Novemberweather is not cheerful on the Holy Loch. The dazzling snow on the hills when there is sunshine, the sharp cold blue of the water, the withered ferns and heather on the banks, give it, it is true, a new tone of colour unknown to its placid summer beauty; but, when there is no sunshine, as is more usual, when the mountains are folded in dark mists, and the rain falls cold, and the trees rain down a still heavier and more melancholy shower of perpetually falling leaves, there is little in the landscape to cheer the spirits of the inhabitants, who, fortunately for themselves, take it very calmly, like most people accustomed to such a climate. The farmer’s wife of Ramore, however, was not of that equable mind. When she looked out from her homely parlour-window, it oppressed her heart to miss her mountains, and to see the heavy atmosphere closing in over her own little stretch of hill-side. She was busy, to be sure, and had not much time to think of it; but, when she paused for a moment in her many occupations, and looked wistfully for signs of “clearing,” the poetic soul in her homely bosom fell subdued into an unconscious harmony with the heavy sky. If the baby looked pale by chance, the mother took gloomy views of the matter on such days, and was subject to little momentaryfailures of hope and courage, which amazed, and at the same time amused, big Colin, who by this time knew all about it.
“You were blythe enough about us a’ yesterday, Jeanie,” he would say with a smile, “and nothing’s happened to change the prospect but the rain. It’s just as weel for the wean that the doctor’s a dozen miles off; for it’s your e’en that want physic, and a glint o’ sunshine would set a’ right.” He was standing by her, hovering like a great good-humoured cloud, his eyes dwelling upon her with that tender perception of her sacred weakness, and admiring pride in her more delicate faculties, which are of the highest essence of love.
“I hope you dinna think me a fool altogether,” the mistress would answer, with momentary offence; “as if I was thinking of the rain, or as if there was onything but rain to be lookit for! but when I mind that my Colin gangs away the morn—”
And then she took up her basket of mended stockings, and, with a little impatience, to hide a chance drop on her eyelash, carried them away to Colin’s room, where his chest stood open and was being packed for the journey. It was not a very long journey, but it was the boy’s first outset into independent life; and very independent life was that which awaited the country lad in Glasgow, where he was going to the University. On such a day dark shadows of many a melancholy story floated somehow upon the darkened atmosphere into Mrs. Campbell’s mind.
“If we could but have boarded him in a decent family,” she said to herself, as she packed her boy’s stockings. But it had been “a bad year” at Ramore, and no decent family would have received young Colin for so small a sum as that on which he himself and various more wise advisers considered it possible for him to live, by the help of an occasional hamper of home produce, in a little lodging of his own. Mrs. Campbell had acceded to this arrangement as the best; but it occurred to her to remember various wrecks she had encountered even in her innocent life; and her heart failed her a little as she leaned over Colin’s big “kist.”
Colin himself said very little on the subject, though he thought of nothing else; but he was a taciturn Scotch boy, totally unused to disclose his feelings. He was strolling round and round the place with his hands in his pockets, gradually getting soaked by the persistent rain, and rather liking it than otherwise. As he strayed about—having nothing to do that day in consideration of its being his last day at home—Colin’s presence was by no means welcomed by the other people aboutthe farm. Of course, being unoccupied himself, he had the sharpest eyes for every blunder that was going on in the stable or the byre, and announced his little discoveries with a charming candour. But in his heart, even at the moment when he was driving Jess to frenzy by uncalled-for remarks touching the dinner of the pigs, Colin was all a-blaze with anticipation of the new life that was to begin to-morrow. He thought of it as something grand and complete, not made up of petty details like this life he was leaving. It was a mist of learning, daily stimulation and encounter of wits, with glorious prizes and honours hanging in the hazy distance, which Colin saw as he went strolling about the farm-yard in the rain, with his hands in his pockets. If he said anything articulate to himself on the subject, it was comprised in one succinct, but seemingly inapplicable, statement. “Eton’s no a college,” he said once, under his breath, with a dark glow of satisfaction on his face as he stopped opposite the door, and cast a glance upon the loch and the boat, which latter was now drawn up high and dry out of reach of the wintry water; and then a cloud suddenly lowered over Colin’s face, as a sudden doubt of his own accuracy seized him—a torturing thought which drove him indoors instantly to resolve his doubt by reference to a wonderful old Gazetteer which was believed in at Ramore. Colin found it recorded there, to his great mental disturbance, that Etonwasa college; but, on further inquiry, derived great comfort from knowing that it certainly was not a university, after which he felt himself again at liberty to issue forth and superintend and aggravate all the busy people about the farm.
