In the metropolis, the head-quarters for the old masters should be at

the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The British School might

remain where it is now well displayed, at South Kensington. On the

South of London, there is already the Dulwich Gallery; whilst on the

north side in Finsbury or Islington, and on the east in Victoria Park,

suitable suburban galleries, with accommodation for schools of Art,

might be erected at a cost not exceeding 3,000_l._ each. Besides the two

metropolitan galleries of Dublin and Edinburgh, excellent accommodation

for exhibiting and receiving pictures is provided in connection with

the Schools of Art at Manchester, Sheffield, Liverpool, Bristol,

Wolverhampton, &c. And in all future buildings for schools of Art,

towards the cost of which the State is asked to contribute, such aid will

only be given upon the condition that provision is made for a suitable

exhibiting room.

With these views, the first practical point is to decide what shall be

done to supply the present deficiencies of the building in Trafalgar

Square. Although Parliament and various administrations have often

changed their minds about the locality of the National Gallery, it may be

assumed that the present decision is to retain it in Trafalgar Square.

Proposals have been discussed for gaining more space by turning out the

Royal Academy;[26] which, from its creation, has been housed at the

public expense:—not a very large contribution towards its gratuitous

teaching of young artists. Last year Mr. Disraeli invited the Royal

Academy to transport itself to Burlington House; but it is said that the

present government have not renewed the offer of that site. If it can be

shown that much better as well as increased accommodation, can be found

for the National Pictures, without displacing the Royal Academy, and

without necessitating the expenditure of 200,000_l._ for the purchase

of ground and St. Martin’s workhouse, or incurring the cost of removing

the barracks, it would seem to be a waste of public money to adopt such

measures. Besides, it would not be very convenient for art-students to

attend the schools of the Royal Academy in Piccadilly, nor for the public

to visit its exhibitions there. Nor should the advantage to the students

of their contiguity to the pictures of the old masters be overlooked.

Our proposal, therefore, is to keep both National Gallery and Royal

Academy where they now are, and to demonstrate, with the aid of the

ingenious constructor of the new Gallery at South Kensington—which for

its lighting both by day and night may fairly challenge any other gallery

in Europe—how this may be done. The reader, if sufficiently curious, may

find on the votes of the House of Commons of last year, in the month

of March, a notice as follows:—“22º die Martis 1859:—9. Mr. Adderley.

National Gallery. Address for copies of plans and estimates for the

alteration of the National Gallery, prepared by Captain Fowke, R.E., and

submitted to the Lords of the Committee of Council on Education.”

Owing to a change of Ministry, or some other cause, these plans were not

published, but only talked about. The _Cornhill Magazine_, in laying them

before the public, invites discussion and consideration of their merits.

The defects of the present building are many, and are thus summed up by

Captain Fowke: “The first object of the building ought to be the proper

exhibition of pictures, but by its present arrangements the valuable

top-lighted space (_the_ picture space _par excellence_) to the extent

of 8,000 square feet, out of the entire area of 22,000 square feet, is

thrown away upon the central hall and passages. The tinted portion on

the plan (Fig. 2) shows at a glance the wasted space. The interior of

the building is not worthy of the purposes to which it is applied, the

entrance-hall being large and unimposing, whilst the approach to the

galleries, up a dark stair enclosed between two walls, is singularly

wanting in dignity. The communications from room to room are small,

and unfitted for the reception of great crowds. There is no space of

sufficient dimensions for the proper exhibition of the largest class of

pictures. Another point, which must strike every one who has visited

continental galleries, is the want of any _tribune_, or great central

point for the reception of the choicest works. The absence of this gives

the National Gallery the air of a mere set of rooms, which seem to

require to be in some way connected with one another, and with one grand

focussing point to give them the unity of a great gallery.”

[Illustration: [_To face_ p. 351.]

PROPOSED PLAN OF THE FIRST OR PRINCIPAL FLOOR OF THE GALLERY. Fig. 1.

PRESENT PLAN OF GALLERY. Fig. 2]

The two accompanying plans of the first-floors show how the existing

building may, at a comparatively small cost, be altered so as to remove

the objections stated, while at the same time its accommodation will be

largely increased (Figs. 1 and 2). To begin with the entrance. It will

be seen from the section (Fig. 3), that the floor of the present picture

galleries is 23 feet 6 inches above the foot pavement of the street. If

the floor of the central hall then be _raised_ to this level, there will

be sufficient height for an entrance-hall under the additional gallery;

that is, keeping the floor of the entrance-hall three inches above the

pavement, and allowing one foot for the thickness of the floor of the

gallery above, there will be a clear height of 22 feet 3 inches for a

noble entrance-hall. By removing the present external steps, the entrance

from the street will be at each side under the present portico floor, the

flagging of which will be replaced by a light glass and iron ceiling, so

constructed as not to be seen from the square in front; the space under

the portico will then form a well-lighted vestibule to the hall. The hall

will be carried back into the present Royal Academy sculpture-room, from

the enlarged skylight of which, and from a series of windows over the

floor of the portico in front, it would be amply lighted. The apsidal end

under the skylight would afford a good position for the few pieces of

sculpture belonging to the National Collection. By this arrangement the

visitor may at once step from a carriage across the pavement into a warm

hall, instead of having to ascend a flight of steps, and in rainy weather

get wet _before_ he reaches even the portico.

Four staircases, each stair eight feet wide, will lead from either side

of this hall to the galleries above; of which the central one would

consist of a tribune, or _salon carré_, of nobler proportions than

that at the Louvre. From a deep recess at the sides of this tribune,

openings would lead each way into an uninterrupted series of rooms, and

by bringing the doorways of these rooms into one line, and increasing

them to twelve feet in width, an effective vista the entire length of

the building (450 feet) would be obtained, which might be decorated

with columns and arches, as in similar openings in the galleries of the

Vatican. (See Fig. 5.)

By bringing the retired portion of the wings forward to the line of their

projecting front, and throwing each wing into two good rooms in line

with those above named, it will then be seen that the entire top-lighted

area of the building is made available, with the exception of the small

spaces actually occupied by the stairs. The saving in space, in square

feet, will be apparent from the following table of the floor areas of

the top-lighted part of the building as it is at present, and as now

proposed:—

Total Picture space Space

area. top-lighted. lost.

As at present (including Royal Academy) 22,540 14,090 8,450

As proposed 23,560 22,488 1,071

From which it appears that while at present the lost space is

three-fifths of that reserved for exhibition, in the proposed plan the

loss would be reduced to one twenty-second part of the available space;

the exhibition area being increased by more than one-half its present

quantity.

[Illustration: VIEW OF INTERIOR OF NATIONAL GALLERY AS PROPOSED. Fig. 5.]

In measuring the superficial contents of wall space for hanging pictures

in the present and proposed galleries, the same proportion holds good.

The hanging space in the present National Gallery is 10,000 square feet,

which would be increased to 20,000 square feet, whilst the 10,000 square

feet of the Royal Academy would be increased 10,194 square feet.

On the lower floor, the only room now available for exhibition is that in

which the Turner drawings are stored away—a room containing 900 square

feet of floor area; and from the unfortunate circumstance, not to say

absurd arrangement of the entrance _being down a descending_ and dark

stair, the public impression has been that the lower rooms were merely a

superior kind of cellars. The public will recollect the dismal impression

which the Vernon pictures made in these rooms.

[Illustration: [_To face_ p. 352.]

LONGITUDINAL SECTION THROUGH CENTRAL HALL. Fig. 3.

*PRESENT LEVEL OF FLOOR OF CENTRAL HALL.

REVISED ELEVATION. Fig. 4.]

By the arrangement proposed, a space of 3,300 square feet will be

available for exhibiting drawings of the old masters; and these rooms

will be entered at once from the entrance-hall, by an _ascending_

staircase, by which the disagreeable impression above alluded to would be

avoided.

The proposed changes would also greatly benefit both the exhibitions

and the schools of the Royal Academy. They would increase and improve

the exhibiting space; giving five large rooms, instead of seven small

ones, as at present: two large rooms being obtained by the suppression

of four small ones. (See Figs. 1 and 2.) The Royal Academy, at present,

has a room appropriated to sculpture, which has long been designated “the

Cellar,” and in which works are deposited, rather than exhibited: the

loss of such a room is almost a gain. Next, it would lose the dark little

octagon room; which, after many efforts to make it a room for exhibition,

has lapsed into the condition of an ante-room, containing a few prints.

The other two rooms suppressed by the new plan are the two small side

rooms at present appropriated to the architectural drawings and the

miniatures; though they are confessedly far too small for their purpose.

The distribution of the increased space available for the exhibitions of

the Royal Academy might be as follows:—The first great room at the top of

the new staircase might be devoted to the sculptors; visitors would then

pass through it, and examine the works of sculpture, instead of having

to diverge to a “cellar,” as at present, or quitting the Exhibition

without seeing the sculpture, as many do. As the entrance would be in the

centre of the building, and lighted from the top, the sculpture might

be arranged in two noble semicircles, forming a grand art entrance into

the collections, and giving that importance to the sculpture which it

deserves. The sculptors would thus at least double the number of their

visitors. From this room the visitors would proceed into the next,

where the space on the left might be devoted to architectural drawings,

and that on the right to miniatures and water-colour paintings. These

works, especially the architectural, would be appropriately placed, and

the miniatures and pictures in water-colours would gain in richness

by being viewed after the colourless marbles, and before the eye had

become accustomed to the fuller richness of the paintings in oil. After

thus greatly improving the exhibitions of sculpture, architecture, and

water-colour paintings, there would still remain the same amount of

exhibiting space as at present for oil pictures. Thus far the change is

clearly a great gain to all the exhibitors.

The advantages that would accrue to the students of the Royal Academy

have now to be considered, and are, perhaps, even still more important.

It is hardly known to the world outside that in the schools of the

Royal Academy almost all the rising artists of the country receive

a _free_ education in art. At present, however, the schools are

subject to the disadvantage of being closed during the months when the

exhibition is open. This has long been deplored, equally by the students

and academicians, but it was unavoidable, since the rooms used for

exhibition are those also used as schools of art. By the new arrangements

of the plan of the lower story, three excellent rooms may be provided

which could be used _throughout the year_ without interruption: the

first as an antique school, the second as a life school, the third

as a painting school; and thus there would be no necessity to close

these schools during nearly five months in the year. In order to give

the schools the advantage of an uninterrupted north light, it would

be desirable that the Royal Academy should occupy the west end of the

building, and the National Gallery the east. The National Gallery would

not be prejudiced in the least by this change, as all the galleries are

lighted from the top. The rooms below, if used for the exhibition of

the drawings of the old masters, as proposed, would be lighted quite

sufficiently from windows at the side, as the best authorities prescribe

a light not too glaring, since drawings are liable to fade, if exposed to

too much light.

As will be seen from the elevation (Fig. 4), the alterations of the

exterior of the building are of no great extent, the principal being

(in addition to that already described in the wings) the removal of the

central and two secondary domes, and the substitution of an attic story,

carried over the central portion of the building; the general effect of

which would be improved by the removal of the small secondary four-column

porticos. If any one will stand in the front of the building, which is

only 450 feet in length, he will be able to count no less than thirteen

different fronts, none of them differing much in extent; the composition

is thus broken up, the unity and mass of the building are lost, and the

repose and dignity which should characterize an important public edifice

are entirely wanting. By the proposed arrangement, the whole façade would

be thrown into an imposing centre, with two massive wings connected with

it by unbroken curtains. That impression of meanness and want of height,

produced by the puny and meagre dome and insignificant cupolas, would be

removed by the substitution of the attic, which would have the effect of

elevating the entire mass of the building.

