In the late 1970s, when I returned to my alma mater in Glasgow to work, one of life’s little pleasures was to indulge myself in reading Scottish literature, trying to catch up on what I had missed by largely excluding the Literary Arts from my formal education. Coming from the Vale, I had already been disappointed with a smattering of Smollett; Scott, once the characters were formed, I found too predictable; Hogg, I enjoyed, though, perhaps persevered is a better description; Galt’s “Annals of the Parish,” and “Ayrshire Legatees,” were more to my taste. With my interests in the early development of steam on the Clyde, I was intrigued that Galt had written an account of trips by the Glasgow merchant Thomas Duffle down the Clyde in the Waterloo that formed the basis for “The Steamboat,” serialized in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine in 1821, and published as a novel the following year. However, “The Steamboat” had never made it into the student Cannon, and as far as I could gather had never been reprinted. A first edition was an aspiration I could only fulfil when I doubled my standard of living and halved my quality of life after crossing the Atlantic.

“The Steamboat” was written in 1819 when the Clyde was largely unimproved. Galt describes the Waterloo running aground on the island between Greenock and Helensburgh. I thought this a strange and fanciful fiction, but of course, the “island” is a sand-bar, exposed at low tide, and a feature of the scenery at that time.

In another early account of a steamboat journey from two years earlier, the author’s reverie imagines building houses on this sand-bar, reclaimed from the sea. This essay appears in a short-lived Greenock publication, “The Visitor,” and it describes a voyage from Greenock to Port Glasgow, two towns vying with each other for survival: Greenock in the ascendancy, and Port Glasgow ebbing in fortune as work on deepening the Clyde progressed. The unflattering description of the latter town by the Greenock author provoked a response from a Port native in a subsequent issue. As an example of early steam-boat literature the two letters are worth minor consideration. The name of the steamboat is not mentioned, but it might well be the Clyde that was most active in the Glasgow and Greenock trade at the time. There is mention of the Custom House at Greenock, as yet unfinished, and completed in the following year.

Port Glasgow around 1830 showing the spire that forms part of the story. Greenock can be seen in the background.

Voyage from Greenock to Port Glasgow in 1817—Mr. Visitor,—I am very little accustomed to travelling by sea having been long aware from a liability to sickness, that nature never intended me for a sailor. Learning, however, that there was not much risk of being sick in a steam-boat, I resolved by that conveyance to visit Port Glasgow the first fine day. As all your readers may not have made the same voyage, I thought it might be instructive to them to know what they might expect to see on making it, with my observations and reflections on the occasion.

Being informed early one of the mornings of last week that the day promised to be fine, I got up sooner than usual, and prepared for my departure. As I scarcely ever go from home, I was a little concerned at taking leave of my dog and cat, two very affectionate creatures, but I gave particular directions to my old house-keeper to be careful of them till my return.

In passing along the Vennell, I felt as if I was acting wrong, when I saw the patriots of the place “whose feet never went astray,” in their working dresses and Kilmarnock night-caps, contentedly breathing their native air at the doors of their thatched dwellings. Admiring the philosophy of their conduct, I bowed to them with respect, but my resolution of seeing the world was not to be shaken. Was pleased with the appearance of the new Church—a very classical building, but sadly disfigured by the wall with which the front steps of the portico are blockaded; and with the Tontine, a good specimen of the Roman, as the commercial buildings are of the Grecian architecture. Arriving at the quay where the steam-boat was lying, I was surprized at the magnificence of the buildings now erecting by Government for the offices of the Customs and Excise, with the additional view, no doubt, of improving and embellishing the town, as a reward for its tried loyalty, generosity, and public spirit, during the long, and arduous struggle we were engaged in for all that is valuable to man.

The view of the opposite side of the river is certainly very fine, particularly of that part of the landscape over Roseneath House. Had the American war continued longer, it was in contemplation to have raised a Martello tower on the lower extremity of the sand bank, mid-way across the river, which would have been an extremely picturesque object in time of peace, and in war a very sublime one, when crossing its fire with that of the battery.

