Read the book: «Erchie, My Droll Friend», page 8

XX ON CORPORAL PUNISHMENT

On this question of corporal punishment in the schools, Erchie,” I said to my old friend, “what are your views? I’ve no doubt you’re dead against any alteration on use and wont.”

“Whiles,”’ said Erchie; “whiles! I buy the paper ae day, and when I read the wye brutal and ignorant schoolmaisters abuse their poseetion, I feel that angry I could fling bricks at the windows o’ a’ the schools I pass on the wye to my wark; but the next day when I read whit perfect wee deevils a’ the weans is nooadays, and hoo they’ll a’ turn oot a-disgrace to their faithers and mithers if they divna get a beltin’ twice a-day, I’m sair tempted to gae ower to my guid-dochter’s in the Calton and tak’ a razor-strop to wee Alick afore he gangs to his bed, jist in case he’s bein’ negleckit. That’s the warst o the newspapers; they’re aye giein’ ye the differen’ sets o’t, and ye read sae much on the ae side and then the ither that ye’re fair bate to mak’ up your mind. My ain puir auld faither – peace be wi’ him! – didna seem to be muckle fashed wi’ the different sets o’t in the newspapers; he made up his mind awfu’ fast, and gied ye his fit-rule ower the back o’ the fingers afore ye could gie your wee brither a clip on the nose for clypin’ on ye. They may abolish corporal punishment in the Gleska schools, but they’ll no’ pit an end to’t in hooses whaur the faither’s a plumber and aye has a fit-rule stuck doon the outside seam o’ his breeks.”

“Ah yes! Erchie, but these paternal ebullitions of ill-temper – ”

“Ill-temper or no’,” said Erchie, “it’s a’ in the scheme o’ nature, and an angry man’s jist as much the weepon o’ nature as a thunderbolt is, or a lichted caundle lookin’ for an escape o’ gas. If ye dinna get your licks in the school for bein’ late in the mornin’, ye’ll get fined an awfu’ lot o’ times for sleepin’ in when ye’re auld enough to work in Dubs’s; so the thing’s as braid as it’s wide, as the Hielan’man said.”

“Then you seem to think a fit of anger is essential to paternal punishment, Erchie? That’s surely contrary to all sober conclusions?’

“Sober conclusions hae naethin’ to dae wi’ skelpin’ weans, as I ken fine that brocht up ten o’ a family and nearly a’ that’s spared o’ them daein’ weel for themsel’s. The auld Doctor in oor kirk talks aboot love and chastisement, but in my experience human nature wad be a’ to bleezes lang afore this if faithers and mithers didna whiles lose their tempers and gie their weans whit they deserved. If you’re the kind o’ man that could thresh a puir wee smout o’ a laddie in cauld bluid, I’m no’, and I canna help it.”

“And did you thrash your ten much, Erchie?”

I asked, with a doubt as to that essential ill-temper in his case.

“That has naethin’ to dae wi’t,” said he, quickly. “My private disinclination to hae the wee smouts greetin’ disna affect the point at a’. If oor yins needed it, I went oot for a daunder and left the job to Jinnet. A woman’s aye the best hand at it, as I ken by my aunty Chirsty. When she had the threshin’ o’, me, she aye gied me tuppence efter it was done if I grat awfu’ sair, and I took guid care I never went wantin’ money in thae days. I was only vexed she couldna thresh me threepence-worth the time the shows were roond oor wye, and mony’s the time I worked for’t.

“When the papers mak’ me wonder whether corporal punishment’s guid for the young or no’, I jist tak’ a look at mysel’ in Jinnet’s new wardrobe looking-gless, and, except for the flet feet – me bein’ a waiter – I don’t see muckle wrang wi’ Erchie MacPherson, and the Lord kens there was nae slackness o’ corporal punishment in his days, though then it was simply ca’d a leatherin’. My mither threshed me because it wadna gae wrang onywye – if I wasna need’nt the noo I wad be need’nt some ither time; and my faither threshed me because there was a hard knot in the laces o’ his boots, and he couldna lowse’t. It didna dae me ony hairm, because I ken’t they were fond enough o’ me.

