|On Sundays he is the beadle of our church; at other times he Waits.
In his ecclesiastical character there is a solemn dignity about his
deportment that compels most of us to call him Mr MacPherson; in his
secular hours, when passing the fruit at a city banquet, or when at the
close of the repast he sweeps away the fragments of the dinner-rolls,
and whisperingly expresses in your left ear a fervent hope that “ye’ve
enjoyed your dinner,” he is simply Erchie.
Once I forgot, deluded a moment into a Sunday train of thought by his
reverent way of laying down a bottle of Pommery, and called him Mr
MacPherson. He reproved me with a glance of his eye.
“There’s nae Mr MacPhersons here,” said he afterwards; “at whit ye might
call the social board I’m jist Erchie, or whiles Easy-gaun Erchie wi’
them that kens me langest. There’s sae mony folks in this world don’t
like to hurt your feelings that if I was kent as Mr MacPherson on this
kind o’ job I wadna mak’ enough to pay for starchin’ my shirts.”
I suppose Mr MacPherson has been snibbing-in preachers in St Kentigern’s
Kirk pulpit and then going for twenty minutes’ sleep in the vestry since
the Disruption; and the more privileged citizens of Glasgow during
two or three generations of public dinners have experienced the kindly
ministrations of Erchie, whose proud motto is “A flet fit but a warm
hert.” I think, however, I was the first to discover his long pent-up
and precious strain of philosophy.
On Saturday nights, in his office as beadle of St Kentigern’s, he lights
the furnaces that take the chill off the Sunday devotions. I found him
stoking the kirk fires one Saturday, not very much like a beadle in
appearance, and much less like a waiter. It was what, in England, they
call the festive season.
“There’s mair nor guid preachin’ wanted to keep a kirk gaun,” said he;
“if I was puttin’ as muckle dross on my fires as the Doctor whiles
puts in his sermons, efter a Setturday at the gowf, ye wad see a bonny
difference on the plate. But it’s nae odds-a beadle gets sma’ credit,
though it’s him that keeps the kirk tosh and warm, and jist at that
nice easy-osy temperature whaur even a gey cauldrife member o’ the
congregation can tak’ his nap and no’ let his lozenge slip doon his
throat for chitterin wi’ the cauld.”
There was a remarkably small congregation at St Kentigern’s on the
following day, and when the worthy beadle had locked the door after
dismissal and joined me on the pavement, “Man,” he said, “it was a puir
turn-oot yon--hardly worth puttin’ on fires for. It’s aye the wye; when
I mak’ the kirk a wee bit fancy, and jalouse there’s shair to be twa
pound ten in the plate, on comes a blash o’ rain, and there’s hardly
whit wid pay for the starchin’ o’ the Doctor’s bands.
“Christmas! They ca’t Christmas, but I could gie anither name for’t. I
looked it up in the penny almanac, and it said, ‘Keen frost; probably
snow,’ and I declare-to if I hadna nearly to soom frae the hoose.
“The almanacs is no’ whit they used to be; the auld chaps that used to
mak’ them maun be deid.
“They used to could do’t wi’ the least wee bit touch, and tell ye in
January whit kind o’ day it wad be at Halloween, besides lettin’ ye ken
the places whaur the Fair days and the ‘ool-markets was, and when they
were to tak’ place-a’ kind o’ information that maist o’ us that bocht
the almanacs couldna sleep at nicht wantin’. I’ve seen me get up at
three on a cauld winter’s mornin’ and strikin’ a licht to turn up Orr’s
Penny Commercial and see whit day was the Fair at Dunse. I never was
at Dunse in a’ my days, and hae nae intention o’ gaun, but it’s a grand
thing knowledge, and it’s no’ ill to cairry. It’s like poetry-’The Star
o’ Rabbie Burns’ and that kind o’ thing-ye can aye be givin’ it a ca’
roond in your mind when ye hae naething better to dae.
“Oh, ay! A puir turn-oot the day for Kenti-gern’s; that’s the drawback
o’ a genteel congregation like oors-mair nor half o’ them’s sufferin’
frae Christmas turkey and puttin’ the blame on the weather.”
