"When in doubt, mind that practically everything in an examination
governs the subjunctive.
"If there is a _viva voce_, be sure and speak up and give your answers
as though you were sure of them. They may be wrong, but on the other
hand they may be right. Anyway, the one thing the examiners will not
thole is a body that dithers.
"Take a last keek at that Proposition--they _may_ call them Theorems,
though--about the Square on the Hypotenuse. It hasn't been set for four
years.
"If you are given a piece of Greek Testament to translate, for mercy's
sake do not be too glib. Dinna translate a thing until you are sure it
is there. They have an unholy habit of leaving out a couple of verses
some place in the middle, and you're just the one to tumble head-first
into the _lacuna_. (I ken ye, Robbie!)
"And whatever ye do, just bear in mind it's your only chance, and _grup_
on tae it! _Post est occasio calva_, laddie! And dinna disappoint an
auld man that has taught ye all he kens himsel'!"
Much of his mother's advice was of a kind that could not be expressed so
concisely, but two salient items remained fixed in Robert's mind:--
"If ye canna think o' the richt word, pit up a bit prayer.
"For ony sake see that your collar is speckless a' the time."
Robert's first impressions of Edinburgh were disappointing. Though
extensive enough, the city was not so great or so imposing as he had
expected. It was entirely roofed with glass,--a provision which, though
doubtless advantageous in wet weather, militated against an adequate
supply of sunlight and fresh air. The shops, of which Robin had heard so
much, were few in number; and the goods displayed therein (mainly food
and drink, newspapers and tobacco) compared unfavourably in point of
variety with those in the window of Malcolm M'Whiston, the "merchant" at
home. The inhabitants all appeared to be in a desperate hurry, and the
noise of the trains, which blocked every thoroughfare, was deafening.
Robert Chalmers was just beginning to feel thoroughly disappointed with
the Scottish capital, when it occurred to him to mount a flight of
stairs which presented itself to his view and gave promise of a second
storey at least. When he reached the top he found he had judged
Edinburgh too hastily. There was some more of it.
His horizon thus suddenly enlarged, Robert Chalmers Fordyce began to
take in his surroundings. He now found himself in a great street, with
imposing buildings on one side and a green valley on the other. On the
far side of the valley the ground ran steeply upward to an eminence
crowded thickly with houses and topped by a mighty castle.
The street was alive with all sorts of absorbingly interesting traffic;
but for the present Robert was chiefly concerned with the Cable Cars. It
was upon one of these majestic vehicles, which moved down the street
unassisted by any apparent human or equine agency, that he had been
bidden to ride to his destination. He was not to take the first that
came along, nor yet the second--they went to various places, it seemed;
and if you were taken to the wrong one you had to pay just the same--but
was to scan them until he espied one marked "Gorgie." This would carry
him down the Dalry Road, and would ultimately pass the residence of
Elspeth M'Kerrow, a decent widow woman, whose late husband's brother had
"married on" a connection of Robert's mother. Here he was to lodge.
At first sight the cars appeared to be labelled with nothing but Cocoa
and Whisky and Empire Palaces of Varieties Open Every Evening; but a
little perseverance discovered a narrow strip of valuable information
painted along the side of each car. The first that caught our friend's
eye was "Pilrig and Braid Hills Road." That would not do. Then came
another--"Murrayfield, Haymarket, and Nether Liberton." Another blank!
Then, "Marchmont Road and Churchill." Foiled again, Robert was beginning
to feel a little sceptical as to the actual existence of the Dalry Road,
when a car drew up opposite to him labelled "Pilrig and Gorgie." It was
going in the right direction too, for his father had warned him that his
destination lay to the west of the town; and you can trust a Scotsman to
know the points of the compass with his eyes shut. (They even talk of a
man sitting on the north or south side of his own fireplace.)
Robert clambered on to the top of this car, and presently found himself
confronted by a gentleman--splendid in appearance but of homely
speech--who waved bundles of tickets in his face, and inquired tersely--
"Penny or tippeny? or transfair?"
"I am seeking the Dalry Road," said Robert cautiously.
"Which end o't?"
"I couldna say."
"Ca' it a penny," said the conductor.
Robert, with the air of a man who has beaten down his opponent to the
lowest possible figure, produced the coin from his pocket. (It was just
as well that the man had not demanded a larger sum, for Robert's more
precious currency was concealed in a place only accessible to partial
disrobement.) The gorgeous man carelessly snapped a ticket out of one of
the bundles, and having first punched a hole in it with an ingenious
instrument that gave forth sounds of music, handed it to Robert in
exchange for the penny. He was a saturnine man, but he smiled a little
later when Robert, mindful of the fate of his railway-ticket at the last
station but one, airily attempted to give up his car-ticket in similar
fashion on alighting at the end of the journey.
The greater part of the next four days was spent by our friend in an
examination-room, into which we, more fortunate, need not attempt to
follow him. Robert diligently answered every question, writing at the
foot of each sheet of his neat manuscript, "More on the next page," in
case the examiner should be a careless fellow and imagine that Robert
had finished when he had not. Robert was not the man to leave anything
to chance, or to such unsafe abbreviations as P.T.O.
