NO. III
ANECDOTE OF SCHOOL DAYS
UPON WHICH MR. THOMAS SCOTT PROPOSED TO FOUND A TALE OF FICTION
It is well known in the South that there is little or no boxing at theScottish schools. About forty or fifty years ago, however, a far moredangerous mode of fighting, in parties or factions, was permitted inthe streets of Edinburgh, to the great disgrace of the police anddanger of the parties concerned. These parties were generally formedfrom the quarters of the town in which the combatants resided, those ofa particular square or district fighting against those of an adjoiningone. Hence it happened that the children of the higher classes wereoften pitted against those of the lower, each taking their sideaccording to the residence of their friends. So far as I recollect,however, it was unmingled either with feelings of democracy oraristocracy, or indeed with malice or ill-will of any kind towards theopposite party. In fact, it was only a rough mode of play. Suchcontests were, however, maintained with great vigour with stones andsticks and fisticuffs, when one party dared to charge and the otherstood their ground. Of course mischief sometimes happened; boys aresaid to have been killed at these bickers, as they were called, andserious accidents certainly took place, as many contemporaries can bearwitness.
The author's father residing in George Square, in the southern side ofEdinburgh, the boys belonging to that family, with others in thesquare, were arranged into a sort of company, to which a lady ofdistinction presented a handsome set of colours. Now this company orregiment, as a matter of course, was engaged in weekly warfare with theboys inhabiting the Crosscauseway, Bristo Street, the Potterrow--inshort, the neighbouring suburbs. These last were chiefly of the lowerrank, but hardy loons, who threw stones to a hair's-breadth and werevery rugged antagonists at close quarters. The skirmish sometimeslasted for a whole evening, until one party or the other wasvictorious, when, if ours were successful, we drove the enemy to theirquarters, and were usually chased back by the reinforcement of biggerlads who came to their assistance. If, on the contrary, we werepursued, as was often the case, into the precincts of our square, wewere in our turn supported by our elder brothers, domestic servants,and similar auxiliaries.
It followed, from our frequent opposition to each other, that, thoughnot knowing the names of our enemies, we were yet well acquainted withtheir appearance, and had nicknames for the most remarkable of them.One very active and spirited boy might be considered as the principalleader in the cohort of the suburbs. He was, I suppose, thirteen orfourteen years old, finely made, tall, blue-eyed, with long fair hair,the very picture of a youthful Goth. This lad was always first in thecharge and last in the retreat--the Achilles, at once, and Ajax of theCrosscauseway. He was too formidable to us not to have a cognomen, and,like that of a knight of old, it was taken from the most remarkablepart of his dress, being a pair of old green livery breeches, which wasthe principal part of his clothing; for, like Pentapolin, according toDon Quixote's account, Green-Breeks, as we called him, always enteredthe battle with bare arms, legs, and feet.
It fell, that once upon a time, when the combat was at the thickest,this plebeian champion headed a sudden charge, so rapid and furiousthat all fled before him. He was several paces before his comrades, andhad actually laid his hands on the patrician standard, when one of ourparty, whom some misjudging friend had entrusted with a couleau dechasse, or hanger, inspired with a zeal for the honour of the corpsworthy of Major Sturgeon himself, struck poor Green-Breeks over thehead with strength sufficient to cut him down. When this was seen, thecasualty was so far beyond what had ever taken place before, that bothparties fled different ways, leaving poor Green-Breeks, with his brighthair plentifully dabbled in blood, to the care of the watchman, who(honest man) took care not to know who had done the mischief. Thebloody hanger was flung into one of the Meadow ditches, and solemnsecrecy was sworn on all hands; but the remorse and terror of the actorwere beyond all bounds, and his apprehensions of the most dreadfulcharacter. The wounded hero was for a few days in the Infirmary, thecase being only a trifling one. But, though inquiry was stronglypressed on him, no argument could make him indicate the person fromwhom he had received the wound, though he must have been perfectly wellknown to him. When he recovered and was dismissed, the author and hisbrothers opened a communication with him, through the medium of apopular ginger-bread baker, of whom both parties were customers, inorder to tender a subsidy in name of smart-money. The sum would exciteridicule were I to name it; but sure I am that the pockets of the notedGreen-Breeks never held as much money of his own. He declined theremittance, saying that he would not sell his blood; but at the sametime reprobated the idea of being an informer, which he said was clam,i.e. base or mean. With much urgency he accepted a pound of snuff forthe use of some old woman--aunt, grandmother, or the like--with whom helived. We did not become friends, for the bickers were more agreeableto both parties than any more pacific amusement; but we conducted themever after under mutual assurances of the highest consideration foreach other.
Such was the hero whom Mr. Thomas Scott proposed to carry to Canada,and involve in adventures with the natives and colonists of thatcountry. Perhaps the youthful generosity of the lad will not seem sogreat in the eyes of others as to those whom it was the means ofscreening from severe rebuke and punishment. But it seemed to thoseconcerned to argue a nobleness of sentiment far beyond the pitch ofmost minds; and however obscurely the lad who showed such a frame ofnoble spirit may have lived or died, I cannot help being of opinionthat, if fortune had placed him in circumstances calling for gallantryor generosity, the man would have fulfilled the promise of the boy.Long afterwards, when the story was told to my father, he censured usseverely for not telling the truth at the time, that he might haveattempted to be of use to the young man in entering on life. But ouralarms for the consequences of the drawn sword, and the wound inflictedwith such a weapon, were far too predominant at the time for such apitch of generosity.
Perhaps I ought not to have inserted this schoolboy tale; but, besidesthe strong impression made by the incident at the time, the wholeaccompaniments of the story are matters to me of solemn and sadrecollection. Of all the little band who were concerned in thosejuvenile sports or brawls, I can scarce recollect a single survivor.Some left the ranks of mimic war to die in the active service of theircountry. Many sought distant lands to return no more. Others, dispersedin different paths of life,'my dim eyes now seek for in vain.' Of fivebrothers, all healthy and promising in a degree far beyond one whoseinfancy was visited by personal infirmity, and whose health after thisperiod seemed long very precarious, I am, nevertheless, the onlysurvivor. The best loved, and the best deserving to be loved, who haddestined this incident to be the foundation of literary composition,died 'before his day' in a distant and foreign land; and trifles assumean importance not their own when connected with those who have beenloved and lost.