“The bubbly-jock is the symbol o’ Scotland’s decline and fa’; we maybe
bate the English at Bannockburn, but noo they’re haein’ their revenge
and underminin’ oor constitution wi’ the aid o’ a bird that has neither
a braw plumage nor a bonny sang, and costs mair nor the price o’ three
or four ducks. England gave us her bubbly-jock and took oor barley-bree.
“But it’s a’ richt; Ne’erday’s comin’; it’s begun this year gey early,
for I saw Duffy gaun up his close last nicht wi’ his nose peeled.
“‘Am I gaun hame, or am I comin’ frae’t, can ye tell me?’ says he, and
he was carryin’ something roond-shaped in his pocket-naipkin.
“‘Whit’s wrang wi’ ye, puir cratur?’ I says to him.
“‘I was struck wi’ a sheet o’ lichtnin’,’ says he, and by that I ken’t
he had been doon drinkin’ at the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, and that the
season o’ peace on earth, guid-will to men was fairly started.
“‘MacPherson,’ he says, wi’ the tear at his e’e, ‘I canna help it, but
I’m a guid man.’
“‘Ye are that, Duffy,’ I says, ‘when ye’re in your bed sleepin’; at
ither times ye’re like the rest o’ us, and that’s gey middlin’. Whit
hae’ye in the naipkin?’
“He gied a dazed look at it, and says, ‘I’m no shair, but I think it’s a
curlin’-stane, and me maybe gaun to a bonspiel at Carsbreck.’
“He opened it oot, and found it was a wee, roond, red cheese.
“‘That’s me, a’ ower,’ says he--‘a Christmas for the wife,’ and I
declare there was as much drink jaupin’ in him as wad hae done for a
water-’shute.’
“Scotland’s last stand in the way o’ national customs is bein’ made at
the Mull o’ Kintyre Vaults, whaur the flet half-mutchkin, wrapped up in
magenta tissue paper so that it’ll look tidy, is retreatin’ doggedly,
and fechtin’ every fit o’ the way, before the invadin’ English Christmas
caird. Ten years ago the like o’ you and me couldna’ prove to a freen’
that we liked him fine unless we took him at this time o’ the year into
five or six public-hooses, leaned him up against the coonter, and
grat on his dickie. Whit dae we dae noo? We send wee Jennie oot for a
shilling box o’ the year afore last’s patterns in Christmas cairds, and
show oor continued affection and esteem at the ha’penny postage rate.
“Instead o’, takin’ Duffy roon’ the toon on Ne’erday, and hurtin’ my
heid wi’ tryin’ to be jolly, I send him a Christmas caird, wi’ the
picture o’ a hayfield on the ootside and ‘Wishin’ you the Old, Old Wish,
Dear,’ on the inside, and stay in the hoose till the thing blaws bye.
“The shilling box o’ Christmas cairds is the great peace-maker; a gross
or twa should hae been sent oot to Russia and Japan, and it wad hae
stopped the war.’ Ye may hae thocht for a twelvemonth the MacTurks were
a disgrace to the tenement, wi’ their lassie learnin’ the mandolin’,
and them haein’ their gas cut aff at the meter for no’ payin’ the last
quarter; but let them send a comic caird to your lassie--‘Wee Wullie to
Wee Jennie,’ and they wad get the len’ o’ your wife’s best jeely-pan.
“No’ but whit there’s trouble wi’ the Christmas caird. It’s only when ye
buy a shillin’ box and sit doon wi’ the wife and weans to consider wha
ye’ll send them to that ye fin’ oot whit an awfu’ lot o’ freen’s ye hae.
A score o’ shillin’ boxes wadna gae ower half the kizzens I hae, wi’ my
grandfaither belangin’ to the Hielan’s, so Jinnet an’ me jist let’s on
to some o’ them we’re no’ sendin’ ony cairds oot this year because it’s
no’ the kin’ o’ society go ony langer. And ye have aye to keep pairt
o’ the box till Ne’erday to send to some o’ the mair parteeclar anes ye
forgot a’ thegither were freen’s o’ yours till they sent ye a caird.
“Anither fau’t I hae to the Christmas cairds is that the writin’ on
them’s generally fair rideeculous.