Outside the examination-room he devoted most of the time that he could
spare from preparation for the next paper to a systematic exploration of
Edinburgh. He did the thing as thoroughly as possible, for he knew well
that he might never spend four days in a large town again.
He began by climbing the Calton Hill. He remained at the summit quite a
long time, constructing a rough bird's-eye plan of the streets and
buildings below him; and having descended to earth, proceeded on a
series of voyages of discovery.
He regarded the exterior of Parliament House with intense interest, for
he was a debater by instinct and upbringing. St Giles' he passed by
without enthusiasm--he was a member of the Free Kirk--and St Mary's
Cathedral struck him as being unduly magnificent to be the property of
such a small and pernicious sect as the Episcopalians. The Post Office
and other great buildings struck him dumb; and he hastened past the
theatres with averted eyes, for he had it upon unimpeachable authority
that the devil resided there.
He knew no one in Edinburgh save Elspeth M'Kerrow. However, he made
another friend--to wit, one Hector MacPherson, a gigantic Highland
policeman, who controlled the traffic with incredible skill at a place
where several ways met. The said Hector stood beneath the shadow of a
great lamp-post, and whenever a vehicle drove past one side of him,
Hector relentlessly called it back and made it go on the other. Their
acquaintance began with the entire effacement of Robert's features by
the palm of Hector's hand, which was suddenly extended across the
thoroughfare for traffic-regulating purposes, with the result that
Robert, who was plunged in thought at the time, ran his nose right into
the centre of it. The ejaculation to which each gave vent at the moment
of impact revealed to both that they were from the same part of the
country, and thereafter Hector MacPherson became Robert's
adviser-in-chief throughout his stay in Edinburgh. Indeed, Robert used
Hector as the starting-point for all his excursions, and whenever he
became hopelessly lost in the wilds of the Grassmarket or the purlieus
of Morningside, he used to ask his way back to his mentor's pitch and
make a fresh start. We shall hear of Hector again.
The foolhardy feat of entering a shop Robert did not attempt until his
very last day in Edinburgh, and then only because he was absolutely
compelled to do so by the necessity of executing a commission for his
sister Margaret--the purchase of half a yard of ribbon.
It is true that the same ribbon could have been obtained at home from
Malcolm M'Whiston or a travelling packman, but Margaret was determined
to have it from Edinburgh; and she was particularly emphatic in her
injunctions to Robert to see that the folk in the shop stuck a label on
the parcel, "with their name printed on, and a picture of the shop and
a'."
On Saturday morning, then, Robert approached the establishment which he
had chosen for the purpose. After a careful reconnaissance he discovered
that it possessed several doors. Here was a poser. Which would be the
ribbon door? Supposing he entered the wrong one and found himself
compelled to purchase a roll of muslin or a wash-hand-stand? With
natural acumen he finally selected a door flanked by windows containing
lace and ribbon; and waiting for a moment when the surging crowd was
thickest, attempted to slip in with them. He got safely past a hero in a
medal-sown uniform, but immediately after this encountered an imposing
gentleman in a frock-coat, who asked his pleasure. Robert inquired
respectfully if the gentleman kept ribbon. The gentleman said "Surely,
surely!" and Robert's modest requirements were thereupon sent ringing
from a throat of brass into the uttermost recesses of the establishment,
and he himself was passed, hot-faced, along the fairway until he reached
the right department. Here his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth,
and the siren behind the counter, with difficulty stifling her
amusement, was reduced to discovering his needs by a process of
elimination.
"What will I show you?"
No answer.
"Ladies' gloves?"
A shake of the head.
"Handkerchiefs?"
Another shake.
"Stockings?"
Another shake, accompanied by a deepening of complexion.
"Well--ribbon?"
"Aye, that's it," replied Robert, suddenly finding his voice (which, by
the way, rather resembled the Last Trump). "Hauf a yaird--one inch
wide--satin--cream!" he roared mechanically.
He received the small parcel, and furtively fingering the money in his
pocket, asked the price.
"Two-three, please," replied the damsel briskly.
How Robert thanked his stars that he had some cash in hand! But what a
price! All that for a scrap of ribbon! It seemed sinful; but he laid two
shillings and threepence on the counter. Greatly to his alarm, the young
woman behind it, who up to this point had kept her feelings under
commendable control, suddenly collapsed like a punctured balloon on to
the shoulder of her nearest neighbour--there being no shop-walkers
about--and expressed a wish that she might be taken home and buried.
Finally she recovered sufficiently to push Robert's two shillings back
across the counter and to place his threepence in a mysterious
receptacle which she thrust into a hole in the wall, from which it was
ejected with much clatter a minute later; and on being opened proved to
contain what the dazed Robert at first took for a half-sovereign, but
which he ultimately discovered, when he had abandoned the still giggling
maiden and groped his way out into the street, to be a bright new
farthing.
