Miss Cellania. “Who Was the Real ‘Georgie Porgie’?” Neatorama, 3 August 2011. http://www.neatorama.com/2011/08/03/who-was-the-real-georgie-porgie/.
NPR. “The Real Meaning of Nursery Rhymes.” Interview with Debbie Elliott and Chris Roberts. NPR, 2005. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4933345.
Celebrating Burns’ Night
by M.M. Bennetts
One of the great mysteries of life to non-Scots is haggis. Did I say haggis? Sorry.
What I meant to say was, today is the birthday of the great Scots poet and national hero, Robert Burns, born in Alloway, Ayrshire, in 1759, the elder of two sons of a tenant farmer.
Although as a lad, Burns had little in the way of formal education—probably two to three years in the local school—he was taught by his father and grew up devouring whatever books came his way, reading all of Shakespeare, Milton, and the Bible. He learned some French. Significantly too, he learned firsthand the traditional ballads, legends, and songs of Scotland.
At this period, Scotland was very much under the thumb of England, with many repressive laws prohibiting expressions of Scots culture—the wearing of tartan was banned and the use of Scots Gaelic had been outlawed, for example—all in response to Bonnie Prince Charlie’s failed rebellion in 1745-6. There was a heavy presence of troops quartered on the population, and anti-Scots sentiment ran very high among the English overlords—English slang of the period refers to Scotland as Scratchland.
Nevertheless, our lad, Rab, grows up, starts falling in love with pretty girls (a life-long habit), goes off briefly to study surveying in Kirkoswald, then moves with his family to a farm near the villages of Tarbolton and Mauchline...and by 1783, begins writing poetry.
A couple of flings and a farming failure later, he’s being urged by a friend to write for publication. He also meets Jean Armour and things get serious. Jean’s father doesn’t think much of him, denies that they’re married, and eventually has the pair of them publicly reproved in open church for their relationship. Nice. Still, in that same year, 1786, Burns’ first book, Poems Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, is published in late July, and in September, Jean gives birth to twins.
So, instead of emigrating to Jamaica as he had planned, Burns visits Edinburgh to arrange for a second edition of his book. There, he finds himself the toast of the Edinburgh literati.
Edinburgh in the late 18th century was at the heart of the Scottish Enlightenment, and was known throughout the western world as a centre of intellectual culture. It’s not just that it was home to such writers and thinkers as David Hume or Adam Smith, it also had one of the world’s top medical universities, and it had—despite the onerous anti-Scots laws of the age—a vibrant literary salon culture, one conversant with the recent success of the American Revolution and the works of the radical, Thomas Paine. And Burns, for all that he was a peasant’s son (and yes, he did make clanking social mistakes and occasionally was too blunt-spoken for anyone’s comfort) was seized upon by this crowd of intelligentsia as the voice of the genuine Scots.
He wasn’t the first to write in the Scots vernacular (he wrote in Lowland Scots, a.k.a. Lallans)—there had been Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson before him. But in a way, Burns and his work embodied the 18th century enlightened ideal of the nobility and honesty of the “natural man” as expressed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the French philosopher and author.
Burns’ poetry is vibrant, often funny, a celebration of the world of the “people”, running the gamut of emotion from alehouse humour to profoundest love. Though not unlettered, he is wholly without the “steeped in classical tradition” artifice that characterises much of the literary work of other 18th century British poets.
He doesn’t idolise or worship the natural world; it’s just part of life. He’s scathing in his attacks on the rigid fundamentalism of the Presbyterian elders of the Kirk (Address to the Unco Guid [uncommonly good]). He mocks pretension and hypocrisy wherever he encounters it. Others may write of high sentiment; he writes To a Louse, on seeing one on a lady’s bonnet at church.
And when he writes of love, which he does frequently (he had a lot of practice), his is the voice of all the longing, beauty, lust, and tenderness combined together. We may think “My love is like a red, red rose...” sounds twee or clichéd today, but within the context of the 18th century, its undiluted purity of tenderness and affection stopped readers short, redefining the vocabulary of love for at least the next century.
