The Spanking Writers

Next time we play a domestic scene, I’ll give Abel this useful manual from 1905, “Home Education” by Charlotte M. Mason:

Rewards and punishments should be relative consequences of conduct. …they should be natural, or, at any rate, the relative consequences of conduct: should imitate, as nearly as may be without injury to the child, the treatment which such and such conduct deserves and receives in after life.

In many cases, the natural consequences of the child’s fault is precisely that which it is [the mother's] business to avert, while, at the same time, she looks about for some consequence related to the fault which shall have an educative bearing on the child. For instance, if a boy neglects his studies, the natural consequence is that he remains ignorant; but to allow him to do so would be criminal neglect on the part of the parent.

I think, as a pretend-child I should be allowed some input into this terribly difficult decision.

“That’s OK, Daddy, I’ll take the consequences and remain ignorant! It’ll be awfully hard on me, but I’m sure I deserve it! What, a spanking? That’s not natural consequences!”

I wonder if that’ll work.

Charlie Chaplin, in his memoir “My Autobiorgaphy” dedicates quite a few pages to his experiences in Hanwell School for Orphans and Destitute Children.

Of particular interest to me was, of course, the description of the punishment ritual:

For major offences… punishment took place every Friday in the large gymnasium… On Friday morning two to three hundred boys… marched in and lined up in military fashion, forming three sides of a square. The far end was the fourth side, where, behind a long school desk the length of an Army mess-table, stood the miscreants waiting for the trial and punishment. On the right and in front of the desk was an easel with wrist-straps dangling, and from the frame a birch hung ominously.

For minor offences, a boy was laid across the long desk, face downwards, feet strapped and held by a sergeant, then another sergeant pulled the boy’s shirt out of his trousers and over his head, then pulled his trousers tight.

Captain Hindrum, a retired Navy man weighing about 200lb, with one hand behind him, the other holding a cane as thick as a man’s thumb and about four feet long, stood poised, measuring it across a boy’s buttocks. Then slowly and dramatically he would lift it high and with a swish bring it down across a boy’s bottom.

…The minimum number of strokes was three and the maximum six… Boys would advise you not to deny a charge, even if innocent, because, if proved guilty, you would get the maximum.

I like the added nuance of the mock trial. We should play it out some time. I won’t even insist on dressing as a boy at the time, though that would be nice too.

Never passing up a chance to further my education, recently I have gone to find out what sort of punishment device a bridle was.

According to “Old Time Punishments” by W. Andrews, pub. 1890, a bridle is-

 …an iron framework which was placed on the head enclosing it in a kind of cage; it had in front a plate of iron, which, either sharpened or covered with spikes, was so situated as to be placed in the mouth of the victim.

In the old-fashioned, half-timbered houses in the borough [of Chester], there was generally fixed on one side of the large, open fireplaces a hook, so that, when a man’s wife indulged in her scolding propensities, the husband sent of the town jailor to bring the bridle, and had her chained to the hook until she promised to behave herself better for the future… I have often heard husbands say to their wives, “If you don’t rest with your tongue, I’ll send for the bridle and hook you up.”

Ouch. I suggest using soap instead: this dispenses with the need to have the wife chained to the wall, so that she is free to cook supper, clean the house, and do all the rest of her wifely duties, in silence.

That said, the idea of a punishment device being part of the interior in many houses, fixed at the side of a fire-place, as commonplace as the fireplace itself – I find this idea unbearably hot. I’d rather this was a peg on which there hangs a traditional strap, cut in a shape passed down through generations.

I also like the idea of summoning a town official to deliver a punishment.

If I were a young wife threatened with the shame of being handed over to such a man, I would be very, very good, giving in to quite a few of my husbands unusual demands…

In addition to the events I described last week, there were all kinds of other naughtiness happening in the family of Lady Susan Townley, where there were six girls looked after by two governesses:

My brothers’ tutor had a bad time, but so had our two governesses. The worst of it was that no alliance was possible between them, one being German, the other French. Their aim seemed to be to keep the two “schoolrooms” apart, that there might be no collision between its members.

This scheme of theirs it became our object in life to defeat. We used to get out of windows and perform the most extraordinary feats of roof-climbing to get access to each other. We exchanged surreptitious notes when we passed in the lanes, for, of course, no communication was allowed between the walking parties, making assignations in impossible places.

We even ran away – one of my sisters and I were gone for a whole day once. We took a train for the neighbouring watering-place and passed a blissful day on the sands, eating biscuits and jam, which provisions we had stolen with infinite difficulty from the larder.

When I was a kid, one of my most persistent fantasies was being one of many sisters and brothers, growing up in a wealthy household with several strict tutors and governesses. (The fantasy of an only child, I daresay.) I never thought that somebody really got to experience the sort of stern routines and wild hijinks that I imagined.

Running away for a day, to eat jam sandwiches on a beach is exactly the sort of thing I could see myself doing.

Of course, in my fantasies, my sisters and I got punished whenever we came up with clever schemes to fool the tutors. This didn’t make us behave better: we simply proceeded on to the next trick. Otherwise, there would be no more spanking, and I couldn’t live with that even in a fantasy world.

