A SCOTTISH NEW YEAR

Otago Witness, Issue 3030, 10 April 1912, Page 89

A SCOTTISH NEW YEAR

HOGMANAY IN EDINBURGH. By A. J. Heighwat. It is Hogmanay in Edinburgh. A grey sky lowers in sombre Sabbath hue over a city of grey. A keen wind •whistles from the west, driving on, ana ever on, the flying wrack of mist. From Princes street the old castle rises, beyond the Gardens, as a mighty mass of dour black and merging grey. Ihe lealless limbs of the scattered trees sway slightly to the singing gusts or project in rigid melancholy dignity as black bars on a field of mingling grey and green. Underfoot the paths are drying to the touch of the wind, but the roadway has still a treacherous film of slime across which a way must be picked with care and caution. __ , Hogmanay on a Sabbath! The day is a very quiet one. The Saturday night celebrations of the riotous sort have sunk into oblivion throughout the short daylight hours, only to emerge again—but in much less strength—as the deepening dusk draws on Then, too, the "geysers" reappear. On the Saturday their marauding excursions were manifest. Many a housewife was greeted witn this well-kenned verse from a ragged group of youthful pirates: Get up guid wife, and shake your feathers, An' dinna think that we are beggars; "We're only bairns come out to play. Rise up and gie 's our Hogmanay. And now on this Sabbath evening Hogmanay is to be celebrated. No one single thing, perhaps, is in itself characteristic of the celebration of the Scottish New Year. But there is a small list which comes *to mind at mention of the occasion. There is, above all, "whueky - drinking and well-wishing. To the Scottish mind, so mindful of precedent, there seems a fine sublimity of hallowed connection between the two! There is again, among the older sort, a reverence for and dignity in. the taking of snuff and the singing of Psalms that is vastly impressive to those of the newer generation. The watch night servfees bring together not so much the youthful folk as those of staid measure and mature years —those to whom custom has hallowed the service and elevated it to the true dignity of a religious exercise. And still there exists as a necessary Hogmanay accompaniment the practice of much eating of shortbread and, in Edinburgh in particular, the much eating of currant cake. Of apple-douking, also, who has not heard ? All these matters come to mind as being necessary and inevitable at this season of the year. But it will be observed that each practice is complementary, as it were, to others, and not in itself complete. If one would seek that one special feature which, in Edinburgh at any rate, may be taken as being specially characteristic of the celebrations of the time—symptomatic, almost, of the whole occasion—attention must be directed not to those minor matters just mentioned, but to that supreme factor, that highest manifestation, known as the gathering " roond the Tron Kirk." This is admittedly only one aspect of a complicated celebration, but it is the most » apparent, the most gloriously magnificent, and undeniably the best collective effort of all. So on this Hogmanay night our excursion has that historic gathering as its ultimate. Down the Cowgate from the Grassmarket at a little after 10 o'clock there is to be found bunched around the mouth of every close a group of lassies and lads of divers ages. The grey day has turned to a black night—a black night when the wind whistles shrilly and chills as the touch of ice. But in these black depths—down beneath the roadways . of the South Bridge and George the f Fourth Bridge—there are circles of garish light, where the electric globes hold command. And in the circle of these mystic splashes one sees the Hogmanay crowd of these depths. Those wonderful little shops which sell halfpenny drinks and newspapers, toffie and tobacco, combustibles and comestibles, are all open. Sometimes one steps down to the interior, sometimes up. The floor slopes sometimes one way and the crude desk sometimes the other. The occupants not infrequently endeavour to accommodate themselves to both directions, and succeed not discreditably ! Each shop this evening is packed. And round the cheap and tawdry windows cluster bare-legged, wistful-eyed urchins, gazing at the glory of Soldier Jock's uniform as he does persistent elbow • drill. Small groups occasionally Bmg in shrill tones. Hoarse, ra/ping voices at times cut with appalling distinctness the lurid air of dens, and reach the freer roadway. The Hogmanay of the depths has started already. By way of St. Mary street the Canongate is reached. Its sloping surface is already well peppered with a moving populace. The cries of the barrow-women are shrilly heard. The singing of a dozen groups of children comes intermittently on the wind. The staggering altercations of friends faithful in disagreement are far from uncommon. With devious threadings we reach the door of the Tron Kirk—its doors open to us and close again—and the whole (atmosphere has clianged as by magic. The quaint interior is packed by a devout congregation. This watch-night service is a matter of some, moment—a solemn occasion—and by no means to bo oonfounded with the levity which marks the outdoor gatherings. The five-sided wooden gallery is packed to overflowing, the ground floor is filled, and folk are standing in the aisles and clustering round Ithe doorwayg. As we enter a prayer terminates in sounding periods, and the congregation rises after a moment to sing that greatest of all hymns for this occasion. "Oh God. our help in ages past." Tho congregation puts its soid into that song. It was not Bung loudly, but it was sung intensely. It vras not hurried nor clamourous. It was