In the proposed alterations it is presumed that there would be no

difficulty in closing up the two passages which lead from the square to

Duke’s Court and to the barracks; though if it were thought desirable,

one or both of these could be retained. The entrance to these passages

is now effected by an ascending flight of ten steps; by simply reversing

this arrangement and substituting a descending flight, the passages could

be carried through the building below the floor of the present lower

rooms.

The estimated cost of the entire alteration is under 34,000_l._, which

has been verified by a responsible builder; but to provide for additional

decorations and contingencies a sum of (say) 50,000_l._ might be allowed;

and even this, to accomplish the objects proposed, would be a moderate

and justifiable outlay, which the public would scarcely grudge for such

results; and the Royal Academy might not object to share the expense, as

they would participate in the advantages of the improvements.

These alterations and improvements, moreover, could be effected without

closing the Gallery for a day.

By using the entrance under the western side portico as a temporary

entrance for the public, the centre part could be finished without

interfering with the National Gallery, and by moving the pictures into

the portion completed (a work of a few hours) the wing might be in

like manner finished, the public being then admitted through the new

entrance-hall.

* * * * *

Briefly to sum up, the advantages to be gained are—

1. The whole of the top-lighted space will be utilized.

2. The lower floors will also be made available for exhibition and

schools.

3. The means of access and of internal communication will be improved.

4. The picture space for the National Gallery will be doubled, without

disturbing the Royal Academy.

5. The space available for exhibiting drawings, &c. will be increased

about fourfold.

6. The appearance of the building both externally and internally will be

improved.

7. The whole alteration can be completed within six months, and without

moving a single picture out of the building, or closing the National

Gallery to the public for a single day.

8. The cost of the entire work would not exceed 50,000_l._

* * * * *

Any other plan than the above will delay the settlement of this vexed

question interminably, and will lead to an expenditure of hundreds of

thousands of pounds; whereas the adoption of the present proposal,

coupled with the principle of local circulation rather than metropolitan

centralization, will promote a taste for art throughout the United

Kingdom, and enlist the sympathies and assistance of all in the

conservation and extension of a National Collection of Pictures, thus

rendered accessible to the population of the most remote districts.

FOOTNOTES

[25] Mr. T. Fairbairn is usefully striving to establish a public Gallery

of Art at Manchester; but however rich it may become in local resources,

specimens of Beato Angelicos, Raffaelles, and the like, successively

introduced, for a season, from time to time, would have a very beneficial

influence on the tastes of the visitors.

[26] So much doubt and ignorance exists on the subject of the tenure by

which the Royal Academy holds its premises, that the official answer of

Henry Howard, the Keeper, has been exhumed from parliamentary records to

remove them. Mr. Howard says:—

“There are no expressed conditions on which the apartments at Somerset

House were originally bestowed on the Royal Academy. The Royal Academy

of Arts took possession of the apartments which they occupy in Somerset

House, in April 1780, by virtue of a letter from the Lords Commissioners

of the Treasury to the Surveyor General, directing him to deliver over to

the Treasurer of the Royal Academy, all the apartments allotted to his

Majesty’s said Academy in the new buildings at Somerset House, which are

to be appropriated to the uses specified in the several plans of the same

heretofore settled.”

“The Royal Academy received these apartments as a gift from their

munificent founder, George the Third; and it has always been understood

by the members that his Majesty, when he gave up to the government his

palace of old Somerset House (where the Royal Academy was originally

established), stipulated that apartments should be erected for that

establishment in the new building. The Royal Academy remained in the old

palace till those rooms were completed which had been destined for their

occupation; plans of which had been submitted to their approval, and

signed by the president, council, and officers.”

A Winter Wedding-Party in the Wilds.

“I’m sorry for the lasses’ disappointment, wife, but they _can’t_ go. It

would be madness to think of it. The phaeton would be broken to bits, if

the grey mare could do the distance, in such weather, which she couldn’t;

and if we were to send into Winton to ask, there’s not one of the inns

would let a chaise go out of the yard after last night’s fall of snow.”

For two or three minutes there was a blank silence round the breakfast

table; Anne’s eyes grew tearfully bright, Sophy looked rebellious, and I

began to experience a painful difficulty in swallowing as I stared out

of the window at the hopeless prospect of a great drift, which levelled

the garden hedge with the fields beyond, and went sloping up in a snowy

undulation to the brow of the Langhill.

“If a phaeton can’t pull through the snow, how will Cousin Mary get to

church to be married?” proposed Sophy.

“She’ll ride as your father and mother did on the same occasion, Miss.”

“I wore a plum-coloured cloth habit, faced with velvet, and sugar-loaf

buttons, and a hat with a gold band on it,” said Mrs. Preston. “I

believe, father, it was a morning to the full as bad as this, was our

wedding; and yet didn’t all the folks come over from Appley Moor? To be

sure they did, every one of them!”

“And the road from Appley Moor to Rookwood Grange is worse than the road

we should have to go, isn’t it, mother?” insinuated Sophy.

“Couldn’t be worse than Binks’ Wold,” replied her father; and to

spare himself any further aggravation from our faces of reproach and

mortification, he marched away, after his ample breakfast, out of the

room, and out of the house. Mrs. Preston disappeared also, and we three

young ones were left alone to bewail our disappointment.

And a cruel disappointment it was; perhaps more cruel to me than to my

school-friends, for I was a town-bred girl, only staying my Christmas

holidays at Ripstone Farm, and never in my life had I been to any

entertainment more exciting than a breaking-up dance all of girls. The

wedding at the Grange was known of before I came, and so I had been sent

from home provided with crisp white muslin, tucked ever so high, with

rose-coloured bows and sash; and only the Saturday previous, Anne’s and

Sophy’s new frocks had come from the dressmaker’s, by the Winton carrier,

and had been pronounced, with their sky-blue trimmings, so pretty, so

_sweetly_ pretty! When Mr. Preston had said we could not go to the

wedding-party, my first thought had been of my frock, and when we came to

compare notes, Anne’s and Sophy’s regrets proved to have taken the same

direction. With one consent we adjourned up-stairs, to indulge the luxury

of woe over our sacrificed finery, but that mournful exercise palling

upon us fast, Sophy and I found our way, by a swept foot-path, into the

garden, where the two boys of the family were constructing a snow-man

of grand proportions. Shovels were proposed to us to help, and we were

cavalierly dismissed to find them in the tool-house for ourselves, when

we unexpectedly met the foreman at the door. Sophia told him how that, on

account of the snow, we could not go to the wedding-party at the Grange,

and appealed to him if it were really and truly out of the question to

attempt it.

“Unpossible, Miss Sophy, quite unpossible for the pheyton an’ grey mear,

but _I_ could get yo there,” replied foreman, with a confidential wag of

his head.

“How, John, how?”

“Why, Miss, I’ll tell ’ee. I’ th’ broad-wheeled wagon wi’ fower hosses,

an’ a tilt ower-head. Put a mattruss an’ plenty o’ rugs iv’ th’ insoide,

an’ yo’d goa as cosy as cosy could be. Long Tom to lead, an’ me to

foller.”

“I’ll ask father if we mayn’t?” cried Sophy, and away she flew in search

of him.

In a few minutes she came speeding back, clapping her hands, and

announcing that he would see about it; so in we ran to tell Anne.

“When father says he’ll see about anything he means it shall be done,”

replied Anne; “let us go and begin packing our frocks!”

And so it was decided that we should go to the wedding-party after all!

We were in exuberant spirits at our early dinner, for at two o’clock we

were to start. John and Tom were fixing the tilt upon the wagon then,

and the horses were eating double feeds of corn in preparation for the

work that was before them. We had full ten miles to go, and Mr. Preston

thought it might be done by six o’clock, when we should have plenty of

time to get warmed, and make ourselves grand before tea, at seven.

“And I expect you’ll bring us word you’ve each found a beau; you too,

Miss Poppy,” said the farmer, addressing me.

“I think Cousin Joseph will just suit her,” cried Sophy.

“As you lasses always go by the rule of contraries, perhaps he will. He’s

as tall as a house-end, and as thin as a whipping-post, Miss Poppy. Do

you think you’ll match?”

I did not like the allusion to my own brevity of stature, and determined

to hate the lanky Joseph on the spot.

Dinner was a mere fiction for us that day, and when we were free to quit

the table, away we scampered to be swathed up. About Sophy and Anne I

cannot undertake to speak; but for myself, I know I could not stir a limb

for weight of cloaks, skirts, boots, and comforters, when I was finished

off in the hall, and yet I was in a breathless state of eagerness to

be in the wagon, and experiencing the delicious sensations of actually

setting off. There were, of course, twenty little things to be done at

the last—the lanterns to be fitted with fresh candles, the great wooden

mallets to be found, to stop the wheels from slipping down hill when the

horses had to rest going up, and a bottle of rum-and-water, to be mixed

for the refreshment of John and Long Tom on the way.

The wagon looked quite pictorial, as I remember it, standing in the

slanting, winterly sunshine, with the team of ponderous black horses

which no other farmer in the district could match, and the water-proof

tilt used to cover the loads of corn when they were carried to the miller

at Winton, set upon an arched framework, and closed like curtains, back

and front. Inside, the wagon was made comfortable with a mattress and a

supply of pillows and blankets, amongst which we were charged to go to

sleep as we were returning home in the morning. Sophy was the first to

set foot on the step, but her father stopt her.

“Let’s have you in dry-shod, at all events—lift them in at the back,

John;” and accordingly, like three bundles of hay, we were hoisted under

the tilt, received our final messages, cautions, and counsels; after

which all was made secure in the rear, to shut out the wind, only a

peep-hole being allowed us in front, over the horses’ broad backs. Then

wagoner cracked his long whip, uttered a hoarse gee-whoa, and the heavy

procession moved slowly off across the home-pastures.

What a merry trio we were under the tilt; how we laughed, and chattered,

and sang! and only a dozen years ago! Lord! what a change a dozen years

can make amongst the liveliest of us!

It was, I cannot deny it, a cold and tedious journey. Before one-half

of it was accomplished the pale sunshine had faded from the snow, and

the gray twilight was coming down upon the hills under a leaden vault of

sky which promised another storm before the morning. Long Tom plodded

patiently on at the leader’s head, now cracking his whip, now cheering

his horses forward with a gruff encouragement, but never vouchsafing a

word to anybody else. Foreman was more sociably disposed; he took brief

rides on the shafts and the front of the wagon, and from time to time put

his broad brown face in at the opening of the tilt, and inquired how we

were getting on. Before it grew dark, there was a pretty long stoppage

for a consultation, and Anne and Sophy were taken into council. John was

spokesman, and addressed himself to Sophy, who was the imperative mood

of the Preston family, and ruled many things both in-doors and out at

Ripstone Farm, though she was only the younger daughter.

