Some recollections of the Madras, 1854-1860

By W. W. TULLOCH

It may seem a very long time ago to the many young fellows who may read this paper—1854-1860, why that was fifty years ago! Half a century ! It is a long time ago. In some respects so it also appears to the writer, but in other ways just as yesterday. I was just about eight years of age when I first went to our school—a delicate, sensitive, shy lad, whose small hands could hardly hold the slate and books that had to accompany him from St. Mary's College to the school along South Street, looking anxiously at the clock on the Town Church to see if he were in good time. No Town Hall to pass in those far-off days; no Queen Street, or is it Queen's Gardens now? The Royal Hotel and "Hodge's Lane" were the landmarks before "Auld's house " came in sight—the home in those days of Mr. (latterly Dr.) Auld, our Latin master. Yes, there was one other: it was Fyall's clack shop, but of that again. I do not know what that lane is called now, but we called it "Hodge's Lane" in those days—the lane leading down to Mr. Hodge's School and past that to the Lade Braes. But I do know that Mr. Hodge died just a fortnight ago in Hampstead, and I am sorry to say that in some golfing papers very well known to the present writer, there has been very little notice taken of the death of that exceedingly charming man, most excellent teacher and conch, who made a companion of his boys, as all good masters ought to do of good—yes, and perhaps of not altogether good—boys. He was a brilliant cricketer, and latterly a splendid golfer. Hodge's "Eleven" bad a great reputation in those (lays, and used to win a lot of their matches, played against worthy rivals too! He trained several sets of fine, smart young fellows for the Civil Service and the Army. He had been in the Army himself, and wrote a book on "Fortification" which had a vogue at one time, and was, I think, used as a text book on the subject. I remember we used to consider Hodge's boys great "swells "-"mashers" or "toffs" I suppose they would be called now. They used to appear to us to be always very well dressed, and to have the "grand air" about them; and when any of our "best girls," as I suppose they would be called now, had awakened the attention and admiration of "one of Hodge's boys,'' we were very jealous. In fact we considered it was all up with us and our chances, and would meditate some of the resources of the despairing. Some of them sat opposite me in the Town Church—now to be no longer as I knew it—and one would watch with jealous eyes the direction of the eyes of these "lady-killers" at first sight.

Then passing "Hodge's Lane" one would be in sight of the Blackfriars' Monastery. I suppose; it was the want of the historical faculty and of any admiration for architecture, for I never remember noticing how very unique and picturesquely beautiful a ruin it was, nor did I bother my head about its history. I don't suppose; I knew what a Monastery was, or that I cared a jot as to who or what the Blackfriars were; that the brothers were Dominicans and were so called from their sombre dress. Certainly I never knew that the charming "bit" which remained was probably the north transept of the church, rebuilt or extensively repaired by Prior John Hepburn. Nor did I even notice that his Arms were to be seen on one of the corbels supporting the groins of the roof. Here, let me explain to the unsophisticated lad—as ignorant, as delectably ignorant, as I was in those days—that corbel is an expression in architecture for a projection of stone or wood from the face of a wall, supporting pillars or other superincumbent weights. Moreover, that its etymology is interesting, for it comes from the Latin corvus, which no doubt he knows is a raven or a crow. I wonder if the modern lad knows enough of his "mither " tongue to know that the bird used to be called a "corbie" in Scotland, and if he knows the Scots proverb, " Ae corbie will no pyke oot anither's een," which means that those of one profession, institution or disposition will not harm another of the same —in schoolboy parlance, no Madras boy will allow harm to be done to, or evil spoken of, another Madras boy—which sentiment is very commendable, and I hope in bringing it under the notice of a new generation of boys I am not a corbie's messenger, which means, in reference to the raven of Noah's Ark, a messenger who returns too late or not at all. Or if they know that the corbie is a bird of ill-omen, like the pyat or magpie, as in A. Scott's poem—

"Yesterday workin' my stockin',
An' you wi' the sheep on the hill,
A muckle black corby sat croakin';
I kent it forbodit some ill."

