On the 15th of September, 1507, James IV granted a Royal Patent authorising Scotland’s first printing press.
You will no doubt be surprised that the printing press with moveable types wasn’t invented by a Scotsman. However, Scots have certainly made good use of the technology since it was invented by Johannes Gutenberg in Mainz, around 1439. It was a good fifty years after Gutenberg’s monopoly was revoked before a press found its way to Scotland. By the arbitrary Incunabulum date of 1500, when around a thousand printing presses were in operation throughout Western Europe and had produced anything between eight and twenty million books, Scotland still lacked a press of its own.
Nevertheless, the Scots hadn’t been idle bystanders as many were educated in France and elsewhere and brought back printed books from the Continent. Some Scots, such as the Aberdonian philosopher, James Liddell, had their work published in France. In fact, according to ‘The Story of Books’ by Gertrude Burford Rawlings (New York; D. Appleton & Co., 1901), Liddell’s Ars obligatoria logicalis and Tractatus conceptuum et signorum, were printed in Paris in the mid-1490s. There were also a few early Scottish exponents of the art of printing based in Paris. Amongst those was David Lauxius of Edinburgh, who in 1496 was named as a press corrector in the colophon of Jordanus Nemorarius’ Arithmetica. Another Scot who had served his apprenticeship as a printer in France was Androw Myllar and he was the man who brought the art to his native country.
Myllar was an Edinburgh bookseller who imported books from England and France, where he learned the printer’s craft in Rouen. Myllar’s windmill device appeared on at least one book he had printed in Rouen, in 1506. According to Rawlings, two books, which are extant, were printed in Rouen for Myllar, probably by Laurence Hostingue, albeit Duncan Glen, in a 2006 article called ‘Printing Comes to Scotland’ suggests it could’ve been Pierre Violette. According to a translation of its colophon, the first is “The Book of certain ‘Words Equivocal’ …along with an interpretation in the English tongue… Which Androw Myllar, a Scotsman, has been solicitous should be printed… In the year of the Christian Redemption, One thousand five hundred and fifth.” That work is by the English Poet and grammarian, Johannes de Garlandia (John Garland). The second ‘Myllar’ book is an Expositio Seqentiarum, which was printed in 1506.
When he arrived back in Scotland in 1507, Myllar gained the financial backing of Walter Chepman, a wealthy Edinburgh merchant trader and a man who appears to have had the ear of the King, James IV. Chepman also seems to have gained a lot of the credit for Scotland’s first printed books, but then, he was the money man; with enough sillar to be able to fund the building of the Chepman aisle in St. Giles’ Cathedral, which he dedicated to his King and Queen. Nevertheless, Myllar was the man with the knowledge, who brought a printing press, type and most likely skilled craftsmen with him from France. When Myllar went into partnership with Chepman, the two men established Scotland’s first printing press, according to Rawlings, at the foot of Blackfriars Wynd in the Sou’ Gait (now the Cowgate) in Edinburgh.
Myllar and Chepman sought a print licence, which was granted by royal privilege on the 15th of September, 1507. William Elphinstone, the Bishop of Aberdeen, was influential in the granting of the patent as he was very keen on getting his Breviarum Aberdonense printed; against the ‘Sarum Use’. That is clear from the document, which states: “…[that] mess bukis, efter our awin Scottis use …as is now gaderit and ekit be …our traist consalour Williame Bischope of Abirdene …and that na maner of sic bukis of Salusbery use be brocht to be sauld within our Realme in tym cuming. The letter also sets out the King’s demands to “furnis and bring hame ane prent with al stuf belangand tharto and expert men to use the samyne.” Apart from “mess bukis and portuus” (breviaries), the stated purpose of the grant was “for imprenting within our Realme of the bukis of our Lawis, actis of parliament, [and] croniclis.” Looks like novels were ruled out as any persons infringing James’ decree were to be punished and have their books forfeited.
Scotland’s first printed books are known as ‘The Chepman & Myllar Prints’, the earliest of which is dated the 4th of April, 1508, which was an edition of John Lydgate’s ‘The Complaint of the Black Knight’ falsely attributed in its colophon as “the maying and diſport of Chaucer.” Extant are a single copy each of nine small tracts “of a popular nature” – wee pamphlets (around 15 cm high), which are the most precious items held by the National Library of Scotland. The booklets contain works by two important medieval poets, Robert Henryson and William Dunbar and their rarity might be explained by their having been practice runs, prior to embarking on the ambitious Breviary. There are also surviving fragments of a folio edition of Blind Harry’s ‘Wallace’, printed in the same type – a Gothic or ‘black letter’ type known as Textura. Another example existing in fragments is Richard Holland’s vernacular poetical text ‘Buke of the Howlat’, which can be seen via the website of the Library of Cambridge University.
The nine books comprise a range of metrical romances, instructive and lyrical poetry, and one item in prose. They include ‘The Knightly Tale of Golagros and Gawane’, which includes ‘Rhyme without Accord’ by John Lydgate; ‘Sir Eglamoure of Artoys’, which includes the incomplete ‘Balade’ – ‘In all oure gardyn’; ‘The Goldyn Targe’ a major poem by William Dunbar; ‘The Praise of Age with Device, Prowess and eke Humility’ by Robert Henryson; and ‘The Ballade of Lord Bernard Stewart’ by Dunbar, which is the shortest piece of all at a mere eight pages. You can find the text of ‘In all oure gardyn’ and ‘The Ballade of Lord Bernard Stewart’ as well as ‘Golagros and Gawane’ in the third volume (1762) of ‘SCOTISH POEMS, REPRINTED FROM SCARCE EDITIONS.’ collected by John Pinkerton of Perth, which refers to ‘BALLADS FIRST PRINTED AT EDINBURGH 1508’.
The two volumes of the ‘Aberdeen Breviary’ were printed in 1509–10 and carry only the name of W. Chepman; it may be that Myllar died before the work was completed.
Thursday, 15 September 2011
Sunday, 11 September 2011
Allan Robertson
Allan Robertson, maker of golf clubs and balls, was born on the 11th of September, 1815.
Whatever its ancient parallels the game that was known as ‘Kolf’ in the Netherlands and ‘Goff’ in England emerged as ‘Gowf’ on the eastern links of Scotland, in the 16th Century. Since the days of cleeks and the featherie ba’, it has been nurtured for over five hundred years and has become the great game of ‘Golof’, played by millions. Three hundred years later, in the 19th Century, the culture surrounding Golf had changed considerably, but it was still quite different from what it is today. Back then, it was an elitist, gentleman’s game, primarily due to the high cost of hand crafted clubs and balls, where the main form of competition was challenge matches, usually backed by noblemen or wealthy businessmen. Professionals made a living playing for wagers, caddying, making clubs and balls, and from teaching, just like today’s club professionals, excepting they only sell clubs and balls.
Allan Robertson was the most famous of those early professionals and, according to Charles Blair Macdonald, was “generally thought to have been the greatest player of his day.” Robertson is widely considered to have been the first golf professional, however, going back two generations to his grandfather, Peter Robertson, you will find that man described as a professional golfer whose prowess was also widely acknowledged. Allan Robertson was the third in line of a famous St. Andrews golfing dynasty and, apart from being an accomplished player, he was famous as a maker of clubs and balls. Claims for Robertson being the ‘father of professional golf’ are perhaps a wee bit exaggerated, but not too wide of the fairway. The strangest thing is that Robertson has only recently been inducted into the World Golf Hall of Fame – in the Veterans Category. Strange indeed, considering this obituary: “Allan Robertson was the greatest golf player that ever lived, of whom alone in the annals of the pastime it can be said that he was never beaten.”
Apart from being a professional player, Robertson was esteemed as a maker of the feathery (featherie) golf ball. In fact, Robertson, following in the family tradition began by his grandfather, was the premier ball maker in St. Andrews and among the very best in Scotland. Incidentally, one of Robertson’s apprentices was ‘Old Tom’ Morris. That early style of golf ball consisted of a leather pouch filled with goose feathers, hence the name. Robertson’s shop overlooked the 18th green of the Old Course at St. Andrews, from where he produced enough golf balls to satisfy both local Scottish demand and the export market. In his best year, Robertson produced 2,500 hand-made balls (he made about 10 per day!), exporting primarily to England and America. It was a lucrative trade in an ever increasing market, due to the popularity of the game, which has never waned.
Robertson’s business did wane, due to the introduction of the new, gutta percha ball that came into vogue around the time Tom Morris (Old Tom) started making his name. Robertson didn’t approve of the new ball, but only because it was a threat to his livelihood. As it happened, Robertson saw the writing on the ball [sic] and fairly quickly moved to manufacturing the revolutionary ‘guttie’, which was made from liquid rubber (from the gutta percha tree) that came from Malaysia.
Robertson sulked up for a while, even managing to intimidate Morris into promising never to play with a ‘guttie’. However, as Morris related in ‘Golf Illustrated’ one time, after he ran out of feathery balls in a match, “...we met Allan Robertson coming out, and someone told him I was playing a very good game with one of the new gutta percha balls, and I could see fine, from the expression on his face, that he did not like it at all and, when we met afterwards in his shop, we had some high words about the matter, and there and then parted company, I leaving his employment.” That significant event, the parting of Morris and Robertson, took place in 1849.
As a player, Robertson is generally considered as having been the best golfer throughout the 1840s and ’50s, even after the emergence of Morris, Park and their offspring. Many golf historians believe that he never lost a match and Macdonald, in his book, ‘Scotland’s Gift: Golf’, states that “it is said Allan was never beaten” – at least, when playing for money. Certainly, when playing as a pair or in foursomes with Tom Morris, between 1842 and 1849, the two were never beaten. One of Robertson’s epic contests occurred in 1843, when he played Willie Dunn Sr. of Musselburgh, one of the better contenders. The “grand challenge” was held over 20 rounds, when they played 2 rounds per day over 10 days. Robertson emerged as the winner; two rounds up with one to play.
