bore a grudge against the Campbells and that added to the significance of the battle; in not just the outcome, but also the aftermath. The Campbell Marquess of Argyll was a political animal and one who had played a canny hand in the affairs of the Covenanters, most all of which was to his own benefit. He was no friend of Montrose despite them both being signatories of the National Covenant and indeed, he had been responsible for Montrose having spent a bit of a vacation in Edinburgh Castle in the recent past. But Montrose had declared for the King, Charles I, whilst Argyll had lined up on the side of the King’s enemies. Looking on dispassionately at the time, without the benefit of hindsight and history, perhaps that position looked far less of a gamble.
Bringing Archibald Campbell’s army at Inverlochy up to its total of around three thousand men, were lowland militia regiments; veterans of Marston Moor and Newcastle. This was after all, the Wars of the Three Kingdoms; involving fighting in Ireland as well as in Scotland and England. Significantly, however, on the day of the battle at Inverlochy, Argyll, brave man that he was, didn’t hang around for the festivities. Instead, he retired to the safety of a galley on Loch Linnhe and left his army under the command of General Sir Duncan Campbell, 2nd Baronet and 6th Lord of Auchinbreck. Perhaps more significant, it was the second time that Argyll had preferred to get his feet wet rather than fight in person as, whilst Montrose sacked the Campbell stronghold of Inverary, Argyll had also taken to his galley. So much for the mighty Campbell, more ‘beag’ than ‘mór’.
After Inverary, Montrose headed north with the bulk of his hungry army; a remainder comprising something like fifteen hundred men. Back ashore, Argyll followed him north. Montrose crossed Rannoch Moor into Glencoe, then the high passes into Glen Nevis, before moving around the northern slopes of the Ben, circumventing Inverlochy Castle and continuing up the Great Glen to Kilcummin, where he intended to re-supply. Argyll marched his army through Lorne and crossed Loch Leven by the Ballachulish ferry, before arriving at Inverlochy on the 1st of February. Ahead of Montrose, at Inverness, there awaited another Covenanter army under the Earl of Seaforth, of which he was well aware. Significantly, Montrose also became aware of the presence of Argyll, thirty miles south and behind.
What happened next was very significant and very audacious; something of which Carl Philipp Gottlieb von Clausewitz himsel’ would’ve been very proud. In what has been described as one of the greatest outflanking manoeuvres in British military history, Montrose proposed that his army would about face and march south and about to come up behind that of his fellow Marquess. Easier said than done, of course, which is why it was so very heroic. Not only daring, but difficult as the Royalist army had to negotiate some of the toughest and most inhospitable terrain Scotland had to offer in order to mount its surprise attack. Montrose’s men faced a two-day march in the middle of winter, over paths that were, in places, knee deep in snow. But Montrose was sure of the quality of his hardy Highlanders and of the battle hardened Irish under his able Lieutenant ‘Alasdair Mac Colla Chiotaich Mac Domhnaill’ (Alasdair the son of Colla the Left-handed MacDonald), sometimes mistakenly referred to as ‘Colkitto’, a name of his father’s. Besides, the prospect of a fight with the Campbells gave them an added incentive. In fact, the forced march took over two and a half days, by the end of which time, Montrose and his furtive army had arrived at Inverlochy by the base of ‘Meall-an-t’suidhe’.
Perhaps what sent Argyll aboard the ‘Dubhlinnseach’ was the fleg he got when he looked out from under his plaid just before dawn on the 2nd of February and saw Montrose’s army through the mist. Unlikely, as no doubt he was already aboard the galley. If you were being kind, you might even suggest that he was blissfully unaware that an enemy, which he still believed was still thirty miles to the north, was so close. Argyll spread his dark sails and headed out to sea when the battle didn’t go his way, but his not being there on dry land at the outset surely didn’t do much for the morale of his Clansmen, which was another moment of significance. Also significantly, the MacDonald Bard, Iain Lom MacDonald, made an appearance in the story. Before the Royalist army had drawn up in its battle lines, he’d been seen slipping off to climb a tree. He was challenged by Mac Colla, when the ‘Devastator’ is reputed to have said, “Iain Lom wilt thou leave us?” to which Iain Manntach’s reply was, “If I g-g-go with thee today and fall in b-b-attle, who will sing thy p-p-praises and thy p-p-rowess tomorrow?” The stammering Bard of Keppoch was there, not to fight, but to record the deeds of his Clansmen; immortalise their bravery and praise their butchery of the enemy, which is just what they did.