“We’ve split, Long Tom and me, Miss Sophy, and I want to know what you

says, and Miss Anne. There’s two ways to Rookwood, and Tom’s for going

by t’ Scaur, but I votes for Binks’ Wold:—it’s a stiffish pull, but it’s

safest. Now, if we goes by t’ Scaur, an’ we finds a drift across t’

hollow, as most likelings we should, turn back we must; we couldn’t haul

through it nohow—an’ there’s Dimple Quarries—I never likes passing them

quarries after dark.”

“Binks’ Wold, John,” pronounced Sophy, imperially; “we’ll have nothing to

say to the Scaur or the Quarries after daylight. We should not be worth

picking up, Tom, if you drove us over the cliff.”

Long Tom did not attempt to argue the point, but cracked his whip

sharply, and again the horses moved on; more slowly now than before, for

the road, such as it was, wound circuitously up-hill for nearly half a

mile. Four times during the ascent we stopped to breathe the horses, but

at last John, looking in on us, announced in mysterious terms that “we

had brokken t’ neck o’ t’ journey, an’ should be at the Grange i’ no

time.” I could not resist the temptation to crawl to the opening, and

look out; Anne and Sophy joining me. There we were on the crest of Binks’

Wold: far as eye could see, one undulation of snow; the black horses,

with their heads a little turned from the road, smoking in the frosty

air, like four masked furnaces. Long Tom, with his lantern, stood at the

leader’s head, throwing a grotesque shadow across the whitened road, and

John clumped up and down, with his pipe in his mouth, to warm his nose,

as he said.

Foreman’s “no time” proved to be full an hour and a half; and in that

dusky interval, spite of our excited anticipations, we all began to

feel drowsy. At last, Sophy declared, yawning, that we must be nearly

there; and, looking out, she announced the tower of Rookwood Church,

where Cousin Mary was married in the morning; upon which, we all brisked

up, and became excessively wide-awake. The Grange was only a mile and a

quarter further, and as Sophy held the tilt open, by-and-by we could see

it; three long ruddy shining windows on the ground floor, and two in the

chamber story, peeping out from amongst the great white trees. Another

ten minutes, and we stopped at the gate; but before we stopped, we saw

the house door opened, and, against the bright glow within, half a dozen

or more dark figures appeared coming out to meet us.

“Capital, lasses! we were beginning to think Uncle Preston wouldn’t let

you come!” cried a jolly voice.

“He would have had hard work to keep some of us, Cousin David,” responded

Sophy, and, having extricated her limbs from some of her most cumbrous

swathements, she proffered herself to be lifted out first.

I thought I was going to be forgotten, and carted away to the stables,

for when Sophy and Anne were gone, the noisy group marched back to the

house in double quick time, and the door was just being shut when Sophy

shrieked out, “Cousin David, you’ve not brought in Poppy!” and the young

giant tore down the path, pulled me out of the wagon, much bedazed and

on the verge of tears, carried me roughly off, and plumped me down on my

feet in the midst of the sonorous gathering, crying, in a voice enough to

blow a house-roof off, “Who’s this little body?”

The Babel that ensued for the next ten minutes, when everybody spoke at

once to everybody else, each in a voice big enough for ten, united to

the pricking sensation which I now began to experience in coming out of

the frost into a thoroughly heated house, finished the prostration of my

faculties, and I remember nothing more until I found myself with Anne,

Sophy, and two strangers in a large bedroom, where a fire of logs blazed

in the grate, and a wide-mouthed damsel was unpacking our white frocks.

“Well, Cousin Mary, good luck to you!” cried Sophy, kissing the taller

of the two strangers very heartily; “and you got all safely married this

morning, I suppose?”

I looked, and beheld the bride. Never, to my recollection, had I seen

a bride before, and I romantically anticipated a glorified vision,

quite distinct in appearance from all other womankind; but I only

beheld a large young person, plump, fair, and ruddy, with eyes of a

soft expression as she stood on the hearth with the light shining up

into them, and a quantity of very wavy dark hair, which the wind in

the hall had blown all off her face: an uncommonly pretty, attractive,

loveable face it was; but it was only a woman’s after all, and she talked

something about tea-cakes! I believe I was disappointed.

The bride’s sister was Kate; younger and livelier, at present, than

Mary, though not so handsome. She was Sophy’s peculiar friend amongst

the cousins, and the pair now betook themselves for private conversation

and the decorative process to Kate’s room. Mary and Anne had some

low-voiced chat apart, to which I was carefully deaf; but, when their

secrets were told, Mary, chancing to look round, saw me fumbling, with

benumbed fingers, at buttons and hooks and eyes, and took me under hand

immediately, hugging me up in her warm arms, with the exclamation, that

the little mite was half frozen. I found her very nice and comfortable

then; better by far than anything more angelic and exalted.

We were not long in arranging ourselves, and then Sophy and Kate being

routed out from their retreat, we formed a procession downstairs; Mary

and Anne arm-in-arm, and I under Mary’s other wing, and Sophy and Kate in

an affectionate feminine entanglement behind. All the cousins got up and

roared at us again, in those big voices of theirs, chorussed by various

guests, and put us into the warmest seats; mine being a footstool by Mary

at one side of the fire-place, where I felt most cosily arranged for

getting toasted, and seeing everybody. And there were plenty of people

to see. It was a very long room in which we were, having on one side

the three windows which we had seen shining from the road, and seats in

them where the girls had stowed themselves in knots, the red curtains

making a background for their figures, which was as pictorial as need

be. The men folk were mostly young, and mostly sons of Anak, like the

cousins, but there were a few elders, contemporaries of Mary’s father,

who was a white-haired, handsome old man; and there were also several

matronly women, mothers of the occupants of the window-seats, and of the

young men their brothers. Everybody called everybody else by his or her

Christian name in the most friendly way, and it was not until the evening

was half over that I began to find out who was who, for such a ceremony

as introduction seemed quite unheard of. To be sure, Sophy brought up a

long rail of a boy to me who seemed to have a difficulty with his arms,

and said significantly, “Poppy, this is Cousin Joseph; now, Joseph,

you are to be polite to Miss Poppy;” but no civilities ensued, and my

attention was called away by hearing Mary say in a soft, half-laughing

tone, “George, look at your boots.” She must have meant something else,

for glancing at the person whom she addressed, I saw that he had turned

his trousers up to come out into the snow when we arrived, and that he

was now sitting with them stretched out before him in that inappropriate

arrangement. He coolly stooped and put them right, and then looked at

Mary, and smiled.

“Who is it?” whispered I.

“It’s George!” said she, and blushed a little, from which I guessed

George must be the bridegroom—George Standish, whose name and description

Sophy had given me before we came; and given very accurately. He was

tall, but not so tall as the cousins, and broad-shouldered, but he would

never carry anything like their weight. Then he had blue-black hair,

beard, and brows, and a clever-looking face; very broad and white as to

the forehead, and very brown as to all below it. I had heard him praised

as a most kind and skilful country surgeon, and the best rider ’cross

country in that or any ten parishes of the Wolds, and he looked as if

both encomiums must be true. It was quite a love-match, everybody said.

Mary might have married more money, but she preferred George, like a wise

woman. Two of her ancient aspirants were present and pointed out to me by

Sophy: old Mr. Jewson, of Harghill Farm, who was rich enough to have kept

her a carriage if she would have taken him for that; and young Philip

Murgatroyd, a man with a fierce face, who might have been a melodramatic

villain, but was not—only a young farmer with innovating ideas.

The unsuppressed noise did not cease for a moment, and I saw the

wide-mouthed damsel at the door thrice announce tea as ready before she

made herself heard by her mistress; but once heard, a simultaneous hungry

movement took place, and Cousin David came and roared at me, “Now, little

Miss Poppy, we will go in together, and you shall sit by me.” So I rose

up, proposing to stiffen my back and lay my hand lightly on the young

giant’s arm, as we had been laboriously taught to do at dancing-school,

when I felt that powerful masculine member encircling me behind, and I

saw the biggest boots that had ever met my eyes break into an uncouth

step to which I was perforce compelled to keep a measure with my own toes

in the air; they only alighted once, and that was on one of the boots

aforesaid, which they would have delighted to crush into mummy if they

had been able.

Finally I was landed breathless and shaken, like a kitten that a terrier

has had in its mouth for frolic rather than mischief, in a chair very

broad in the beam, which I was expected to share in part with my big

cavalier, for, long as was the table, each individual of the company took

up so much room that hardly was there found accommodation for all. But at

last everybody was shaken into place, and the business of the hour began.

And a most weighty business it was. My eyes have never since beheld such

a tea; a cold sirloin of beef, ham boiled and ham frizzled, game pie and

game roast, and every kind of tart and cake that the ingenuity of cook

with unlimited materials could devise. Cousin David swiftly supplied me

with provisions for a week, and then Cousin Joseph, who happened to be

on the other side of me, hospitably wished to add more, on which Cousin

David leant across and said, “No poaching on my manor, Master Joseph;

attend you to your left-hand neighbour. Now, Miss Poppy, I am going to

give you a pretty little wing of this partridge,”—which he did, and then

took the rest of the bird to his own share.

It vanished quickly, as did an extensive miscellaneous collection of

the other good things, and notwithstanding continuous relays from the

kitchen, the table presently showed signs of devastation. The bride and

bridegroom, Anne, and Sophy, were out of my sight, but directly opposite,

with Cousin Kate dividing them, were two young men, one fair, florid,

and with curly pate, called Dick, the other dark, with long, straight,

black hair, and a most lugubrious countenance, called Bob Link. Yet if

that lugubrious countenance had not much signs of mirth in itself, it was

the cause of mirth in others, for he never opened his lips but all those

within hearing of him laughed. Bob Link was a medical student with Mr.

Standish, and, as Cousin David explained, a regular wag.

Tea was a prolonged ceremony, and was only ended by the shrill sound of

a violin, when somebody cried, “Come!” and again Cousin David executed

his _pas de terrier_, with me in his hand, down the broad stone passage

until we came to the Grange kitchen, which was a vast place with an open

raftered roof, now hidden under garlands of Christmas green, and a white

flagged floor which was cleared for a dance. It looked so bright and gay!

Such a mighty fire of logs roared in the chimney, wide as an ordinary

room, with cushioned settles in its arched recess; the great dresser

glittered with metal trenchers and tankards, glinting back sparkles of

light from the little oil lamps which had been ingeniously mixed amongst

the evergreens where they shone like glowworms.

My young toes tingled to begin, and when the fiddles and other

instruments of music tuned up in a frolicsome country dance, the swains

began to pick out favourite partners. The bride and bridegroom stood

top couple, and I don’t know who came next, for while I was hoping and

fearing whether anybody would ask me, Cousin David arrived and spun me

up to the end of a long rank of girls. The fiddles started, and Sophy

shrieked out franticly, “Now, Poppy, Poppy, be ready! It’s hands across

and back again, down the middle and up again—Cousin Mary and David, and

you and George Standish!” and then away we went!

We shall never dance a country dance like that again! Cousin David

emulated his royal Hebrew namesake, and I should have thought him a

delightful partner if he would not quite so often have made me do my

steps on nothing. That was glorious exercise for a frosty winter’s

evening, and made all our cheeks rosy and all our eyes bright.

When that set was finished, curly Mr. Dick came and asked me to dance the

next with him, which I did, and then to the tune of “Merrily danced the

Quaker’s wife, and merrily danced the Quaker,” Bob Link was my partner.