Robertson was also active as a course designer, no doubt driven by the increase in the game’s popularity, which gave him another source of professional income. At St. Andrews, the out-and-back play, over a narrow strand of fairway at the Old Course, eventually led to the establishment of huge double greens, virtually unique in Scotland. That improvement, if such it be, was credited to Robertson. However, his first golf course design was in 1842, when Robertson and Morris laid out ten new holes at Carnoustie.
In 1858, Robertson gained a new claim to fame as he became the first golfer on record to break 80 at St Andrews, when he recorded a round of 79 on the Old Course. Another wee ‘factlet’ about Robertson is the archetypal story of his coolly and deliberately playing to win only when having reached the latter stages of a challenge match. He is said to have very often left it as late as the 17th to polish off his opponent, instead of much earlier as he could so easily have done in most cases. The reason, of course, was to ensure the odds for his next wager were still reasonably favourable. It had nothing to do with wanting to avoid wounding his opponent’s pride. A contemporary of his, James Balfour, once wrote, “With him [Allan] the game was as much of head as of hand. He always kept cool and generally pulled through a match even when he got behind.”
Born in Saint Andrews on the 11th of September, 1815, Robertson’s untimely death was caused by jaundice. Allan Robertson died on the 1st of September, 1859, and he was buried in the cathedral grounds at St Andrews. The Royal & Ancient issued a statement in praise of his contribution to golf and organised an annual collection to provide for his widow. His epitaph reads, “He was greatly esteemed for his personal worth and for many years was esteemed as the champion golfer of Scotland.” The death of the champion led directly to the formation of the oldest and longest running golf championship, the British Open, via the first ever tournament, which was held at the Prestwick club, in 1860.
Whatever its ancient parallels the game that was known as ‘Kolf’ in the Netherlands and ‘Goff’ in England emerged as ‘Gowf’ on the eastern links of Scotland, in the 16th Century. Since the days of cleeks and the featherie ba’, it has been nurtured for over five hundred years and has become the great game of ‘Golof’, played by millions. Three hundred years later, in the 19th Century, the culture surrounding Golf had changed considerably, but it was still quite different from what it is today. Back then, it was an elitist, gentleman’s game, primarily due to the high cost of hand crafted clubs and balls, where the main form of competition was challenge matches, usually backed by noblemen or wealthy businessmen. Professionals made a living playing for wagers, caddying, making clubs and balls, and from teaching, just like today’s club professionals, excepting they only sell clubs and balls.
Allan Robertson was the most famous of those early professionals and, according to Charles Blair Macdonald, was “generally thought to have been the greatest player of his day.” Robertson is widely considered to have been the first golf professional, however, going back two generations to his grandfather, Peter Robertson, you will find that man described as a professional golfer whose prowess was also widely acknowledged. Allan Robertson was the third in line of a famous St. Andrews golfing dynasty and, apart from being an accomplished player, he was famous as a maker of clubs and balls. Claims for Robertson being the ‘father of professional golf’ are perhaps a wee bit exaggerated, but not too wide of the fairway. The strangest thing is that Robertson has only recently been inducted into the World Golf Hall of Fame – in the Veterans Category. Strange indeed, considering this obituary: “Allan Robertson was the greatest golf player that ever lived, of whom alone in the annals of the pastime it can be said that he was never beaten.”
Apart from being a professional player, Robertson was esteemed as a maker of the feathery (featherie) golf ball. In fact, Robertson, following in the family tradition began by his grandfather, was the premier ball maker in St. Andrews and among the very best in Scotland. Incidentally, one of Robertson’s apprentices was ‘Old Tom’ Morris. That early style of golf ball consisted of a leather pouch filled with goose feathers, hence the name. Robertson’s shop overlooked the 18th green of the Old Course at St. Andrews, from where he produced enough golf balls to satisfy both local Scottish demand and the export market. In his best year, Robertson produced 2,500 hand-made balls (he made about 10 per day!), exporting primarily to England and America. It was a lucrative trade in an ever increasing market, due to the popularity of the game, which has never waned.
Robertson’s business did wane, due to the introduction of the new, gutta percha ball that came into vogue around the time Tom Morris (Old Tom) started making his name. Robertson didn’t approve of the new ball, but only because it was a threat to his livelihood. As it happened, Robertson saw the writing on the ball [sic] and fairly quickly moved to manufacturing the revolutionary ‘guttie’, which was made from liquid rubber (from the gutta percha tree) that came from Malaysia.
Robertson sulked up for a while, even managing to intimidate Morris into promising never to play with a ‘guttie’. However, as Morris related in ‘Golf Illustrated’ one time, after he ran out of feathery balls in a match, “...we met Allan Robertson coming out, and someone told him I was playing a very good game with one of the new gutta percha balls, and I could see fine, from the expression on his face, that he did not like it at all and, when we met afterwards in his shop, we had some high words about the matter, and there and then parted company, I leaving his employment.” That significant event, the parting of Morris and Robertson, took place in 1849.
As a player, Robertson is generally considered as having been the best golfer throughout the 1840s and ’50s, even after the emergence of Morris, Park and their offspring. Many golf historians believe that he never lost a match and Macdonald, in his book, ‘Scotland’s Gift: Golf’, states that “it is said Allan was never beaten” – at least, when playing for money. Certainly, when playing as a pair or in foursomes with Tom Morris, between 1842 and 1849, the two were never beaten. One of Robertson’s epic contests occurred in 1843, when he played Willie Dunn Sr. of Musselburgh, one of the better contenders. The “grand challenge” was held over 20 rounds, when they played 2 rounds per day over 10 days. Robertson emerged as the winner; two rounds up with one to play.
Robertson was also active as a course designer, no doubt driven by the increase in the game’s popularity, which gave him another source of professional income. At St. Andrews, the out-and-back play, over a narrow strand of fairway at the Old Course, eventually led to the establishment of huge double greens, virtually unique in Scotland. That improvement, if such it be, was credited to Robertson. However, his first golf course design was in 1842, when Robertson and Morris laid out ten new holes at Carnoustie.
In 1858, Robertson gained a new claim to fame as he became the first golfer on record to break 80 at St Andrews, when he recorded a round of 79 on the Old Course. Another wee ‘factlet’ about Robertson is the archetypal story of his coolly and deliberately playing to win only when having reached the latter stages of a challenge match. He is said to have very often left it as late as the 17th to polish off his opponent, instead of much earlier as he could so easily have done in most cases. The reason, of course, was to ensure the odds for his next wager were still reasonably favourable. It had nothing to do with wanting to avoid wounding his opponent’s pride. A contemporary of his, James Balfour, once wrote, “With him [Allan] the game was as much of head as of hand. He always kept cool and generally pulled through a match even when he got behind.”
Born in Saint Andrews on the 11th of September, 1815, Robertson’s untimely death was caused by jaundice. Allan Robertson died on the 1st of September, 1859, and he was buried in the cathedral grounds at St Andrews. The Royal & Ancient issued a statement in praise of his contribution to golf and organised an annual collection to provide for his widow. His epitaph reads, “He was greatly esteemed for his personal worth and for many years was esteemed as the champion golfer of Scotland.” The death of the champion led directly to the formation of the oldest and longest running golf championship, the British Open, via the first ever tournament, which was held at the Prestwick club, in 1860.
Saturday, 10 September 2011
The Battle of Pinkie Cleugh
The Battle of Pinkie Cleugh was fought on the 10th of September, 1547.
The Battle of Pinkie Cleugh, otherwise known as the Battle of Falside, was sparked by the ‘Rough Wooing’. That less than romantic courting was sparked by the Scots refusal to concede to the demands of the English King, Henry VIII, that his ten years old son, Edward (the VI to be) should marry Mary I, Queen of Scots, aged a mere five years. Henry’s military campaign on the borders followed the Scots having reneged on an earlier agreement, confirmed by Parliament no less, that the two crowns would be united by marriage. Over the centuries, there had been several English born Queens of Scotland i.e., English wives for Scottish Kings, but never an English born spouse for a Scottish Queen. It had come close in 1289 with the betrothal of the Maid of Norway to the son of Edward I, and in 1547, it came no closer. A shotgun wedding can never be a good thing and the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh was to prove decidedly counter productive for the English, precipitating her unavailability. Choosing a more prosaic form of courtship, the Scots engineered the marriage of the infant Mary to the French Dauphin. English hopes were dashed.
Before the battle that effectively ended the ‘rough wooing’, the man whose territorial ambitions had sparked it all off was dead. Henry VIII had died earlier in that year of 1547 and the English host was led into battle by the Duke of Somerset. So the battle was fought by proxy on behalf of the nine years old King, Edward VI. To add a bit more spice to the mix, it was clear that Somerset had his own agenda; he had desires to usurp his own King. As a further example of the kind of infighting and intrigue that went on in those days, quite commonplace mind you, the English were accompanied into battle by several renegade Scots. Food for thought for patriotic Scots reared on tales of Wallace and Bruce, the Earls of Bothwell and Cassilis, together with sundry other [ig]Nobles fought on the English side. That factionalism came about as a result of the split provoked by the Protestant Reformation – a kind of precursor to the ‘Old Firm’ rivalry, if you like.
