The first disappointment encountered by the young hero was the wonderful
shock of finding out that it was not an abstract world he had to
encounter and fight with, but that life was an affair of days and hours
exactly as at Ramore, which was about his first real mental experience
and discovery. It was a strange mortification to Colin, who was, like
his mother, a poet in his soul, to find out that there was nothing
abstract in his new existence, but that a perpetually recurring round of
lessons to learn, and classes to attend, and meals to eat, made up the
days, which were noways changed in their character from those days which
he had already known for all the fifteen years of his life. After the
first shock, however, he went on with undiminished courage--for at
fifteen it is so easy to think that those great hours are waiting for us
somewhere in the undisclosed orb of existence. Certainly a time would
come when every day, of itself a radiant whole and complete unity, would
roll forth majestic like the earth in the mystic atmosphere. He had
missed it this time, but after a while it must come; for the future,
like the past, works wonders upon the aspect of time; and still it is
true of the commonest hours that they--
----“win
A glory from their being far,
And orb into the perfect star
We saw not when we walked therein.”
So thought Colin, looking at them from the other side, and seeing a
perfection which nobody ever reached in this world. But of course he did
not know that--so he postponed those grand days, and barred them up with
shining doors, on which was written the name and probable date of the
next great change in his existence; and, contenting himself for the
present with the ordinary hours, went light-hearted enough upon his
boyish way.
A little adventure which occurred to the neophyte on his first entrance
upon this new scene, produced results for him, however, which are too
important to be omitted from his history. Everybody who has been in that
dingiest of cities knows that the students at the University of Glasgow,
small as their influence is otherwise upon the character of the town,
are bound to do it one superficial service at least. Custom has ordained
that they should wear red gowns; and the fatigued traveller, weary of
the universal leaden grey, can alone appreciate fully the sense of
gratitude and relief occasioned by the sudden gleam of scarlet
fluttering up the long unlovely street on a November day. But that
artistic sense which penetrates but slowly into barbarous regions has
certainly not yet reached the students of Glasgow. So far from
considering themselves public benefactors through the medium of their
red gowns, there is no expedient of boyish ingenuity to which the
ignorant youths will not resort to quench the splendid tint, and reduce
its glory as nearly as possible to the sombre hue of everything around.
Big Colin, of Ramore was unacquainted with the tradition which made a
new and brilliant specimen of the academic robe of Glasgow as irritating
to the students as the colour is supposed to be to other animals of
excitable temper; and the good farmer naturally arrayed his son in a new
gown, glorious as any new ensign in the first delight of his uniform. As
for Colin, he was far from being delighted. The terrible thought of
walking through the streets in that blazing costume seriously
counterbalanced all the pleasure of independence, and the pride of being
“at college.” The poor boy slunk along by the least frequented way, and
stole into his place the first morning like a criminal. And it was not
long before Colin perceived that his new companions were of a similar
opinion. There was not another gown so brilliant as his own among them
all. The greater part were in the last stage of tatters and dinginess;
though among a company, which included a number of lads of Colin’s own
age, it was evident that there must be many who wore the unvenerated
costume for the first time. Dreams of rushing to the loch, which had
been his immediate resource all his life hitherto, and soaking the
obnoxious wrapper in the saltwater, confused his mind; but he was not
prepared for the summary measures which were in contemplation. As soon
as Colin emerged out of the shelter of the class-room, his persecution
commenced. He was mobbed, hustled, pelted, until his spirit was roused.
The gown was odious enough; but Colin was not the lad to have even the
thing he most wanted imposed upon him by force. As soon as he was aware
of the meaning of his tormentors, the country boy stood up for his
costume. He gathered the glowing folds round him, and struck out
fiercely, bringing down two or three of his adversaries. Colin, however,
was alone against a multitude; and what might have happened either to
himself or his dress it would have been difficult to predict, had not an
unexpected defender come in to the rescue. Next to Colin in the
classroom a man of about twice his age had been seated--a man of thirty,
whose gaunt shoulders brushed the boy’s fair locks, and whose mature and
thoughtful head rose strangely over the young heads around. It was he
who strode through the ring and dispersed Colin’s adversaries.
“For shame o’ yourselves,” he said in a deep bass voice, which
contrasted wonderfully with the young falsettos round him. “Leave the
laddie alone; he knows no better. I’ll lick ye a’ for a set of
schoolboys, if you don’t let him be. Here, boy, take off the red rag and
throw it to me,” said Colin’s new champion; but the Campbell blood was
up.
“I’ll no take it off,” cried Colin; “it’s my ain, and I’ll wear it if I
like; and I’ll fell anybody that meddles with me!”