“In the school we were weel threshed in the winter-time to keep us warm, and in the summertime a stirrin’-up wi’ the tawse a’ roond made up for the want o’ ventilation. If I never learned much else in the school, I got a fair grup o’ nai-tural history, and yin o’ the tips I got was that a horse-hair laid across the loof o’ the haund’ll split a cane or cut the fingers aff a tawse, when ye’re struck by either the yin or the ither. I made twa or three cairt-horses bald-heided at the tail wi’ my experimentin’, but somethin’ aye went wrang; the maister either let fly ower sudden, or it was the wrang kind o’ horse – at onyrate, I never mind o’ cuttin’ the cane or the tawse.

“Whiles when I’m across at my guid-dochter’s, I hear her wee laddie, Alick, greetin’ ower his coonts, and fear’t the maister’ll cane him because they’re no’ richt.

“‘If a cistern wi’ an inlet pipe twa-and-a-half inches in diameter lets in seventy-nine gallons eleeven quarts and seeven pints in twenty-fower and a half’oors, and an ootlet pipe o’ three-quarters o’ an inch diameter discharge forty-eight gallons nineteen quarts and five pints in the six’oors, whit o’clock will the cistern be empty if the ootlet pipe hiz a big leak in’t?’

“That’s the kind o’ staggerer puir wee Alick gets thrashed for if he canna answer’t richt. I couldna dae a coont like that mysel’, as shair’s death, if I was pyed for’t, unless I had the cistern aside me, and a len’ o’ the measures frae the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, and Jinnet wi’ a lump o’ chalk keepin’ tally. I’m no’ shair that it’s ony guid to thrash wee Alick for no’ can’ daein’ a coont o’ that kind, or for no’ bein’ able to spell ‘fuchsia,’ or for no’ mindin’ the exact heights o’ a’ the principal mountains in Asia and Sooth America.

“Hoo wad ye like it yoursel’? Ye canna put mathematics into a callan’s heid by thrashin’ him ower the fingers, if he’s no’ made wi’ the richt lump in his heid for mathematics; and if Alick’s schoolmaister gaes on thinkin’ he can, I’ll gae oot some day to his school and maybe get the jyle for’t.”

“Come, come, Erchie,” I protested; “you are in quite an inconsistent humour to-day; surely Alick’s thrashings are all in the scheme of nature. If he is not punished now for inability to do that interesting proposition in compound proportion, he will be swindled out of part of his just payment when paid for bricklaying by the piece when he has taken to the trade, and the thing – once more as the Highlandman said – is as broad as it’s wide.”

“Nane o’ my guid-dochter’s sons is gaun to tak’ to treds,” said Erchie, coldly; “they’re a’ gaun to be bankers and electreecians and clerks and genteel things o’ that sort. If I’m no’ consistent aboot, this, it’s because o’ whit I tellt ye, that I’ve read ower mony o’ thae letters and interviews in the papers, and canna mak’ up my mind. I ken fine a’ the beltin’s I got in the school were for my guid, but – but – but it’s different wi’ wee Alick.”

“But we have all our wee Alicks, Erchie.”

“Then we’re a’ weel aff,” said Erchie, glowing, “for yon’s the comicalest wee trate! The Rale Oreeginal.”

“But the teachers don’t understand him?”

“That’s the hale p’int,” said Erchie, agreeably; “the teachers never dae. They’re no’ pyed for understandin’ a’ the wee Alicks: a’ that can be expected for the wages the schoolmaisters get in Gleska is that they’ll haul the wee cratur by the scruff o’ the neck through a’ the standards.. The schoolmaister and the mither ought to be mair prized and bigger pyed than ony ither class in the country, but they’re no’, and that’s the reason their jobs are often sae badly filled up.