The battle was fought at Pinkie Cleugh (cleugh meaning narrow glen in Gaelic) outside Musselburgh. It’s official anniversary is the 10th of September, but in reality, the battle took place over three days. The armies formed up in opposition, across the River Esk, on the 8th of September, an early skirmish took place on the afternoon of the 9th, and the battle proper took place on the 10th. The Scots heavily outnumbered the English, albeit they were weaker in cavalry, but still suffered an ignominious defeat. So what went wrong? Essentially, it was rashness and posturing, particularly by the Earl of Huntly, and a not untypical lack of patience or discipline on the part of the inexperienced Scottish leadership. Compared to Somerset, the Scots had no exemplary military leader.
Despite the infighting and disagreements amongst the Scots, they’d managed to muster a significant, joined up army to face the invading English. Under the Regent, the uncertain Earl of Arran, were the Earls of Angus, Argyll, Home and Huntly, with a combined force of 20,000 infantry, 3000 highlanders, 2000 light border cavalry and 300 or so heavy cavalry. In contrast, the English mustered 10,000 infantry, 2000 light cavalry, the same number of heavy horse, and 2000 continental mercenaries, plus a further 300 Spanish mercenary cavalry. On the 8th of September, the Scots drew up west of the Esk in an almost impregnable position, whilst the English had massed east of the river. On that first day, Huntly issued Somerset with a challenge to single combat, but his misguided chivalry was contemptuously dismissed. Then, on the 9th, Lord Home crossed the Esk to challenge the English might with his border cavalry. His troops were promptly decimated by Lord Grey de Wilton’s opposing horse. A sobering lesson – enough to drive the Scots to drink.
At dawn on the 10th of September, which came to be known as ‘Black Saturday’, Somerset began separate deployments of his artillery and infantry. Arran seized on that as a glorious opportunity to attack his flank whilst the ‘Englishry’ were not so much in disarray, but occupied in changing position. As the Scots advanced across the Esk, Somerset rapidly changed his orders, commanding his artillery to return and face the Scots, and at the same time causing his infantry to form up line abreast to face the advancing army. Somerset’s agility, at least that of his men as well as his own quick thinking, effectively saved the day. Rupert Matthews, in his excellent book, ‘England versus Scotland’, suggests “[that] it is probably fair to say that the outcome depended to a large extent on luck.” Arran could be faulted for impatience and indiscipline; for not standing his ground, but if he’d made it to the English line, the result would have been a victory for the numerically superior Scots.
As it happened, with Lord Grey’s cavalry attacks delaying the Scots’ advance, Somerset’s artillery was able to re-deploy, and in the nick of time. With Arran’s and Argyll’s infantry just a hundred yards away, the English cannon fired a first, devastating broadside volley into the doomed Scottish horde. And that was effectively that, as they say. The Scots turned and fled as the enemy artillery continued to blast its fleeing opposition with its cavalry and heavy horse giving chase. Angus, out on the right flank, managed to withdraw in an orderly fashion, giving some protection to his countrymen as they fled back over the Esk. Huntly, on the Scots left, remained in the field and held the Esk crossing in a rearguard action, but was himself captured.
The result was a slaughtering. Forget 3-2 at Wembley, this was 10-1 at Pinkie! An official tally gave just 600 English dead. The Scots total was only an estimate, put by Huntly at 6000. There were many more, in addition to Huntly, probably around 1500, that were captured. Again, according to Rupert Matthews, the Battle at Pinkie Cleugh can be regarded as the first ‘modern’ battle on British soil, in as much as it featured combined arms, co-operation between infantry, artillery and cavalry and, most remarkably, a naval bombardment in support of land forces.
Another interesting fact emerges from the involvement of the Spanish mercenary cavalry, which was led by Pedro da Gamboa. The Spaniards were adept at a deadly new tactic known as ‘caracole’, which begins with a tight column of horse, a dozen ranks deep. When the front rank fire their guns, they wheel away to rejoin the column at the rear, whilst the new front rank repeats the manoeuvre, and so on. Such a swift mobile force, with its continuous rolling fire, made a telling impact against the battered Scots at Pinkie.
The Battle of Pinkie Cleugh, otherwise known as the Battle of Falside, was sparked by the ‘Rough Wooing’. That less than romantic courting was sparked by the Scots refusal to concede to the demands of the English King, Henry VIII, that his ten years old son, Edward (the VI to be) should marry Mary I, Queen of Scots, aged a mere five years. Henry’s military campaign on the borders followed the Scots having reneged on an earlier agreement, confirmed by Parliament no less, that the two crowns would be united by marriage. Over the centuries, there had been several English born Queens of Scotland i.e., English wives for Scottish Kings, but never an English born spouse for a Scottish Queen. It had come close in 1289 with the betrothal of the Maid of Norway to the son of Edward I, and in 1547, it came no closer. A shotgun wedding can never be a good thing and the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh was to prove decidedly counter productive for the English, precipitating her unavailability. Choosing a more prosaic form of courtship, the Scots engineered the marriage of the infant Mary to the French Dauphin. English hopes were dashed.
Before the battle that effectively ended the ‘rough wooing’, the man whose territorial ambitions had sparked it all off was dead. Henry VIII had died earlier in that year of 1547 and the English host was led into battle by the Duke of Somerset. So the battle was fought by proxy on behalf of the nine years old King, Edward VI. To add a bit more spice to the mix, it was clear that Somerset had his own agenda; he had desires to usurp his own King. As a further example of the kind of infighting and intrigue that went on in those days, quite commonplace mind you, the English were accompanied into battle by several renegade Scots. Food for thought for patriotic Scots reared on tales of Wallace and Bruce, the Earls of Bothwell and Cassilis, together with sundry other [ig]Nobles fought on the English side. That factionalism came about as a result of the split provoked by the Protestant Reformation – a kind of precursor to the ‘Old Firm’ rivalry, if you like.
The battle was fought at Pinkie Cleugh (cleugh meaning narrow glen in Gaelic) outside Musselburgh. It’s official anniversary is the 10th of September, but in reality, the battle took place over three days. The armies formed up in opposition, across the River Esk, on the 8th of September, an early skirmish took place on the afternoon of the 9th, and the battle proper took place on the 10th. The Scots heavily outnumbered the English, albeit they were weaker in cavalry, but still suffered an ignominious defeat. So what went wrong? Essentially, it was rashness and posturing, particularly by the Earl of Huntly, and a not untypical lack of patience or discipline on the part of the inexperienced Scottish leadership. Compared to Somerset, the Scots had no exemplary military leader.
Despite the infighting and disagreements amongst the Scots, they’d managed to muster a significant, joined up army to face the invading English. Under the Regent, the uncertain Earl of Arran, were the Earls of Angus, Argyll, Home and Huntly, with a combined force of 20,000 infantry, 3000 highlanders, 2000 light border cavalry and 300 or so heavy cavalry. In contrast, the English mustered 10,000 infantry, 2000 light cavalry, the same number of heavy horse, and 2000 continental mercenaries, plus a further 300 Spanish mercenary cavalry. On the 8th of September, the Scots drew up west of the Esk in an almost impregnable position, whilst the English had massed east of the river. On that first day, Huntly issued Somerset with a challenge to single combat, but his misguided chivalry was contemptuously dismissed. Then, on the 9th, Lord Home crossed the Esk to challenge the English might with his border cavalry. His troops were promptly decimated by Lord Grey de Wilton’s opposing horse. A sobering lesson – enough to drive the Scots to drink.
At dawn on the 10th of September, which came to be known as ‘Black Saturday’, Somerset began separate deployments of his artillery and infantry. Arran seized on that as a glorious opportunity to attack his flank whilst the ‘Englishry’ were not so much in disarray, but occupied in changing position. As the Scots advanced across the Esk, Somerset rapidly changed his orders, commanding his artillery to return and face the Scots, and at the same time causing his infantry to form up line abreast to face the advancing army. Somerset’s agility, at least that of his men as well as his own quick thinking, effectively saved the day. Rupert Matthews, in his excellent book, ‘England versus Scotland’, suggests “[that] it is probably fair to say that the outcome depended to a large extent on luck.” Arran could be faulted for impatience and indiscipline; for not standing his ground, but if he’d made it to the English line, the result would have been a victory for the numerically superior Scots.
As it happened, with Lord Grey’s cavalry attacks delaying the Scots’ advance, Somerset’s artillery was able to re-deploy, and in the nick of time. With Arran’s and Argyll’s infantry just a hundred yards away, the English cannon fired a first, devastating broadside volley into the doomed Scottish horde. And that was effectively that, as they say. The Scots turned and fled as the enemy artillery continued to blast its fleeing opposition with its cavalry and heavy horse giving chase. Angus, out on the right flank, managed to withdraw in an orderly fashion, giving some protection to his countrymen as they fled back over the Esk. Huntly, on the Scots left, remained in the field and held the Esk crossing in a rearguard action, but was himself captured.
The result was a slaughtering. Forget 3-2 at Wembley, this was 10-1 at Pinkie! An official tally gave just 600 English dead. The Scots total was only an estimate, put by Huntly at 6000. There were many more, in addition to Huntly, probably around 1500, that were captured. Again, according to Rupert Matthews, the Battle at Pinkie Cleugh can be regarded as the first ‘modern’ battle on British soil, in as much as it featured combined arms, co-operation between infantry, artillery and cavalry and, most remarkably, a naval bombardment in support of land forces.
Another interesting fact emerges from the involvement of the Spanish mercenary cavalry, which was led by Pedro da Gamboa. The Spaniards were adept at a deadly new tactic known as ‘caracole’, which begins with a tight column of horse, a dozen ranks deep. When the front rank fire their guns, they wheel away to rejoin the column at the rear, whilst the new front rank repeats the manoeuvre, and so on. Such a swift mobile force, with its continuous rolling fire, made a telling impact against the battered Scots at Pinkie.
Friday, 9 September 2011
Alexander Nasmyth
Alexander Nasmyth (or Naismythe), portrait and landscape painter, scene-painter, art teacher, architect, and landscaper, was born on the 9th of September, 1758.