The Edinburgh edition of Burns’ Poems was published in April 1787, earning him £500. And this enabled him to tour the Borders and the Highlands.
And, whilst he was travelling about (falling in and out of love), he started collecting Scottish songs—often Scottish fiddlers’ songs for which he wrote memorable lyrics—and which he contributed to The Scots Musical Museum, a publication which over the next few years printed some 200 of Burns’ contributions. So in a very real sense, he preserved Scotland’s folk and musical heritage which without him would most certainly have been lost....
In 1788, he acknowledged Jean Armour as his wife, and she gave birth to a second set of twins.
By 1791, his inventive narrative poem, Tam o’ Shanter, had been published, and Burns had given up farming to move with his family to Dumfries to work as an exciseman.
Burns is probably best known for his poems or songs such as Auld Lang Syne, My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose and Tam o’ Shanter. But he also wrote the anthems of Scots national pride, Scots Wha Hae wi’ Wallace Bled, and Is There for Honest Poverty with its oft-repeated line, “A man’s a man for a’ that” (which incidentally is just a kind of compilation of French Revolutionary slogans—and for which he was investigated by the authorities and nearly lost his position with the Excise and Custom).
In July 1796, Burns died of a rheumatic heart condition. He was only 37.
But the story doesn’t stop there, because his work was taken up by the fledgling Romantic movement of William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It also became a powerful element in the Scottish fight-back against Anglicisation as led by Sir Walter Scott in the early years of the 19th century. Defying the law, the gentry and aristocracy started wearing plaid again. Deliberately. And having their portraits painted wearing the kilt and clan badges.
Gradually though, Burns’ work was subsumed into the cult of the tartan and genteel Scottiphilia of the Victorians as led by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, and Burns wasn’t fully recognised until the end of the 19th century. In 1885, there were only eight affiliated Burns Clubs. By 1911, there were 200 of these clubs and Burns was seen as the antidote to the romanticised history of Scotland, and the voice of the ordinary Scots.
Which brings us back to the haggis...because every year, as befits the national poet and hero, Burns’ birthday is celebrated with a fierce national fervour throughout Scotland and abroad with a traditional Burns’ Supper—a meal designed to commemorate his humble beginnings as a ploughboy laddie.
(Although the “observance” used to be stricter—it used to be men only—now it’s slightly more relaxed, though many of the elements remain the same.)
The meal is made up of three courses and they’re traditional “peasant” fare: cockie-leekie soup (chicken and leek soup), followed by haggis (Burns wrote a cheeky poem, Address to a Haggis), mashed neeps (mashed turnips) and bashed tatties (mashed potatoes), with oatcakes and cheese to finish.
In between each two plates, all around the table, a single bottle of whisky is placed to be shared.
(And before I tell you what haggis is and how it used to be made, may I point out that 18th century Scotland was a poor country, and farmers were desperately poor throughout Europe anyway. Hence, unlike today when we throw lots of everything away, they didn’t. They used every part of a slaughtered animal. They couldn’t afford not to.)
200 years ago then, hagg
is was made up of the less than desirable parts of a sheep—the brains and whatever else was left. This is ground and mixed with oatmeal and spices (usually a lot of pepper). The whole is then put into a sheep’s intestine and boiled until cooked through. Nowadays, with EU health and safety legislation, it’s no longer the off-cuts, but regular mutton that’s used. And most local butchers have their own closely guarded secret recipes for the spices.
So that’s the menu. The men wear their kilts. Obviously. When the haggis is brought in from the kitchen on a platter, it’s accompanied by a piper and piped in. Then comes the solemn honour of piercing the haggis-beastie—which I’ve seen done with a sword.
Once everyone is served, another of the evening’s traditions begins: during the meal, each of the guests is required to recite a Burns poem. Or sing it.