“‘May Christmas Day be Blythe and Gay, and bring your household Peace
and Joy,’ is on the only caird left ower to send to Mrs Maclure; and
when ye’re shearin’ aff the selvedges o’t to mak’ it fit a wee envelope,
ye canna but think that it’s a droll message for a hoose wi’ five weans
lyin’ ill wi’ the whoopin’-cough, and the man cairryin’ on the wye
Maclure does.
“‘Old friends, old favourites, Joy be with you at this Season,’ says
the caird for the MacTurks, and ye canna but mind that every third
week there’s a row wi’ Mrs MacTurk and your wife aboot the key o’ the
washin’-hoose and lettin’ the boiler rust that bad a’ the salts o’
sorrel in the Apothecaries’ll no tak’ the stains aff your shirts.
“Whit’s wanted is a kin’ o’ slidin’ scale o’ sentiment on Christmas
cairds, so that they’ll taper doon frae a herty greetin’ ye can
truthfully send to a dacent auld freen’ and the kind o’ cool ‘here’s to
ye!’ suited for an acquaintance that borrowed five shillin’s frae ye at
the Term, and hasna much chance o’ ever payin’t back again.
“If it wasna for the Christmas cairds a lot o’ us wad maybe never
jalouse there was onything parteecular merry aboot the season. Every man
that ye’re owin’ an accoont to sends it to ye then, thinkin’ your
hert’s warm and your pouches rattlin’. On Christmas Day itsel’ ye’re
aye expectin’ something; ye canna richt tell whit it is, but there’s ae
thing certain--that it never comes. Jinnet, my wife, made a breenge for
the door every time the post knocked on Thursday, and a’ she had for’t
at the end o’ the day was an ashet fu’ o’ whit she ca’s valenteens, a’
written on so that they’ll no even dae for next year.
“I used to wonder whit the banks shut for at Christmas, but I ken noo;
they’re feart that their customers, cairried awa’ wi’ their feelin’
o’ guid-will to men, wad be makin’ a rush on them to draw money for
presents, and maybe create a panic.
“Sae far as I can judge there’s been nae panic at the banks this year.”
“Every Ne’erday for the past fifty years I hae made up my mind I was
gaun to be a guid man,” he went on. “It jist wants a start, they tell me
that’s tried it, and I’m no’ that auld. Naething bates a trial.
“I’m gaun to begin at twelve o’clock on Hogmanay, and mak’ a wee note
o’t in my penny diary, and put a knot in my hankie to keep me in mind.
Maist o’ us would be as guid’s there’s ony need for if we had naething
else to think o’. It’s like a man that’s hen-taed--he could walk fine if
he hadna a train to catch, or the rent to rin wi’ at the last meenute,
or somethin’ else to bother him. I’m gey faur wrang if I dinna dae the
trick this year, though.
“Oh! ay. I’m gaun to be a guid man. No’ that awfu’ guid that auld
freen’s’ll rin up a close to hide when they see me comin’, but jist
dacent--jist guid enough to please mysel’, like Duffy’s singin’. I’m no’
makin’ a breenge at the thing and sprainin’ my leg ower’t. I’m startin’
canny till I get into the wye o’t. Efter this Erchie MacPherson’s gaun
to flype his ain socks and no’ leave his claes reel-rail aboot the hoose
at night for his wife Jinnet to lay oot richt in the mornin’. I’ve lost
money by that up till noo, for there was aye bound to be an odd sixpence
droppin’ oot and me no’ lookin’. I’m gaun to stop skliffin’ wi’ my feet;
it’s sair on the boots. I’m gaun to save preens by puttin’ my collar
stud in a bowl and a flet-iron on the top o’t to keep Erchie’s Flitting
it frae jinkin’ under the chevalier and book-case when I’m sleepin’. I’m
gaun to wear oot a’ my auld waistcoats in the hoose. I’m------”
“My dear Erchie,” I interrupted, “these seem very harmless reforms.”
“Are they?” said he. “They’ll dae to be gaun on wi’ the noo, for I’m nae
phenomena; I’m jist Nature; jist the Rale Oreeginal.”