Alexander Nasmyth was a painter of pictures and a decorator of gardens. Nasmyth first gained recognition as a painter of portraits, with his most famous work being his admirable likeness of his mate, Robert Burns, the original of which hangs in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery; a valuable national monument. There are original copies, by the artist, in Glasgow’s Kelvingrove Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery, in London. There are also millions of additional copies of that well known image, all over the world, by virtue of William Walker’s engraving. Notwithstanding that fine work, it is as a landscape painter that Nasmyth is better known, being widely regarded as one of the most important and influential painters of Scottish landscapes. Indeed, another one of his mates, Sir David Wilkie (not a bad artist himself, mind you and, therefore, a decent judge), is often credited with having described Nasmyth as, “the father of Scottish landscape painting.”
What Wilkie actually said was that, “[Nasmyth was] the founder of the Landscape Painting School of Scotland,” but he went on to add “[that] by his taste and talent [Nasmyth] has for many years taken the lead in the patriotic aim of enriching his native land with the representations of her romantic scenery.” Landscapes apart, some of Nasmyth’s most accomplished works are ‘townscapes’ depicting the wynds and closes of Edinburgh’s Old Town, and his ‘Shipping at Leith’ (a ‘seascape’ in Edinburgh City Art Centre) is said to be on a par with any of the ‘Dutch Masters’. Nasmyth’s style tended towards a faithful reproduction of nature and he is on record as having said, “The nearer you can get to that the better.” It’s probably a good thing that Nasmyth escaped from painting head and shoulders.
Older biographies wax lyrical about Nasmyth being drawn to landscape painting, because of the “silent beauty of nature” and of nature possessing more appeal than the “human face divine,” but the truth is far more prosaic. Like Burns, Nasmyth was a Whig at a time when political feeling ran high, and his outspoken sincerity in that cause cost him many offended, aristocratic patrons. His opportunities as a portraitist were consequently diminished and that’s why, from around 1792, he turned to landscapes. If he needed further motivation to change tack, there was also Sir Henry Raeburn with whom he had to compete. In fact Nasmyth was mates with Raeburn and Leitch as well as Burns and Wilkie and can surely hold his own in that company. Nasmyth influenced many Scottish artists, not least his own offspring, of whom, Patrick, the eldest, is the most notable, and as Wilkie adjudged, Nasmyth’s teachings did indeed provide the groundwork for the 19th Century Scottish landscape tradition. Nasmyth was also a founder member of the Society of Associated Artists of Edinburgh.
Alexander Nasmyth was born in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket, on the 9th of September, 1758. When he was wee enough to be called Eck, he went to Edinburgh’s Royal High School and afterwards, he attended evening classes at the Trustees’ Academy, where Alexander Runciman was Master. Despite having been set up for a career in architecture, in 1773, Alec became an apprentice to a house decorator and antiquarian, James Cummyng. His artistic talents had begun to show and Alexander got a second day job, at Alexander Crichton’s coachworks, decorating the panels of carriages with heraldic details. So it was that Nasmyth came to the attention of Allan Ramsay when that man visited Crichton, in 1774. Ramsay was impressed with Nasmyth’s ability and invited him to London, where, over four years under Ramsay’s tutelage, the diligent youngster completed his apprenticeship. Nasmyth became good enough to be trusted with finishing work on Ramsay’s own paintings and, in 1778, went back to Edinburgh and established his own studio.
In those 18th Century days an artist would hardly have been considered to have completed his education until he had studied the works of the great masters in Italy and Nasmyth was no exception. One of his patrons was Patrick Miller of Dalswinton, for whom Nasmyth also acted as draughtsman, producing technical drawings for Miller’s paddle driven steam boat. In turn, Miller lent Nasmyth £500 to enable him to fulfill his dream of visiting the likes of Florence and Rome and Bologna and Padua. Nasmyth spent two years, from 1782 to 1784, in Italy, studying and practicing and learning and absorbing all he could about historical painting, portraiture and the rich Italian landscapes. It was when he got back to Edinburgh, that Nasmyth painted his excellent portrait of Robert Burns and, in order to supplement his income, turned his hand to other things.
Apart from being a radical Whig, Nasmyth was a bit of a polymath. He worked as a garden landscape designer, an architectural consultant and, as David Roberts put it, “excited universal admiration” as a scene-painter for the Theatres Royal in Glasgow and Edinburgh. Nasmyth the architect is well known for having designed the temple-like structure that houses St. Bernard’s Well by the Water of Leith in Stockbridge. He was also the designer of the Dean Bridge, and other bridges at Almondell, West Lothian and Tongland, and he contributed to early plans for Edinburgh’s New Town. Details are scarce, but he is also credited with having “explored optical science and naval engineering.”
Not content with all those achievements, in 1798, Nasmyth opened a school of painting in his own house, in Edinburgh. His affinity with nature was obvious from his landscapes, but Nasmyth took that into the classroom, innovatively underpinning his personal philosophy through his teaching. He insisted that his pupils drew real scenes outdoors, drawing directly from nature, rather than artificially in the studio. Apart from his own family, Alexander Nasmyth went on to instill in a whole generation of Scottish artists “the importance of drawing,” from which he drew great pleasure until he reached a grand old age, of which he died, on the 10th of April, 1840, at his home in Edinburgh. He was buried in St Cuthbert’s Churchyard.
Alexander Nasmyth was a painter of pictures and a decorator of gardens. Nasmyth first gained recognition as a painter of portraits, with his most famous work being his admirable likeness of his mate, Robert Burns, the original of which hangs in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery; a valuable national monument. There are original copies, by the artist, in Glasgow’s Kelvingrove Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery, in London. There are also millions of additional copies of that well known image, all over the world, by virtue of William Walker’s engraving. Notwithstanding that fine work, it is as a landscape painter that Nasmyth is better known, being widely regarded as one of the most important and influential painters of Scottish landscapes. Indeed, another one of his mates, Sir David Wilkie (not a bad artist himself, mind you and, therefore, a decent judge), is often credited with having described Nasmyth as, “the father of Scottish landscape painting.”
What Wilkie actually said was that, “[Nasmyth was] the founder of the Landscape Painting School of Scotland,” but he went on to add “[that] by his taste and talent [Nasmyth] has for many years taken the lead in the patriotic aim of enriching his native land with the representations of her romantic scenery.” Landscapes apart, some of Nasmyth’s most accomplished works are ‘townscapes’ depicting the wynds and closes of Edinburgh’s Old Town, and his ‘Shipping at Leith’ (a ‘seascape’ in Edinburgh City Art Centre) is said to be on a par with any of the ‘Dutch Masters’. Nasmyth’s style tended towards a faithful reproduction of nature and he is on record as having said, “The nearer you can get to that the better.” It’s probably a good thing that Nasmyth escaped from painting head and shoulders.
Older biographies wax lyrical about Nasmyth being drawn to landscape painting, because of the “silent beauty of nature” and of nature possessing more appeal than the “human face divine,” but the truth is far more prosaic. Like Burns, Nasmyth was a Whig at a time when political feeling ran high, and his outspoken sincerity in that cause cost him many offended, aristocratic patrons. His opportunities as a portraitist were consequently diminished and that’s why, from around 1792, he turned to landscapes. If he needed further motivation to change tack, there was also Sir Henry Raeburn with whom he had to compete. In fact Nasmyth was mates with Raeburn and Leitch as well as Burns and Wilkie and can surely hold his own in that company. Nasmyth influenced many Scottish artists, not least his own offspring, of whom, Patrick, the eldest, is the most notable, and as Wilkie adjudged, Nasmyth’s teachings did indeed provide the groundwork for the 19th Century Scottish landscape tradition. Nasmyth was also a founder member of the Society of Associated Artists of Edinburgh.
Alexander Nasmyth was born in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket, on the 9th of September, 1758. When he was wee enough to be called Eck, he went to Edinburgh’s Royal High School and afterwards, he attended evening classes at the Trustees’ Academy, where Alexander Runciman was Master. Despite having been set up for a career in architecture, in 1773, Alec became an apprentice to a house decorator and antiquarian, James Cummyng. His artistic talents had begun to show and Alexander got a second day job, at Alexander Crichton’s coachworks, decorating the panels of carriages with heraldic details. So it was that Nasmyth came to the attention of Allan Ramsay when that man visited Crichton, in 1774. Ramsay was impressed with Nasmyth’s ability and invited him to London, where, over four years under Ramsay’s tutelage, the diligent youngster completed his apprenticeship. Nasmyth became good enough to be trusted with finishing work on Ramsay’s own paintings and, in 1778, went back to Edinburgh and established his own studio.
In those 18th Century days an artist would hardly have been considered to have completed his education until he had studied the works of the great masters in Italy and Nasmyth was no exception. One of his patrons was Patrick Miller of Dalswinton, for whom Nasmyth also acted as draughtsman, producing technical drawings for Miller’s paddle driven steam boat. In turn, Miller lent Nasmyth £500 to enable him to fulfill his dream of visiting the likes of Florence and Rome and Bologna and Padua. Nasmyth spent two years, from 1782 to 1784, in Italy, studying and practicing and learning and absorbing all he could about historical painting, portraiture and the rich Italian landscapes. It was when he got back to Edinburgh, that Nasmyth painted his excellent portrait of Robert Burns and, in order to supplement his income, turned his hand to other things.