That night the family supper-table was somewhat dull, notwithstanding the excitement of the boys, for Archie was to accompany his father and brother to Glasgow, and was in great glee over that unusual delight. Mrs. Campbell, for her part, was full of thoughts natural enough to the mother of so many sons. She kept looking at her boys as they sat round the table, absorbed in their supper. “This is the beginning, but wha can tell what may be the end?” she said half to herself; “they’ll a’ be gane afore we ken what we’re doing.” Little Johnnie, to be sure, was but six years old; but the mother’s imagination leapt over ten years, and saw the house empty, and all the young lives out in the world. “Eh me!” said the reflective woman, “that’s what we bring up our bairns for, and rejoice over them as if they were treasure; and then by the time we’re auld they’re a’ gane;” and, as she spoke, not the present shadow only, but legions ofvague desolations in the time to come came rolling up like mists upon her tender soul.
“As lang as there’s you and me, we’ll fend, Jeanie,” said the farmer, with a smile; “twa’s very good company to my way o’ thinking; but there’s plenty of time to think about the dispersion which canna take place yet for a year or twa. The boys came into the world to live their ain lives and serve their Maker, and no’ just to pleasure you and me. If you’ve a’ done, ye can cry on Jess, and bring out the big Bible, Colin. We maunna miss our prayers to-night.”
To tell the truth, Colin of Ramore was not quite so regular in his discharge of this duty as his next neighbour, Eben Campbell of Barnton, thought necessary, and was disapproved of accordingly by that virtuous critic; but the homely little service was perhaps all the more touching on this special occasion, and marked the “night before Colin went first to the college,” as a night to be remembered. When his brothers trooped off to bed, Colin remained behind as a special distinction. His mother was sitting by the fire without even her knitting, with her hands crossed in her lap, and clouds of troubled, tender thought veiling her soft eyes. As for the farmer, he sat looking on with a faint gleam of humour in his face. He knew that his wife was going to speak out her anxious heart to her boy, and big Colin’s respect for her judgment was just touched by a man’s smile at her womanish solemnity, and the great unlikelihood that her innocent advices would have the effect she imagined upon her son’s career. But, notwithstanding the smile, big Colin, too, listened with interest to all that his wife had to say.
“Come here and sit down,” said Mrs. Campbell; “you needna’ think shame of my hand on your head, though youaregaun to the college the morn. Eh! Colin, you dinna ken a’ the temptations nor the trials. Ye’ve aye had your ain way at hame—”
Here Colin made a little movement of irrepressible dissent. “I’ve aye done what I was bidden,” said the honest boy. He could not accept that gentle fiction even when his heart was touched by his mother’s farewell.
“Weel, weel,” said the farmer’s wife, with a little sigh; “you’ve had your ain way as far as it was good for you. But its awfu’ different, living among strangers, and living in your father’s house. Ye’ll have to think for yoursel’ and take care of yoursel’ now. I’m no one to give many advices,” said the mother, putting up her hand furtively to her eyes, and lookinginto the fire till the tears should be re-absorbed which had gathered there. “But I wouldna like my firstborn to leave Ramore and think a’ was as fair in the world as appears to the common e’e. I’ve been real weel off a’ my days,” said the mistress, slowly, letting the tears which she had restrained before drop freely at this reminiscence of happiness; “a guid father and mother to bring me up, and thenhimthere, that’s the kindest man!—But you and me needna praise your father, Colin; we can leave that to them that dinna ken,” she went on, recovering herself; “but I’ve had ae trouble for a’ so weel as I’ve been, and I mean to tell you what that is afore you set out in the world for yoursel’.”