That medical youth had missed his vocation in not going as clown to a

circus, for the grotesquerie of his actions, and the inimitable solemnity

of his visage, kept everybody in roars of laughter all through his

performance, and we never had to meet and take hold of hands that he did

not address me with some absurd speech that made me peal out just like

the rest. I never sat out once. It was great fun. We had the “Lancers,”

in which everybody was perfect, and common quadrilles, and sarabandes,

and one or two tried a waltz, but country dances were the favourites,

and there the elders joined in. Uncle and Aunt Preston danced, and old

Mr. Jewson, who chose me for his partner, and took snuff at intervals,

through the set, and nodded his wig at me, but never spoke.

Just before supper somebody called out for a game of forfeits, and “My

Lady’s Toilet” was fixed upon. Do you know how to play “Lady’s Toilet?”

It is an old-fashioned game that all our revered grandmothers played at,

though exploded in polite society now, but I daresay it still survives

at wold weddings. And this is the way of it. Each person in the company

chooses the name of some article of a lady’s dress, and all sit round the

room in order except one, who stands in the middle with a trencher which

he begins to spin on the floor, singing out monotonously—

“My lady went to her toilet,

In her chamber so pretty and neat,

And said to her damsel Oyclet,

‘Bring me my _bracelet_, sweet.’”

And then the person called Bracelet must dash in and catch the trencher

before it ceases to spin, on the penalty of a forfeit, which may be

glove, handkerchief or what not. All the forfeits are kept until the

close of the game, and then the penalties are exacted.

This part of the game is generally considered the most amusing, for the

penalties, as at Rookwood Grange, are generally the most whimsical and

ridiculous that can be devised. Bob Link was elected to the office of

sentencer on this occasion, and when I saw what he inflicted, I began

to quake for myself, as I remembered the one white glove of mine that

lay in the confiscated heap before him. He took up a silk handkerchief

and began—“Here is a thing, and a very pretty thing, whose, let me know,

is this pretty thing?” Curly Mr. Dick acknowledged it, whereupon he was

ordered to lie flat on the floor and repeat the following absurd lines:—

“Here lies the length of a long, lazy lubber,

And here must he lie

Till the lass he loves best comes and kisses him.”

There seemed every chance of his continuing to decorate the floor all

night, for in spite of his touching and laughable appeals, of course no

one went near him; so, at last, up he sprang, and catching Cousin Kate,

he kissed her; Kate not testifying any reliable signs of wrath, but only

knitting her brows, while her eyes and lips laughed. Then lanky Cousin

Joseph was ordered to “bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest, and

kiss the lass _he_ loved best,” all of which ceremonies he performed

before one and the same person—namely, Cousin Sophy, who was unfeignedly

indignant thereat—Cousin Joseph always testified for her a loutish but

most sincere and humble admiration. Another young man had to sing a

song, which he did in the dolefulest manner, ending each verse with an

unsupported chorus of “If we fall, we’ll get up again, we always did

yet!” which was every word of the ditty that I could distinguish. Then I

saw my own poor little glove drawn out, and Mr. Bob Link repeated his

incantation—“Here is a thing, and a very pretty thing, whose, let me

know, is this pretty thing?” and when I quivered out that it was mine,

he said, “Oh! little Miss Poppy, it is yours, is it? Well, then, you

must stand in the middle of the kitchen, under that green bush you see

hanging down, and spell _opportunity_ with Mr. David——” I thought I could

do _that_, being well up in dictation-class at school, so when Cousin

David laughing took me off to the public station, where the penalty was

to be performed, I began breathlessly—“O-p op, p-o-r por;” when he cried,

“No, no, that’s wrong; I must teach you,” and bending down his face, he

was actually proposing to kiss me between each syllable, when I flung up

one of my little paws and clutched his hair, ducked my own head down,

finished the word, broke loose, and scurried back to my place in much

less time than it has taken me to record the feat, while Cousin David, in

the midst of a shout of laughter, cried out: “You little vixen!” while I

asseverated vehemently, “I spelt it, I spelt it, I spelt it!” in answer

to an outcry, that it would not do, and I must go back again. I would not

do that, however, and Cousin David came and sat down by me feeling his

nose reproachfully, and saying, “She _scratches_!” and I had scratched

him, and I was glad of it; but Curly Dick said it was all for love, and

that he had seen me hide the handful of hair I had torn off David’s pate,

that I might carry it off home to have it made into a locket.

Before the forfeits were well paid, supper was ready, and in spite

of my ill-usage, Cousin David would be my cavalier again; he was a

good-humoured young giant, very like his sister Mary, and I began to

feel a little triumphant over him, in spite of his size, after my recent

exploit, and when he talked, I talked again in my little way, except

when I was listening to the healths being drunk, and thanks returned,

after the country fashion at marriage festivities. Cousin Mary was in her

place, with George Standish beside her, and I saw her give a little start

and blush when “Mr. and Mrs. George Standish” were coupled together,

but of all the fun to me old Mr. Jewson was now the greatest. He never

raised his glass to his lips, which he did pretty frequently, without

giving utterance to a _sentiment_: “May the man never grow fat who wears

two faces under one hat!” or something of a similar character, and on

the name of an individual, who was not popular in the district, being

mentioned, he drunk again, prefacing it with, “Here’s a porcupine saddle

and a high trotting horse to that fellow!” to which several responded

with gruff “Amens!”

Supper did not last so long as tea, and when it was over, some one

said Cousin Mary and George Standish were going home, and when most of

us returned to the kitchen and parlour, they disappeared; Mary going

upstairs with her mother, sister, and cousins to make ready. But we

watched the start from one of the windows, where we had drawn the

curtains back. The moon was up, and the wind had broken and scattered the

clouds, so we saw them mount their horses, for they had three miles to

ride, and David and Joseph were to set them part of the way. In the midst

of a chorus of “good-byes,” and “God bless you, Marys,” they rode away,

Mary never looking up, that I could see, from the moment her husband had

lifted her into the saddle; but I don’t think she was crying. Her mother

cried, though, but not long; the duties of hostess soon dried her tears,

and she was busy trying to set us all dancing again, while Curly Dick

marched up and down the room, trolling out a love-song in the mellowest

voice I ever remember to have heard.

There were more dances, and more games, and then the cousins returned

frosty-faced and livelier than ever to join us, and so we went on and on,

the hours slipping by uncounted, until a message came from Long Tom that

our time was up, and he was wanting to take his horses home.

So there was the re-swathing against the cold to be done, and then our

grand team came creaking to the gate, and the dark figures poured out

into the snow again; our hands were shaken, and the cousins all kissed in

a cousinly way, as good-nights were said. Then Cousin Joseph lifted Sophy

into the wagon, and somebody else, who had been very constant all night

at Anne’s elbow, did the same kindness for her, and Cousin David, before

I was aware, had hold of me.

“Now, Miss Poppy, you’re going to give me a kiss, I know,” said he

persuasively, to which I responded, “No, I was not.” “Then I shan’t let

you go without;” and immediately he took unfair advantage of his strength

to the extortion of half-a-dozen, and then put me carefully into the

wagon.

“Are you cross, Poppy? If you don’t like to keep Cousin David’s kisses,

give him them back again,” said Sophy, and then foreman looked to see

that all was right, Long Tom cracked his whip, and away we went through

the dark and frosty morning. Three struck by Rookwood church clock just

as we passed it.

After a little gossip over the events of the evening, we began to be

drowsy, and dropt off, one by one, into the sound sleep of youth and

health, waking no more until Mr. Preston’s jolly voice greeted us from

his bedroom window, with “All safe and sound, lasses?” Then we were

bundled in-doors, and set down to hot coffee, and an early breakfast

by the kitchen fire, after which we pronounced ourselves as fresh as

daisies; had a good ducking, re-dressed, and were ready to help in

finishing off the great snow-man, when the boys came down. Ah! we can’t

dance six hours on end now, take a nap in a wagon, and make a snow-man

after it with unwearied zest! That trio under the tilt, that merry trio,

will never in this world meet again. Lively Sophy is under the sod, and

quiet Anne with father and mother, brothers, and husband, is far away

over the seas, leading a new life in a new country; and, as for Miss

Poppy, in recalling the merry days when she was young, she sees so many

shadows amongst the living figures, that if the winter wedding in the

wolds could come again, half the dancers on the floor would be only dim

and doleful ghosts,—’Tis a dozen years ago!

Student Life in Scotland.

I fear that this paper will sadly resemble the well-known chapter on the

snakes of Iceland. There are no snakes in that ill-at-ease island, and

there is little student life in Scotland. It may smack of the emerald

phraseology of our Irish friends to say, that in a country abounding in

students, and not backward in study, there is little of student life;

but that is because, in common parlance, life is used to signify one of

the forms of life—society. It shows clearly enough how thoughts run,

when the name of student life is not given to the solitary turning of

pages and wasting of midnight oil—to the mastering of Greek particles

and the working of the differential calculus, but to the amusements of

young men when they have thrown aside their books, to the alliances which

they form, to the conversations they start, to their hunting, to their

boating, to their fencing, to their drinking, to their love-making,—in

a word, to their social ways. Read any account of student life in

England, in Ireland, or in Germany, and tell me whether the studies

of the young fellows are not the least part of what is regarded in a

university education. It is very sad to hear of a pluck; and a novelist

is a cruel-hearted wretch who will introduce that incident, after

showing us to our content how debts should be incurred, how foxes are

run down, how wine-parties are conducted, how Julia loses her heart,

and how the proctor loses his temper; but it is only in this way—it is

only by introducing the academical guillotine upon the stage, that we

discover the university, as it appears in a novel, to be the sacred

haunts of the Muses. Shall we go to Germany? It is not the subjective

and the objective—it is not the identity of the identical and the

non-identical—it is not lexicons and commentaries that we hear of. The

song of the Burschen is in our ears; we move in a world that is made up

of but two elements—beer and smoke; duels are fought for our edification;

riots are raised for the express purpose of amusing us; the girl at the

beerhouse is of more account than Herr Professor; and, on the whole, it

seems as if the university were a glorious institution, to teach young

men the true art of merrymaking. Nor are the novelists altogether wrong

in declaring that these doings are a fair sample of university life.

What is it that draws men to the university? The chance of a fellowship,

and the other prizes of a successful university career, will no doubt

attract some men; but we know that independently of prizes and honours,

a university education has a very high value in this country. And why?

Is it because of the knowledge of books acquired? Is it because a young

man cannot coach for his degree in Manchester, or in the Isle of Wight,

or in the Isle of Dogs, as well as in Oxford or Cambridge? Is there

no balm save in Gilead? Are mathematics confined to the reeds of Cam,

and classics to the willows of Isis? May we not read but in Balliol or

Trinity? Doubtless, the education provided in these ancient seminaries

is of the very highest quality; but learning may be obtained elsewhere

than at college. For that matter, indeed, most men are self-educated.

What they acquire from a teacher is as nothing to what they acquire

from their own researches. What a university or a great public school

gives, that cannot be obtained elsewhere, is society—the society of equal

minds. A boy is taken from under the parental wing, is sent to school

and thrown upon his own resources. He can no longer sing out when he is

worsted—“I’ll tell mamma;” he has to hold his own in a little world that

is made up entirely of boys; he must learn independence; he must fight

his way: he must study the arts of society before he has well laid aside

his petticoats. So at college—it is in the clash of wit and the pulling

of rival oars, it is in the public life and the social habit, it is in

the free-and-easy measuring of man with man, that the chief value of a

residence in the university lies. The system no doubt has its drawbacks.