Apart from being a radical Whig, Nasmyth was a bit of a polymath. He worked as a garden landscape designer, an architectural consultant and, as David Roberts put it, “excited universal admiration” as a scene-painter for the Theatres Royal in Glasgow and Edinburgh. Nasmyth the architect is well known for having designed the temple-like structure that houses St. Bernard’s Well by the Water of Leith in Stockbridge. He was also the designer of the Dean Bridge, and other bridges at Almondell, West Lothian and Tongland, and he contributed to early plans for Edinburgh’s New Town. Details are scarce, but he is also credited with having “explored optical science and naval engineering.”
Not content with all those achievements, in 1798, Nasmyth opened a school of painting in his own house, in Edinburgh. His affinity with nature was obvious from his landscapes, but Nasmyth took that into the classroom, innovatively underpinning his personal philosophy through his teaching. He insisted that his pupils drew real scenes outdoors, drawing directly from nature, rather than artificially in the studio. Apart from his own family, Alexander Nasmyth went on to instill in a whole generation of Scottish artists “the importance of drawing,” from which he drew great pleasure until he reached a grand old age, of which he died, on the 10th of April, 1840, at his home in Edinburgh. He was buried in St Cuthbert’s Churchyard.
Thursday, 8 September 2011
Dr. John Casper Leyden M.D.
Dr. John Casper Leyden M.D., Minister, surgeon, Professor, judge, poet and linguist, was born on the 8th of September, 1775.
John Leyden was an amazing guy and the tragedy is that this “man of genius” is so little known outside Scotland. What he achieved as a linguist means that his only peer is probably James Crichton – the original ‘Admirable’. Leyden was noted for his learning capacity and is chiefly recognised, by those in the know, for his poetry and as an Oriental linguist. In addition to Greek and Latin, Leyden is said to have acquired French, Spanish, Italian, and German, be familiar with ancient Icelandic, and studied Hebrew, Arabic, Armenian, and Persic. During his time in India and the sub-continent, Leyden studied Canara, Hindustani, Mahratta, Malay, Malayalam, Sanskrit, Tamil, Telinga, and the Maldivian and Mapella languages, and became competent enough to make significant inroads into translations of the Gospels of Matthew and Mark into Pashto and that of Mark into Baluchi.
There are various estimates of the number of languages Leyden knew, ranging from his being acquainted with 34 and knowing 21 well, to a biographer’s estimate that he was competent in no less than 45 languages. His friend and mentor, Lord Minto, the Governor General of India, said of Leyden, “If he had been at Babel he would have infallibly have learned all the languages there.” Never mind that he isnae weel kent these days; you cannae help but like a bloke who is on record as having said, “Learn English, never!” It was trying to learn that language that spoiled my Scots.”
Prior to becoming a linguist, John Leyden was ordained as a minister and qualified as a doctor, amazingly, in the space of five or six months; as the means to the end of his arrival in India. Leyden’s capabilities didn’t end with what you’ve read so far as there were few departments of science that escaped his attention. At college, he studied, with various degrees of dedication: mathematics; moral philosophy; natural philosophy (physics); natural history; chemistry; botany; and mineralogy. When challenged over the miscellaneous nature of his diversions, his favourite retort was, “Damn the bit, man! Dinnae fash yersel’. If ye hae the scaffolding ready, ye can run up the masonry ony time ye please.” And that, as it happens, was the foundation of his being able to gain his M.D.
Leyden’s literary and journalistic talents ranged from writing a short volume with a long name (it was called, ‘An Historical and Philosophical Sketch of the Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Western Africa at the Close of the 18th Century’) to researching and contributing material that was put to such good use by his buddy, Sir Walter Scott. That work included drafting the ‘Dissertation on Fairy Superstition’ and the ballads, ‘Lord Soulis’ and ‘The Cout of Keeldar’. Like Johnson and Boswell, Leyden undertook a tour of the Highlands and the Hebrides, during which he compiled a journal and composed several poems, including a ballad based on the legend of MacPhail of Colonsay and the Mermaid of Corryvreckan, which was published in the third volume of Scott’s ‘Border Minstrelsy’. Leyden contributed another ballad, ‘The Elf King’, to ‘Tales of Wonder’ by Matthew Gregory Lewis. In India, Leyden wrote ‘Memoirs of the Emperor Baber’, commemorating an Indian hero comparable to Caesar or Napoleon, which was published posthumously, in 1826. These days, Leyden’s recognised poetry starts and ends with ‘The Scenes of Infancy’, based on the traditions of his native Teviotdale, which was published on the eve of his departure for India.
John Casper Leyden was born in Denholm, Roxburghshire, on the 8th of September, 1775. Wee Johnnie was taught to read by his grandmother, using the Old Testament as a textbook, before being sent to the Parish School of Kirktown, when he was nine. At thirteen, having already developed a thirst for books and learning, John was placed under the charge of Mr Duncan, a local Cameronian Minister, and two years later, in 1790, he went to Edinburgh University. John covered a bewildering array of subjects, despite being on a divinity course. And, despite it not being his vocation, Leyden was ordained as a minister, in 1800. Prior to that, from 1796 to 1798, Leyden was private tutor to the sons of Campbell of Fairfield. A third ‘despite’ was, not lacking friends amongst ‘noblemen of rank’ with the power of patronage, Leyden lacked a church and gainful employment.
Leyden’s desire for travel and adventure was kindled by Mungo Park’s travels and travails in Africa, which “haunted his very slumbers,” so much so, that, early in 1802, Leyden had petitioned the African Society to explore the ‘Interior’. His mates, including Prof./Rev. Alexander Murray (who, incidentally, was to write of Bruce and the Blue Nile), considered that to be “be little better than an act of absolute suicide” and it was suggested Leyden go to India instead. However, the only means of getting there proved to be qualifying as a surgeon’s assistant, which had a proviso – Leyden had to take a surgical degree and a medical board examination at India House. Despite (there’s the fourth) the seeming impossibility, Leyden duly did all of that, inside six months, and obtained his diploma with credit, from St. Andrews.
So that was that; after a fortuitous delay in London (the ship in which he was to have sailed sank!), Leyden departed Portsmouth for Madras, in April, 1803, aboard the ‘Hugh Inglis’. As one early biography put it, Leyden was “perhaps the first British traveller that ever sought India, moved neither by the love of wealth nor of power. …[he] was guided solely by the wish of extending our knowledge of oriental literature …as its most successful cultivator.”
When he reached India, in addition to his day job as a doctor and surgeon, Leyden set about studying and analysing the languages, with unprecedented determination and aptitude. Sadly, his health suffered as he was afflicted by one tropical illness after another. Indeed, he once wrote to his friend, James Ballantyne, “I have been five times given up by the most skilful physicians in these parts.” Nevertheless, at the end of 1805, he left India for Malaysia and, when he got back to India, in 1806, Leyden gained respite from his second avocation, by becoming Professor of Hindustani at Fort William College, in Calcutta. Soon after, he gave that up to become Judge of the twenty-four Purgunnahs of Calcutta. And all of the time, wherever he was, Leyden devoted every spare minute to procuring and translating oriental manuscripts and compiling, as example, the natural history of the natives of Mysore, and the Indi-Chinese tribes of the coasts of Sumatra and the Malayan peninsula, which he delivered to the Asiatic Society at Calcutta.
Fatefully then, in 1811, Leyden joined Minto’s naval expedition to Java and, after the island was taken, Leyden went to explore a disused library, which hosed a veritable magnet of rare books and manuscripts. Tragically, that proved to be his undoing as he promptly contracted Batavian fever and “changed his climate,” as the elegant Indian circumlocutory phrase has it, three days afterwards, on the 28th of August, 1811. John Leyden was buried thousands of miles from Teviotvale, in Batavia (Jakarta) on Java.
John Leyden was an amazing guy and the tragedy is that this “man of genius” is so little known outside Scotland. What he achieved as a linguist means that his only peer is probably James Crichton – the original ‘Admirable’. Leyden was noted for his learning capacity and is chiefly recognised, by those in the know, for his poetry and as an Oriental linguist. In addition to Greek and Latin, Leyden is said to have acquired French, Spanish, Italian, and German, be familiar with ancient Icelandic, and studied Hebrew, Arabic, Armenian, and Persic. During his time in India and the sub-continent, Leyden studied Canara, Hindustani, Mahratta, Malay, Malayalam, Sanskrit, Tamil, Telinga, and the Maldivian and Mapella languages, and became competent enough to make significant inroads into translations of the Gospels of Matthew and Mark into Pashto and that of Mark into Baluchi.
There are various estimates of the number of languages Leyden knew, ranging from his being acquainted with 34 and knowing 21 well, to a biographer’s estimate that he was competent in no less than 45 languages. His friend and mentor, Lord Minto, the Governor General of India, said of Leyden, “If he had been at Babel he would have infallibly have learned all the languages there.” Never mind that he isnae weel kent these days; you cannae help but like a bloke who is on record as having said, “Learn English, never!” It was trying to learn that language that spoiled my Scots.”
Prior to becoming a linguist, John Leyden was ordained as a minister and qualified as a doctor, amazingly, in the space of five or six months; as the means to the end of his arrival in India. Leyden’s capabilities didn’t end with what you’ve read so far as there were few departments of science that escaped his attention. At college, he studied, with various degrees of dedication: mathematics; moral philosophy; natural philosophy (physics); natural history; chemistry; botany; and mineralogy. When challenged over the miscellaneous nature of his diversions, his favourite retort was, “Damn the bit, man! Dinnae fash yersel’. If ye hae the scaffolding ready, ye can run up the masonry ony time ye please.” And that, as it happens, was the foundation of his being able to gain his M.D.