Apart from Auchinbreck, there were several significant Campbells amongst the Covenanter army. Also there, were the Lairds of Lochnell and Rarra, alongside the Provost of Kilmun and Gillespie, son of Gillespie Og, Laird of Bingingeadhs. None of them made it back to their beds that night. With Montrose were Mac Colla and his Irishmen, including Manus O’Cahan and Colonel James (O’Neill) MacDonald, and notably, Ronald Og MacDonald, Alexander Robertson, the 12th Chief, and Sir Thomas Ogilvie. Despite being outnumbered two to one, Montrose’s men were victorious. There were some isolated pockets of resistance amongst the Covenanter army, Campbell’s and Lowlanders alike, but those were soon overwhelmed and the remnants turned to flee. When they broke and scarpered, their retreat past the castle was blocked by Ogilvie’s cavalry, but poor Sir Thomas was badly wounded by a stray bullet in that action and died a few days later. The Campbells were pursued by the MacDonalds, out for revenge, and only tiredness and exhaustion prevented them from totally massacring their foes in a running slaughter that allegedly continued for fourteen miles. The small garrison in Inverlochy castle surrendered without a fight. In all, over fifteen hundred Covenanter troops were wounded or perished that day, while Montrose is reputed to have lost only eight men, the most notable being Ogilvie.
The final significant act concerned one particular prisoner. Auchinbreck, who had been a commander in the Covenanter army in Ireland, had also been responsible for outrages against Mac Colla’s Irish cousins in Antrim. In addition, he had plotted to assassinate Alasdair when that man had tried to reconcile with the Scottish army, following the defeat at Glen Maquin. With such an enemy at his mercy, Mac Colla is said to have generously offered Auchinbreck two choices; to be made longer or shorter – hanged or decapitated. Auchinbreck’s retort was along the lines of “da dhiu gun aon roghain,” which roughly translated means ‘two alternatives with no real choice’. Whereupon Mac Colla, without more ado, swung his two handed sword and lopped off the top of Auchinbreck’s head, from just above the ears, like the top of a soft-boiled egg. And that signifies the end of the story of the Battle of Inverlochy.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
'Bloody Friday' - the Battle of George Square
On the 1st of February 1919, the day after ‘Bloody Friday’, tanks and troops appeared in Glasgow.
“I rode a tank
In the General Strike
When the workers raged
And Government stank.”
[Updated] Anyone with an interest in 20th Century politics and the history of Scotland will undoubtedly have seen a famous, black and white image of ‘Red Clydeside’. It’s a newspaper photograph of the raising of the ‘Red Flag’ above thousands of striking engineering workers who massed in Glasgow’s George Square during the ‘General Strike’ of 1919. The mass demonstration became the notorious ‘Battle of George Square’ and it took place on the last day of January, 1919. The newspapers of the following day dubbed it ‘Bloody Friday’ and the extraordinary industrial and political militancy that spawned those events led the Russian revolutionary leader, Vladimir Lenin, to dub Glasgow “the Petrograd of the West.” By the next day, the 1st of February, the Government had deployed its soldiers and tanks on the streets of Glasgow.
After the First World War, the campaign for a shorter working week and improved conditions for workers remobilised the organised labour movement. In 1919, Glasgow’s engineering unions called for a general strike, starting on the 27th of January, to demand a 40-hour week. That took place in the midst of an era of political radicalism known as ‘Red Clydeside’, which was a significant landmark in the development of the movement in the Un
ited Kingdom, and Scotland in particular. It grew out of socio-political militancy amongst industrial workers on the banks of the River Clyde; in places such as Clydebank, Greenock and Paisley, and it lasted from the 1910s until, roughly, the 1930s.
ited Kingdom, and Scotland in particular. It grew out of socio-political militancy amongst industrial workers on the banks of the River Clyde; in places such as Clydebank, Greenock and Paisley, and it lasted from the 1910s until, roughly, the 1930s.
Of course, the media of the day brought the term ‘Red Clydeside’ into popular consciousness, but that’s fine; that’s a purpose of newspapers. In some ways, it was a 20th Century manifestation of the concerns that led to the formation of the ‘Friends of the People’ in 1792 and the ‘Radical War’ of 1820. As the organised left grew to replace the Liberal Party as the party of the working class, several ‘Red Clydesiders’ were elected to Parliament at the 1922 General Election. Two of the Clyde Workers’ Committee strike leaders, Emanuel Shinwell and David Kirkwood, joined other Independent Labour Party members, such as James Maxton, John Wheatley, Neil Maclean and George Buchanan, in the House of Commons.
On the 31st of January, a massive trade union rally took place in George Square, where it has been claimed that as many as 90,000 were present when the ‘Red Flag’ was raised. However, contemporary reports in newspapers at the time refer to a figure of 20-25,000. Whilst the flag was run up, strike leaders were meeting inside the City Chambers with the Lord Provost, Sir James Watson Stewart, who was due to read a public response from the Government to the Unions’ request for intervention. Outside, it was a riot. It has been said that it started after a tram tried to make its way through the square, but whatever provocation the Police might have had in its collective heads to justify its actions, a baton charge was mounted against what had been, up to that point, a peaceful demonstration.