We must take the bad with the good; and no man who has had experience of

it will deny that almost nothing in after life can make up for the want

of that early discipline, which is to be obtained only in the rough usage

of a school and the wild play of a university. Society, in these haunts,

may exist chiefly in its barbaric elements, but they are elements that

bring out the man; and the great glory of our universities is not so much

that they make us scholars (though they have this also to boast of), as

that they make us men.

To Englishmen these are truisms, but in Scotland they are scarcely

recognized even as truths. A great deal of nonsense has been talked on

both sides of the Tweed about the defects of the Scottish universities.

It has been said that they do not turn out scholars. One might as well

blame the University of Oxford for not turning out mathematicians.

Prominence is given in every university to certain branches of learning;

and in Scotland there has always been a greater admiration of thinkers

than either of scholars or mathematicians. We all value most what

we ourselves have learnt; but where no line of study is absolutely

neglected, probably it does not much matter which one receives the most

attention. We are apt to overrate the importance of the thing acquired,

and to underrate the most important point of all—the mental discipline.

The real defect of the Scottish universities is that they have no student

life. They have an immense number of students, and nowhere is the higher

sort of education more valued; but just in proportion as it has been

valued and rendered accessible to all classes, no matter how poor, it

has lost its finer qualities—it has lost—and especially in the greater

universities—the student life. Suppose a young man at Islington, another

at St. John’s Wood, a third at Bayswater, a fourth in Pimlico, and a

fifth at Brixton, studying at University College: what sort of feeling

exists among them? what are the ties that bind them together? what

society do they form? what student life can they enjoy? All the better

for their studies, the genius of grinding and cramming will say; and it

may be so; but the loosening of the social ties among students may also

be an irreparable injury to qualities that are even more important than

a thirst for knowledge. The college in Gower Street is in this respect

a type of the Scottish university system. The students attend lectures

every day in a certain venerable building, but they live in their own

homes; they live where they choose; it may be several miles away from the

college. Nobody knows in what strange out-of-the-way places some of them

build their nests. One poor fellow who makes a very decent appearance in

the class lives in a garret raised thirteen stories over the Cowgate,

while the man who sits next to him comes out clean cut, and beautifully

polished every day from a palace in the West End. When the lecture is

over all these students disperse, and they have no more cohesion than the

congregation of a favourite preacher after the sermon is finished. They

go off into back streets, and into queer alleys; they are lost round the

corner; they go a little way into the country; they rush to the seaside;

they burst into pieces like a shell. Nor is it very long since this

unsociable system superseded the old plan of living together and dining

at a common table. Perhaps Lord Campbell could give a very pretty picture

of college life in his days, when at the university of St. Andrew’s the

students dined in common hall. He was a fellow student of Dr. Chalmers,

and only a few years ago Tom Chalmers’ room within St. Salvator’s College

was shown to visitors, while the janitor, with a peculiar chuckle,

described the wild pranks in which the youthful divine employed his

leisure moments, to the terror of the townspeople.

This state of things, although so recent, is almost forgotten in

Scotland. There is no such thing as opposition between town and gown. In

Edinburgh, indeed, there is no gown—no badge of studentship whatever.

Worse than this, the student, after he has gone through his academical

course, has nothing further to do with the university. Why should he

take a degree? It is a bootless honour. It gives him no privileges.

A.M. after a man’s name on a title-page may look very pretty, but who

is going to write books? “Not I,” says the student; “and why should I

run the chance of a pluck, besides going to the expense of the fees,

when the certainty of success can bring me no advantage?”[27] Thus the

bond between the student and the university, has been weakened to the

utmost. What else are we to expect, when a great university, with all

its venerable associations, is planned on the model of a day-school? In

Scotland all schools are day-schools, from the very highest to the very

lowest. The parental and domestic influence is esteemed so much, that no

boy is allowed to escape from it, and the young man is kept under it as

long as possible. The boy who is at school all day returns home in the

evening to be kissed by his mamma and to be questioned by his papa. The

student who has all the morning been dissecting dead bodies or devouring

dissertations on the Epistles of Phalaris, returns to dine with his

sisters and to kneel down at evening prayer with his grey-haired sire.

The system has its advantages (filial reverence, for example, being much

stronger in Scotland than it is in England, just as in England it is

much stronger than in America, where early independence is the ideal of

life)—but the advantages are purchased at the cost of the student life,

and ultimately at the cost of the university. Alas! for the university

which does not make its students feel that they are sons, which does

not nurse the corporate feeling, which loses its hold on the students

after they have gone into the world! It is mainly through neglect of

this kind that the Scottish universities have drooped in public esteem.

The education afforded is not poor, and the examinations are not easy,

as some imagine, going quite off the scent, in their endeavour to

account for such a falling-off. The real reason is, that men leaving the

university are cut adrift; they are not associated with it in any way;

they forget it; they are in no way called upon to support it. Not so in

England. In Pall Mall we have two clubs, which clearly enough illustrate

the abiding influence of Oxford and Cambridge upon their graduates, an

influence that reacts upon the universities, building up and continually

enhancing the reputation of Alma Mater. A Scottish university club in

Pall Mall would be almost an impossibility, and the reputation of Alma

Mater languishes because she sends forth into the world no bands of men

who cherish her memory, and by right of living membership have a vested

interest in her good name.

Lord Stanhope tells a story of a Scotchman who, in the good old days of

gambling and hard drinking, was heard to say,—“I tell you what, sir,

I just think that conversation is the bane of society.” The story is

intended as a commentary on the supposed jollity of wine-bibbing. It

shows how little the social arts were understood by the honest gentleman

who spoke it. Perhaps, even in the present day the arts of society are

not much better understood. With all their warmth of heart, Scotchmen

have an astonishing reserve, which, if not fatal, is at least injurious

to society. They pride themselves on their firmness in friendship; and,

it is wonderful to see how they stick to each other. But has not this

tenacity its weak side as well as its strong? Is not the adhesion to old

alliances accompanied with disinclination or inability to form new ones?

And is not this a social defect? The Germans and the French speak of

Englishmen as reserved, but the Scotch are worse than the English—they

are the most reserved people in Europe. And this brings me to the point

at which I have been driving. The most reserved people in Europe, the

people that of all others require most to cultivate the social habit, are

singular in refusing to give their youth the opportunity of learning the

arts of society. The student life is as much as possible repressed, in

order that the family life may be sustained. The family is a very noble

institution—but it is not everything, and certainly it is not society.

The young man longs to leave his home and to be his own master in a

little world peopled only with young men like himself. Even the small

boy who has but newly attained the honour of breeches-pockets, longs to

be free; he runs up to another boy, as dogs run to nose each other; he

sneers at “these girls,” as he calls his sisters; he will quit father,

mother, and all for the dear delights of school. In a country where the

puritan feeling predominates, it is feared that these social instincts

may lead to harm; and for the better preservation of his morals the youth

is not allowed that free mingling with his fellows, and with them alone,

which he most ardently desires. He is systematically taught to be chary

of his companions, whether at school or college. There are men sitting

daily on the same benches who would not think of speaking to each other

without a formal introduction. And I suppose it is owing to these social

distances by which they are separated that they _Mister_ each other as

they do. A little urchin of fifteen is called _Mr._ Milligan; and when

Jack wants Sandy to lend him a penknife, he says, “Will you lend me your

knife, Mr. Ramsay?” Sandy replying, “There it is, Mr. Frazer; but I have

blunted it with cutting a portrait of the Professor on the desk, which

the old boy has painted with a solution of sand for the express purpose

of blunting knives and discouraging art.” To hear young men who are in

the wood-carving stage of existence, some of them mere boys, addressing

each other in this formal way, reminds one strangely of Sir Harry and My

Lord Duke in the servants’ hall.

Which is cause and which effect? Is it from natural reserve and deficient

sociability that the Scotch came to undervalue the student life and to

abolish it? or is it the want of the student life and school life, such

as it exists in England, that has produced reserve? There is something

in both views; but if we are looking for causes, there are others that

could be given for the decay of student life. One of these I have already

indicated in speaking of the puritanic distrust of society, or, as it

is called, “the world.” A worthy elder of the Kirk has got a son, who

is the greatest little rascal of his age, the admiration of the parish

dogs, the terror of the parish cats, curiously acquainted with the nature

of the fruit in all the gardens and orchards around, impudent as a

monkey, and idle as a fly, but who, in consequence of sundry floggings,

carries himself so demurely in the presence of his fond parent, that he

is supposed to be a chosen vessel—not far from the kingdom of heaven—a

child of grace. The pious Mr. Alister Macalister feels that in sending

forth his gracious young sinner into a mixed society of boys at a public

school, or young men at college—he is sending his precious one into a

den of thieves who will rob him of his innocence, is ushering him into

the world and the things of the world, is imperilling his immortal

interests. And while the puritanic tendencies of the Scotch have gone

thus far to undermine the student life by degrading it in public esteem,

another influence, even more important, has been at work in the same

direction—poverty. Nowhere, I have said, has a good education been

so highly prized as in Scotland; but in the attempt to place a good

education within reach of every man, however poor, it has been necessary

to cheapen it. The cheapness of it has not lowered the character of the

education as far as mere learning goes, but has effectually stript it of

the social life which ought to accompany it. “_Tenui musam meditamur

avenâ_,” the Scottish student may say with Jeffrey and Sydney Smith. But

if it is possible to cultivate letters on a little oatmeal, it is not

possible to cultivate society on such attenuated resources. Society,

even when it is laid out on the most thrifty principles, costs a good

deal more than some men can afford. How would it be possible for the

poor fellow who hopes to get through his terms for 30_l._ a year to dine

at the same table with the student who could afford four or five times

the sum? The college year generally consists of about five months, and I

have known men cover all the expenses of this period with 22_l._ It is

true that this was in St. Andrew’s, where a hundred fresh herrings used

to go for sixpence, and a splendid dinner of fish might be purchased for

a penny; but if it is remembered that the sum I have mentioned covered

the fees for the various classes, amounting to about 10_l._, and that it

was upon the balance of 12_l._ that the student continued to subsist for

these dreary five months, the feat will appear sufficiently marvellous.

It is the students who live in this sort of way that are the most

interesting characters in the Scottish universities, and it is their

necessities that have gone to extinguish the student life. This will be

evident if we consider their position a little minutely.

I suppose that fully one-third of the Scottish students are steeped

in poverty. The struggle of some of these men upwards, in the face of

terrific odds, is almost sublime. When we look at the struggle in cold

blood, we say that it is a mistake, that these men ought never to have

dreamt of the university, that theirs is a false ambition, and that

it would have been better if they had never left the plough or the

smithy, if they had gone into the grocery line, or had taken kindly to

confectionery. But has not every form of ambition its weak side?—and are

we to stop sympathizing in a man’s honest endeavours when we discover

that he might be doing much better in a different fashion? Are we not

to admire the man wrestling with the waves, because he has no business

to be in the water? One of the 22-pounders I have mentioned was a

very humble individual; but he fought like a hero, and his life was a

constant marvel. He was so poor, indeed, that before one came near the

question—How on earth does this man keep soul and body together, besides

paying his college fees, with so small a sum?—the previous question

presented itself as even more difficult—Where did he get his 22_l._?