Leyden’s literary and journalistic talents ranged from writing a short volume with a long name (it was called, ‘An Historical and Philosophical Sketch of the Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Western Africa at the Close of the 18th Century’) to researching and contributing material that was put to such good use by his buddy, Sir Walter Scott. That work included drafting the ‘Dissertation on Fairy Superstition’ and the ballads, ‘Lord Soulis’ and ‘The Cout of Keeldar’. Like Johnson and Boswell, Leyden undertook a tour of the Highlands and the Hebrides, during which he compiled a journal and composed several poems, including a ballad based on the legend of MacPhail of Colonsay and the Mermaid of Corryvreckan, which was published in the third volume of Scott’s ‘Border Minstrelsy’. Leyden contributed another ballad, ‘The Elf King’, to ‘Tales of Wonder’ by Matthew Gregory Lewis. In India, Leyden wrote ‘Memoirs of the Emperor Baber’, commemorating an Indian hero comparable to Caesar or Napoleon, which was published posthumously, in 1826. These days, Leyden’s recognised poetry starts and ends with ‘The Scenes of Infancy’, based on the traditions of his native Teviotdale, which was published on the eve of his departure for India.
John Casper Leyden was born in Denholm, Roxburghshire, on the 8th of September, 1775. Wee Johnnie was taught to read by his grandmother, using the Old Testament as a textbook, before being sent to the Parish School of Kirktown, when he was nine. At thirteen, having already developed a thirst for books and learning, John was placed under the charge of Mr Duncan, a local Cameronian Minister, and two years later, in 1790, he went to Edinburgh University. John covered a bewildering array of subjects, despite being on a divinity course. And, despite it not being his vocation, Leyden was ordained as a minister, in 1800. Prior to that, from 1796 to 1798, Leyden was private tutor to the sons of Campbell of Fairfield. A third ‘despite’ was, not lacking friends amongst ‘noblemen of rank’ with the power of patronage, Leyden lacked a church and gainful employment.
Leyden’s desire for travel and adventure was kindled by Mungo Park’s travels and travails in Africa, which “haunted his very slumbers,” so much so, that, early in 1802, Leyden had petitioned the African Society to explore the ‘Interior’. His mates, including Prof./Rev. Alexander Murray (who, incidentally, was to write of Bruce and the Blue Nile), considered that to be “be little better than an act of absolute suicide” and it was suggested Leyden go to India instead. However, the only means of getting there proved to be qualifying as a surgeon’s assistant, which had a proviso – Leyden had to take a surgical degree and a medical board examination at India House. Despite (there’s the fourth) the seeming impossibility, Leyden duly did all of that, inside six months, and obtained his diploma with credit, from St. Andrews.
So that was that; after a fortuitous delay in London (the ship in which he was to have sailed sank!), Leyden departed Portsmouth for Madras, in April, 1803, aboard the ‘Hugh Inglis’. As one early biography put it, Leyden was “perhaps the first British traveller that ever sought India, moved neither by the love of wealth nor of power. …[he] was guided solely by the wish of extending our knowledge of oriental literature …as its most successful cultivator.”
When he reached India, in addition to his day job as a doctor and surgeon, Leyden set about studying and analysing the languages, with unprecedented determination and aptitude. Sadly, his health suffered as he was afflicted by one tropical illness after another. Indeed, he once wrote to his friend, James Ballantyne, “I have been five times given up by the most skilful physicians in these parts.” Nevertheless, at the end of 1805, he left India for Malaysia and, when he got back to India, in 1806, Leyden gained respite from his second avocation, by becoming Professor of Hindustani at Fort William College, in Calcutta. Soon after, he gave that up to become Judge of the twenty-four Purgunnahs of Calcutta. And all of the time, wherever he was, Leyden devoted every spare minute to procuring and translating oriental manuscripts and compiling, as example, the natural history of the natives of Mysore, and the Indi-Chinese tribes of the coasts of Sumatra and the Malayan peninsula, which he delivered to the Asiatic Society at Calcutta.
Fatefully then, in 1811, Leyden joined Minto’s naval expedition to Java and, after the island was taken, Leyden went to explore a disused library, which hosed a veritable magnet of rare books and manuscripts. Tragically, that proved to be his undoing as he promptly contracted Batavian fever and “changed his climate,” as the elegant Indian circumlocutory phrase has it, three days afterwards, on the 28th of August, 1811. John Leyden was buried thousands of miles from Teviotvale, in Batavia (Jakarta) on Java.
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
John McDouall Stuart
John McDouall Stuart, explorer, was born on the 7th of September, 1815.
John McDouall Stuart was one of the greatest explorers of inland Australia and his achievements go far beyond the ‘been there, done that’ variety. A wee Scot, McDouall Stuart wisnae much to look at, but he had the heart of a lion and an ‘if at first, you don’t succeed, try and try again’ attitude. In fact, Stuart tried and tried and tried again, before he finally succeeded in his goal of traversing Australia from south to north – and getting back to claim his reward. After one practice expedition on which he ended up as second in command, Stuart led a total of six expeditions of his own into Australia’s forbidding interior. As you can read on the John McDouall Stuart Society website, he gets plenty of plaudits. Ernest Favenc, explorer and historian, wrote of Stuart’s unique achievements, stating that “[he] had followed in no other persons footsteps.” T. G. H. Strehlow, of the University of Adelaide called Stuart “a man cast in the mould of a hero.”
With amazing persistence and indomitable courage, Stuart led the first ever European manned expedition to reach the true centre of Australia and ultimately made it all the way from Adelaide to Chambers Bay on the Timor Sea – and back. Using horses and travelling lightly, Stuart is said to have established a ‘new’ method of exploration, but it still took him three ‘goes’ to get to the beach, although there wasn’t a shortage of sand along the way. There’s no denying, though, the wee mannie was determined to go for a paddle in the sea. In addition to his exploratory achievements, Stuart is credited with never having lost a man on any of his journeys, despite the harsh nature of the Australian territorial outback. Furthermore, during six great expeditions with his ‘Companions’, Stuart surveyed, prospected and explored Australia’s potential and as a result, huge areas of the north were opened up for pastoral and mineral development.
When he eventually left Australia, John McDouall Stuart was broken in health and nearly blind, and almost a forgotten man. Later and oddly, there were even detractors who questioned whether he had ever reached the sea in 1862. However, the tree upon which he had carved his initials – JMDS – was positively identified in 1883 and photographed, just for good measure, two years later. Australia’s centre point is known as Central Mount Stuart and the modern transcontinental Australian Highway, the ‘Explorer Highway’ that carves its way from Port Augusta in the south to Darwin in the north, is named ‘The Stuart Highway’ in honour of its trailblazer, John McDouall Stuart.
John McDouall Stuart was born in the Burgh of Dysart, on the 7th of December, 1815. The ‘McDouall’ comes from his having been a fifth son and getting his mother’s surname in front of his own. His Ma and Pa died, when Johnnie was about eleven or twelve, but he was well looked after and managed to attend the Scottish Naval and Military Academy, in Edinburgh, from where he graduated as a Civil Engineer. He worked for a time in Glasgow, as a clerk in a shipping office, before emigrating to Australia, sailing from Dundee on the 13th of September, 1838 and disembarking in South Australia on the 21st of January, 1839.
Adelaide, where Stuart pitched up, was then just a rough settlement of wooden huts and tents and full of settlers needing their newly purchased land surveyed. Stuart readily got a job with the Surveyor-General, who was actually just a Captain; Charles Sturt by name. In 1842, after being laid off Stuart bought his own instruments and gear, and set up as Stuart & Co., offering “architectural, civil engineering and real estate services.” In 1843, he was also working with a fellow passenger and immigrant from Scotland; James Sinclair. Between them, they ran a sheep farm in the Nairne ranges, below Mount Lofty.
Then, in 1844, Stuart got the ‘big break’ that set him on the road to fame, but not fortune, as an intrepid explorer, when Sturt took him on as draughtsman on an expedition. That seventeen-month expedition brought Sturt and Stuart closer than any other Europeans had ever been to the continental centre, but not close enough for Stuart, whose aspiration had been arouses. Stuart also gained some invaluable experience when he encountered Aboriginals, suffered scurvy, surveyed, mapped, and became a cobber of the outback.
When he got back with Sturt, Stuart resumed his surveying and estate agency business for a good ten to twelve years or so and became friends with the men who were to finance his later expeditions; James and John Chambers, and William Finke. The first three of Stuart’s own expeditions were in search of new grazing lands for sheep, gold, minerals, and to survey leases for his sponsors. They took place in 1858, 1859 and 1859-60, and were fundamentally successful, establishing Stuart’s reputation, albeit he found no gold.
Stuart then embarked upon three successive attempts to cross the continent, noting the South Australian Government’s offer of a £2000 reward for the first person to open a route from Adelaide to the north coast. Stuart’s first attempt (his fourth expedition) lasted from March to September, 1860, when he was forced back through lack of supplies and hostile natives. His second attempt set off in November, 1860, three months after a rival attempt organised by the Royal Society and supported by the Government of Victoria.
By the time Stuart arrived back in Adelaide, in September, 1861, having failed once more to dip his toes in the sea, the ill fated adventure of Robert O’Hara Burke and William John Wills, and their ‘cameleers’, had almost made it to the Gulf of Carpentaria (they were halted by swamps, probably as little as 5km shy of their goal) as early as the 9th of February. You could say Burke won “the glorious race” to the north as Governor (Sir) Henry Barkly later described it, however, according to Kathleen Fitzpatrick of the Australian Dictionary of Biography, “[Burke] was a death or glory man and he achieved both.” Burke and Wills never made it back, their tragic expedition the stuff of legend.
On his third (sixth) and last expedition, between October, 1861, and December, 1862, McDouall Stuart found the all-weather route to the north and made it back to tell the tale. Stuart’s expedition was far more than mere exploit as he produced maps and other practical data so others could follow in his footsteps. Stuart eventually got his feet wet in Chambers Bay, east of present day Darwin, at a point much further north than any of his rivals, on the 24th of July, 1862.