“If education was a’ that folk think it is, there wad lang syne hae been nae need for cane nor strap. For mair nor a generation noo, every bairn has had to go to the school – a’ the parents o’ a’ the weans in school the noo have had an education themsel’s, so that baith at hame and in the school the young generation of the present day have sae mony advantages ower whit you and I had, they ought to be regular gems o’ guid behaviour and intelligence.

“But I canna see that they’re ony better than their grandfaithers were at the same age. Except my good-dochter’s boy Alick, I think they’re a’ worse.

“A’ the difference seems to be that they’re auld sooner than we were, smoke sooner, and swear sooner, and in a hunner wyes need mair leatherin’ than we did. Education o’ the heid’s no’ education o’ the hert, and the only thing that comes frae crammin’ a callant o’ naiturally bad disposeetion with book-learnin’ is that he’s the better trained for swindlin’ his fellow-men when he’s auld enough to try his hand at it. I wad be awfu’ prood o’ every new school that’s in Gleska if I didna ken that I had to pye a polis tax for’t by-and-bye as weel as school tax.”

“How glad we ought to be, Erchie, that we were born in a more virtuous age,” I said, and Erchie screwed up his face.

“We werena,” said he. “It’s aye been the same since the start o’ things. I’ve jist been sayin’ to ye whit I mind o’ hearin’ my faither say to mysel’. There’ll aye be jist enough rogues in the world to keep guid folk like you and me frae gettin’ awfu’ sick o’ each ither.”

XXI THE FOLLIES OF FASHION

My old friend has a great repugnance to donning new clothes. His wife Jinnet told me once she had always to let him get into a new suit, as it were, on the instalment system: the first Sunday he reluctantly put on the trousers; the second he ventured the trousers and waistcoat; and on the third he courageously went forth in the garb complete, after looking out at the close-mouth first to see that Duffy or any other ribald and critical acquaintance was not looking.

I saw a tell-tale crease down the front of the old man’s legs yesterday.

“New sartorial splendour, Erchie?” I said, and pinched him for luck.

He got very red.

“You’re awfu’ gleg in the een,” said he; “am I no’ daein’ my best to let on they’re an auld pair cleaned? Blame the wife for’t! there’s naethin’ o’ the la-di-da aboot easy-gaun Erchie. But weemen! claes is their hale concern since the day that Adam’s wife got the shape o’ a sark frae the deevil, and made if wi’ a remender o’ fig-leafs.

“There’s no much wrang wi’ Jinnet, but she’s far ower pernicketty aboot whit her and me puts on, and if she has naething else to brag aboot she’ll brag I hae aye the best-brushed buits in oor kirk. She took an awfu’ thraw yince at yin o’ the elders, for she thocht he bate me wi’ the polish o’ his buits, and she could hardly sleep ower the heid o’t till I tellt her they were patent.

“‘Och!’ says she, ‘is that a’? Patent’s no’ in the game.’

“‘Onything’s in the game,’ says I to her, ‘that’s chaper nor heeling and soling.’

“It’s bad enough,” he went on, “to be hurtin’ yer knees wi’ new breeks, and haein’ the folk lookin’ at ye, but it’s a mercy for you and me we’re no’ weemen. You and me buys a hat, and as lang’s the rim and the rest o’t stick thegither, it’s no’ that faur oot the fashion: we need to hide oorsel’s. The only thing I see changes in is collars, and whether it’s the lying-doon kind or the double-breisted chats, they hack yer neck like onything. There’s changes in ties, but gie me plain black.

“Noo, Jinnet has to hae the shape o’ her hat shifted every month as regular’s a penny diary. If it’s flet in June, it’s cockin’ up in July; and if the bash is on the left side in August, it has to be on the right side in September.

“Och! but there’s no’ muckle wrang wi’ Jinnet for a’ that; she wanted to buy me a gold watch-chain last Fair.

“‘A gold watch-chain’s a nice, snod, bien-lookin’ thing aboot a man,’ she says, ‘and it’s gey usefu’.’

“No, nor usefu’,’ says I; ‘a watch-chain looks fine on a man, but it’s his gallowses dae the serious wark.’”