Upon which, as was natural, a wonderful scuffle ensued. Colin never knew
perfectly how he was extricated from this alarming situation; but, when
he came to himself, he was in the streets on his way home, with his new
friend by his side--very stiff, and aching in every limb, with one
sleeve of his gown torn out, and its glory minished by the mud which had
been thrown at it, but still held tightly as he had gathered it round
him at the first affray. When he recovered so far as to hear some other
sound besides his own panting breath, Colin discovered that the gaunt
giant by his side was preaching at him in a leisurely reflective way
from his eminence of six feet two or three. Big Colin of Ramore was but
six feet, and at that altitude two or three inches tell. The stranger
looked gigantic in his lean length as the boy looked up, half wondering,
half-defiant, to hear what he was saying. What he said sounded
wonderfully like preaching, so high up and so composed was the voice
which kept on arguing over Colin’s head, with an indifference to whether
he listened or not, which, in ordinary conversation, is somewhat rare to
see.
“It might be right to stand up for your gown; I’ll no commit myself to
say,” was the first sentence of the discourse which fell on Colin’s ear;
“for there’s no denying it was your own, and a man, or even a callant,
according to the case in point, has a right to wear what he likes, if
he’s no under lawful authority, nor the garment offensive to decency;
but it would have been more prudent on the present occasion to have
taken off the red rag as I advised. It’s a remnant of superstition in
itself, and I’m no altogether sure that my conscience, if it was put to
the question, would approve of wearing gowns at all, unless, indeed, it
had ceased to be customary to wear other garments; but that’s an
unlikely case, and I would not ask you to take it into consideration,”
said the calm voice, half a mile over Colin’s head. “It’s a kind of
relic of the monastic system, which is out of accordance with modern
ideas; but, as you’re no old enough to have any opinions--”
“I have as good a right to have opinions as you,” exclaimed Colin,
promptly, glad of an opportunity to contradict and defy somebody, and
get rid of the fumes of his excitement.
“That’s no the subject under discussion,” said the stranger. “I never
said any man had a right to opinions; I incline to the other side of
that question mysel’. The thing we were arguing was the gown. A new red
gown is as aggravating to the students of Glasgow University as if they
were so many bulls--no that I mean to imply that they’re anything so
forcible. You’ll have to yield to the popular superstition if you would
live in peace.”
“I’m no heeding about living in peace,” interrupted Colin. “I’m no
feared. It’s naebody’s business but my ain. My gown is my gown, and I’ll
no change it if--”
“Let me speak,” said his new friend; “you’re terrible talkative for a
callant. Where do you live? I’ll go home with ye and argue the question.
Besides, you’ve got a knock on the head there that wants looking to, and
I suppose you’re in Glasgow by yourself? You needna’ thank me, it’s no
necessary,” said the stranger, with a bland movement of the hand.
“I wasna’ meaning to thank you. I’m living in Donaldson’s Land, and I
can take care of myself,” said Colin. But the boy was no match for his
experienced classfellow, who went on calmly preaching as before, arguing
all kinds of questions, till the two arrived at the foot of the stairs
which led to Colin’s humble lodging. The stair was long, narrow, and not
very clean. It bore stains of spilt milk on one flight, and long
droppings of water on another; and all the miscellaneous smells of half
a dozen different households, none of them particularly dainty in their
habits, were caught and concentrated in the deep well of a staircase,
into which they all opened. Colin’s abode was at the very top. His
landlady was a poor widow, who had but three rooms, and a host of
children. The smallest of the three rooms was let to Colin, and in the
other two she put up somehow her own sons and daughters, and did her
mantua-making, and accomplished her humble cookery. The rooms had
sloping roofs and attic windows; and two chairs and a slip of carpet
made Colin’s apartment splendid. Colin led the way for his “friend,” not
without a slight sentiment of pride, which had taken the place of his
first annoyance. After all, it was imposing to his imagination to have
his society sought by another student, a man so much older than himself;
and Colin was not unaware of the worship which it would gain him in the
eyes of his hostess, who had looked on him dubiously on the day of his
arrival, and designated him “little mair than a bairn.” Colin was very
gracious in doing the honours of his room to his unsolicited visitor,
and spoke loud out that Mrs. Fergus might hear. “You’ll have to stoop
when you go in at _that_ door,” said the boy, already learning with
natural art to shine in reflected glory. But Colin was less complacent
when they had entered the room, half from natural shyness, half from an
equally natural defiance and opposition to the grown-up and experienced
person who had escorted him home.
“Well,” said this strange personage, stooping grimly to contemplate
himself in the little square of looking-glass which hung over Colin’s
table; “you and me are no very like classfellows; but I like a laddie
that has some spirit and stands up for his rights. Of course you come
from the country; but first come here, my boy, before you answer any
questions, and let me see that knock on your head.”
