Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 11

by Unknown

"But I would like to be perfect in it, sir," answered he.

"Then go through it again, Watty," said I, "and I have nae doubt but ye will be perfect in it very quickly."

I said this wi' a degree o' irony which I was not then, and which I am not now, in the habit of exhibiting before my scholars; but, from what I had observed and heard o' him, it betrayed to me a trait in human nature that literally disgusted me. But I have no pleasure in dwelling upon his history. Shortly after leaving the school, he was sent up to London to an uncle; and, as his parents had the means o' setting him up in the world, he was there to make choice o' a profession. After looking about the great city for a time, it was the choice and pleasure o' Cautious Watty to be bound as an apprentice to a pawnbroker. He afterwards commenced business for himself, and every day in his life indulging in his favourite study, compound interest, and, as far as he durst, putting it in practice, he in a short time became rich. But, as his substance increased, he did not confine himself to portable articles, or such things as are usually taken in pledge by the members of his profession; but he took estates in pledge, receiving the title-deeds as his security; and in such cases he did exact his compound interest to the last farthing to which he could stretch it. He neither knew the meaning of generosity nor mercy. Shakspere's beautiful apostrophe to the latter god-like attribute in the "Merchant of Venice," would have been flat nonsense in the estimation of Watty. He had but one answer to every argument and to every case, and which he laid to his conscience in all his transactions (if he had a conscience), and that was—"A bargain's a bargain!" This was his ten times repeated phrase every day. It was the doctrine by which he swore; and Shylock would have died wi' envy to have seen Watty exacting his "pound o' flesh." I have only to tell ye that he has been twice married. The first time was to a widow four years older than his mother, wi' whom he got ten thousand. The second time was to a maiden lady, who had been a coquette and a flirt in her day, but who, when the deep crow-feet upon her brow began to reflect sermons from her looking-glass, became a patroniser of piety and religious institutions. Watty heard o' her fortune, and o' her disposition and habits. He turned an Episcopalian, because she was one. He became a sitter and a regular attender in the same pew in the church. He began his courtship by opening the pew-door to her when he saw her coming, before the sexton reached it. He next sought her out the services for the day in the prayer-book—he had it always open, and ready to put in her hand. He dusted the cushion on which she was to sit with his handkerchief, as she entered the pew. He, in short, showed her a hundred little pious attentions. The sensibility of the converted flirt was affected by them. At length he offered her his arm from the pew to the hackney-coach or sedan-chair which waited for her at the church-door; and, eventually, he led her to the altar in the seventy-third year of her age; when, to use his own words, he married her thirty thousand pounds, and took the old woman before the minister as a witness. Such, sir, is all I know concerning Cautious Watty.

The next o' your auld class-mates that I have to notice (continued Mr. Grierson) is

LEEIN PETER.

Peter Murray was the cause o' mair grief to me than ony scholar that ever was at my school. He could not tell a story the same way in which he heard it, or give you a direct answer to a positive question, had it been to save his life. I sometimes was at a loss whether to attribute his grievous propensity to a defect o' memory, a preponderance o' imagination over baith memory and judgment, or to the natural depravity o' his heart, and the force o' abominable habits early acquired. Certain it is, that, all the thrashing that I could thrash, I couldna get the laddie to speak the truth. His parents were perpetually coming to me to lick him soundly for this lie and the other lie; and I did lick him, until I saw that bodily punishment was of no effect. Moral means were to be tried, and I did try them. I tried to shame him out o't. I reasoned wi' him. I showed him the folly and the enormity o' his offence, and also pointed out its consequences—but I might as weel hae spoken to the stane in the wa'. He was Leein Peter still. After he left me, he was a while wi' a grocer, and a while wi' a haberdasher, and then he went to a painter, and after that he was admitted into a writer's office; but one after another, they had to turn him away, and a' on account o' his unconquerable habit o' uttering falsehoods. His character became so well known, that nobody about the place would take him to be anything. He was a sad heartbreak to his parents, and they were as decent people as ye could meet wi'. But, as they had respectable connections, they got him into some situation about Edinburgh, where his character and his failings were unknown. But it was altogether useless. He was turned out of one situation after another, and a' on account o' his incurable and dangerous habit, until his friends could do no more for him. Noo, doctor, I daresay ye may have observed, that a confirmed drunkard, rather than want drink, will steal to procure it—and, as sure as that is the case, tak my word for it, that, in nine cases out o' ten, he who begins by being a habitual liar, will end in being a thief. Such was the case wi' Leein Peter. After being disgraced and turned from one situation after anither, he at last was caught in the act of purloining his master's property, and cast into prison. He broke his mother's heart, and covered his father's grey hairs wi' shame; and he sank from one state o' degradation to another, till now, I believe, he is ane o' those prowlers and pests o' society who are to be found in every large town, and who live naebody can tell how, but every one can tell that it cannot be honestly. Such, sir, has been the fate o' Leein Peter.

There is only another o' your book-mates that I have to make mention o', and that is John Mathewson or

JOCK THE DUNCE.

Many a score o' times hae I said that Jock's head was as impervious to learning as a nether-millstane. It would hae been as easy to hae driven mensuration into the head o' an ox, as instruction into the brain o' Jock Mathewson. He was born a dunce. I fleeched him, and I coaxed him, and I endeavoured to divert him, to get him to learn, and I kicked him, and I cuffed him; but I might as weel hae kicked my heel upon the floor, or fleeched the fireplace. Jock was knowledge-proof. All my efforts were o' no avail. I could get him to learn nothing, and to comprehend nothing. Often I had half made up my mind to turn him awa from the school, for I saw that I never would have any credit by the blockhead. But what was most annoying was, that here was his mother at me, every hand-awhile, saying—

"Mr Grierson, I'm really surprised at ye. My son John is not coming on ava. I really wush ye wad tak mair pains wi' him. It is an unco thing to be paying you guid money, and the laddie to be getting nae guid for it. I wad hae ye to understand that his faither doesna make his money sae easily—no by sitting on a seat, or walking up and down a room—as ye do. There's such-a-ane's son awa into the Latin, nae less, I understand, and my John no out o' the Testament. But, depend upon it, Mr Grierson, if ye dinna try to do something wi' him, I maun tak him awa frae your school, and that is the short and the lang o't."