PAY YOUR DEBT!
Jock Colquhoun was a clever journeyman painter of the famous Old Town of Edinburgh, very much given, unfortunately, to Saturday evening potations, which was the cause why he never found himself, poor fellow, any richer one Monday than another, and generally lived during the rest of the week in, to say the least of it, a very desultory manner. Jock was a long slip of a lad, with a bright intelligent face and a wofully battered hat, and the whole man of him was encased, from neck to heel, in one glazed suit—I was going to say, of clothes, but I should rather say, of oil-paint; for, to tell the truth, his attire consisted rather more of the one material than the other. He was universally reputed as a very clever workman; but, then, every body said, what matters it that he can make five shillings a-week more than any of his fellow-journeymen, if he is sure every Saturday, when he gets his wages,to go upon the scuff, and so pass the half of the week in spending, not in gaining? Jock, however, had many good points about him; and it was, perhaps, less owing to his own dispositions than to the influence of evil company, that he got into such bad habits. He was such a good fellow that he would at any time part his money with an old crony out of bread, or treat to a can or a bottle any working brother who had got through his money a little before him, and who happened to feel rather dry upon some sunshiny Wednesday. In his profession he was matchless at all superior kinds of work. If his employers had any thing to do that required an extraordinary degree of taste or dexterity, Jock was set to it, and he invariably managed it (beer and whisky aside) to their entire satisfaction. Jock might have long ago been foreman to his masters: nay, he might have set up as a general artist, and, with perseverance equal to his talent, would havebeen sure to do well. But gill-stoups were his lions in the way, and the deceitfulness of drink had beset him; and Jock, from year to year, was just the same glazed and battered, but withal rather spruce-looking fellow, as ever.
It would have been altogether impossible for any such man as Jock to carry on the war, if he had not had one howff,[4]above all others, where he enjoyed a little credit. This was an eating-house in the Canongate, kept by one Luckie Wishart, a decent widow of about forty, with four or five children, who had been pleased to cast an eye of particular favour upon the shining exterior of our hero. A pot sable upon a ground argent pointed out this house to the passers by, even if they had not been informed of its character by the savoury steam which always proceeded from it between the hours of one and fiveP. M., and certain spectral and unfinished pies which ran in a row along the sole of her little window, level with the street, as well as a larger display of the same article on a board half way down her somewhat steep and whitewashed stair. Luckie Wishart also sold liquors; but she was far too respectable a person to let Jock spend his wages at one bouse in her house. She always, as she said, shanked him off, whenever he came there of a Saturday night, and it was only when his pockets were empty, and no provisions to be had for the working days of the week, that he resorted to her. Generally about the Tuesdays, Jock came briskly down into her culinary Tartarus, quite sobered and hungry, sending his voice briskly along the passage before him, as if defending himself by anticipation from a shower of reproaches which he knew she would bestow upon him:—“Nothing of the kind,” he would cry; “nothing of the kind—all a mistake—’pon my honour.” There was generally, it may be supposed, fully as much scolding and railing as he could have anticipated; but the end of the jest always was, that Jock got snug into some corner of Luckie’sown particular den, where he was regaled with a plate of something or other, garnished always with a few last words of rebuke from the lady, like the droppings after a thunderstorm, which he always contrived, however, to stomach with his beef, without manifesting any very great degree of irritation. There is something ominous in the act of drawing in one’s stool at the fireside of a comfortable widow. It is apt to make a young man feel rather ticklish, even although he may never have thought of her before, except as a good cook. So it was with Jock, and the idea might have been fatal to his visits to Luckie Wishart’s (for, to speak the truth, she was no great beauty), if dire hunger, which tames lions, had not absolutely compelled him to continue the practice. In general, when Jock came in with his week’s gains, he flung a few shillings upon the dresser, as part payment of what he had ate and drank during the past few days, reserving the rest for the bouse-royal. But, notwithstanding all these occasional deposits to account, his score got always the longer the longer, until it at last went fairly off at the bottom of a cupboard door, and had to be “brought forward” on the end of a chest of drawers.
“That’s a shocking bad hat you’ve got,” said Luckie to him one day, without any idea that she was anticipating a favourite English phrase by some years. “Of course, there’s nae chance of such a drucken blackguard as you ever being able to buy a new ane. But what wad you say, John, if I were to gie ye ane mysel’?”
“I would say, much oblige t’ye, ma’am,” answered Jock, now for the first time in his life called by his proper Christian name.