“I had nae intention of answering any questions; and I can take care of
myself,” answered Colin, hanging back and declining the invitation. The
stranger, however, only smiled, stretched out his long arm, and drew the
boy towards him. And certainly he had received a cut on the head which
required to be attended to. Reluctant as he was, the lad was too shy to
make any active resistance, even if he had possessed moral courage
enough to oppose successfully the will of a man so much older than
himself. He submitted to have the cut bathed and plastered up, which his
new friend did with the utmost tenderness, delivering a slow and
lengthy address all the while over his head. When the operation was
over, Colin was more and more perplexed what to do with his visitor;
though a little faint after his fight and excitement, he was still well
enough to be very hungry, but the idea of asking this unknown friend to
share his dinner did not occur to him. He had never done anything beyond
launching the boat, or mounting the horses on his own responsibility
before, and he could not tell what Mrs. Fergus would think of his wound
or his visitor. Altogether, Colin was highly perplexed and not over
civil, and sat down upon the edge of a chair facing the intruder with an
expression of countenance very plainly intimating that he thought him
much in the way.
But the stranger was much above any consideration of Colin’s
countenance. He was very tall, as we have said, very gaunt and meagre,
with a long, pale face surmounted by black locks, thin and dishevelled.
He had a black beard, too--a thing much less common at that time than
now--which increased his general aspect of dishevelment. His eyes were
large, and looked larger in the great sockets hollowed out by something
more than years, from which they looked out as from two pale caverns;
yet, with all this gauntness of aspect, his smile, when he smiled, which
was seldom, threw a wonderful light over his face, and reminded Colin
somehow, he could not tell how, of the sudden gleam of the sun over the
Holy Loch when the clouds were at the darkest, and melted the boy’s
heart in spite of himself.
“I was saying we were not very like classfellows,” said the stranger;
“that’s a queer feature in our Scotch colleges; there’s you, a great
deal too young, and me, a great deal too old; and here we meet for the
same purpose, to learn two dead languages and some sciences that are
only half living; and that’s the only way for either you or me to get
ourselves made ministers. The English system’s an awful deal better, I’m
meaning in theory;--as for the practice, that’s neither here nor there.
Nothing’s right in practice. It’s a great thing to have a right idea at
the bottom if you can.”
“Are you to be a minister?” said Colin, not well knowing what to say.
“When I was like you I thought so,” said his new friend; “it’s a long
time since then; but, when I get a good grip of an idea, it’s no’ easy
to get it out of my head again. This is my second session only, for all
that,” he said, after a momentary pause; “many a thing I little thought
of has stood in my way. I’m little further on than you, though I suppose
I’m twice your age; but to be sure you’re far too young for the
college; that’s what the Greek professor in Edinburgh is aye havering
about; he might turn to the other side of the question if he knew me.”
And the stranger interrupted his own monologue to give vent to a
long-drawn breath, by way of a sigh, which agitated the atmosphere in
Colin’s little room, as if it had been a sudden breeze.
“Mr. Hardie’s son was only thirteen when he went to the college; and
that’s two years younger than me,” said Colin, with some indignation.
The lad heard a sound, as of knives and plates outside, and pricked up
his ears. He was hungry, and his strange visitor seemed rooted upon his
hard rush-bottomed chair. But, just as Colin’s mind was framing this
thought, his companion suddenly gathered himself up, rising in folds, as
if there was never to be an end of him.
“You want your dinner?” he said; “come with me, it will do you good.
What you were to have will keep till to-morrow; tell the decent woman
so, and come with me. I’m poor, but you shall have something you can
eat, and I’ll show you what to do when you are tired of _her_
provisions; so come along.”
“I would rather stay at home,” said Colin; “I don’t know you, I don’t
know even your name,” he added a minute after, feeling that he was about
to yield to the strong influence which was upon him, and doing what he
could to save himself.
“My name’s Lauderdale; that’s easy settled,” said the stranger; “tell
the honest woman; what’s her name?--I’ll do it for you. Mrs. Fergus, my
young friend here is going to dinner with me. He’ll be back, by-and-by,
to his studies; and, in the meantime,” said Colin’s self-constituted
guardian, putting the lad before him, and pausing in the passage to
speak to the widow, who regarded his great height and strange appearance
with a little curiosity, “take you charge of his gown; put it up the
chimney, or give it a good wash out with soap and soda; it’s too grand
for Glasgow College; the sooner it comes to be like this,” said the
gigantic visitor, holding up his own, which was of a dingy portwine
colour, “the better for the boy.”
And then Colin found himself again walking along the Glasgow streets, in
the murky, early twilight of that November afternoon, with this strange
unknown figure which was leading him he knew not whither. Was it a good
or a bad angel which had thus taken possession of the fresh life and
unoccupied mind? Colin could not resist the fascination which was half
dislike and half admiration. He went along quietly by the side of the
tall student, who kept delivering over his head that flood of
monotonous talk. The boy grew interested even in the talk before they
had gone far, and went on, a little anxious about his dinner, but still
more curious concerning the companion with whom Fate had provided him so
soon.