The same day he returned to his home; but he did not reach it without
one more adventure, a slight one, it is true, but not without its effect
upon his future.
The train was over-full, and Robert ultimately found himself travelling
in company with nine other passengers, seven of whom were suffering from
that infirmity once poetically described by an expert in such diagnoses
as "a wee bit drappie in their een." The exception was a gentleman in
the far corner, accompanied by a most lovely young lady, upon whom
Robert gazed continuously with an admiration so absorbing and profound
that it took him some little time to realise, shortly after the
commencement of the journey, that the rest of the company were indulging
in a free fight all over the compartment, and that the lady was clinging
in terror to her escort. Robert was of considerable service in restoring
order, and found his reward in the eyes of the lady, who thanked him
very prettily. Her husband had the sense not to offer Robert money, but
gave him his card, and said in a curious, stiff, English way that he
hoped he might be of service to him some day. They got out at Perth, and
Robert travelled on alone.
Hours later he was met by his brother David at a little wayside station,
and driven over fifteen miles of hilly road to the farm where he had
been born and brought up.
Next morning he was up at daybreak, and set to work at his usual tasks
about the yard, well knowing that such would be his lot to the end of
his life if the examination list did not show his name at the top.
* * * * *
Some days had to elapse before the result could be known; but Robert
Chalmers Fordyce--by the way, I think we know him well enough now to
call him Robin, which was the name his mother had given him on his third
birthday--and his household, being Scottish and undemonstrative, made
little or no reference to the subject.
Robin was the scholar of his family. He was the second son, David being
four years older. But in accordance with that simple, grand, and
patriarchal law of Scottish peasant life, which decrees that every lad
of parts shall be given his chance to bring credit on the family, even
though his parents have to pinch and save and his brothers bide at the
plough-tail all their lives in consequence--a law whose chief merit lies
in the splendid sacrifices which its faithful fulfilment involves, and
whose vital principle well-meaning but misguided philanthropy is now
endeavouring to dole out of existence--he had been sent to Edinburgh to
make the most of this, his one chance in life.
Still, though the credit of the family hung upon the result of the
examination,--if he won the Bursary, the money, together with the
precious hoard which his father and mother had been accumulating for him
for ten years, would just suffice to keep him at the University,--no one
discussed the matter. It was in the hands of God, and prognostication
could only be vain and unprofitable. His mother and sister, indeed,
questioned him covertly when his father and brother were out of hearing;
but that was chiefly about Edinburgh, and the shops, and the splendours
of the Dalry Road. The Bursary was never mentioned.
On the day on which the result was to be announced their father took
Robin and David away to a distant hillside to assist at the
sheep-dipping. The news would come by letter, which might or might not
get as far as Strathmyrtle Post Office, seven miles away, that very
afternoon. In the morning it would be delivered by the postman.
But there are limits to human endurance, none the less definite because
that endurance appears illimitable. When father and sons tramped back to
the farm that evening, just in time for supper, it was discovered that
Margaret was absent. John Fordyce, grim old martinet that he was, looked
round the table inquiringly; but a glance at his wife's face caused him
to go on with his meal.
At nine o'clock precisely the table was cleared. The herdman and two
farm lasses came into the kitchen from their final tasks in the yard,
and the great Bible was put down on the table for evening "worship."
John Fordyce, having looked up the "portion" which he proposed to read,
then turned to the Metrical Psalms. These were sung night by night in
unswerving rotation throughout the year, a custom which, while it
offered the pleasing prospect of variety, occasionally left something to
be desired on the score of appropriateness.
All being seated, the old man, after a final fleeting glance at his
daughter's empty chair, gave out the Psalm.
"Let us worship God," he said, "by singing to His praise in the Hundred
and Twenty-first Psalm. Psalm a Hundred and Twenty-one--
'I to the hills will lift mine eyes,
From whence doth come----'"
The door opened, and Margaret entered. She was dusty and tired, for she
had walked fourteen miles since milking-time; but in her hand she held a
letter.
She glanced timidly at the clock, and was for slipping quietly into her
seat; but her father said--
"You had best give it to him now. A man cannot worship God while his
mind is distracted with other things."
Robin took the letter, and after a glance in the direction of his father
and the waiting Bible, opened and read it amidst a tense silence.
Finally he looked up.
"Well?" said the old man.
"They have given me the First Bursary, father," said Robin.
No one spoke, but Robin saw tears running down his mother's face. John
Fordyce deliberately turned back several pages of the Bible.
"We will sing," he said in a clear voice, "in the Twenty-third
Psalm--the whole of it!--
'The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want----'"
* * * * *
The Psalms of David, as rendered into English verse by Nahum Tate and
others, are not remarkable for poetic merit; neither does the old
Scottish fashion of singing the same, seated and without accompaniment,
conduce to a concord of sweet sounds. But there are no tunes like old
tunes, and there are no hearts like full hearts. If ever a song went
straight up to heaven, the Twenty-third Psalm, borne up on the wings of
"Martyrdom," did so that night.