“Nothing about poor George,” said the farmer, breaking in—
“Oh, ay, Colin, just about poor George; I maun speak,” said the mistress. “He was far the bonniest o’ our family, and the best-likit; and he was to be a minister, laddie, like you. He used to come hame with his prizes, and bring the very sunshine to the auld house. Eh! but my mother was proud; and for me, I thought there was nothing in this world he mightna’ do if he likit. Colin,” said Mrs. Campbell, with solemn looks, “are ye listening? The last time I saw my brother was in a puir place at Liverpool, a’ in rags and dirt, with an auld coat buttoned to his throat, that it mightna’ be seen what was wantin’, and a’ his wild hair hangin’ about his face, and his feet out o’ his shoon, and hunger in his eye—”
“Jeanie, Jeanie, nae mair,” said big Colin from the other side of the fire.
“But I maun say mair; I maun tell a’,” cried his wife, with tears. “Hunger in his bonnie face, that was ance the blythest in the country-side—no hunger for honest meat as nature might crave, but for a’ thing that was unlawfu’, and evil, and killin’ to soul and body. He had to be watched for fear he should spend the hard-won silver that we had a’ scraped together to send him away. Him that had been our pride, we couldna trust him, Colin, no ten minutes out o’ our sight but he was in some new trouble. It was to Australia we sent him, where a’ the unfortunates go. Eh, me! the like o’ that ship sailing! If there was a kind o’ hope in our breasts it was the hope o’ despair. It wasna’ my will, for what is there in a new place to make a man reform his ways? And that was how your Uncle George went away.”
“And then?” cried the boy, whose interest was raised, and who had heard mysteriously of this Uncle George before.
“We’ve heard no word from that day to this,” said Mrs. Campbell, drying her eyes. “Listen till I tell you a’ that his pleasurings brought him to. First, and greatest, to say what was not true, Colin—to deceive them that trusted him. If the day should ever dawn that I couldna trust a bairn o’ mine—if it should ever come sickening to my heart that e’e or tongue was false that belonged to me—if I had to watch my laddies, and to stand in doubt at every word they said—eh! Colin, God send I may be in my grave afore such an awfu’ fate should come to me.”
Young Colin of Ramore answered not a word; he stared into the fire instead, making horrible faces unawares. He could not have denied, had he been taxed with it, that tears were in his eyes; but rather than shed them he would have endured tortures; and any expression of his feelings in words was more impossible still.
“No as if I was a better woman than my mother, or worthy o’ a better fate,” said the thoughtful mistress of Ramore; “for she was ane o’ the excellent of the earth, as a’body kens; and if ever a woman won to her rest through great tribulations, she was ane; and, if the Lord sent the cross, He would send the strength to bear it. But oh! Colin, my man, it would be kind to drown your mother in the loch, or fell her on the hill, sooner than bring upon her such great anguish and trouble as I have told you of this night.”
“Now, wife,” said the farmer, interfering, “you’ve said your part. Nae such thought is in Colin’s head. Gang you and look after his kist, and see that a’ thing’s right; and him and me will have our crack the time you’re away. Your mother’s an innocent woman,” said big Colin, after a pause, when she had gone away; “she kens nae mair of the world than the bairn on her knee. When you’re a man you’ll ken the benefit of taking your first notions from a woman like that. No an imagination in her mind but what’s good and true. It’s hard work fechting through this world without marks o’ the battle,” said big Colin with a little pathos; “but a man wi’ the like o’herby his side maun be ill indeed if he gangs very far wrang. It mightna’ be a’ to the purpose,” continued the farmer, with a little of his half-conscious common-sense superiority, “as appeals to the feelings seldom are; but, Colin, if you take my advice, you’ll mind every word of what your mother says.”
Colin said not a syllable in reply. He had got rid of the tears safely, which was a great deal gained: they must have fallen had the mistress remained two seconds longer looking athim with her soft beaming eyes; but he had not quite gulped down yet that climbing sorrow which had him by the throat. Anyhow, even if his voice had been at his own command, he was very unlikely to have made any reply.
“Ye’ll find a’ strange when ye gang to Glasgow,” continued the farmer. “I’m no feared for any great temptation, except idleness, besetting a callant like you; but a man that has his ain bread and his ain way to make in the world, has nae time for idleness. You’ve guid abilities, Colin, and if they dinna come to something you’ll have but yoursel’ to blame: and I wouldna’ put the reproach on my Maker of having brought a useless soul into the world, if I were you,” said big Colin. “There’s never ony failures that I can see among the lower creation, without some guid reason; but it’s the privilege o’ men to fail without ony cause o’ failure except want o’ will to do weel. When ye see the like of George, for instance, ye ask what the Lord took the trouble to make such a ne’er-do-weel for?” said the homely philosopher; “I never could help thinking, for my part, that it was labour lost—though nae doubt Providence kent better; but I wouldna’ be likethatif I could help it. There’s no a silly sheep on the hill, nor horse in the stable, that isna’ a credit to Him that made it. I would take good heed no to put mysel’ beneath the brute beasts, if I were you.”