He had been a carpenter; he had curtailed his hours in order to devote

them to study; he got the cast-off clothes of the parish minister,

and somebody else made him the present of an old gown, St. Andrew’s

delighting in red gowns. At the commencement of his first session,

several small exhibitions, or, as they are called, bursaries, the value

of each being only 10_l._, were to be competed for, and he had the skill

to obtain one. It was a little fortune to him—an annuity of 10_l._

for four years to come. When he saw his name on the list of winners,

he made such queer faces to conceal his emotions that all eyes were

turned upon him, and it was ever afterwards a joke against him. For the

remaining 12_l._ he managed in this way: He worked four hours a day in a

carpenter’s shop, at 3_d._ an hour, and thus earned from 6_l._ to 7_l._

during his residence at the university, to which he was able to add 5_l._

from previous savings. He got friends to lend him books; and I have an

idea that he earned something on Sundays by acting as precentor in one of

the city churches. I happened to call upon him one day. It was his dinner

hour, and his landlady came in to him with something on an old black

rusty tray. “Not just yet, Mrs. Todd,” he said, in great embarrassment,

and that lady forthwith departed. “Don’t go away,” he then said to me;

“now, don’t; my dinner is never done enough, and, if you stay a little,

I’ll get it properly done to-day.” I left him three minutes afterwards,

and outside his door there was his dinner getting cold—a herring and

three potatoes. He lived in a box of a room, his bed being in one corner

of it; and this accommodation he shared with another man, who worked even

harder than he. This man earned a few shillings by teaching. He went out

to assist boys in learning their lessons for the following day at school;

and the price which he and all such teachers charged was half-a-guinea a

month for an hour every night. As the pay was at the rate of about 5_d._

an hour, it would seem that the teacher had an advantage over our friend

the carpenter; but it must be remembered that the pay of the latter was

obtained by physical labour,—therefore, by a healthy relief from mental

toil,—while that of the former was earned by the continued and unhealthy

strain of the mind. In Edinburgh there are men who work at bookbinding

or printing, who make pills and potions in druggists’ shops, who are

copying-clerks in lawyers’ offices, who report for the newspapers, who

keep the butterman’s books,—in order to maintain themselves at college.

Men in these narrow circumstances go naturally in pairs—divide the

same potato, and share the same bed. They unite without ever having

previously known each other, and, for the sake of a small saving, are

chained together while the session lasts. In the desperate struggle

of existence and pinch of poverty, these necessitated marriages are

often embittered with rivalry and hatred. There are cases in which a

nail has been driven into the middle of the chimney-piece, a string

tied to it, drawn across the room, and attached to the middle of the

opposite wall, so as to divide the chamber into two equal parts. “This

is my territory—that shall be yours. _Nemo me impune lacessit_—that’s

what I say.” “And I say, _Noli me tangere_—that’s all.” The fellows sit

on opposite aides of their diminutive fire, “glowering” at each other

over their books—the one smoking and the other snuffing the strongest

tobacco procurable, to keep their hunger down while forcing the brain

through the weary night-watches. The professors make a point of inviting

them to breakfast or supper as often as they can, and give them a great

feed. It is their only chance of a hearty meal during the whole of the

session. And yet, in spite of all that they have to contend with, they

make a very creditable appearance in the class, even by the side of men

who have been well coached the night before by competent tutors. The

odds, however, are dead against them, and they suffer for it in the

end. They have very seldom been regularly educated, and when they go to

college they devote much of that energy which ought to be given to their

studies to earning their daily bread by teaching or by manual labour.

Overworked and underfed, many of them go home, at the end of the session,

shadows of their former selves, and death written in their faces—almost

all of them have made acquaintance with disease. The number of men at

the Scottish universities who run the course of Henry Kirke White is

prodigious. Friends write their biographies; their college essays and

school poems are published; their fellow-students are told to beware,

and everybody takes an interest in their fate, about which a certain air

of romance hangs. Year after year, however, one hears of so many cases

that, at last, one becomes callous and feels inclined to ask—Why did not

this young Kirke White remain in the butcher’s shop? It would have been

better for him to have slaughtered oxen, sold mutton-chops, and ridden

the little pony all his life, giving such leisure as he could really

afford to books, than die in the vain endeavour to take the position of

a gentleman and a clergyman. Most of these men, if they survive their

period of study, go into the Church, and the result is that the Scottish

clergy are notorious for their ill-health. How can it be otherwise?

The fearful struggle which they have to maintain at college has to be

kept up for eight long years before a licence to preach the Gospel can

be obtained. Eight years of the university is an exorbitant demand,

and it would be impossible to satisfy it, save, in the first place,

by cheapening the course of study as much as possible, and secondly,

by permitting the students to enter at a comparatively early age. The

average age of students in Scotland is not less than in England; but if

in the one country the ordinary course of study is extended over four

years, while in the other it is limited to three, the freshmen must

evidently in the former be a year younger than in the latter, in order

to be of the same age at the time of graduating. If after graduating,

another four years must be devoted to the Divinity Hall before one can

have the chance of a living, it is clear that the student destined for

the Church must begin his studies even earlier. He must, therefore, at

the most critical period of his life, when most he requires physical

strength, enter upon his suicidal course, and keep it up without

intermission for eight long years. His only relief occurs in the vacation

which fortunately for him lasts seven months. Then he recruits a little,

while the student who went up to College better prepared both by previous

education, and with the means of living, chafes at the delay, and longs

for the introduction of a system, which, by the expedient of a summer

session, would reduce the compulsory period of study, as in the English

universities, to three years.

The effect of these arrangements on the student life may easily be

conceived. A society formed on these conditions must evidently be a

very mixed society; therefore, a society extremely suspicious of its

members; therefore, also a society which has little cohesion and tends

to destroy itself. What becomes of student life, where so many men must

toil like slaves to keep the wolf from the door—must sit up half the

night poring over their books, and plunging their heads every hour into

cold water to keep away sleep? These give the tone to the university till

it is no longer regarded as the centre of certain social influences,

and becomes a mere mill for grinding gerunds and chopping logic. It is

because Englishmen have criticized chiefly the art of gerund-grinding

and the method of logic-chopping pursued in the Scottish universities,

that hitherto their criticisms have fallen flat. It is not so much

the educational as the social element of the universities that is at

fault. To all the statistics of competitive examinations, and to all

the sneers about their having produced no great scholar, the Scotch

have a ready answer. It is thought more than scholarship; it is the

power of reasoning, more than that of acquiring facts, that the Scottish

universities foster; and English candidates, passing before Scotch

examiners, would be as certainly floored as Scottish candidates now are

before English examiners. This is what the Scotch reply to an attack

upon their educational system; but they will confess at once the social

deficiencies of their universities. It is a bad system, defensible only

by disparaging the importance of the student life and overlooking the

advantages of society.

Bad though the system be, it has its compensations. Among these may be

reckoned the fact that a university education is within reach of all

classes, and covers a much larger area of the population in Scotland than

it does in England. This is the poor man’s view of the case. Those who

are in good circumstances think little of such an advantage. They are

more impressed with the disadvantages of making a university education

too cheap. They are alarmed, in the first place, by the influx of the

humbler classes, which of itself must tend to lower the tone of society,

and to disintegrate the student life. Then it appears that in order

to favour these humbler classes, the time given in each year to the

university is shortened as much as possible, and the curriculum of study

is unnaturally lengthened. From this it follows, that if a house were

started in Edinburgh, attached to the university, on the model of one of

the English colleges, for the benefit of those students who can afford

it, the scheme would be unprofitable. The house would be vacant seven

months of the year, and would have to be maintained for the twelve months

on the proceeds of the five during which the yearly session lasts. The

thing would be impossible unless such an extravagant rate were charged

for these five months as would effectually deter the undergraduates from

residence. This is the rich man’s view of the case; and admitting it

fully, there is still this to be said, that if the Scottish universities

are too cheap, the English universities are too dear. If Scottish

students do not get much congenial society, it is possible for almost any

man to be a student. Whether a university is intended for the peasantry I

do not pretend to say; but, at all events, there is the fact, which may

be taken for whatever it is worth, that a Scottish university education

is open to the peasant not less than to the peer, and that both peasant

and peer take advantage of it. The benefits of a good education thus

penetrate to a much lower class in Scotland than in England. There is

not a small tradesman, or farmer, or gamekeeper in Scotland who, if his

son displays any symptoms of “book-learning,” does not think of the

university as the proper field for the lad, and does not look forward

to the day when he shall call his son “Doctor,” or see him in a pulpit

thumping the gospel out of the Bible.

It is another redeeming point of the system, that it does not crush the

individuality of the student by too much contact with his fellows; only,

as this advantage is so negative that it might be still better secured

by not going to the university at all, it would be absurd to make too

much of it. Rather let us dwell on whatever social good is to be found in

the system. When 1,500 young men are congregated together with a common

object, they will break up into knots and clusters, and form themselves

as they can into something that may pass for society, although it more

strongly resembles the town life of young men than what is understood

by student life. It is less as students than as young men with time

upon their hands, with no prospect of chapel in the morning, and with

no fear of being shut out at night, that these herd together: and if

I were to describe their doings it would be the description of what

youths generally are who live in lodgings by themselves—with this only

difference, that the talk would be rather argumentative and the anecdotes

rather erudite. A certain amount of social intercourse is organized

in this way for those who wish it or can afford it; but that species

of society which we call public life is scarcely possible save in the

debating clubs. These are legion. There are speculative societies, and

diagnostic societies, and critical societies, and dialectic societies,

and historical societies; and if with these I class innumerable

missionary societies and prayer unions, it is because they are all more

or less calculated for rhetorical display. It is in these associations,

to which a student may belong or not just as he pleases, that the public

life and the best student life of the Scottish universities are to be

found. The society meets weekly, fortnightly, or monthly, as the case

may be. An essay is read by some one appointed to do so, and the members

of the society criticize it freely. Or a debate is started, the two men

who are to lead in the affirmative and the negative having previously

been named; the members take part in it as they please; the speaker who

commenced has the right of reply; the chairman sums up, and the question

is put to the vote. Any one who consults a certain quarto volume in the

British Museum, devoted to the transactions of the Speculative Society

of Edinburgh, will find it recorded, that on the evening on which Lord

Lansdowne, then Lord Henry Petty, attained to the dignity of honorary

membership, the youthful debaters decreed, by a majority of eleven

over eight, that suicide is not justifiable! This was in 1798, when

Brougham, Jeffrey, and Walter Scott, were among the leading members; and

one would like to have some statistics of the eight who voted suicide

to be justifiable. The Archbishop of Dublin, some years ago, wrote a

letter to W. Cooke Taylor, in which he criticized very severely the

habits of such societies, condemning them in the most emphatic manner,

as fostering an absurd spirit of pride and dogmatism in youthful minds.

If his views are sound, and if that vote of the Speculative Society

may be taken as a specimen of the rest, then it must be confessed that

the Scottish students are in a very bad way, for they work in these

societies more perhaps than the students of any other country. Through

the want of society they form societies, and sedulously set themselves to

cultivate the great social faculties of speaking and writing. Perhaps Dr.

Whately overrates the amount of dogmatism and precipitancy which come of

these youthful debates, while he most certainly undervalues the mental

stimulus and the advantage of early training in the art of expression.