The community have lately had a gift made to them by the crown, of this very extensive sand bank, and it has been suggested, that it would be a very proper thing to surround it with a rude breast-work, to prevent the sea from overflowing it at every tide, and then to dispose of the ground in lots, suitable for Villas in the Dutch taste, but it is doubted whether the people would choose to build on so sandy a foundation. The cabin boy having trumpeted his last call for passengers to go board, a stop was now put to my speculations on shore. Proceeding rapidly “on the wings of the steam,” we were now presented with a view of the town and harbour, which reminded me of the following passage in my old friend John Wilson’s poem of “Clyde”:—

The prophecy contained in the two concluding lines, which evidently allude to the East India trade, has been happily fulfilled. In the ardour of his patriotic enthusiasm, the poet also predicts that Gourock and Port Glasgow will be one day absorbed in the encreasing magnitude of Greenock; but I have some doubt if the inhabitants of these respectable towns will cheerfully acquiesce in this union.

As we passed the village of Crawfurdsdyke, it did not appear to me to be in a thriving way. When I first knew it, foot races were annually exhibited, which now seem to be given up. Since then, the fair of. St. Lawrence was established to revive the trade, but that is also abandoned, and the swords of the trades hang rusty in their halls. As an ornament to the view of the town by sea, for it requires no improvement by land, it would be advisable to rebuild the steeple lately pulled down, a very ancient structure, which tradition informs us, was erected from the proceeds of a whale thrown by a fortunate accident on the shore. If a similar piece of good fortune should again happen to the community of Crawsfurdsdyke, I have no doubt, from their well known public spirit, and taste, that the produce will be applied in an equally patriotic manner.

We soon passed the point of land forming the east side of the bay, covered with very black rocks, which I take to be of volcanic origin.

Having frequently surveyed from the land the island of Inch-green, I am decidedly of opinion, that at a period beyond tradition it formed part of the adjacent continent, but that it has been separated by an earthquake, and remains a convincing proof that such misfortunes, though rarely, have visited this part of the globe.

Previous to my landing at Port Glasgow, I could not refrain from remarking the fineness of the scenery at Dumbarton, and thinking that if an artificial waterfall of considerable height, was constructed across the river, somewhere above that fortress, it would both improve the view greatly, and tend to benefit the coasting trade of my native town, whose interests I never lose sight of. I suggested this idea to a burgess of Dumbarton who happened to be in the boat, but he was so taken up with Burgh reform, that he did not deign to answer me.

On landing, I immediately went to view the celebrated Town-house, which appears to be built in a most substantial manner; but I was greatly struck with the disproportion between the size of the steeple and of the building, which it is intended to ornament. I understand, however, that this arose from a very laudable feeling on the part of the inhabitants, who had long been anxious to have a steeple; justly considering an edifice of that kind to be an essential characteristic of a town of respectability. The steeple, therefore, being the principal object, we are not to consider it with reference to the house to which it happens to be attached, but to the coup d’œil of the place itself, to which it is certainly not disproportioned. The steeple is without doubt very handsome, and three feet higher than ours, as ascertained by the actual measurement of the constituted authorities. It appeared to me, however, a little off the perpendicular, which is a great blemish. The bell is large, but its tones lave been lamentably impaired by the operation of painting, to which, through a principle of mistaken kindness, it is said to have been unguardedly subjected. Be this, however as it may, the Port Glasgow bell is certainly far from possessing the sweet and silvery sound, for which ours is so deservedly celebrated.

The affectionate attachment of the people of Port Glasgow to their steeple, is well known. Some of the votaries of Thespis, lately made a very ingenious use of this amiable feeling, by issuing the following play-bill, after every other resource had been tried in vain to obtain a tolerable audience—

“In honour of the Port Glasgow steeple, an edifice which reflects the highest credit on the public spirit of the inhabitants, and the skill of the architect, will be performed, &c. &c.”

It is needless to add, that an overflowing house was the consequence of this happy expedient.

Should you be pleased, Mr. Editor, to insert in your very valuable Miscellany the above account of my voyage by sea to Port Glasgow, I may favour you, at some future period, with an account of my return in the noddy by land.—Abraham Thornback.—December 10, 1817.

The Response.

Reply to a Voyage to Port Glasgow.—Port Glasgow, 16th December, 1817.—Mr. Visitor,—A Letter having appeared in your last Number tending to throw into ridicule some of the Public Buildings of this respectable town, you cannot, if you wish to acquire a character for independence, refuse to publish the following few remarks. I shall endeavour to be as concise as possible, that I may not exceed the limits which you may think proper to prescribe for such a discussion.