“I’m no meaning,” cried Colin, with ungrammatical abruptness and a little offence; for he was pricked in his pride by this address, which was not, according to his father’s ideas, any “appeal to his feelings,” but a calm and common-sense way of putting an argument before the boy.
“I never said you were,” said the farmer. “It’ll cost us hard work to keep ye at your studies, and I put it to your honour no to waste your time; and you’ll write regular, and mind what kind o’ thoughts your mother’s thinking at home in Ramore; and I may tell you, Colin, I put confidence in you,” said the father, laying his big hand with a heavy momentary pressure upon the lad’s shoulder. “Now, good night, and go to your bed, and prepare for the morn.”
Such were the parting advices with which the boy was sent out into the world. His mother was in his room, kneeling before his chest, adding the last particulars to its store, when Colin entered the homely little chamber—but what they said to each other before they parted was for nobody’s ear; and the morning was blazing with a wintry brightness, and all the hills standing white against the sky, and the heart of the mistresshopeful as the day, when she wiped off her tears with her apron, and waved her farewell to her boy, as he went off in the little steamer which twice a day thrilled the loch with communications from the world. “He’ll come back in the spring,” she said to herself, as she went about her homely work, and ordered her household. And so young Colin went forth, all dauntless and courageous, into the great battlefield, to encounter whatsoever conflicts might come to him, and to conquer the big world and all that was therein, in the victorious dreams of his youth.
Thefirst disappointment encountered by the young hero was the wonderful shock of finding out that it was not an abstract world he had to encounter and fight with, but that life was an affair of days and hours exactly as at Ramore, which was about his first real mental experience and discovery. It was a strange mortification to Colin, who was, like his mother, a poet in his soul, to find out that there was nothing abstract in his new existence, but that a perpetually recurring round of lessons to learn, and classes to attend, and meals to eat, made up the days, which were noways changed in their character from those days which he had already known for all the fifteen years of his life. After the first shock, however, he went on with undiminished courage—for at fifteen it is so easy to think that those great hours are waiting for us somewhere in the undisclosed orb of existence. Certainly a time would come when every day, of itself a radiant whole and complete unity, would roll forth majestic like the earth in the mystic atmosphere. He had missed it this time, but after a while it must come; for the future, like the past, works wonders upon the aspect of time; and still it is true of the commonest hours that they—
——“winA glory from their being far,And orb into the perfect starWe saw not when we walked therein.”
——“winA glory from their being far,And orb into the perfect starWe saw not when we walked therein.”
——“winA glory from their being far,And orb into the perfect starWe saw not when we walked therein.”
So thought Colin, looking at them from the other side, and seeing a perfection which nobody ever reached in this world. But of course he did not know that—so he postponed those grand days, and barred them up with shining doors, on which was written the name and probable date of the next greatchange in his existence; and, contenting himself for the present with the ordinary hours, went light-hearted enough upon his boyish way.