His remarks, moreover, had no special reference to Scotland; and even he

would probably admit, that considering the unsatisfied craving of the

Scottish undergraduate for student life, these debating societies render

an important service which may well cover a multitude of faults.

In the educational system itself, however, there will be found

compensations for the defects of the social system. Here I refer to

the study of the human mind, which is pursued with great ardour in the

Scottish universities. It is supposed in England, that Scotch students

are fed on metaphysics, and the mistake receives a colour from the

fact that there are so many professors of metaphysics. The title is a

misnomer. The whole of Scotch philosophy is a protest against metaphysics

as an impossible, or at least a useless study. What a professor, in the

chair of metaphysics, teaches, is simply psychology—that is to say, the

natural history of the human mind, the delineation of human character.

All the processes of thought, all the motives to action are examined

in turn. Ideas are traced to their origin, feelings are carefully

scrutinized, words are weighed, character is dissected, and in its

theory the whole of human life and of the human heart is laid bare to

the student. Call this philosophy, if you please—just as a discussion

on guano is called the philosophy of manure—but what is it in reality?

It is generalized biography. It is a means of supplying in theory what

the Scottish students have, at their time of life, few opportunities

of acquiring in practice—a knowledge of men. Not enjoying the social

advantages of English students, they have, as a compensation, educational

advantages which are not to be found in the English universities. It is

useless to inquire which is better—a knowledge of men obtained in the

contact of society, or a knowledge of men obtained in the scientific

analysis of the class-room. Neither the one nor the other is complete in

itself; but the great advantage of studying character systematically in

early life is this—that it is putting a key into a young man’s hand by

which afterwards, when he mixes with men, he will more easily understand

them, and unlock the secrets of their hearts. Without that key, he will

long knock about amongst his fellows, mistaking motives, misinterpreting

acts, confounding affections, and failing to form a correct estimate of

the persons he meets—until, at last, after much experience and many

errors, he learns to hit the mark without knowing how he does it. The

study of the human mind, as pursued in the Scottish universities, has

such an effect, that in after life it is an object of incessant interest

to all Scotchmen. The average Scotchman will give a shrewder guess than

the average Englishman as to a man’s character, and a better description

of it. He has studied the anatomy of character so minutely that he

delights in portraiture and excels in biography. The proper study of

mankind is man—everybody admits. Whether the best way of prosecuting

that study is in reading through the classics, and piling up algebraic

formulas, I do not know; but, at all events, the Scottish universities

have something to say for themselves, not if they neglect the classics

and the mathematics, but if they simply elevate above these branches

of knowledge a direct acquaintance with the mysteries of human nature,

in thought and in feeling, in expression and in act. Apart from all

comparison between English and Scottish university life, the psychology

and moral philosophy of the North are at least worthy of the highest

praise, as an antidote and recompence for the evil that is felt in the

absence of student life.

Yet another compensation for the defects of the social system will be

found in the professorial method of teaching, when it is conducted with

spirit. The common idea of a professor is, that of a man wearing a gown,

and reading dull lectures every day for an hour to students, some of whom

are taking notes, while the rest are dozing. Professor Blackie, Professor

Aytoun, Professor Ferrier, and the late Sir William Hamilton would give

to any one entering their class-rooms a very different idea of what a

professor ought to be. Sir William Hamilton’s class was perhaps the most

marvellously conducted class in any university. About 150 students were

ranged on seats before the professor, who lectured three days in the

week, and on two days held a sort of open conference with his pupils,

which was conducted in this wise:—Sir William dipped his hand into an

urn and took out a letter of the alphabet—say M. Any student whose

name began with M was then at liberty to stand up and comment on the

professor’s lectures—attack them—illustrate them—report them—say almost

anything, however far-fetched, which had any relation to them. A couple

of Macs get up at once. The first merely raises a laugh by topping one

of his William’s philosophical anecdotes with another which he fancies

to be still better. The second gets up, and has a regular tussle with

his master about the action of the mind in sleep, and in a state of

semi-consciousness. It is all over in five minutes, the student at length

sitting down in a state of profuse perspiration, highly complimented by

Sir William for his ingenuity, and feeling that he has done a plucky

thing which thoroughly deserves the cheers of 149 fellow-students. These

exhibitions are quite voluntary, and it appears that among the M’s there

is no more heart to get up and speak. The letter C is therefore next

taken out of the urn, but the C’s give no response to the call. The

next letter that turns up is R, and hereupon Mr. Rowan, who has been

fidgeting from the commencement of the hour, rises up to give a quotation

from Bishop Berkeley, illustrating a passage in one of Sir William’s

lectures. The sly fellow fancies that he has detected the professor in a

plagiarism, but quotes the passage ostensibly as confirming the lecture.

When he has sat down, Sir W. Hamilton, who sees distinctly through the

youngster’s game, directs his attention to a dozen passages in a dozen

different authors, where he will find statements to the same effect,

which he might equally have quoted. So the hour passes, each letter of

the alphabet being presented in turn, and all the students who desire

it, having a chance of speaking. Sometimes the exercise was varied by

essays being read, or by Sir William Hamilton suddenly propounding a

difficult question as to the use of a term—say the term dialectic, among

the Platonists,—or as to some definition of Aristotle’s in the Posterior

Analytics. Anybody might answer that knew. No written account was taken

of these answers and other displays, but gradually a public opinion was

formed as to the best man in the class, and at the end of the sessions

the honours went by vote, the professor voting in perfect equality with

his students, and almost always finding that the general voice coincided

with his own opinions as to the order in which the ten best men should

stand. The system perfectly succeeded. Never was there a class in which

so much enthusiasm manifested itself. An immense interest was excited in

the lectures, but the chief thing to be observed here is, that by turning

his class two days a week into a sort of authoritative debating club, he

established a public life, which, if it is not society, is at least the

scaffolding of society. So it is more or less in all the classes that

are conducted with spirit. It was not so much felt in the class-room of

Professor Wilson, who kept all the talk to himself; and surely it was

quite enough to hear such a man discourse on human life in his own way.

What Christopher North knew of human nature he told to his pupils in the

most glowing terms; but literally the students sat down before him day

after day without knowing each other’s names, and without having an idea

as to the amount of work performed by each in prospect of a place in

the class list. He was a splendid lecturer—but he was only a lecturer;

and lecturing is little more than half the work of a professorship. To

succeed in that work requires peculiar tact and knowledge of men who are

in what Mr. Disraeli has described as the “curly” period of life. Very

soon “the curled darlings of our nation” find out the weak places of the

professor. He may implore silence, but the more noise prevails. If he

threatens, revenge follows the next day, for suddenly and unaccountably

half the students in the class turn lame, and hobble into the

lecture-room leaning on bludgeons, with which, knocked against the seats,

they interrupt the speaker until his voice is drowned in the uproar. One

poor old professor (who, by the way, lived in continual terror of a very

painful disease) had so completely lost the control of his students,

that he had to sit before them in mute despair, and had the pleasure

of hearing one of them invite him by his Christian name, “Sandy,” to

lay himself upon the table, in order that he—the curled darling—might

attempt a little lithotomy. Generally, however, these uproars are got up

good-humouredly to bring out the professor, who perfectly understands

what the students want. They are tired of the hypothenuse, the sine and

the cosine, and they want a little fun. There never was a better hand at

this sort of work than the late Dr. Thomas Gillespie, a brother-in-law of

Lord Campbell. He was not only professor of Latin, but a devotee of the

fishing-rod, a poet of much pathos, a minister of much eloquence, and a

talker boiling over with jest and anecdote. He would lay down his Horace,

which he knew by heart, and joke with the students till the tears rolled

down their cheeks. Regularly every year he told the same pet anecdotes,

and they knew what was coming; but his manner was always irresistible.

One of his anecdotes was about a dial. He had a dial in his garden which

required mending. He got a mason to do the job, and the bill of charge

ran as follows: “For mending the deil—1_s._” The old fellow enjoyed it

more and more every time he told the story, and after five minutes of

this kind of play he would return to his Latin sapphics, and stand over

the stream of poetry with all the patient gravity of an angler.

How long the present system will last, nobody knows. The Scotch are not

satisfied with their universities, but scarcely know what it is that is

in fault. In the view of some, their chief fault is, that they are not

faulty enough; and in this view it is supposed that if there were less

of study and more of scandal in them, they would be greatly improved.

That is an ugly way of stating the case, which we desire to avoid,

though probably it means nothing more than this—that scandal is one of

the necessary evils of society, and that it would be well if there were

more of society in the Scottish universities, even at the expense of

occasional excesses. It is boasted that the Scottish students are very

good—almost irreproachable in their lives. This may be only seeming,

and if they led a more public life perhaps their good conduct would

be more frequently called in question. But granting that such praise

is thoroughly deserved, is it not possible that it may signify the

stagnation of life even more than a victory over Apollyon? Heaven forbid

that we in Cornhill should glorify wild-oats! they are an unprofitable

kind of grain, which are not admitted into our granary. Strange to say,

however, people don’t dislike to see a little innocent crop of wild-oats

sown by young men, as showing that the social life is fully enjoyed;

and it is worth considering whether the Scottish students might not do

well if in this sense they found a new reading in the motto suggested by

Sydney Smith,—“_Tenui musam meditamur avenâ_.” With Lord Brougham and Mr.

Gladstone at the head of the University of Edinburgh, it is hoped that a

good deal may be compassed in the way of University Reform. It ought to

be remembered, however, that the arts of reading and lecturing, cramming

and examining, are not the only things to be comprised in a University

Reform: but that the art of living requires just as much regulation as

the art of learning.

FOOTNOTES

[27] There are about 1,500 students at the Edinburgh University; of these

only about eleven take the Bachelor’s degree every year, about nine take

the Master’s degree, and about sixty are capped as medical doctors. It is

expected, however, that the new regulations will increase the number of

graduates.

Roundabout Papers.—No. II.

ON TWO CHILDREN IN BLACK.

Montaigne and Howel’s Letters are my bedside books. If I wake at night,

I have one or other of them to prattle me to sleep again. They talk

about themselves for ever, and don’t weary me. I like to hear them tell

their old stories over and over again. I read them in the dozy hours,

and only half remember them. I am informed that both of them tell coarse

stories. I don’t heed them. It was the custom of their time, as it is of

Highlanders and Hottentots, to dispense with a part of dress which we

all wear in cities. But people can’t afford to be shocked either at Cape

Town or at Inverness every time they meet an individual who wears his

national airy raiment. I never knew the _Arabian Nights_ was an improper

book until I happened once to read it in a “family edition.” Well, _qui

s’excuse_.... Who, pray, has accused me as yet? Here am I smothering

dear good old Mrs. Grundy’s objections, before she has opened her mouth.

I love, I say, and scarce ever tire of hearing, the artless prattle of

those two dear old friends, the Perigourdin gentleman and the priggish

little Clerk of King Charles’s Council. Their egotism in nowise disgusts

me. I hope I shall always like to hear men, in reason, talk about

themselves. What subject does a man know better? If I stamp on a friend’s

corn, his outcry is genuine,—he confounds my clumsiness in the accents of

truth. He is speaking about himself, and expressing his emotion of grief

or pain in a manner perfectly authentic and veracious. I have a story of

my own, of a wrong done to me by somebody, as far back as the year 1838:

whenever I think of it, and have had a couple glasses of wine, I _cannot_

help telling it. The toe is stamped upon: the pain is just as keen as

ever: I cry out, and perhaps utter imprecatory language. I told the story

only last Wednesday at dinner:—

“Mr. Roundabout,” says a lady sitting by me, “how comes it that in your

books there is a certain class (it may be of men, or it may be of women,

but that is not the question in point)—how comes it, dear sir, there is

a certain class of persons whom you always attack in your writings, and

savagely rush at, goad, poke, toss up in the air, kick, and trample on?”