A few posts ago I wrote about “Indiscretions of Lady Susan” by Lady Susan Townley, which had beckoned to me with its promising title. The lady’s family history was very interesting indeed, but the nicest part of the book came when she moved on to writing about her own childhood:

As I have said, we were nine children, and we fell naturally into 3 groups. There were “the boys”, who went to school and had a holiday tutor; “the girls”, my three elder sisters, who had a schoolroom to themselves and a German governess, and “the babies”, of whom I was the eldest, who had a lower schoolroom and a French governess.

We were certainly the naughtiest children I have met in fact or fiction…

I remember that on one occasion the tutor, out of temper with my youngest brother, took him into a secluded part of the garden, and tying him to a tree, laid into him with a riding-whip… The two elder boys, helpless witnesses of this act of barbarity, secretly vowed vengeance. On the following day they invited the tutor to go for a row on the Avon…

When in the middle of the river, they threw the oars overboard and quietly took the cork out of the bottom of the boat which, of course, began to fill. Then they waved a cheerful “so long” to the terrified man, and jumping into the water swam ashore, leaving him to what he supposed was a watery end. The air-compartments, however, kept the boat afloat, and when they considered he had been sufficiently punished, they brought him in.

For some reason but known to himself, he never reported them.

Oh, but in my fantasies he did.

Or better yet, Father was watching from the window, unnoticed by any of the participants. Midway through the adventure, he rang for the parlour maid.

“Bring me my cane,” he said. “And as soon as my sons come back, kindly ask them to join me in the library.”

As each of the boys bent over the library steps for six of the best, they relected tearfully that at least they’d had their revenge.

When my fantasies turn to ancient Greece, they normally involve slave girls, but there’s some space for a school whipping as well.

The poem below comes from “Schools of Hellas” by Kenneth J Foreman; it was found and translated by the author. I think this may be one of the earliest examples of spanking fiction we’re likely to see.

A vivid picture of school life has recently come to light in the third Mime of Herondas. It belongs to the Alexandrian period in point of date, but many of its details will, no doubt, suit the Athenian schools just as well.

A mother, Metrotime, brings her truant boy, Kottalos, to his schoolmaster Lampriskos to receive a flogging.

Metrotime. Flog him, Lampriskos,
Across his shoulders, till his wicked soul
Is all but out of him. He’s spent my all
In playing odd and even: knucklebones
Are nothing to him …
But, so may yonder Muses prosper you,
Give him in stripes no less than —-
Lampriskos.                                                             Right you are.
Here, Euthias, Kokkalos and Phillos, hoist him
Upon your backs. I like your goings on,
My boy. I’ll teach you manners. Where’s my strap,
The stinging cow’s-tail!
Kottalos.                                         By the Muses, Sir,
Not with the stinger.
L.                                                     Then you shouldn’t be
So naughty.
K.                             O, how many will you give me?
L. Your mother fixes that.
K.                                                                   How many, mother?
M. As many as your wicked hide can bear.
K. Stop, that’s enough, stop.
L.                                                                             You should stop your ways.
K. I’ll never do it more, I promise you.
L. Don’t talk so much, or else I’ll bring a gag.
K. I won’t talk, only do not kill me, please.
L. Let him down, boys.
M.                                                         No, leather him till sunset.
L. Why, he’s as mottled as a water-snake.
M. Well, when he’s done his reading, good or bad,
Give him a trifle more, say twenty strokes.

I’ve cut out some of it, as the mother spends a whole page describing in verse all the stuff that her son’s done wrong.

Next time you’re about to get punished, I dare you to exclaim: “By the Muses, Sir!”

The book called “Indiscretions of Lady Susan” by Lady Susan Townley beckoned to me with the promise of its title. It turned out to be an early 20th century memoir by a wife of a British diplomat; she travelled the world with her husband, and recounts her adventures with humour and charm.

The best parts in her story related to her family history.

Her grandfather, George Keppel, 6th Earl of Albemarle, was in turn the grandson of Lady de Clifford. This woman was responsible for the education of Princess Charlotte of Wales, by all accounts a rebellious and naughty teenager. Young Keppel thus became Charlottle’s playmate, which I’m sure he sometimes rued:

On Saturdays Keppel was gennerally the guest of the Princess, but on Sundays she returned his visits [at his grandmother's house]. One one of these occassions the Prince of Wales honoured Lady de Clifford with his company at luncheon. … That day luncheon was unaccountably late, and the old lady rang the bell violently.

When the meal was eventually served, the mutton-chop was so ill-dressed that it was quite uneatable. On inquiry it was discovered that the Princess had acted as cook and young Keppel as her scullery maid.

The book doesn’t elaborate what happened to the Charlotte and George. Probably, the Prince thought the whole thing was hilarious: he may have enjoyed his food, but by all accounts he enjoyed a joke as well.