“Still, Erchie,” I said, “our sex can’t escape criticism for its eccentricities of costume either. Just fancy our pockets, for instance!”

“Ye’re right, there,” Erchie agreed; “hae I no’ fifteen pouches mysel’ when I hae my topcoat on? If I put a tramway ticket into yin’ o’ them I wadna be able to fin’ oot which o’ them it was in for an’oor or twa.

“Pockets is a rale divert. Ye canna dae with-oot nine or ten in Gleska if ye try yer best. In the country it’s different. Doon aboot Yoker, and Gargunnock, and Deid Slow and them places, a’ a man needs in the wye o’ pouches is twa trooser yins – yin for each haund when he’s leanin’ against a byre-door wonderin’ whit job he’ll start the morn.

“There’s a lot o’ fancy wee pouches that’ll no’ haud mair nor a pawn-ticket aboot a Gleska man’s claes, but in the country they dae wi’ less and dig them deep.

“Sae faur as I can see, the pouch is a new-fashioned thing a’thegither. Look at them auld chaps ye see in pictures wi’ the galvanised or black-leaded airn suits on; if yin o’ them wanted a pouch he wad need to cut it himsel’ wi’ a sardine-opener, and then he wad peel a’ his knuckles feelin’ for his hankey or the price o’ a pint. I’m gled I wisna gaun aboot when them galvanised airn suits was the go; it must hae been awfu’ sair on the nails scratchin’ yersel’. Yer claes were made then in a biler-works. When ye went for the fit-on, the cutter bashed in the slack bits at the back wi’ a hammer and made it easier for ye under the oxter wi’ a cauld chisel.

“‘I want it higher at the neck,’ says you.

“‘Right!’ says he, quite game, and bangs in twa or three extra rivets. And your wife, if ye had yin, had to gie your suits a polish up every Friday when she was daein’ the kitchen grate.

“It was the same when the Hielan’s was the wye ye read aboot in books, and every Hielan’-man wore the kilts.

“There was nae pocket in a pair o’ kilts.

“I daursay that was because the Hielan’man never had onything worth while to put in a pocket if he had yin. He hung his snuff-mull and his knife and fork ootside his claes, and kept his skean-dhu in his stockin’..

“It’s a proof that weemen’s no’ richt ceevilised yet that they can be daein’, like the men I’m speakin’ aboot, withoot ony pooches. Jinnet tells me there’s nae pooch in a woman’s frock nooadays, because it wad spoil her sate on the bicycle. That’s the wye ye see weemen gaun aboot wi’ their purses in their haunds, and their bawbees for the skoosh car inside their glove, and their bonny wee watches that never gang because they’re never rowed up, hinging just ony place they’ll hook on to ootside their claes.

“I was yince gaun doon to Whiteinch on a Clutha to see a kizzen o’ the wife’s, and Jinnet was wi’ me. Me bein’ caury-haunded, I got aff by mistake at Govan on the wrang side o’ the river, when Jinnet was crackin’ awa’ like a pen-gun wi’ some auld wife at the sherp end o’ the boat, and she didna see me.

“‘Oh! Erchie!’ she says when she cam’ hame, ‘the time I’ve put in! I thocht ye wis drooned.’

“‘And ye hurried hame for the Prudential Insurance book, I suppose?’ says I.

“‘No,’ says she, ‘but I made up my mind to hae a pooch o’ my ain efter this, if I merrit again, to haud my ain Clutha fares, and no’ be lippenin’ to onybody.’”

XXII ERCHIE IN AN ART TEA-ROOM

I saw you and Duffy looking wonderfully smart in Sauchiehall Street on Saturday,” I said to Erchie one morning.

“Man, were we no’?” replied the old man, with an amused countenance. “I must tell ye the pant we had. Ye’ll no’ guess where I had Duffy. Him and me was in thon new tea-room wi’ the comic windows. Yin o’ his horses dee’d on him, and he was doon the toon liftin’ the insurance for’t. I met him comin’ hame wi’ his Sunday claes on, and the three pound ten he got for the horse. He was that prood he was walkin’ sae far back on his heels that a waff o’ win’ wad hae couped him, and whustlin’ ‘Dark Lochnagar.’

