Gossip Networks in 17th Century Scottish Towns
How News, Rumors, and Reputation Traveled
Gossip Networks in 17th Century Scottish Towns
Before social media, smartphones, or even printed newspapers, Scottish towns in the 1600s were anything but information black holes. In fact, news — both factual and wildly embroidered — traveled remarkably fast. But it didn’t ride the airwaves or fiber cables; it traveled by foot, by whisper, and by alehouse chat. In towns like Ayr, gossip wasn’t just idle talk — it was a core part of how communities functioned, for better or worse.
The Original Social Feed: Foot-Posts and Newsletters
By the mid-1600s, Scotland was beginning to experiment with postal systems. In 1663, Ayr appointed two “foot-poasts” who would walk the week-long round trip between Edinburgh and the west coast. Their schedule: leave Ayr on Monday, arrive in Edinburgh later in the week, and return on Saturday. That meant — at best — new information came once a week.
But these foot-posts weren’t just mailmen — they were conduits of curiosity. Letters often included snippets of wider news. But more importantly, they were accompanied (or replaced) by newsletters: handwritten updates on politics, war, court affairs, and local goings-on. One such example from 1675 was Robert Crawfurd of Crawfurdston, who became the town’s official “agent and furnisher of newsletters.”
These newsletters were the TikToks of their day — passed around, read aloud in taverns or at markets, embellished, and sometimes copied for others. In 1678, the town paid 60 Scots pounds to Robert Muir, the Edinburgh postmaster, to keep supplying the “weiklie gazet and newsletters.”
How Rumors Became Reality (or Riot)
Even with some official information flowing, the real news came through informal networks — the baker’s wife, the ship captain’s cousin, the church elder’s niece. Towns like Ayr were small enough that everyone knew someone who knew someone — and word traveled fast.
But gossip wasn’t harmless.
In 1662, a riot broke out in Ayr, which was so serious that the offenders were publicly humiliated. They were paraded barefoot through the streets, led by the hangman, with a sign on their foreheads saying, “Beholders tak example. Feir God and obey your Lawful Magistrates.” This wasn’t just punishment — it was a PR campaign, showing what happened when gossip stirred up disobedience.
Suspicion and scandal were high currency. If someone was suspected of carrying plague or “ungodly conduct,” they could be branded, imprisoned, or banished — and often this was triggered by word of mouth, not hard evidence.
The Kirk as Gossip Regulator
Perhaps the most intense gossip network of the time operated under divine supervision: the Kirk Session. These groups of elders met weekly (or more) to investigate moral failings, enforce spiritual discipline, and keep tabs on the town’s behavior.
If someone skipped church, laughed during the sermon, fought in the pews, or danced too freely at a wedding, their name could end up in the Session Book — and that became the town’s official record of shame.
People were delated (accused) constantly, sometimes anonymously. One entry describes a couple who were brought before the Session because they were rumored to have engaged in “scandalous cariag at their bridell,” meaning their wedding celebration involved fiddling, dancing, and general merriment for two full days and nights.
In another case, a man was accused of “broding his neighbors with a prin” (poking people with a pin) during the sermon. He claimed he was just “wakinit them” (waking them up). Gossip had a long reach, and even good intentions weren’t safe.
Alehouses, Markets, and Minstrels: Gossip's Physical Platforms
If the Kirk was the judge and jury of moral gossip, the marketplace and alehouse were its newsrooms and Reddit threads. These were the places where sailors told tales of foreign lands, farmers exchanged stories about the weather, and women passed word about whose daughter had disappeared to the West Indies — or who was seen walking with whom past sundown.
And let’s not forget the town pipers and drummers, who were literally paid to walk the streets at dawn and dusk, signaling the start and end of the workday. If they failed in their duties without a good excuse, they were denied food for the day. These musical town criers also became natural hubs for information — and for spreading it.
In a small town, your reputation preceded you like a shadow. If you were caught saying something suspect, failing to show proper religious enthusiasm, or being seen in the company of someone already scandal-ridden, it could follow you for life.
Reputation as a Social Currency
In 17th century Scotland, gossip wasn’t just a pastime. It was a system of surveillance, control, and social bonding. With no centralized media, the people were the press. Stories flowed along kinship lines, religious structures, and ale-soaked barstools. At its best, it kept communities informed and interconnected. At its worst, it led to exile, public shame, or worse.
As we doomscroll through Twitter or check our notifications for the fifth time today, maybe we’re not so different. The mediums have changed — but the human hunger for stories, status, and secrets? That’s eternal.
Adapted from: Pagan, J. H. (1897). Annals of Ayr in the Olden Time, 1560–1692. Ayr: Alex. Fergusson.