A little adventure which occurred to the neophyte on his first entrance upon this new scene, produced results for him, however, which are too important to be omitted from his history. Everybody who has been in that dingiest of cities knows that the students at the University of Glasgow, small as their influence is otherwise upon the character of the town, are bound to do it one superficial service at least. Custom has ordained that they should wear red gowns; and the fatigued traveller, weary of the universal leaden grey, can alone appreciate fully the sense of gratitude and relief occasioned by the sudden gleam of scarlet fluttering up the long unlovely street on a November day. But that artistic sense which penetrates but slowly into barbarous regions has certainly not yet reached the students of Glasgow. So far from considering themselves public benefactors through the medium of their red gowns, there is no expedient of boyish ingenuity to which the ignorant youths will not resort to quench the splendid tint, and reduce its glory as nearly as possible to the sombre hue of everything around. Big Colin, of Ramore was unacquainted with the tradition which made a new and brilliant specimen of the academic robe of Glasgow as irritating to the students as the colour is supposed to be to other animals of excitable temper; and the good farmer naturally arrayed his son in a new gown, glorious as any new ensign in the first delight of his uniform. As for Colin, he was far from being delighted. The terrible thought of walking through the streets in that blazing costume seriously counterbalanced all the pleasure of independence, and the pride of being “at college.” The poor boy slunk along by the least frequented way, and stole into his place the first morning like a criminal. And it was not long before Colin perceived that his new companions were of a similar opinion. There was not another gown so brilliant as his own among them all. The greater part were in the last stage of tatters and dinginess; though among a company, which included a number of lads of Colin’s own age, it was evident that there must be many who wore the unvenerated costume for the first time. Dreams of rushing to the loch, which had been his immediate resource all his life hitherto, and soaking the obnoxious wrapper in the saltwater, confused his mind; but he was not prepared for the summary measures which were in contemplation. As soon as Colinemerged out of the shelter of the class-room, his persecution commenced. He was mobbed, hustled, pelted, until his spirit was roused. The gown was odious enough; but Colin was not the lad to have even the thing he most wanted imposed upon him by force. As soon as he was aware of the meaning of his tormentors, the country boy stood up for his costume. He gathered the glowing folds round him, and struck out fiercely, bringing down two or three of his adversaries. Colin, however, was alone against a multitude; and what might have happened either to himself or his dress it would have been difficult to predict, had not an unexpected defender come in to the rescue. Next to Colin in the classroom a man of about twice his age had been seated—a man of thirty, whose gaunt shoulders brushed the boy’s fair locks, and whose mature and thoughtful head rose strangely over the young heads around. It was he who strode through the ring and dispersed Colin’s adversaries.
“For shame o’ yourselves,” he said in a deep bass voice, which contrasted wonderfully with the young falsettos round him. “Leave the laddie alone; he knows no better. I’ll lick ye a’ for a set of schoolboys, if you don’t let him be. Here, boy, take off the red rag and throw it to me,” said Colin’s new champion; but the Campbell blood was up.
“I’ll no take it off,” cried Colin; “it’s my ain, and I’ll wear it if I like; and I’ll fell anybody that meddles with me!”
Upon which, as was natural, a wonderful scuffle ensued. Colin never knew perfectly how he was extricated from this alarming situation; but, when he came to himself, he was in the streets on his way home, with his new friend by his side—very stiff, and aching in every limb, with one sleeve of his gown torn out, and its glory minished by the mud which had been thrown at it, but still held tightly as he had gathered it round him at the first affray. When he recovered so far as to hear some other sound besides his own panting breath, Colin discovered that the gaunt giant by his side was preaching at him in a leisurely reflective way from his eminence of six feet two or three. Big Colin of Ramore was but six feet, and at that altitude two or three inches tell. The stranger looked gigantic in his lean length as the boy looked up, half wondering, half-defiant, to hear what he was saying. What he said sounded wonderfully like preaching, so high up and so composed was the voice which kept on arguing over Colin’s head, with an indifference to whether he listened or not, which, in ordinary conversation, is somewhat rare to see.
“It might be right to stand up for your gown; I’ll no commit myself to say,” was the first sentence of the discourse which fell on Colin’s ear; “for there’s no denying it was your own, and a man, or even a callant, according to the case in point, has a right to wear what he likes, if he’s no under lawful authority, nor the garment offensive to decency; but it would have been more prudent on the present occasion to have taken off the red rag as I advised. It’s a remnant of superstition in itself, and I’m no altogether sure that my conscience, if it was put to the question, would approve of wearing gowns at all, unless, indeed, it had ceased to be customary to wear other garments; but that’s an unlikely case, and I would not ask you to take it into consideration,” said the calm voice, half a mile over Colin’s head. “It’s a kind of relic of the monastic system, which is out of accordance with modern ideas; but, as you’re no old enough to have any opinions—”
“I have as good a right to have opinions as you,” exclaimed Colin, promptly, glad of an opportunity to contradict and defy somebody, and get rid of the fumes of his excitement.
“That’s no the subject under discussion,” said the stranger. “I never said any man had a right to opinions; I incline to the other side of that question mysel’. The thing we were arguing was the gown. A new red gown is as aggravating to the students of Glasgow University as if they were so many bulls—no that I mean to imply that they’re anything so forcible. You’ll have to yield to the popular superstition if you would live in peace.”
