At the University of Glascow, which like their other poor Universities has but one College, I saw no other Learning but the insipid Collegians wearing red hanging-sleev’d Gowns; and the Cathedral here was built by one Mr. Mongou, I can’t call him Saint, because he was the Son of a Whore begot by a Danish Prince on a Scotch King’s Daughter. Because our main or chief Gallows in England, call’d Tyburn, hath three Beams, and which is famous for stocking the Romish Calendar for roguish Saints, the Scotch to exceed us will have four Beams on their hanging Places, made in the manner of a Turn-Stile; having on each Beam an Iron Hook, on which the Malefactor is to be expos’d in a pendent Posture betwixt Heaven and Earth, as being unworthy of either. The Men for the most part wear Stockings made of Plad-Stuff; and their Quarters are Candlemas-Day, May-Day, Lammas-Day, and All-hallow Tide, which are as welcome to their Landlords as our Quarter-Days are among us.
Bad Cooks are every where in this Nation, because they have seldom any Victuals to dress; and the Childrens Cradles here made of old Wainscot without Heads to them. The Scots have several old Ways to distinguish themselves from Christians, for their Chimes always ring before the Clock strikes; instead of Candles they burn in most Places the Shavings of Fir dipt in Tallow; their Spoons are generally made of Horn quite circular or round, about 3 Inches Diameter, with the Length of the Handle suitable to its Circumference, which Largeness (I suppose) they take from the old Proverb, He must have a long Spoon that eats with the Devil; and those People that can but fill their Bellies with thin Bannock, Sourings, or Bruis, which last sort of Food is only raw Oatmeal put into Water when it’s warm, and thought by them a great deal better than to dine with Duke Humphrey. Hemp and Flax for Linnen are the Staple Commodities of this Nation; but the Scots bear a mortal Hatred to the former, because by the Production thereof, a great many of ’em come to an untimely End.
When I came into the City of Edinburgh, which is the Capital of the Kingdom, I thought I was got into West-Smithfield, for such a Place for Nastiness was not to be found upon Earth, for as the latter was but fill’d with Beasts Dung, the other was more nasty than a common Jakes or Inns-of-Court House of Office, for having a Dung-Tub at the Head of every Pair of Stairs in their Houses, which are 14 or 15 low Stories high, they are emptied a-nights on Peoples Heads without any respect of Persons, so that till 8 or 9 o’ th’ Clock in the Morning, the whole City, which may be a Mile in Length, is scented with the excellent Perfume of Scotch Civit Cats; and all the Woman here look as ugly as the Four of Clubs, which some call Wibling’s Witch, from one James Wibling, who in the Reign of King James the First grew rich by private Gaming, and was commonly observ’d to have this Card in his Hand, so that he never lost a Game but when he mist it.
All the Scots are generally as great Enemies to Gentility and nice Dressing, as Diogenes the morose Cynic was to Plato, because of his courtly Compliance with the World; and to be honest would be as great a Mortification to them as Lent to a poor Player. They’ll sit as lovingly about Oaten Cakes and Butter, as a Parcel of Tarpaulins round a Platter of Burgue; and they love Hunger and Ease, as well as a Lawyer does Term-Time. Tho’ they hate the solemn Festival of Christmas, and other Holy-days, yet they pay some Veneration to St. Andrew; and will be as Drunk on the 30th of November, as any Shoemaker once a Year to the Remembrance of Crispin. They hold Fairs in many Places, at which is much Mobbing, Whoring and Drunkenness as at our Shirking-Fair by Tyburn: And Mrs. Cicilia, they say, is no Saint, but a common Strumpet bred up at a Three-penny Hop in London. I never saw the Sign of the Brats-Tumbler any where, which makes me believe every Scotch Woman brings her Urchins into the World, without the Assistance of Madam Grope, to save Charges; on a Sunday Morning the Scots will run 4 or 5 Miles to a Conventicle; and in the Afternoon to the Mountains to louse themselves.
It is suppos’d by some, that Scotland is the Land of Nod, to which Cain was exil’d a Vagabond for the Murther of his Brother Abel; and truly in my Opinion the Supposition may be Very probable, for Cain’s being an Inhabitant there, the Ground hath been curst ever since, for it is a most barren Place to this very Day. Had grazing Nebuchadnezzar been here, he would have found but bad Pasture; and Judas as much plagu’d for a Tree to hang himself on. Bag-Pipes they esteem before Organs; there’s as much Hypocrisy in their Pantile-Houses as Irreligion in a Jews Synagogue; and the Dog-Days are not so warm here as in more Southerly Climates, but their Bitches Nights every where are too hot with a Vengeance. Here is every Day an Autumn among the Women; for, for a Noggin of Brandy they will fall as thick on their Backs as the Leaves in St. James’s Park do in September; and Law and Equity are as great Strangers to the Scots, as Honesty to the Justice of Peace that’s lately run from Clare-Court to the Mint, and who (when in Commission) was fitter to sit on a Butcher’s Block, as his Father did before him, than in a Magistrate’s Chair.
The Castle at Edinburgh is reckon’d as impregnable as a Scotchman’s sear’d Conscience; and their Capital contains but one Broad Street, by which is an University containing one College of Scholars poor both in Purse and Head. Here are no Carts, but sliding Cars; and the highest Number I ever saw on their Hackney Coaches exceeded not 29. The Scots reckon their Children spurious if they have not the Itch; and there’s as much Whoring every Day, as at Bartholomew or Southwark Fair. They Bury the Dead at Noon, to save the Charge of Torches; and as here are no Linkmen, only Boys and Girls light Passengers with Candles in Paper Lanthorns all about Town for a Baubee. Most of the People are generally of the Religion with them who marry without a Ring, Christen without the Cross, and Die without Baptism. Their Pastors, who are of the true Stamp of Geneva, endeavour by long extemporary Prayers and tedious Graces, to save the poor Souls of those Mountaineers; but yet their Hypocrisie Damns more than ever Sampson Slew, and with the same Weapon too, the Jaw Bone of an Ass. The Presbyterian Government is uppermost here; which Religion being a good quiet Subject, I could not forbear setting forth the Piety of a Scotch Presbyterian, in the following Lines.
Christians, behold a most pernicious sight,
Which worse than Hell wou’d dying Martyrs fright!
Such Monsters Africk never did produce;