I would be slightly worried for the fate of the actual cook and the kitchen maids, when their mistress wanted to know why none of them had warned her about what was going on in the kitchen. I could imagine a birching or two being dispensed later at night, when the guests have left.

In any case, Charlotte clearly didn’t get the punishment she deserved for her prank:

On another occassion she dragged [George] to the stables and then saddled and bridled the horse herself. Armed with a whip, she led the animal into the yard. Young Keppel was told to mount. …

Before he could grasp the reins and get his foot into the stirrup, she gave the horse a tremendous cut with a whip, so that he set off at a gallop… [George] clung to his mane, roaring lustily.

The poor Princess got a terrible scolding from Lord Albemarle, alarmed for the safety of his boy, which so incensed her that when alone with him again she treated the father’s son as she had treated the father’s horse.

Keppel ended up expelled from Westminster School for sneaking out at night, and thus ended up fighting at Waterloo at the age of 15, so Charlotte was clearly a bad influence. It wasn’t a scolding that the girl needed.

If you have any ideas as to how the young princess should have been punished, tell us in the comments. As for Keppel’s granddaughter, the writer of the memoir, I’ll write more of her adventures as I read on.

In view of my recent post about the regular, but possibly random punishment of ship boys, the first part of the following extract sounds a little bit like wishful thinking:

The seaman is willing to give or receive punishment deservingly, according to the laws of the sea, and not otherwise in the fury of passion of a dissolute, blasphemous, swearing commander. Punishment is fittest to be executed in cold blood, the next day after the offence is committed and discovered.

This is taken from “Naval Tracts” by Sir Williams Monson. I wager that throughout his career as an officer, Sir William enjoyed thinking that sailors didn’t mind a bit of flogging.

But then, if they were whipped for good luck every Monday when they were ship boys, maybe they really didn’t mind some deserved punishment for a change…

A rather fascinating programme on Channel 4 recently. “Upstairs downstairs love” told the tale of a Victorian gentleman, Arthur Munby, who took a particular interest in working-class women. Breaking all conventions, he formed a relationship with Hannah Cullwick, a servant, and they eventually married in secret after 20 years.

When they died, many years later, he ordered that their papers – their diaries, and the photographs he’d had taken of her – be locked away. Decades later, they were opened and formed the basis of the programme – which was touching and fascinating, albeit tinged with a touch of sadness at the thought of a couple having to be so secretive about their love for each other.

That fetish underpinned their relationship was clear from the programme. Arthur gave her a chain with a padlock, to wear at all times. As she wrote in her diary: “I am his slave and he is my master”.

Although spanking didn’t appear to be part of their thing, two particular anecdotes give rise to wonderful scene ideas. First, there was the occasion when Hannah invited Arthur into the house in which she worked as a maid, and took him into her mistress’s bedroom. She showed him the lady’s ballgown: he made her put it on for him. “Thus she stood before me to be looked at, smiling and slightly blushing,” his diary recorded.

…and I’m transported to another grand London townhouse, and the look of horror on the faces of the two servant girls, frozen to the spot as the bedroom door opens and their mistress – returned home unexpectedly – walks in to find them wearing her best dresses.

“My husband will deal with this on his return this evening,” the lady would say, although she would set proceedings in motion by instructing the butler to cut some switches from the garden. Later, in the candlelit drawing room, that they were good, conscientious girls would save them their jobs and reputations, but cost them each the soundest of whippings.

And then the programme explored the difference in dress and demeanour between ladies and working-class girls. (When Arthur dressed Hannah in ladies’ clothes, and walked through the streets with her, other servants spied the impostor and they hissed insults). The programme explained: no lady would ever walk unaccompanied in the street, whilst her dress would distinguish her from the rabble.

…and the gentleman frowned as he read the note from his close acquaintance, recently delivered by messenger. “I have just caught my daughter dressed in the clothes of a servant, about to leave our house alone. She initially refused to tell me her destination; on being punished – for her deceit and her disobedience, she reluctantly revealed a planned rendezvous with your daughter near to Kensington Gardens.”

She’d try to explain, knowing there was no explanation that could save her. He’d raise a hand: “I know of your little scheme already. Your friend has already been punished for it.” He’d ring a bell to call the butler, who’d appear in a flash. “It appears that my daughter wishes to know what life is like for the maids in the house, James. Would you take her downstairs, have her strip out of these inappropriate clothes and bend over the kitchen table? And make sure that you whip her quite as hard as you would the very worst-behaved serving girl?”

Raise your hand if you hate Monday mornings.

*looks around*

Right. Well, me too. Still, I bet that the ship boys in the Navy of old hated them even more:

And the waggery and idleness of the ship-boys are paid by the boat-swain with the rod, and commonly this execution is done upon the Monday mornings, and is so frequently in use, that some mere seamen and sailors do believe in good earnest that they shall never have a fair wind, until the poor boys be duly brought to the chest, that is, whipped every Monday morning. – N. Boteler, “Colloquia Maritima, or Sea Dialogues”, 1688.

I love that. Oh, you’re innocent? Too bad; somebody has to be flogged on a Monday morning, or we’ll all sink.