It is well known in the South that there is little or no boxing at the Scottish schools.  About forty or fifty years ago, however, a far more dangerous mode of fighting, in parties or factions, was permitted in the streets of Edinburgh, to the great disgrace of the police and danger of the parties concerned.  These parties were generally formed from the quarters of the town in which the combatants resided, those of a particular square or district fighting against those of an adjoining one.  Hence it happened that the children of the higher classes were often pitted against those of the lower, each taking their side according to the residence of their friends.  So far as I recollect, however, it was unmingled either with feelings of democracy or aristocracy, or indeed with malice or ill-will of any kind towards the opposite party.  In fact, it was only a rough mode of play.  Such contests were, however, maintained with great vigour with stones and sticks and fisticuffs, when one party dared to charge and the other stood their ground.  Of course mischief sometimes happened; boys are said to have been killed at these bickers, as they were called, and serious accidents certainly took place, as many contemporaries can bear witness.

The author’s father residing in George Square, in the southern side of Edinburgh, the boys belonging to that family, with others in the square, were arranged into a sort of company, to which a lady of distinction presented a handsome set of colours.  Now this company or regiment, as a matter of course, was engaged in weekly warfare with the boys inhabiting the Crosscauseway, Bristo Street, the Potterrow—­in short, the neighbouring suburbs.  These last were chiefly of the lower rank, but hardy loons, who threw stones to a hair’s-breadth and were very rugged antagonists at close quarters.  The skirmish sometimes lasted for a whole evening, until one party or the other was victorious, when, if ours were successful, we drove the enemy to their quarters, and were usually chased back by the reinforcement of bigger lads who came to their assistance.  If, on the contrary, we were pursued, as was often the case, into the precincts of our square, we were in our turn supported by our elder 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 well acquainted with their appearance, and had nicknames for the most remarkable of them.  One very active and spirited boy might be considered 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 a youthful Goth.  This lad was always first in the charge and last in the retreat—­the Achilles, at once, and Ajax of the Crosscauseway.  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 remarkable part of his dress, being a pair of old green livery breeches, which was the principal part of his clothing; for, like Pentapolin, according to Don Quixote’s account, Green-Breeks, as we called him, always entered the battle with bare arms, legs, and feet.