I couldn’t help myself. I knew I ought not to do it. I told her the whole

story, between the entrées and the roast. The wound began to bleed again.

The horrid pang was there, as keen and as fresh as ever. If I live half

as long as Tithonus, that crack across my heart can never be cured. There

are wrongs and griefs that _can’t_ be mended. It is all very well of you,

my dear Mrs. G., to say that this spirit is unchristian, and that we

ought to forgive and forget, and so forth. How can I forget at will? How

forgive? I can forgive the occasional waiter, who broke my beautiful old

decanter at that very dinner. I am not going to do him any injury. But

all the powers on earth can’t make that claretjug whole.

So, you see, I told the lady the inevitable story. I was egotistical.

I was selfish, no doubt; but I was natural, and was telling the truth.

You say you are angry with a man for talking about himself. It is

because you yourself are selfish, that that other person’s Self does

not interest you. Be interested by other people and with their affairs.

Let them prattle and talk to you, as I do my dear old egotists just

mentioned. When you have had enough of them, and sudden hazes come

over your eyes, lay down the volume; pop out the candle, and _dormez

bien_. I should like to write a nightcap book—a book that you can muse

over, that you can smile over, that you can yawn over—a book of which

you can say, “Well, this man is so and so and so and so; but he has a

friendly heart (although some wiseacres have painted him as black as

Bogey), and you may trust what he says.” I should like to touch you

sometimes with a reminiscence that shall waken your sympathy, and make

you say, _Io anche_ have so thought, felt, smiled, suffered. Now, how

is this to be done except by egotism? _Linea recta brevissima._ That

right line “I” is the very shortest, simplest, straightforwardest means

of communication between us, and stands for what it is worth and no

more. Sometimes authors say, “The present writer has often remarked;”

or, “The undersigned has observed;” or, “Mr. Roundabout presents his

compliments to the gentle reader, and begs to state,” &c.: but “I” is

better and straighter than all these grimaces of modesty: and although

these are Roundabout Papers, and may wander who knows whither, I shall

ask leave to maintain the upright and simple perpendicular. When this

bundle of egotisms is bound up together, as they may be one day, if no

accident prevents this tongue from wagging, or this ink from running,

they will bore you very likely; so it would to read through Howel’s

Letters from beginning to end, or to eat up the whole of a ham: but a

slice on occasion may have a relish: a dip into the volume at random and

so on for a page or two: and now and then a smile; and presently a gape;

and the book drops out of your hand; and so, _bon soir_, and pleasant

dreams to you. I have frequently seen men at clubs asleep over their

humble servant’s works, and am always pleased. Even at a lecture I don’t

mind, if they don’t snore. Only the other day when my friend A. said,

“You’ve left off that Roundabout business, I see; very glad you have,” I

joined in the general roar of laughter at the table. I don’t care a fig

whether Archilochus likes the papers or no. You don’t like partridge,

Archilochus, or porridge, or what not? Try some other dish. I am not

going to force mine down your throat, or quarrel with you if you refuse

it. Once in America a clever and candid woman said to me, at the close of

a dinner, during which I had been sitting beside her, “Mr. Roundabout, I

was told I should not like you; and I don’t.” “Well, ma’am,” says I, in a

tone of the most unfeigned simplicity, “I don’t care.” And we became good

friends immediately, and esteemed each other ever after.

So, my dear Archilochus, if you come upon this paper, and say, “Fudge!”

and pass on to another, I for one shall not be in the least mortified.

If you say, “What does he mean by calling this paper _On Two Children

in Black_, when there’s nothing about people in black at all, unless the

ladies he met (and evidently bored) at dinner, were black women. What is

all this egotistical pother? A plague on his I’s!” My dear fellow, if you

read Montaigne’s Essays, you must own that he might call almost any one

by the name of any other, and that an essay on the Moon or an essay on

Green Cheese would be as appropriate a title as one of his on Coaches,

on the Art of Discoursing, or Experience, or what you will. Besides, if

I _have_ a subject (and I have), I claim to approach it in a roundabout

manner.

You remember Balzac’s tale of the _Peau de Chagrin_, and how every time

the possessor used it for the accomplishment of some wish the fairy

_Peau_ shrank a little and the owner’s life correspondingly shortened? I

have such a desire to be well with my public that I am actually giving

up my favourite story. I am killing my goose, I know I am. I can’t tell

my story of the children in black after this; after printing it, and

sending it through the country. On the first of March next, these little

things become public property. I take their hands. I bless them. I say,

“Good-bye, my little dears.” I am quite sorry to part with them: but the

fact is, I have told all my friends about them already, and don’t dare to

take them about with me any more.

Now every word is true of this little anecdote, and I submit that there

lies in it a most curious and exciting little mystery. I am like a man

who gives you the last bottle of his 25 claret. It is the pride of his

cellar; he knows it, and he has a right to praise it. He takes up the

bottle, fashioned so slenderly—takes it up tenderly, cants it with care,

places it before his friends, declares how good it is, with honest pride,

and wishes he had a hundred dozen bottles more of the same wine in his

cellar. _Si quid novisti_, &c., I shall be very glad to hear from you. I

protest and vow I am giving you the best I have.

Well, who those little boys in black were, I shall never probably know

to my dying day. They were very pretty little men, with pale faces, and

large, melancholy eyes; and they had beautiful little hands, and little

boots, and the finest little shirts, and black paletots lined with the

richest silk; and they had picture-books in several languages, English,

and French, and German, I remember. Two more aristocratic-looking little

men I never set eyes on. They were travelling with a very handsome,

pale lady in mourning, and a maid-servant dressed in black, too;

and on the lady’s face there was the deepest grief. The little boys

clambered and played about the carriage, and she sate watching. It was a

railway-carriage from Frankfort to Heidelberg.

I saw at once that she was the mother of those children, and going to

part from them. Perhaps I have tried parting with my own, and not found

the business very pleasant. Perhaps I recollect driving down (with a

certain trunk and carpet-bag on the box) with my own mother to the end of

the avenue, where we waited—only a few minutes—until the whirring wheels

of that “Defiance” coach were heard rolling towards us as certain as

death. Twang goes the horn; up goes the trunk; down come the steps. Bah!

I see the autumn evening: I hear the wheels now: I smart the cruel smart

again: and, boy or man, have never been able to bear the sight of people

parting from their children.

I thought these little men might be going to school for the first time

in their lives; and mamma might be taking them to the doctor, and would

leave them with many fond charges, and little wistful secrets of love,

bidding the elder to protect his younger brother, and the younger to be

gentle, and to remember to pray God always for his mother, who would pray

for her boy too. Our party made friends with these young ones during the

little journey; but the poor lady was too sad to talk except to the boys

now and again, and sate in her corner, pale, and silently looking at them.

The next day, we saw the lady and her maid driving in the direction of

the railway station, _without the boys_. The parting had taken place,

then. That night they would sleep among strangers. The little beds at

home were vacant, and poor mother might go and look at them. Well,

tears flow, and friends part, and mothers pray every night all over the

world. I daresay we went to see Heidelberg Castle, and admired the vast

shattered walls, and quaint gables; and the Neckar running its bright

course through that charming scene of peace and beauty; and ate our

dinner, and drank our wine with relish. The poor mother would eat but

little _Abendessen_ that night; and, as for the children—that first night

at school—hard bed, hard words, strange boys bullying, and laughing, and

jarring you with their hateful merriment—as for the first night at a

strange school, we most of us remember what _that_ is. And the first is

not the _worst_, my boys, there’s the rub. But each man has his share of

troubles, and, I suppose, you must have yours.

From Heidelberg we went to Baden-Baden: and I daresay, saw Madame de

Schlangenbad and Madame dela Cruchecassée, and Count Punter, and honest

Captain Blackball. And whom should we see in the evening, but our two

little boys, walking on each side of a fierce, yellow-faced, bearded

man! We wanted to renew our acquaintance with them, and they were coming

forward quite pleased to greet us. But the father pulled back one of the

little men by his paletot, gave a grim scowl, and walked away. I can

see the children now looking rather frightened away from us and up into

the father’s face, or the cruel uncle’s—which was he? I think he was

the father. So this was the end of them. Not School as I at first had

imagined. The mother was gone, who had given them the heaps of pretty

books, and the pretty studs in the shirts, and the pretty silken clothes,

and the tender—tender cares; and they were handed to this scowling

practitioner of Trente et Quarante. Ah! this is worse than school. Poor

little men! poor mother sitting by the vacant little beds! We saw the

children once or twice after, always in Scowler’s company; but we did not

dare to give each other any marks of recognition.

From Baden we went to Bale, and thence to Lucerne, and so over the St.

Gothard into Italy. From Milan we went to Venice; and now comes the

singular part of my story. In Venice there is a little court of which

I forget the name: but there is an apothecary’s shop there, whither I

went to buy some remedy for the bites of certain animals which abound in

Venice. Crawling animals, skipping animals, and humming, flying animals;

all three will have at you at once; and one night nearly drove me into a

strait-waistcoat. Well, as I was coming out of the apothecary’s with the

bottle of spirits of hartshorn in my hand (it really _does_ do the bites

a great deal of good), whom should I light upon but one of my little

Heidelberg-Baden boys!

I have said how handsomely they were dressed as long as they were with

their mother. When I saw the boy at Venice, who perfectly recognized

me, his only garb was a wretched yellow cotton gown. His little feet,

on which I had admired the little shiny boots, were _without shoe or

stocking_. He looked at me, ran to an old hag of a woman, who seized his

hand; and with her he disappeared down one of the thronged lanes of the

city.

From Venice we went to Trieste (the Vienna railway at that time was

only opened as far as Laybach, and the magnificent Semmering Pass was

not quite completed). At a station between Laybach and Graetz, one of

my companions alighted for refreshment, and came back to the carriage

saying:—

“There’s that horrible man from Baden, with the two little boys.”

Of course, we had talked about the appearance of the little boy at

Venice, and his strange altered garb. My companion said they were pale,

wretched-looking, and _dressed quite shabbily_.

I got out at several stations, and looked at all the carriages. I could

not see my little men. From that day to this I have never set eyes on

them. That is all my story. Who were they? What could they be? How can

you explain that mystery of the mother giving them up; of the remarkable

splendour and elegance of their appearance while under her care; or

their bare-footed squalor in Venice, a month afterwards; of their

shabby habiliments at Laybach? Had the father gambled away his money,

and sold their clothes? How came they to have passed out of the hands

of a refined lady (as she evidently was, with whom I first saw them)

into the charge of quite a common woman like her with whom I saw one of

the boys at Venice? Here is but one chapter of the story. Can any man

write the next, or that preceding the strange one on which I happened

to light? Who knows: the mystery may have some quite simple solution. I

saw two children, attired like little princes, taken from their mother

and consigned to other care; and a fortnight afterwards, one of them

bare-footed and like a beggar. Who will read this riddle of The Two

Children in Black?