Stuart left Australia on the 25th of April, 1864, in poor health, suffering from the efforts and deprivations of his epic journeys. In London, he oversaw Hardman’s editing and publication of ‘Explorations in Australia. The Journals of John McDouall Stuart’ and presented a paper to the Royal Geographical Society. John McDouall Stuart returned to Scotland in 1865, but was soon back in London, where he died, on the 5th of June, 1866. He was buried in the cemetery at Kensal Green.
John McDouall Stuart was one of the greatest explorers of inland Australia and his achievements go far beyond the ‘been there, done that’ variety. A wee Scot, McDouall Stuart wisnae much to look at, but he had the heart of a lion and an ‘if at first, you don’t succeed, try and try again’ attitude. In fact, Stuart tried and tried and tried again, before he finally succeeded in his goal of traversing Australia from south to north – and getting back to claim his reward. After one practice expedition on which he ended up as second in command, Stuart led a total of six expeditions of his own into Australia’s forbidding interior. As you can read on the John McDouall Stuart Society website, he gets plenty of plaudits. Ernest Favenc, explorer and historian, wrote of Stuart’s unique achievements, stating that “[he] had followed in no other persons footsteps.” T. G. H. Strehlow, of the University of Adelaide called Stuart “a man cast in the mould of a hero.”
With amazing persistence and indomitable courage, Stuart led the first ever European manned expedition to reach the true centre of Australia and ultimately made it all the way from Adelaide to Chambers Bay on the Timor Sea – and back. Using horses and travelling lightly, Stuart is said to have established a ‘new’ method of exploration, but it still took him three ‘goes’ to get to the beach, although there wasn’t a shortage of sand along the way. There’s no denying, though, the wee mannie was determined to go for a paddle in the sea. In addition to his exploratory achievements, Stuart is credited with never having lost a man on any of his journeys, despite the harsh nature of the Australian territorial outback. Furthermore, during six great expeditions with his ‘Companions’, Stuart surveyed, prospected and explored Australia’s potential and as a result, huge areas of the north were opened up for pastoral and mineral development.
When he eventually left Australia, John McDouall Stuart was broken in health and nearly blind, and almost a forgotten man. Later and oddly, there were even detractors who questioned whether he had ever reached the sea in 1862. However, the tree upon which he had carved his initials – JMDS – was positively identified in 1883 and photographed, just for good measure, two years later. Australia’s centre point is known as Central Mount Stuart and the modern transcontinental Australian Highway, the ‘Explorer Highway’ that carves its way from Port Augusta in the south to Darwin in the north, is named ‘The Stuart Highway’ in honour of its trailblazer, John McDouall Stuart.
John McDouall Stuart was born in the Burgh of Dysart, on the 7th of December, 1815. The ‘McDouall’ comes from his having been a fifth son and getting his mother’s surname in front of his own. His Ma and Pa died, when Johnnie was about eleven or twelve, but he was well looked after and managed to attend the Scottish Naval and Military Academy, in Edinburgh, from where he graduated as a Civil Engineer. He worked for a time in Glasgow, as a clerk in a shipping office, before emigrating to Australia, sailing from Dundee on the 13th of September, 1838 and disembarking in South Australia on the 21st of January, 1839.
Adelaide, where Stuart pitched up, was then just a rough settlement of wooden huts and tents and full of settlers needing their newly purchased land surveyed. Stuart readily got a job with the Surveyor-General, who was actually just a Captain; Charles Sturt by name. In 1842, after being laid off Stuart bought his own instruments and gear, and set up as Stuart & Co., offering “architectural, civil engineering and real estate services.” In 1843, he was also working with a fellow passenger and immigrant from Scotland; James Sinclair. Between them, they ran a sheep farm in the Nairne ranges, below Mount Lofty.
Then, in 1844, Stuart got the ‘big break’ that set him on the road to fame, but not fortune, as an intrepid explorer, when Sturt took him on as draughtsman on an expedition. That seventeen-month expedition brought Sturt and Stuart closer than any other Europeans had ever been to the continental centre, but not close enough for Stuart, whose aspiration had been arouses. Stuart also gained some invaluable experience when he encountered Aboriginals, suffered scurvy, surveyed, mapped, and became a cobber of the outback.
When he got back with Sturt, Stuart resumed his surveying and estate agency business for a good ten to twelve years or so and became friends with the men who were to finance his later expeditions; James and John Chambers, and William Finke. The first three of Stuart’s own expeditions were in search of new grazing lands for sheep, gold, minerals, and to survey leases for his sponsors. They took place in 1858, 1859 and 1859-60, and were fundamentally successful, establishing Stuart’s reputation, albeit he found no gold.
Stuart then embarked upon three successive attempts to cross the continent, noting the South Australian Government’s offer of a £2000 reward for the first person to open a route from Adelaide to the north coast. Stuart’s first attempt (his fourth expedition) lasted from March to September, 1860, when he was forced back through lack of supplies and hostile natives. His second attempt set off in November, 1860, three months after a rival attempt organised by the Royal Society and supported by the Government of Victoria.
By the time Stuart arrived back in Adelaide, in September, 1861, having failed once more to dip his toes in the sea, the ill fated adventure of Robert O’Hara Burke and William John Wills, and their ‘cameleers’, had almost made it to the Gulf of Carpentaria (they were halted by swamps, probably as little as 5km shy of their goal) as early as the 9th of February. You could say Burke won “the glorious race” to the north as Governor (Sir) Henry Barkly later described it, however, according to Kathleen Fitzpatrick of the Australian Dictionary of Biography, “[Burke] was a death or glory man and he achieved both.” Burke and Wills never made it back, their tragic expedition the stuff of legend.
On his third (sixth) and last expedition, between October, 1861, and December, 1862, McDouall Stuart found the all-weather route to the north and made it back to tell the tale. Stuart’s expedition was far more than mere exploit as he produced maps and other practical data so others could follow in his footsteps. Stuart eventually got his feet wet in Chambers Bay, east of present day Darwin, at a point much further north than any of his rivals, on the 24th of July, 1862.
Stuart left Australia on the 25th of April, 1864, in poor health, suffering from the efforts and deprivations of his epic journeys. In London, he oversaw Hardman’s editing and publication of ‘Explorations in Australia. The Journals of John McDouall Stuart’ and presented a paper to the Royal Geographical Society. John McDouall Stuart returned to Scotland in 1865, but was soon back in London, where he died, on the 5th of June, 1866. He was buried in the cemetery at Kensal Green.
Monday, 5 September 2011
Archibald ‘Archie’ Alexander Jackson
Archibald ‘Archie’ Alexander Jackson, cricketer, was born on the 5th of September, 1909.
Considering the contextually laughable state of Scottish cricket in the 21st Century, it’s quite amazing to find out that the greatest batting cricketer the world has ever seen was a Scot. It’s generally accepted by aficionados that Sir Donald Bradman was the greatest batsman, but it’s true to say that ‘Archie’ Jackson was considered to have been a better batter than Bradman. Come to think of it, considering that cricket was invented in Scotland, it’s fitting that it should produce a man who played the game so well. Although, of course, it has to be said, like Bradman, his ‘Baby Blue’ contemporary, ‘Archie’ Jackson played for New South Wales and Australia. Interestingly, Jackson did once play in Scotland; in a match at Hamilton Crescent, Glasgow, when he made 52, not out.
Jackson had a tragically short career, playing only eight Test matches, between 1929 and 1931. His career was cut short by ill health and who knows what he may have gone on to achieve. Fittingly, Jackson’s Test début was made on the second day’s play against England on the 1st of February, 1929; a match in which he scored 164 runs, to become the youngest batsman, at the age of 19 years and 142 days, to score an Ashes Test century. That innings, in the fourth test at Adelaide, is still regarded as one of the greatest ever played. Australia had been reduced to 19 for 3, but with his captain, Jack Ryder, Jackson notched up his 50 and, in tandem with Bradman, his maiden century. On that blisteringly hot day, Jackson destroyed the English attack and square drove Harold Larwood for four to bring up his ‘ton’ in style. At the end, he left the field to a standing ovation.
In his biography of Archie Jackson, David Frith describes him, right up front in the title as “The Keats of Cricket.” Jackson’s obituary in Wisden describes him as having “superb stroke play.” A.R.B. Palmer, a cricketing journalist, described Jackson’s cover drive as “...perfectly balanced and true ...the bat seems a whip in his hands,” which calls to mind Chung, the sidekick of the Wolf of Kabul in ‘The Wizard’ and ‘The Hotspur’ comics. Like Chung, Jackson made devastating use of a cricket bat and might have said, “The ‘clicky-ba’ merely turned in my hand.” Martin Williamson, the executive editor of ESPN’s Cricinfo, makes a strong case for Jackson having been better than Bradman and it’s clear that Jackson was then seen as the more complete and gifted player. Charles Williams, who wrote a biography of Bradman, described Jackson as “the finished batsman …with an artistry that has no parallel to this day.”
Archibald Alexander Jackson was born in Rutherglen on the 5th of September, 1909, where he spent almost exactly the first four years of his life. His Pa emigrated to Australia in 1912 and wee Archie, with his Ma and two sisters, followed a year later, arriving in Sydney on the 1st of August, 1913. However well Archie did at Birchgrove Public and Rozelle Junior Technical schools, it was sport that he loved, being good enough to represent the Public Schools’ Amateur Athletic Association at both fitba (soccer) and cricket. The district of Balmain, where Jackson lived, seems to have been a breeding ground for cricketers, but you have to give four years in Rutherglen some credit. In the 1923-24 season, the fourteen years old Jackson, “in short trousers and sandshoes” as recorded in Bede Nairn’s article in the ‘Australian Dictionary of Biography’, played for the Balmain Cricket Club. However, his talent was so obvious that, the following season, he was promoted to the first grade side.