a supplicating, measured intercession, with every word a word of meaning. In the midst of it a fleeting fancy showed me the black and white perspective of the drear funnel of the Cowgate, showed me the electric light falling fair on a pallid face enwrapped in a shawl as it emerged from the black mouth of a close;showed me a drunken soldier reel against a dissolute woman, and both collapse in a filthy gutter. Could there be a space of only 200 yards between the two spots 7 The beautiful hymn drew to a close amidst the silent formation of well-meant resolutions and humble aspirations. The 90th Psalm was read. The officiating minister gave a short address, which said all that should be said about the year drawing to a ciose, and breathed all fitting sentiments bearing upon a right use of the opportunities presented by the opening of the new one. It is a favourite thought of humanity that from some one single point of time there can be formulated a new policy of conduct. Why a resolution made on the first day of January should be more potent than that formed on the first day of April is not exactly clear. But the heart of man, mayhap, has a desire for completeness. The nominal start of a new period of time gives him the chance of a wholly good "new year." Thus as the impressive watchnight service of the Tron Kirk proceeded it was plain to observe the manufacture of much of that material which is said to pave the way to a certain climate of not inconsiderable warmth ! With 20 minutes of 1911 still to fly we are again in High street. And now what a change is developing. The streets are growing black and blacker with a crowding mass of humanity. We pass a little way down the Canongate and peep in the closes. Round Carrubber's close mouth there is a packed crowd. The strains of a melodeon played in a wild dance time reach us, and we catch a glimpse of the swaying heads of towsled couples. The famous Carrubber's Close Mission is right next door, and we peep into the waitch-night service there. The words " Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy-laden and 1 will give you rest; him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out" catch our eye just as a wild yell and roar of stamping, together with the blare of trumpets and the shriek of " squeekers " announce the termination of the dance next door! It is now eight minutes to 12, and we make our way—not without difficulty—to the corner of the North Bridge. And now thousands upon thousands are packed on every hand. There will be no moving till the whole is disrupted by the passage of the minutes. Up the High street and down the Canongate is ono solid mass. On the North Bridge and on the South Bridge is an equal aggregation. And every eye so far as is humanly possible is fastened upon the illuminated clock of the Tron Kirk, the ancient angles of the roof of which are outlined picturesaucly against the grey haze which still rives overhead. Snatches of song and laughter come from every section of the crowd, and a few bottles change hands in anticipation of the requirements of the next few minutes. The crowd still surges a little. A dozen lads burst through here and shoulder a way here. A slum woman with a babe in her arms appears tcssed on a wave for a moment, and is gone. The lassies who are under escort cling the closer, and those jovial souls whose troubles are their own endeavour to decipher through bleared eyes exactly how much longer of the old year remains. Four minutes now endure, and the tremor of the crowd throbs to quietness and expectancy. From a side street comes a sudden shouting and a momentary rush. That, too, dies or is absorbed in the bigger mass where attention is concentrated now on but; one thing. That thing is still three minutes off. For the space of perhaps a minute a dead silence falls. Then a Laugh breaks out away below us, spreads a little, but again dies away. . . Ninety seconds remain. The moon shows momentarily through a creamy rift, sees 30,000 staring eyes fastened greedily on the face of a clock, and flees in terror behind a sheltering cloud. Not a movement is made amongst all these people. . . . The last minute is now broken, but the loyalty to accuracy still holds out —not a sound is made —the few remaining seconds must first pass. . . . The two hands are almost indistinguishable—they are —and now for it! A sudden gust of wind—powerful and ever growing stronger—striking the dried leaves of acres of bluegume—a clatter and a rustle swelling to a sibilant roar—this was the sound of those 15,000 voices rising in simultaneous acclamation. It was a clashing, passionate, deafening outburst, beginning, curiously enough, on the outskirts of the crowd —where, mayhap, their visioin was the fairer —and drawing in to the centre. For a long two minutes the ear shrank under the impact of sound —which then died away as the ebbing tide dies on a shelving beach. The crowd burst into fragments. Groups miraculously formed and pledged the N ew Year in the quickly-passtd flask. " Auld Lang Syne " sprang into being in a dozen quarters. Hands gripped and gripped again—strangers equally with friends, for on this night all humanity is one. . . . The New Year is born!