Now the most sensible of guests requests early the privilege of saying grace—and it’s Burns’ own Selkirk grace which is used. “Some hae meat and canna eat, and some wad eat that want it, but we hae meat and we can eat, sae let the Lord be thankit.” And then he settles back to enjoy his meal and his whisky as over the course of the evening, the recitation of the poetry and songs becomes more and more uproarious (due to the quantities of whisky consumed).
And truly, it’s a meal and an evening’s entertainment where, should Burns himself wander in, he’d find himself most at home.
Finally, as befits a host of one of these fine gatherings, I’d like to recommend a rendition of my most favourite of Burns’ songs: Ca’ the Yowes [Call the Ewes, as sung by Andy M. Stewart: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h0rpv9vxbU8]. It’s a modest poem, mostly talking about the herding of sheep actually, but in Burns’ hands, this is turned into the most heart-felt of love songs, ending with the verse: “Fair and lovely as thou art, Thou hast stown my very heart: I can die—but canna part, My bonnie dearie.”
Slainte!
Pronunciation: Eighteenth Century Style
by Mike Rendell
It is fascinating to conjecture what our ancestors would have sounded like—how they spoke, and whether they had a strong accent. We can read what they wrote down, but we can never be sure what their pronunciation was in the era before tape recorders and gramophones! I recall seeing learned articles suggesting that Shakespeare may have spoken with an American accent. (And why not? The accent must have derived from something, somewhere—why not the English Midlands in the 16th century?)
Of course it is difficult to draw conclusions from one indicator—then, as now, there would have been huge variations based upon origin, background, education, and wealth. But I can comment upon how my ancestor Richard Hall chose to speak, or at least, how he aspired to speak, in the 1700s because he wrote down those words which might otherwise trip him up.
The fact that he wrote them down shows how important it was to “speak proper English”—how vital it was to appear different from all those migrants heading into the capital in the middle of the eighteenth century. London’s deaths exceeded births, yet the population in London still increased every year, thanks to the drift of men and women seeking work, looking for the streets paved with gold. They came from the villages and towns up and down the country and brought with them the regional accents, colloquial expressions, and slang from their own region. If my 4x-great-grandfather was to succeed in business, he needed to sound the same as his wealthier customers, not the same as a yokel from the shires!
To modern ears some of the pronunciation sounds a bit twee and precious, but think for a minute how accents and pronunciation changes. Think of Her Majesty, who in the sixty years she has adorned the British throne, has altered enormously in the way she pronounces the “Queen’s English.” Fashions change.
Where the spelling differed from the pronunciation, Richard Hall jotted down the reminders: so, we get “shaze” for “chaise”, “dimun” for “diamond”, and even “crownor” for “coroner”.
I was also intrigued to see that “gold” was pronounced “gould”, farthing as “fardun” and daughter was “dawtor” and nurse was “nus”. Yes, some of the examples are obvious (“yot” for “yacht”), but on the whole he does come across as a tad affected by modern standards!
Place names and proper nouns were obviously not the same as now: I can just about remember people calling “Cirencester” by the name of “Sissester” and the Somerset village of Congresbury being pronounced “Coomsbury”, but although we still talk of “Brummies”, we don’t call the city “Brummijum” any more. Bartholomew is not, so far as I am aware, pronounced “Bartolomy”. And even in Richard’s time “Brighthelmstone” was being abbreviated to match the way it was pronounced—”Brighton”.
I suppose it boils down to the fact that pronunciation, like spelling, changes over the centuries, as well as from locality to locality. But it does make you think, when a well-educated man like Richard speaks of “hartichokes” rather than “artichokes”, and calls his cucumbers “cowcumbers”. Step back in time and I might have quite a problem being accepted in polite company as I rather think my ancestor would have fallen about laughing at my strangled vowels and plummy pronunciation! Wristband was pronounced “risban”, waistcoat was “wescote”, and if you were sitting at the table doing your toilet (i.e. attending to your wig, powdering your nose, applying a little white lead to the forehead, and rouge to the cheeks...) you would of course remember to pronounce it “twaylet” or even “twilight”.