Issue 237 of the ‘Socialist Review’ (January, 2000) suggests the Police acted “under secret Cabinet orders”, but in any case, as reported in the Glasgow Herald of the 1st of February, the Police launched a savage baton charge on the demonstrators, “raining a hurricane of blows which fell indiscriminately” felling men and women. The crowd, with many ex-servicemen to the fore, quickly retaliated with fists, iron railings, which were pulled up, and bottles from a passing lorry, before forcing the Police into a retreat. The casualty list appeared in the Herald; 53 persons, including 19 Police Officers, with the majority of the injured being treated at the Royal Infirmary.
Sheriff MacKenzie attempted to read the ‘Riot Act’, but it was torn from his hands and fighting continued, in and around the city centre streets, throughout the rest of the day and into the night. The Townhead area of the City and Glasgow Green, where many of the demonstrators had regrouped after the initial Police charge, were the scenes of running battles. Earlier, when the noise reached the Provost’s office, the strike leaders rushed out to see what was happening. Kirkwood was promptly felled by a police baton and, along with Gallacher, Shinwell, Harry Hopkins and George Edbury, was arrested and charged with incitement to riot. The next day, the 1st of February, the front page of ‘The Strike Bulletin’, the official publication of the ‘40 Hours Movement’, carried the headline “Glasgow’s Bloody Friday – Brutal attack on defenceless strikers.”
At the news of the gathering, the Coalition Government appears to have panicked. No doubt it feared a threat to order, but maybe even a Bolshevik-style insurrection. After all, it was only fourteen months since the Russian Revolution and the German Revolution was a current affair. In fact, the Secretary of State for Scotland, Robert Munro, said at the time, “It is a misnomer to call the situation in Glasgow a Strike - this is a Bolshevist uprising.” Claims that Winston Churchill sent 10,000 soldiers armed with machine guns, six tanks and a 4.5 inch Howitzer to Glasgow in “the largest deployment of British troops on native soil” have since been proven to have been a bit of a myth [see note].
At the request of the Sheriff of Lanarkshire, the army began to arrive in Glasgow on the Friday night and were deployed on its streets over the weekend, in a calculated show of force, both infantry and cavalry. The military occupied the City Chambers. Six tanks took up residence at the Glasgow Cattle Market in the Gallowgate. Machine guns were posted on the top of the North British Hotel and the General Post Office, and armed troops with fixed bayonets stood sentry outside railway stations and bridges, the electric power stations and gasworks.
The Strike Bulletin of the 10th of February referred to the Government’s intent in what was referred to as ‘Regulation 965’, which stated ominously that “It is undesirable that firing should take place over the heads of rioters or that blank cartridges should be used.” Other ‘rules’, such as reading the ‘Riot Act’ or consulting with Magistrates, were only to be followed “if time (or circumstances) permits.” It's also interesting to note that the Glasgow Herald of Monday, the 3rd of February, 1919, carried several articles about the events of Friday night and the weekend troop deployments. One item records that the authorities are entitled to disperse the assembly and “if any shall be killed by reason of resistance all concerned are discharged of the consequences [?] and if within the hour violence is used on the part of the mob, force may be instantly used to repress violence.”
The local regiment was confined to its barracks in Maryhill, fearing the Glasgow troops would sympathise with the strikers, but the claim that all deployed troops were English isn’t backed up by contemporary accounts, which stress the youth and inexperience of the soldiers, rather than national origins. There are mixed reports, such as in ‘The Times’ of the 3rd of February, 1919, in which a veteran, based with the Seaforth Highlanders at Cromarty, recalls, “We had no idea what was going on in Glasgow. But one morning the whole battalion was paraded and all men from Glasgow and district were told to come out to the front of the parade. We thought that was us going to be demobbed, but instead we were kept in Cromarty while all the rest (around 700 men) were sent to Glasgow to shoot if it were necessary.”
Contrast with the January 30th Minutes of the War Cabinet Meeting, which record Sir William Robertson stating that “there were certain disadvantages in employing Scottish troops, but on the whole he thought it would be safer to use them than to import English battalions.” Also, the ‘Evening News’ of the 31st of January reported “long columns of khaki-clad men who belong to the Seaforths, the Gordons and other Highland regiments, and the Glasgow Herald of Monday, the 3rd of February, reported that “The troops belong to English and Scottish regiments, and are fully armed.”
Note: for more information on Churchill and the tanks, see here .
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