In the meantime, that year of 1924, Jackson left school and got a job with a warehouse firm and later, after cricket consumed more time, he was employed at the sports store run by Alan Falconer Kippax. Jackson scored a club record 879 runs in the 1926-27 season, at an average of 87.9, which feat gained him selection for the New South Wales side at the age of seventeen. His maiden first-class century in Sheffield Shield cricket was scored against Queensland, when he made a ton, exactly, a week after having made 86 on his début. The precocious Jackson, a year younger than Bradman, had burst upon the Australian cricket scene and nobody had yet heard of young Donald.
The next season, that of 1927-28, the teenage Jackson made scoring centuries look easy as he knocked up a ton in each innings (131 and 122) in a match against South Australia. By then, Jackson, “the flowering of the ‘Sydney school of batsmanship’ …” was already a “celebrated strokemaker” and was picked to tour New Zealand. By 1929, the early signs of illness had begun to show as the mercurial Jackson had the odd, noticeable, off day, but that didn’t prevent “the toast of Australia” from being selected for the 1930 tour of England, against whom he scored 1023 runs. That feat was in spite of the Australian selectors having insisted that Jackson got his tonsils removed; two weeks before sailing.
In the cold, damp climate of England on the 1930 tour, Jackson, susceptible to viruses, struggled to find form, however, he was recalled for the Oval Test and played a key part in winning the Ashes. In response to England’s 405 all out first innings, Australia was 263 for three when Jackson joined Bradman in the middle. Given the paucity of Scots who have played Test cricket, it was some coincidence when Jackson then faced Ian Peebles, the Aberdeen-born spin bowler, first ball, but the main strike bowler was Larwood, the notorious paceman. Jackson’s and Bradman’s fourth-wicket partnership of 243 still stands as an Australian Test record against England at the Oval.
In terms of Jackson’s health, the writing was well and truly on the wall in the 1930-31 season, during which he failed to perform at the highest level and was dropped. His lung damage was diagnosed in 1931 and Jackson was sent west to the Blue Mountains. If you’ve ever watched a Western, you’ll know that everybody who gets tuberculosis is ‘sent West’ to a warmer, drier climate, for the good of their health, but “he’s gone West” was also then a euphemism for having been killed. However, the tenacious Jackson wasn’t done just yet, as he showed signs of remission and, in 1932, despite medical advice, moved to warmer, but more humid, Queensland, to be with his girlfriend, Peggy.
Despite insistence that he must not play cricket in a climate that was bad for ‘TB’, Jackson played for a Brisbane club side and, inevitably, his health went downhill. During the infamous ‘Bodyline’ series of 1932-33, Jackson was only a spectator, but, budding journalist as he then was, he wrote about it for the ‘Brisbane Mail’. During the Brisbane test, when England retained the Ashes, Jackson suffered a severe pulmonary hemorrhage and was admitted to hospital. Shortly after, in Brisbane’s Inglefield Private Hospital, on the 16th of February, 1933, Archibald Alexander Jackson was killed by the dreaded ‘TB’. At his funeral, the pallbearers, all Test cricketers, included Donald Bradman. Jackson was buried in the Field of Mars cemetery, in Ryde, in Sydney. His epitaph, “He played the game.”
Considering the contextually laughable state of Scottish cricket in the 21st Century, it’s quite amazing to find out that the greatest batting cricketer the world has ever seen was a Scot. It’s generally accepted by aficionados that Sir Donald Bradman was the greatest batsman, but it’s true to say that ‘Archie’ Jackson was considered to have been a better batter than Bradman. Come to think of it, considering that cricket was invented in Scotland, it’s fitting that it should produce a man who played the game so well. Although, of course, it has to be said, like Bradman, his ‘Baby Blue’ contemporary, ‘Archie’ Jackson played for New South Wales and Australia. Interestingly, Jackson did once play in Scotland; in a match at Hamilton Crescent, Glasgow, when he made 52, not out.
Jackson had a tragically short career, playing only eight Test matches, between 1929 and 1931. His career was cut short by ill health and who knows what he may have gone on to achieve. Fittingly, Jackson’s Test début was made on the second day’s play against England on the 1st of February, 1929; a match in which he scored 164 runs, to become the youngest batsman, at the age of 19 years and 142 days, to score an Ashes Test century. That innings, in the fourth test at Adelaide, is still regarded as one of the greatest ever played. Australia had been reduced to 19 for 3, but with his captain, Jack Ryder, Jackson notched up his 50 and, in tandem with Bradman, his maiden century. On that blisteringly hot day, Jackson destroyed the English attack and square drove Harold Larwood for four to bring up his ‘ton’ in style. At the end, he left the field to a standing ovation.
In his biography of Archie Jackson, David Frith describes him, right up front in the title as “The Keats of Cricket.” Jackson’s obituary in Wisden describes him as having “superb stroke play.” A.R.B. Palmer, a cricketing journalist, described Jackson’s cover drive as “...perfectly balanced and true ...the bat seems a whip in his hands,” which calls to mind Chung, the sidekick of the Wolf of Kabul in ‘The Wizard’ and ‘The Hotspur’ comics. Like Chung, Jackson made devastating use of a cricket bat and might have said, “The ‘clicky-ba’ merely turned in my hand.” Martin Williamson, the executive editor of ESPN’s Cricinfo, makes a strong case for Jackson having been better than Bradman and it’s clear that Jackson was then seen as the more complete and gifted player. Charles Williams, who wrote a biography of Bradman, described Jackson as “the finished batsman …with an artistry that has no parallel to this day.”
Archibald Alexander Jackson was born in Rutherglen on the 5th of September, 1909, where he spent almost exactly the first four years of his life. His Pa emigrated to Australia in 1912 and wee Archie, with his Ma and two sisters, followed a year later, arriving in Sydney on the 1st of August, 1913. However well Archie did at Birchgrove Public and Rozelle Junior Technical schools, it was sport that he loved, being good enough to represent the Public Schools’ Amateur Athletic Association at both fitba (soccer) and cricket. The district of Balmain, where Jackson lived, seems to have been a breeding ground for cricketers, but you have to give four years in Rutherglen some credit. In the 1923-24 season, the fourteen years old Jackson, “in short trousers and sandshoes” as recorded in Bede Nairn’s article in the ‘Australian Dictionary of Biography’, played for the Balmain Cricket Club. However, his talent was so obvious that, the following season, he was promoted to the first grade side.
In the meantime, that year of 1924, Jackson left school and got a job with a warehouse firm and later, after cricket consumed more time, he was employed at the sports store run by Alan Falconer Kippax. Jackson scored a club record 879 runs in the 1926-27 season, at an average of 87.9, which feat gained him selection for the New South Wales side at the age of seventeen. His maiden first-class century in Sheffield Shield cricket was scored against Queensland, when he made a ton, exactly, a week after having made 86 on his début. The precocious Jackson, a year younger than Bradman, had burst upon the Australian cricket scene and nobody had yet heard of young Donald.
The next season, that of 1927-28, the teenage Jackson made scoring centuries look easy as he knocked up a ton in each innings (131 and 122) in a match against South Australia. By then, Jackson, “the flowering of the ‘Sydney school of batsmanship’ …” was already a “celebrated strokemaker” and was picked to tour New Zealand. By 1929, the early signs of illness had begun to show as the mercurial Jackson had the odd, noticeable, off day, but that didn’t prevent “the toast of Australia” from being selected for the 1930 tour of England, against whom he scored 1023 runs. That feat was in spite of the Australian selectors having insisted that Jackson got his tonsils removed; two weeks before sailing.
In the cold, damp climate of England on the 1930 tour, Jackson, susceptible to viruses, struggled to find form, however, he was recalled for the Oval Test and played a key part in winning the Ashes. In response to England’s 405 all out first innings, Australia was 263 for three when Jackson joined Bradman in the middle. Given the paucity of Scots who have played Test cricket, it was some coincidence when Jackson then faced Ian Peebles, the Aberdeen-born spin bowler, first ball, but the main strike bowler was Larwood, the notorious paceman. Jackson’s and Bradman’s fourth-wicket partnership of 243 still stands as an Australian Test record against England at the Oval.
In terms of Jackson’s health, the writing was well and truly on the wall in the 1930-31 season, during which he failed to perform at the highest level and was dropped. His lung damage was diagnosed in 1931 and Jackson was sent west to the Blue Mountains. If you’ve ever watched a Western, you’ll know that everybody who gets tuberculosis is ‘sent West’ to a warmer, drier climate, for the good of their health, but “he’s gone West” was also then a euphemism for having been killed. However, the tenacious Jackson wasn’t done just yet, as he showed signs of remission and, in 1932, despite medical advice, moved to warmer, but more humid, Queensland, to be with his girlfriend, Peggy.
Despite insistence that he must not play cricket in a climate that was bad for ‘TB’, Jackson played for a Brisbane club side and, inevitably, his health went downhill. During the infamous ‘Bodyline’ series of 1932-33, Jackson was only a spectator, but, budding journalist as he then was, he wrote about it for the ‘Brisbane Mail’. During the Brisbane test, when England retained the Ashes, Jackson suffered a severe pulmonary hemorrhage and was admitted to hospital. Shortly after, in Brisbane’s Inglefield Private Hospital, on the 16th of February, 1933, Archibald Alexander Jackson was killed by the dreaded ‘TB’. At his funeral, the pallbearers, all Test cricketers, included Donald Bradman. Jackson was buried in the Field of Mars cemetery, in Ryde, in Sydney. His epitaph, “He played the game.”
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