In some ways you can brand Richard a snob—he cultivated the way he presented himself because he was desperate to be accepted.
The story of Richard’s life, how he married an heiress, how he built a shop at One London Bridge, how he fell out with his family and retired to become a gentleman farmer in the Cotswolds, is told in my book, The Journal of a Georgian Gentleman.
Steal a Book, Seven Years’ Hard Labor Overseas: Transportation as Punishment in the 17th-19th Centuries
by J.A. Beard
England, like many societies throughout history, has had to struggle with what to do with its criminal population. For a good chunk of English history, punishment was harsh and severe. Executions were common for a number of offenses. The fundamental question of how justice is best served has been explored throughout English history and influenced by shifts in historical, philosophical, and religious beliefs.
With the expansion of British colonial holdings in the 17th century, another option arose: transportation. The idea was simple in concept if occasionally more complicated in execution. Transportation at its core was exile. Instead of local imprisonment, execution, or another punishment, an offender was sent to a distant overseas holding. In this way the home country depleted its criminal population and minimized the resource impact of a growing criminal population.
Transportation was not reserved for the most heinous of offenses such as murder. A variety of crimes, both major and relatively minor, could end up with a criminal being sentenced to transportation. For example, in 1723, one man was sentenced to transportation and an accompanying seven years of labor for stealing a book.
Initially, many criminals were transported to colonies in continental North America and the West Indies. The American Revolution complicated things and ended North America as a popular choice for transportation even for non-rebellious areas. By 1787, British transportation was focused instead on Australia and some other smaller colonial holdings.
Transportation may have been exile at its core, but it was also supposed to serve the needs of the home country beyond that. In addition to the restrictions one might expect, such as the death penalty for those returning from transportation, these sentences typically carried with them a hefty labor requirement. The services expected from the convicts might be directed toward what we’d now call public works projects, or the convicts might end up as indentured servants to free citizens in a colony.
As one might expect, sending people thousands
of miles away and never allowing them to return home was going to predispose them to even more anti-social behavior than whatever got them in trouble initially. If they had no hope of any sort of normal life, it would only contribute to the kind of instability and revolts one witnessed with completely enslaved populations. One way of combating this, and also serving the general idea of some form of semi-merciful justice, was to limit the main criminal penalty period to a defined number of years. After the prisoners served their sentences, they would not typically regain all of their rights, but, at minimum, would have enough that they could live a semi-normal life.
Related to the exile of general criminals, a variation on transportation was also used to sell people directly into slavery. Though your standard-issue English criminal probably would end up an indentured servant on a plantation or digging a canal or what not, hundreds of thousands of Irish and Scottish political and war prisoners taken during the 17th century ended up being sold into slavery in the West Indies and this, in some cases, continued in some forms even until nearly the end of the 18th century. Please note that in most cases these were, for all intents and purposes, true slaves and not simple indentured servants.
The interbreeding of Irish and African slaves (who were initially considerably more expensive than Irish slaves) in the West Indies became so extensive that by the end of the 17th century, specific laws were passed to prohibit it. Admittedly, the issue with the Irish and Scottish was more an offshoot of war (and rebellion) between England, Scotland, and Ireland, and even many of the laws concerning their handling were distinct from the various transportation acts passed to cover non-political/war-offenses.
Given our modern view of a more rehabilitative justice system, transportation may seem cruel. Indeed, even being a child did not necessarily protect one from a transportation sentence, though age and size (tiny laborers aren’t efficient, after all) were somewhat taken into account. There are, however, documented cases of children as young as seven years old being transported to Australia. It is important to keep in mind, though, that by the standards of the time, transportation was often considered somewhat more lenient than the more common punishments: execution or being sentenced to a disgusting and overcrowded prison on land.
Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors Page 44