Nor did I ever notice, in the crown of the arch, the small, circular stone with the finely carved emblems of our Saviour's passion— the pierced hands and feet and heart. I was more concerned with whether there were any boys still on the playground. If there were, then I knew that I was in time ; if not, then I knew that somebody's class was " in" and that it was high time I was "in" too, or I should lie late. The classes in those days commenced with prayer, and if you were late you had ignominiously to stand outside the door till it was over. If you were too late for the opening of the door after the prayer, then your face would be very red indeed when you summed up courage to enter, unless, indeed, you had a "note of excuse" with you. Are parents' "notes" still to the fore? Sometimes we would know whether we were in time or not by seeing Dr. Auld or Dr. Armstrong — they were both plain "misters" in those days, however— emerging from their respective houses on their way to the classrooms. If we were in time, ample and to spare, I remember how we used to walk round and round the passages, arm in arm, perhaps, with another boy, and meet the girls, and perhaps — oh, shocking depravity in one so young exchange with some shy or daring damsel, as the case might be, a note of quite a different kind. Those were merry days when we used to walk round the passages, "when the heart was young." How many are left now of all those boys and girls? What divers histories they have had! Grandfathers and grandmothers now, most of them, if alive. Very funny to think of, if it were not very pathetic too, as you, my dear boys and girls of to-day, will know if you attain to the same, no doubt to your mind, awful dignity, and reach the same apalling age. In trying, across the mists of the inevitable years, to recall the vanished faces, to conjure up the youthful figures, it occurs to me to suggest to the conductors of this Magazine and to the Madras Club as a whole, that it would he a very good thing to publish in its pages or in pamphlet form the old quarterly "bits," or at least the prize lists of each session, so that we old boys could see the places we occupied, no doubt with some amount of chagrin and shame, if also in some cases with justifiable pride. It would help us to recall many of those whom we had not thought of for years and whom we had lost sight of altogether. A list of boys, with their destinations in life so far as is known, from the beginning of the school up to the close of last century, would be most useful and interesting. It would also help to keep alive the train of associations and the esprit de corps which make us say "There is no school like the good old Madras." In my next I hope to tell you something about some of the boys and masters in my day.
W. W. TULLOCH.
From Madras College Magazine June 1907

