by Walter Scott
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 atthe Scottish schools. About forty or fifty years ago, however, afar more dangerous mode of fighting, in parties or factions, waspermitted in the streets of Edinburgh, to the great disgrace ofthe police and danger of the parties concerned. These parties weregenerally formed from the quarters of the town in which thecombatants resided, those of a particular square or districtfighting against those of an adjoining one. Hence it happened thatthe children of the higher classes were often pitted against thoseof the lower, each taking their side according to the residence oftheir friends. So far as I recollect, however, it was unmingledeither with feelings of democracy or aristocracy, or indeed withmalice or ill-will of any kind towards the opposite party. Infact, it was only a rough mode of play. Such contests were,however, maintained with great vigour with stones and sticks andfisticuffs, when one party dared to charge and the other stoodtheir ground. Of course mischief sometimes happened; boys are saidto have been killed at these bickers, as they were called, andserious accidents certainly took place, as many contemporaries canbear witness.
The author's father residing in George Square, in the southernside of Edinburgh, the boys belonging to that family, with othersin the square, were arranged into a sort of company, to which alady of distinction presented a handsome set of colours. Now thiscompany or regiment, as a matter of course, was engaged in weeklywarfare with the boys inhabiting the Crosscauseway, Bristo Street,the Potterrow--in short, the neighbouring suburbs. These last werechiefly of the lower rank, but hardy loons, who threw stones to ahair's-breadth and were very rugged antagonists at close quarters.The skirmish sometimes lasted for a whole evening, until one partyor the other was victorious, when, if ours were successful, wedrove the enemy to their quarters, and were usually chased back bythe reinforcement of bigger lads who came to their assistance. If,on the contrary, we were pursued, as was often the case, into theprecincts of our square, we were in our turn supported by ourelder brothers, domestic servants, and similar auxiliaries.
It followed, from our frequent opposition to each other, that,though not knowing the names of our enemies, we were yet wellacquainted with their appearance, and had nicknames for the mostremarkable of them. One very active and spirited boy might beconsidered as the principal leader in the cohort of the suburbs.He was, I suppose, thirteen or fourteen years old, finely made,tall, blue-eyed, with long fair hair, the very picture of ayouthful Goth. This lad was always first in the charge and last inthe 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 mostremarkable part of his dress, being a pair of old green liverybreeches, which was the principal part of his clothing; for, likePentapolin, according to Don Quixote's account, Green-Breeks, aswe called him, always entered the battle with bare arms, legs, andfeet.
It fell, that once upon a time, when the combat was at thethickest, this plebeian champion headed a sudden charge, so rapidand furious that all fled before him. He was several paces beforehis comrades, and had actually laid his hands on the patricianstandard, when one of our party, whom some misjudging friend hadentrusted with a couleau de chasse, or hanger, inspired with azeal for the honour of the corps worthy of Major Sturgeon himself,struck poor Green-Breeks over the head with strength sufficient tocut him down. When this was seen, the casualty was so far beyondwhat had ever taken place before, that both parties fled differentways, leaving poor Green-Breeks, with his bright hair plentifullydabbled in blood, to the care of the watchman, who (honest man)took care not to know who had done the mischief. The bloody hangerwas flung into one of the Meadow ditches, and solemn secrecy wassworn on all hands; but the remorse and terror of the actor werebeyond all bounds, and his apprehensions of the most dreadfulcharacter. The wounded hero was for a few days in the Infirmary,the case being only a trifling one. But, though inquiry wasstrongly pressed on him, no argument could make him indicate theperson from whom he had received the wound, though he must havebeen perfectly well known to him. When he recovered and wasdismissed, the author and his brothers opened a communication withhim, through the medium of a popular ginger-bread baker, of whomboth parties were customers, in order to tender a subsidy in nameof smart-money. The sum would excite ridicule were I to name it;but sure I am that the pockets of the noted Green-Breeks neverheld as much money of his own. He declined the remittance, sayingthat he would not sell his blood; but at the same time reprobatedthe idea of being an informer, which he said was clam, i.e. baseor mean. With much urgency he accepted a pound of snuff for theuse of some old woman--aunt, grandmother, or the like--with whomhe lived. We did not become friends, for the bickers were moreagreeable to both parties than any more pacific amusement; but weconducted them ever after under mutual assurances of the highestconsideration for each other.
Such was the hero whom Mr. Thomas Scott proposed to carry toCanada, and involve in adventures with the natives and colonistsof that country. Perhaps the youthful generosity of the lad willnot seem so great in the eyes of others as to those whom it wasthe means of screening from severe rebuke and punishment. But itseemed to those concerned to argue a nobleness of sentiment farbeyond the pitch of most minds; and however obscurely the lad whoshowed such a frame of noble spirit may have lived or died, Icannot help being of opinion that, if fortune had placed him incircumstances calling for gallantry or generosity, the man wouldhave fulfilled the promise of the boy. Long afterwards, when thestory was told to my father, he censured us severely for nottelling the truth at the time, that he might have attempted to beof use to the young man in entering on life. But our alarms forthe consequences of the drawn sword, and the wound inflicted withsuch 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,besides the strong impression made by the incident at the time,the whole accompaniments of the story are matters to me of solemnand sad recollection. Of all the little band who were concerned inthose juvenile sports or brawls, I can scarce recollect a singlesurvivor. Some left the ranks of mimic war to die in the activeservice of their country. Many sought distant lands to return nomore. Others, dispersed in different paths of life,'my dim eyesnow seek for in vain.' Of five brothers, all healthy and promisingin a degree far beyond one whose infancy was visited by personalinfirmity, and whose health after this period seemed long veryprecarious, I am, nevertheless, the only survivor. The best loved,and the best deserving to be loved, who had destined this incidentto be the foundation of literary composition, died 'before hisday' in a distant and foreign land; and trifles assume animportance not their own when connected with those who have beenloved and lost.