“‘Come on in somewhere and hae something,’ says he, quite joco.

“‘Not me,’ says I – ’ I’m nane o’ the kind; a beadle’s a public man, and he disna ken wha may be lookin’ at him, but I’ll tell ye whit I’ll dae wi’ ye – I’ll tak’ ye into a tea-room.’ ‘A’ richt,’ says Duffy; ‘I’m game for a pie or onything.’

“And I took him like a lamb to the new place. When we came foment it, he glowered, and ‘Michty!’ says he, ‘wha did this?’

“‘Miss Cranston,’ says I.

“‘Was she tryin’?’ says Duffy.

“‘She took baith hands to’t,’ I tellt him. ‘And a gey smert wumman, too, if ye ask me.’ He stood five meenutes afore I could get him in, wi’ his een glued on the fancy doors.

“Do ye hae to break yer wey in?’ says he. “‘No, nor in, I tells him; look slippy in case some o’ yer customers sees ye!’

“‘Och! I havena claes for a place o’ the kind,’ says he, and his face red.

“‘Man!’ I says, ‘ye’ve henned – that’s whit’s wrang wi’ ye: come in jist for the pant; naebody ‘ll touch ye, and ye’ll can come oot if it’s sore.’

“In we goes, Duffy wi’ his kep aff. He gave the wan look roond him, and put his hand in his pooch to feel his money. ‘Mind I have only the three flaffers and a half, Erchie,’ says he.

“‘It’ll cost ye nae mair than the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults,’ I tellt him, and we began sclimmin’ the stairs. Between every rail there was a piece o’ gless like the bottom o’ a soda-water bottle, hangin’ on a wire; Duffy touched every yin o’ them for luck.

“‘Whit dae ye think o’ that, noo?’ I asked him.

“‘It’s gey fancy,’ says Duffy; ‘will we be lang?’ “‘Ye puir ignorant cratur!’ I says, losin’ my patience a’thegither, ‘ye havena a mind in the dietin’ line above a sate on the trams o’ a lorry wi’ a can o’ soup in your hand.’

“I may tell ye I was a wee bit put aboot mysel’, though I’m a waiter by tred, and seen mony a dydo in my time. There was naething in the hale place was the way I was accustomed to; the very snecks o’ the doors were kind o’ contrairy.

“‘This way for the threepeny cups and the guid bargains,’ says I to Duffy, and I lands him into whit they ca’ the Room de Looks. Maybe ye havena seen the Room de Looks; it’s the colour o’ a goon Jinnet used to hae afore we mairried: there’s whit Jinnet ca’s insertion on the table-cloths, and wee beads stitched a’ owre the wa’s the same as if somebody had done it themsel’s. The chairs is no’ like ony ither chairs ever I clapped eyes on, but ye could easy guess they were chairs; and a’ roond the place there’s a lump o’ lookin’-gless wi’ purple leeks pented on it every noo and then. The gasalier in the middle was the thing that stunned me. It’s hung a’ roond wi’ hunners o’ big gless bools, the size o’ yer nief – but ye don’t get pappin’ onything at them.

“Duffy could only speak in whispers. ‘My jove!’ says he, ‘ye’ll no’ get smokin’ here, I’ll bate.’

“‘Smokin’!’ says I; ‘ye micht as weel talk o’ gowfin’.’

“‘I never in a’ my life saw the like o’t afore. This cows a’!’ says he, quite nervous and frich-teried lookin’.’

“‘Och!’ says I, ‘it’s no’ your fau’t; you didna dae’t onyway. Sit doon.’

“There was a wheen lassies wi’ white frocks and tippets on for waitresses, and every yin o’ them wi’ a string of big red beads roond her neck.

“‘Ye’ll notice, Duffy,’ says I, ‘that though ye canna get ony drink here, ye can tak’ a fine bead onyway,’ but he didna see my joke.