It is impossible for me to give an adequate description of the feelings with which the letter of Abraham Thornback was perused in this place. I was one of five or six who were quite chop-fallen with vexation, and rankled with a desire of vengeance when the obnoxious article was read to us. One recommended the propriety of publishing a voyage from Port Glasgow to Greenock, when a complete retaliation could be made: another, with an angry look of sagacity and a significant turn of his head, observed that Abraham Thornback was a very uncommon name, and he thought by a little enquiry in Greenock he might find him out and give him a sound drubbing: a third (who, by the bye, is suspected of ultra-loyalty) proposed to prosecute you for such a licentious abuse of the liberty of the press; while a fourth vowed that you should visit him no longer. In short, Sir, we were stunned, we were horror-struck at the atrocious calumny. Compared with it, in our eyes the Letters of Junius dwindled into the insignificant sting of an antiquated guat; the celebrated Chaldee Manuscript seemed as the unheeded malice of an enraged butterfly; and the eloquent epistles which gave us to admire the Dispensary—destroying powers of one of our townsmen, sank into a decoction of Senna neutralised to a Whip-syllabub with Orange-flower water and Sugar candy.

After considerable discussion it was resolved that I should address you, in order to subvert any prejudices that may have been raised by the writings of your late correspondent. I was advised by some to use you with no ceremony; and by others to give you a complete bastinading; but I am too full of the milk of human kindness to allow, even the cause of all our fuming and vexation, to raise a malicious rankling in my mind. Yet I must ask, and ask seriously too, is it not highly reprehensible that our feelings should be so unceremoniously tantalised as they have been by your correspondent? Is it not strange that we, a quiet and unoffending race, should have the objects of our affection thus wantonly exposed to the derision of the reading public?—We, who seldom appear in print except in the form of an advertisement, and who may hence be considered less able to resist the attacks of our literary adversaries.

We are not, Sir, naturally of an unsocial disposition. We speak with our neighbours, and of our neighbours, as often as opportunity will allow. We despise the jealous reserve that disgraces the character of the Spaniard, and abhor with the most cordial abhorrence the grave stolidity of the Dutchman, who, sitting enveloped in impenetrable dullness and tobacco smoke, would scarcely awake from his lethargy, although a thunderbolt should fall upon the house, provided it allowed his box of shag to remain undisturbed at his elbow. Whirled as we are, although not sunk, in the vortex of inanity, with such communicative dispositions, and with few topics of general conversation save what are embraced by the narrow circle in which we move, it certainly is not to be wondered at if the public works, which reflect credit on our taste and energies, should pretty often come upon the carpet. Unlike those narrow-minded mortals whose ideas seldom reach beyond their shop-doors, we look upon every thing that tends to do good to the town with the most agreeable sensations: we regard those men, who have exerted themselves in the general cause, with a peculiar affection; and if a sentiment of exultation should sometimes escape us, where is the mighty fault? But in the midst of all this, from a Steam-boat steps forth, with his head full of Martello towers, long quotations, whales and steeples, Mister Abraham Thornback; a man who seems to admire the philosophers of the Long Vennel much more than he admires my public-spirited townsmen; and who apparently surveys the proportions of Kilmarnock night-caps with more gratification, than he feels when looking on the elegant spire that raises its majestic top over the townhouse of Port Glasgow.

He tells us that our steeple is a little off the perpendicular; but why did he not examine more particularly before he made such an assertion?—Our steeple, Sir, is by no means off the perpendicular; nay, it is so secure that, in the words of Mr. Polito, “the most timid may approach it without the slightest apprehension.” He tells us too, that the tone of our bell was destroyed by the operation of painting; but this only proves that he has got his information very imperfectly. There is not an old woman in the town, however little inquisitive she may be about such matters, who does not know that the bad effects of the painting were altogether overcome by the operation of roasting, to which the bell was afterwards subjected.

We are indeed, Sir, an unfortunate people. Scarcely a year has elapsed since we were the victims of a rhyme-making mania, which at one time seemed to be plotting a revolution in the affairs of society. Heroics, Anapestics, and Iambics, laden with abuse, poured on us in a mighty torrent. It appeared as if the muse of Doggrel had gone mad, and had been confined in a strait jacket to the towns of Port Glasgow and Newark, where she vomited her baleful fulminations on the luckless inhabitants. The mental wounds of which many of us had to complain were nearly healed up, and let not your correspondent, Abraham Thornback, strive to lay them again open. Although our attachment to our steeple should even become hobby-horsical, let him remember that de gustibus non est disputandum; and that a humane man would be the more lenient towards it on that account, for, (as my excellent friend, Tristram Shandy most justly remarks,) “a man’s hobby-horse is often the tenderest part about him.”—I am, &c. A. Hedgehog.