“Here is one, then,” said the widow, and at the same time produced a decent-looking chapeau, which, she said, had belonged tohim that was away—meaning her late husband—and had only been three times on his head at the kirk, when, puir man, he was carried without it to the kirk-yard.
Jock accepted the hat with great thankfulness, and made his old one skimmer into Luckie’s fire, where, it is needless to say, it was speedily roasted in its own grease.
“Dear sake, Jock, man,” said Mrs Wishart, some days afterwards, “what kind o’ a landlady hae ye got at hame? She maun be nae hand at the shirts, I reckon; for fient a bit can ane ken ye on a Monday frae what ye are on a Saturday. Ye may be as touzly as ye like i’ the outside o’ your claes, but I wad aye like to see a man decent-like next the skin.”
“Deed, mistress,” said Jock, “to let ye into a secret, I have nae great stock o’ linen, and whiles Mrs Ormiston’s a wee hurried in getting a shirt ready for me. I’m a gude deal between the hand and the mouth in that respect.”
“Ye’re just the greatest ne’er-do-weel ever I kenned,” replied Mrs Wishart; “but yet, reprobate as ye are, I canna think o’ seeing ye gaun that gate frae ae week’s end to anither. Here’s four gude shirts that I hae unco little use for now-a-days. Better ye should wear them, than that they should gang to the moths. Tak them hame wi’ ye, man, and mak yoursel’ something trig, and dinna gang to think that I’m aye to be gi’ing ye the buffet without the bite.”
Jock did as he was bid, and towards the end of the week Luckie Wishart asked him “if he ever thought o’ taking a walk on a Sunday evening wi’ his lass to Restalrig, to treat her wi’ curds and cream, or ony thing o’ that kind?”
“Oh, I daresay I have, mistress,” said Jock, “in my day. But,” added he, looking askance at his resplendent sleeves, “somehow or other I’ve fallen out of a suit of Sunday claes, and, of course, nae lass ’ll gang wi’ a chiel like a beggar.”
“Weel, Jock,” said the lady, “I think ye canna do better than just step into my auld gudeman’s claes bodily, and let us hae nae mair wark about it.”
This was accompanied with a look so significant, thatJock could not pretend to misunderstand it. He all at once felt as if the stool which he had drawn in towards the fireside was burning under him, while all the burnished covers on the opposite wall looked like so many moons dancing in troubled water. “Od, mistress,” he stammered out, “are ye serious?”
“Ay, that I am,” answered she; “and dinna let your modesty wrang ye, my man, an’ ye be wise. Ye see every thing here ready to your hand; and if ye just be steady a bit, as I’m sure ye will be, wi’ me to look after baith your meat and your winnings, ye may be the snuggest painter lad in the town. What wi’ whatyecan make, and what wi’ whatIcan make, we’ll be very weel, or I’m muckle mista’en.”
“But, Luckie,” said Jock, “I maun get my ain consent first; and that, I’m feared, it’ll not be sae easy to get. There was a lass ——”
“Oh, very weel, John,” said Mrs Wishart; “of course ae man may lead a horse to the water, but twenty winna gar him drink. There’s some folk that dinna ken what’s gude for them, and ye’re ane o’ them. But see, lad,” she added, opening up the cupboard door, “what a score ye hae here! Twa pounds fifteen shillings and eightpence. When will ye be gaun to pay that?”
“I suppose I maun pay’t when I can,” said Jock, striding sturdily up stairs into the street.