Some Recollections of the Madras,
1854-1860.
II

I concluded my last paper by saying "in my next I hope to tell you something about some of the boys and masters in my day." Well, very curiously and sadly, just as I sit down to write this paper, I see in the Perthshire Constitutional and The Perthshire Advertiser long paragraphs in regard to the death of Dr. Whitson of Essendy, an old Madras boy.
It seems that the Doctor, who had retired from active practice in Glasgow and settled down on the estate which he inherited at Essendy in Perthshire, had walked into Blairgowrie and back, and when he returned had attended to some estate work. Then he had gone into his bathroom to have a bath according to his usual custom before dinner. In a short time the servants heard a cry and the sound of a fall. Rushing upstairs, they knocked at the bathroom door. They received no answer, and, finding the door not locked, they went in to discover their master sitting on the floor with his head resting on the bath. Alas! he was quite dead.
Now this Dr. Whitson was the boy whom I remember perhaps most vividly of all my fellow scholars at the Madras College, he was just about my own age, and we attended the same classes together. His father was or had been a minister, for I think his mother was a widow even at this time, with this one son and two daughters — one of whom, with the rude outspokenness and somewhat vulgar frankness, characteristic of the boys of my time, we called " tow-pow," for no other reason than that the young lady in question had great quantities of beautiful hair, which in the eyes of irreverent youth was not specially associated with the proverbial crown of glory for which we have Biblical sanction.
James Whitson, I am almost sure, for some of the time he was at the Madras, boarded with Dr. Auld—Mr. Auld, "Jimmy Auld" he was then—the Classical Master. I remember him very vividly because he and I were generally very near each other in the class lists— not by any means at the top, but yet, I think, above the middle; and also because I used to meet him occasionally in after life in Glasgow, where he was a doctor and I was a minister. He, however, lived in the west end, and I for most of my time on the south side; and I, like a policeman, was more or less confined to my "beat." We were, however, both members of the same Masonic Lodge — The Princes 607 — the swell Glasgow Lodge, some of whose members, such as Mr. James Dalrymple Duncan and Major F. W. Allan, have done a great deal for Scottish Free Masonry. But I have another reason for remembering James Whitson. He was the only boy with whom I ever had a fight - a regular stand-up, "Come on, now, I'll bash you on the nose" sort of business. The only boy, for I was "never a fighter," to parody Browning's splendid lines, with fisticuffs at least. Nor do I think was James Whitson. I can't recall what we quarrelled about, but quarrel we did, and fight, too, much no doubt to the amusement of the bigger and stronger boys, who were more accustomed to and greater experts at the game than were we two rather weak and shy lads. Which of us won, I don't in the least remember, but I rather think that, after a few knocks and a good deal of angry shouting, we both thought discretion the better part of valour, and, endeavouring to hide any traces of the combat, went into our classes.
Talking of the deaths of old boys, I can only remember of two deaths during the time I was at school—those of one boy and one girl. The boy was a lad we used to call "Cub" Glover, because, I fancy, he was the youngest of three brothers at school—Thomson, George and this "Cub" Glover, whose name was either James or John, but who was always called " Cub." Probably it may have been a family name. Their father was a pleasant, retired, gentlemanly-looking man—a Dr. Glover of considerable scientific attainments if I rightly remember, whom I still distinctly see with my mind's eye, wearing what, I fancy, was somewhat professional in those days—a white necktie. "Cub" was the nearest my own age of the three brothers. George, I believe, is the only one now alive. I cannot remember any details as to Cub's illness, which was only of a few days' duration, or of his funeral. But I remember the awed impression his death made upon me and the quiet way in which Conny (Constantine) and Willie Walkinshaw, my greatest school friends, for some days went about; for ''Cub " had been a close friend of ours and often formed a fourth in our play in "the Walkinshaw's garden." Death is an awing thing for young lads full of life and spirits to come across. And over all these years I remember the effect this death had upon me. I well remember in the glory of spring or summer days walking up and down "The Walk," which leads down from St. Mary's College to the Lade Braes. Perhaps some of my young readers would like to go and have a look at this walk, which with the "Ducat" half-way down was, along with the Walkinshaw's garden, the great "howff" of the writer and his friends in their schooldays. The Walkinshaws at that time lived in South Street — a fine house with one of those beautiful gardens for which South Street is famous.
Well, I remember vividly in the spring of the year and in the springtime of my own life, walking up and down that "Walk " — the sun shining brightly in the sky, the air alive with the cawing of rooks or crows from the tall, swaying branches of the trees, and the songs of countless birds, singing as if their little hearts were bursting with joy, the tender green on the leaf of the beech hedge and the scent of flowers from the garden on the other side —fooling life and health and strength pulsing through my veins, and yet being arrested and dominated by the thought of death, by the realisation that one day I too must die. It was a thought of pain and terror and most awful mystery. I could not get away from it. I don't know that I always wanted to get away from it. I rather indulged myself with the thought; and would go into the house and bring out the volume of Do Quincey in which he describes the death of his sister Jane, and read it aloud to myself, as I walked up and down "The Walk," with the tears streaming down my cheeks. I suppose even at that time I was to some extent susceptible to the cadence of the perfection of style in English prose, and De Quincey's wonderful words were as so much music to my ear. Both the subject and the style took possession of me. I would read the passage over and over again, and then, not content with that, I would go into the house and ask my dear mother if she had time to listen to me reading it to her. I shall close with a bit of practical advice. Let all boys and girls learn to love the cadence, the rhythm, the music of well-ordered words in the best English prose they know. Ask the English Master to give you some specimens of what he thinks the most perfect style we have. And then read them over and over to yourselves, and as the stateliness, the dignity, the music of them charm the ear and touch the heart, read them aloud to yourself and ask to be allowed to read them to someone else. Believe me it will stand you in good stead in after life, and help you in all your reading and in any writing you may have to do.

W. W. TULLOCH.
From Madras College Magazine December 1907

Some Recollections of the Madras,
1854-1860.
III.