“Chaps me no’!’ says he. ‘Whit did ye say the name o’ this room was?’

“‘The Room de books,’ I tellt him.

“‘It’ll likely be the Room de Good Looks,’ says he, lookin’ at the waitress that cam’ for oor order. ‘I’m for a pie and a bottle o’ Broon Robin.’

“Ye’ll get naething o’ the kind. Ye’ll jist tak’ tea, and stretch yer hand like a Christian for ony pastry ye want,’ said I, and Duffy did it like a lamb. Oh! I had the better o’ him; the puir sowl never saw onything fancy in his life afore since the time Glenroy’s was shut in the New City Road, where the Zoo is. It was a rale’ divert. It was the first time ever he had a knife and fork to eat cookies wi’, and he thocht his teaspoon was a’ bashed oot o’ its richt shape till I tellt him that was whit made it Art.

“‘Art,’ says he; ‘whit the mischief’s Art?’

“‘I can easy tell ye whit Art is,’ says I, ‘for it cost me mony a penny. When I got mairried, Duffy, haircloth chairs was a’ the go; the sofas had twa ends to them, and you had to hae six books wi’ different coloured batters spread oot on the paurlor table, wi’ the tap o’ yer weddin’-cake under a gless globe in the middle. Wally dugs on the mantelpiece, worsted things on the chair-backs, a picture o’ John Knox ower the kist o’ drawers, and ‘Heaven Help Our Home’ under the kitchen clock – that was whit Jinnet and me started wi’. There’s mony a man in Gleska the day buyin’ hand-done pictures and wearin’ tile hats to their work that begun jist like that. When Art broke oot – ’

“‘I never took it yet,’ says Duffy.

“‘I ken that,’ says I, ‘but it’s ragin’ a’ ower the place; ye’ll be a lucky man if ye’re no’ smit wi’t cairryin’ coals up thae new tenements they ca’ mansions, for that’s a hotbed o’ Art. But as I say, when Art broke oot, Jinnet took it bad, though she didna ken the name o’ the trouble, and the haircloth chairs had to go, and leather yins got, and the sofa wi’ the twa ends had to be swapped for yin wi’ an end cut aff and no’ richt back. The wally dugs, and the worsted things, and the picture o’ John Knox, were nae langer whit Jinnet ca’d the fashion, and something else had to tak’ their place. That was Art: it’s a lingerin’ disease; she has the dregs o’t yet, and whiles buys shilling things that’s nae use for ony-thing except for dustin’.’

“‘Oh! is that it?’says Duffy; ‘I wish I had a pie.’

“‘Ye’ll get a pie then,’ I tellt him, ‘but ye canna expect it here; a pie’s no becomin’ enough for the Room de Looks. Them’s no’ chairs for a coalman to sit on eatin’ pies.’

“We went doon the stair then, and I edged him into the solid meat department. There was a lassie sittin’ at a desk wi’ a wheen o’ different coloured bools afore her, and when the waitresses cam’ to her for an order for haricot mutton or roast beef or onything like that frae the kitchen, she puts yin o’ the bools doon a pipe into the kitchen, and the stuff comes up wi’ naething said.

“‘Whit dae ye ca’ that game?’ asks Duffy, lookin’ at her pappin’ doon the bools; ‘it’s no’ moshy onywey.’

“‘No, nor moshy,’ I says to him. ‘That’s Art. Ye can hae yer pie frae the kitchen withoot them yellin’ doon a pipe for’t and lettin’ a’ the ither customers ken whit ye want.’

“When the pie cam’ up, it was jist the shape o’ an ordinary pie, wi’ nae beads nor onything Art aboot it, and Duffy cheered up at that, and said he enjoyed his tea.”

“I hope the refining and elevating influence of Miss Cranston’s beautiful rooms will have a permanent effect on Duffy’s taste,” I said.

“Perhaps it will,” said Erchie; “but we were nae sooner oot than he was wonderin’ where the nearest place wad be for a gless o’ beer.”