Next day he was served with a summons to the sheriff’s court for two pounds fifteen shillings and eightpence, and as he never appeared to dispute the claim, a writ was allowed against him, warranting either the incarceration of his person, or the distraining of his goods. Goods Jock had none; his person therefore came into immediate request among certain individuals of whose companionship he was not ambitious. It would be vain to tell all the strange miracles by which he was enabled for some weeks to elude the pursuit instituted against him. Sometimes as the officers were entering at the door, he was escapingby the back window. Once he had to drop himself down two stories into an alley. At another time, he sprang across a gulf about ten feet wide, between two garret windows, nine floors from the ground. This course of life could not continue long. He could not get rest any where to pursue his ordinary business, and of course he soon found himself upon very short allowance both as to meat and drink. Just at this crisis, Jock heard of an expedition which was about to sail from Leith, for the purpose of colonising Poyais, and through the intervention of an old chum, who was going thither, he was permitted to join the corps. On the night before the vessel was to sail, he skulked down to Newhaven, and got on board along with the family of his friend. He now, for the first time during three weeks, found himself, as he thought, safe from the avenging persecution of Luckie Wishart. For one happy night he slept amidst a parcel of sacks in a corner of the cabin, surrounded on all hands by squalid and squalling children, whose cries, however, were nothing to the dread which he had recently entertained for the fell Dido of the Canongate. Next morning, the sun rose bright, the sails were set loose, the heart of every man on board beat high with hope, and Jock’s bosom’s lord sat lightly on his throne—when, oh manacles and fetters! a boat came alongside, containing a whole bevy of sheriff’s officers. Jock now thought that it was all over with him; for, simple man, he believed that he was the sole individual in request. The case, however, was quite different. On a demand being made for admission into the vessel, the whole of the passengers, with one consent, raised their voices against it. “What! let these fellows in!—as well give up the whole expedition!” The officers pleaded to have at least a representative sent on board, to show their case to the captain, which, after a great deal of difficulty, was consented to. One messenger was accordingly hoisted on board, and proceeded to call the names of the persons for whom they had captions—Jock Colquhoun among the number. Butpersonalities of this kind were not to be endured. The passengers rose in absolute mutiny against the captain, demanded that he should instantly proceed on the voyage, even although one member of the expedition was yet to join; and as they feared to let the boat once more approach the vessel, they insisted that the messenger should be retained where he was, and carried out to Poyais and back again, as a punishment for his temerity. It was a mad affair altogether, and so small an addition to the general frenzy was of little moment. So the boatswain, or somebody else, “gave the dreadful word,” and, notwithstanding all the remonstrances of thedetenú, which were both loud and vehement, the lessening boat of the officers was soon seen unwillingly rowing to land, while, instead of any white hand to wave adieu to those on board, the fist of big Pate Forsyth, the chief of the fraternity, was observed shaking in impotent rage over the stern, as much as to say to the captain, “If ever you come back to Leith, ye ken what ye’ll get.”
Jock soon found himself tolerably comfortable in his new situation. He had, no doubt, come on board without much luggage, and he was still the same greasy Pict as ever in respect of his attire. But then he was not, after all, much behind his neighbours; for if ever a fit garrison for the care of Adullam was collected since the days of King David, it was this ship’s company. The whole set resembled a troop of strolling players, going to act a grand historical drama in some country town. A gentleman in tartan trousers was to be a kind of Cincinnatus, alternating between the plough and the cares of state. A young lad, in a blue bonnet, was to be Chamberlain, and Supreme Director of Literature and the Arts. Another carried with him all the materials of a bank, except credit and specie. The othercharactersandproperties, to speak theatrically, were all on the same scale; and if a state could have been founded as easily as a castle of cards is built, or a puppet-show set in motion, Poyais could have immediately takenits place among the nations of the earth. In such a system it was easy to find a place for Jock. The Chamberlain was good enough to divest himself, in favour of this new friend, of that part of his commission which referred to the fine arts. Jock was therefore styled from this day forward, Director Colquhoun; and every one, including himself, agreed that the case could have only been improved, if he had happened to have any paints. However, nobody pretended to doubt that, so far as the fine arts could be cultivated without materials, Mr Colquhoun would prove himself an efficient member of the corps.
The voyage was a pleasant one, and during the whole time nothing was to be heard in the vessel but pæans of homage and gratitude to the Cazique Macgregor, who had sent them out to take possession of his territories. The only individual who did not partake of the general joy was the poordetenú, whose long gaunt person did not agree with a tropical climate, and who, therefore, sickened, and threatened to die before reaching the land. It was in vain that the Chamberlain promised to make him Lord High Constable of the Kingdom, if he would only keep up his spirits. Like the poor sparrow, who, in its last moment, refuses the very finest crumbs held to its mouth, he said it was all humbug to make him these offers, when it was clear he could never live in such a hot part of the world as this. He would lay his death, he said, to their door, and, if at all possible, he would be sure to haunt them after death. To the great grief of the company, the unfortunate messenger died on the very day when they cast anchor off the shores of Poyais.
About seventy or eighty individuals, from the Old Town of Edinburgh—forming the staff of a great empire—now landed on a flat bushy part of the Mosquito Territory—ominous name!—in the Bay of Honduras, with the expectation of immediately falling into the enjoyment of all the luxuries and pleasures which this world can bestow. They were, indeed, somewhat surprised to find that every thingwas still in its primeval state, and that even their houses were as yet to be built. However, having found one small opening in the forest of brushwood, they established themselves there, with such goods and chattels as they had; and their first duty was to give a decent burial to thedetenú, whose body they had brought ashore for that purpose. A grave having been dug, the Chamberlain, assuming the character of High Priest of the Kingdom, for want of a better, mounted an old shirt over his clothes, by way of sacerdotal vestment, and proceeded to read the funeral service of the church of England over the body. In the very middle of the most solemn part of this ceremony, a large bird, with a curious beaky face, somewhat resembling that of the deceased, alighted upon a tree immediately above the funeral group, and cried, with a loud shrill voice, what was interpreted by all present (with the aid, no doubt, of a stricken conscience) into the phrase, “Pay your debt!”