My last paper was to a large extent the chronicle of deaths of boys who were with mo at the dear old school—"Cub" Glover, who died when we were at school together, and Dr. James Whit son, who did not go until he had lived an honourable, though too short life, as a medical man in Glasgow. One other death made a great impression on me, for the girl was a great friend of my sisters and the eldest daughter of the most hospitable people I think it has ever been my good fortune to meet — Mr. and Mrs. Stuart Grace. Mr. Grace was Secretary of the school, and I shall never forget the kindness of himself and his charming wife to me when, as a little lad, I came to St. Mary's College with my father, and often had to live from Friday to Monday alone in that big house. They took pity on the lonely boy, and I generally spent Saturday evening with them and their daughters, Annie, who died quite young, and Jessie Alice (now Mrs. Holcroft), who inherited all the hospitable qualities of her father and mother, as many students in later years can testify. So also does, in a notable degree the present Mr. Charles Stuart Grace, W.S., who succeeded his father as Secretary of the school, and as Secretary of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club, as well as in many other positions of trust and confidence in the city, and whose tutor, in time, I had the pleasure and privilege of being. Later on my greatest friends were the Walkinshaws and especially Connie (Constantine) and Willie and their sister Lizzie, who afterwards married Mr. John Cook. How well I remember their parents—Mr. Walkinshaw, whose name is handed down to posterity in the well-known bunker on the Links, which was called after him, on the mound facing the sixth hole tee, and which was just his carry; and also his sweet and pretty wife, who took such a motherly charge of us all. With them lived a young fellow, James Wylie, who was one of the best golfers of his day. He had a beautifully brilliant style and won many of the school medals. It was not that he put a great deal of force into his drives, but he hit with a deliciously sweet and fair shot. Next to the redoubtable John G. Macpherson (now the well-known Dr. Macpherson), he was the best golfer of my school and college companions. We played a good deal of golf on the Saturday afternoons, although sometimes when the weather was warm and we were lazy or had exhausted ourselves by laughing at and with one another, we did not get much further than the "Shepherd's House," where we regaled ourselves with scones and milk and sometimes, I fear, home-made treacle beer, which increased our natural hilarity and exuberance and did not add to our golfing form. We knew all the golfing celebrities who played in St. Andrews in those days, and specially do I remember Mr. Sutherland, after whom another bunker is named and who, besides being a keen observer, had a quaint humour about him which was very amusing, and a caustic wit, which we did not find quite so entrancing. But our heroes were Allan Robertson and Willie Park, and, later on, the great and good Tom Morris, Jimmy Anderson, and many more.
The masters in my time were Dr. Auld, a gentlemanly and mild man who had a line taste for the Classics and for literature of all kinds. I well remember the speech he made to his classes when Sir Hugh Lyon Playfair died, and how he summed up all he had done for St. Andrews by saying "Circumspice." I have still a prize I got from him for an essay on "The Druids," which was perhaps a somewhat curious subject for a prize in the Latin class.
Then Robert Armstrong was the English Master, a bright, keen and forcible teacher to whom I owe much of what I love in English Literature. In after years I got to know and love him as a relative by marriage and as a friend, he was a great climber and mountaineer, and he used to bathe at the Step Rock almost all the winter through.
The Arithmetical Master was also an excellent teacher — the Rev. Daniel Fraser, whom we would irreverently call "Dan Shout." I was very fond of his class and used to be very proud when I got the medal, which was in daily vogue in those days.
The Mathematical Master was a man of great force of character and a most successful teacher, sending many boys up to take a high place in the Civil Service and other examinations. His name was Dr. Lonie, or Ouchterlonie, as I think he liked to be called, but the boys' name for him was "Bim" for what reason I cannot quite recollect.
The Writing Master was Dr. Andrew Bell Morrison, who was also a successful teacher. I fear I never was a very successful pupil as I well remember getting into grief for failing to satisfy him, and his declaring that my capital D's (I think) were like "Craws' nests."
The French and German teacher when I first went to school was Mr. Muller, who succeeded the well-known long driver at golf, Mr. Messieux; and the Drawing Master was the very successful Mr. Patterson, who had also taught my father and mother, who, I hope, had more aptitude for his class than, unfortunately, I ever had. He was a very successful teacher and his Exhibition of Drawings were always features of the examination days; so also were the competitions for the silver knife in the Arithmetical Class, where my successful rival was a lad of the name of Topp, who once, long years afterwards, called for me in Glasgow. Another feature of the Examination Days or Exhibitions was the writing of an extempore essay in the English Class.
Not one of all these masters is now alive! All are gone, vanished into the mists and darkness of the past, but never to be forgotten and never to be remembered without reverence and affection. What a good teacher may do for his pupils can hardly be reckoned. Their instruction becomes part and parcel of oneself. So I say to all present girls and boys, pupils at the Madras, love and respect your teachers and learn all you can from them.

W. W. TULLOCH.
From Madras College Magazine March 1908