The colonists saw and heard with terror, believing that the spirit which had lately animated the body before them was now addressing them in character, according to his threat before death; and, but for the protection which daylight always gives to the superstitious, the whole set, including both the civil and military departments of the state, would have fled from the spot. The Chamberlain saw the nature of the case, and drew hurriedly towards a conclusion; but yet, at every brief pause of his voice, there still came in the ear-piercing cry, “Pay your debt!” Before the grave had been closed, another and another bird of the same species drew towards the spot, and each lifted up his voice to the same tune—“Pay your debt”—“Pay your debt”—“Pay your debt”—till the whole forest seemed possessed by one spirit, and the ghost of the sheriff’s officer appeared to the distracted senses of the settlers to have dispersed itself into a whole legion of harpies. The fact was, that the birds were brought forth by the coolness of the evening, according to their usual habits,and were now innocently amusing themselves with their accustomed cry, without the least idea of any personality towards the Poyaisians. The Chamberlain of the colonists, who had learned from books of travels that many American birds uttered something like a sentence of English as their habitual cry, endeavoured to assuage the alarm of his companions; but, nevertheless, a very general sense of terror remained.
“It may be all very true,” said Jock Colquhoun, “that the birds of this country have each a particular word to say; but, od, it’s gayan queer that the Poyais bird should have pitched upon a thing that jags our consciences sae sair.”
The first night was spent in a very uncomfortable manner. To a day of intense heat succeeded a cold dewy night, which struck the limbs of the unprotected settlers with such severe cramps, that hardly a man could stir next morning. Their sleep, moreover, was broken occasionally by the cry of “Pay your debt!” which a few of their feathered friends kept up at intervals all night. Next day, instead of setting about the erection of their metropolis and sea-port, as was intended, they had to attend each other’s sick-beds. Before night several of the women and children had expired. Next day, and the next again, the same sickness continued; and in less than a week, half their number were under the earth. Jock, who had fortunately escaped every mishap except a rheumatic shoulder, now began to think how much more comfortable he would have been in Luckie Wishart’slaigh shopin the Canongate of Edinburgh, than he was on this inhospitable coast, where there was no prospect of raising so much as a potato for a twelvemonth. “What a fool I was,” said he, “not to make my quarters good there, as the honest woman proposed! Oh, to be walking wi’ her down the King’s Park on a Sunday nicht, even wi’ a’ the five bairns running after us! I’se warrant the gardens at Restalrig hae nae birds about the bushes that tell folk to pay their debt; naethingo’ the kind there, unless it be the boord, black letters on a white ground, that says, ‘Pay on delivery.’”
Hardship had now dispelled from every mind the magnificent ideas with which they had hitherto been inspired. If the vessel had yet remained on the coast, the whole of the surviving company, prime minister and all, would have willingly exchanged their brilliant appointments under the Cazique for a snug berth on board. But it had departed immediately after landing them; and there only remained the chance that some other vessel would pass that way, and take pity on their distress. This, fortunately, happened in the course of a few days. A vessel bound to Belize came along the shore, and, on a signal from the unfortunate Poyaisians, sent a boat to inquire into their case. As only a few remained alive, it was soon arranged that they should be carried to the port for which the vessel was bound. With grateful and subdued hearts, and casting many a mournful glance towards the graves of their friends, the small remnant of the Poyais expedition betook themselves to the boat, and sailed off to the vessel. As a sort of parting admonition, a bird came up at the moment of their departure from the land, and, pronouncing one shrill, clear “Pay your debt!” flew off into the interior.
It were needless to relate the various hardships and adventures which befel Jock Colquhoun before he regained his native shore. Be it enough, that he immediately sought the cozy den of Luckie Wishart, andpaid his debtin the way originally desired by the lady, who, under the name of Mrs Colquhoun, continued for many years, with the assistance of her reformed husband, to regale the good people of the Canongate.
“A flichty chield,” she used to remark to her female friends, “was whyles the better o’ finding the grund o’ his stamack.”
FOOTNOTES:[4]Alehouse of particular resort.
[4]Alehouse of particular resort.
[4]Alehouse of particular resort.