“I’m no heeding about living in peace,” interrupted Colin. “I’m no feared. It’s naebody’s business but my ain. My gown is my gown, and I’ll no change it if—”
“Let me speak,” said his new friend; “you’re terrible talkative for a callant. Where do you live? I’ll go home with ye and argue the question. Besides, you’ve got a knock on the head there that wants looking to, and I suppose you’re in Glasgow by yourself? You needna’ thank me, it’s no necessary,” said the stranger, with a bland movement of the hand.
“I wasna’ meaning to thank you. I’m living in Donaldson’s Land, and I can take care of myself,” said Colin. But the boy was no match for his experienced classfellow, who went on calmly preaching as before, arguing all kinds of questions, till the two arrived at the foot of the stairs which led to Colin’s humble lodging. The stair was long, narrow, and not very clean. It bore stains of spilt milk on one flight, and longdroppings of water on another; and all the miscellaneous smells of half a dozen different households, none of them particularly dainty in their habits, were caught and concentrated in the deep well of a staircase, into which they all opened. Colin’s abode was at the very top. His landlady was a poor widow, who had but three rooms, and a host of children. The smallest of the three rooms was let to Colin, and in the other two she put up somehow her own sons and daughters, and did her mantua-making, and accomplished her humble cookery. The rooms had sloping roofs and attic windows; and two chairs and a slip of carpet made Colin’s apartment splendid. Colin led the way for his “friend,” not without a slight sentiment of pride, which had taken the place of his first annoyance. After all, it was imposing to his imagination to have his society sought by another student, a man so much older than himself; and Colin was not unaware of the worship which it would gain him in the eyes of his hostess, who had looked on him dubiously on the day of his arrival, and designated him “little mair than a bairn.” Colin was very gracious in doing the honours of his room to his unsolicited visitor, and spoke loud out that Mrs. Fergus might hear. “You’ll have to stoop when you go in atthatdoor,” said the boy, already learning with natural art to shine in reflected glory. But Colin was less complacent when they had entered the room, half from natural shyness, half from an equally natural defiance and opposition to the grown-up and experienced person who had escorted him home.
“Well,” said this strange personage, stooping grimly to contemplate himself in the little square of looking-glass which hung over Colin’s table; “you and me are no very like classfellows; but I like a laddie that has some spirit and stands up for his rights. Of course you come from the country; but first come here, my boy, before you answer any questions, and let me see that knock on your head.”
“I had nae intention of answering any questions; and I can take care of myself,” answered Colin, hanging back and declining the invitation. The stranger, however, only smiled, stretched out his long arm, and drew the boy towards him. And certainly he had received a cut on the head which required to be attended to. Reluctant as he was, the lad was too shy to make any active resistance, even if he had possessed moral courage enough to oppose successfully the will of a man so much older than himself. He submitted to have the cut bathed and plastered up, which his new friend did with the utmost tenderness, deliveringa slow and lengthy address all the while over his head. When the operation was over, Colin was more and more perplexed what to do with his visitor; though a little faint after his fight and excitement, he was still well enough to be very hungry, but the idea of asking this unknown friend to share his dinner did not occur to him. He had never done anything beyond launching the boat, or mounting the horses on his own responsibility before, and he could not tell what Mrs. Fergus would think of his wound or his visitor. Altogether, Colin was highly perplexed and not over civil, and sat down upon the edge of a chair facing the intruder with an expression of countenance very plainly intimating that he thought him much in the way.
But the stranger was much above any consideration of Colin’s countenance. He was very tall, as we have said, very gaunt and meagre, with a long, pale face surmounted by black locks, thin and dishevelled. He had a black beard, too—a thing much less common at that time than now—which increased his general aspect of dishevelment. His eyes were large, and looked larger in the great sockets hollowed out by something more than years, from which they looked out as from two pale caverns; yet, with all this gauntness of aspect, his smile, when he smiled, which was seldom, threw a wonderful light over his face, and reminded Colin somehow, he could not tell how, of the sudden gleam of the sun over the Holy Loch when the clouds were at the darkest, and melted the boy’s heart in spite of himself.
“I was saying we were not very like classfellows,” said the stranger; “that’s a queer feature in our Scotch colleges; there’s you, a great deal too young, and me, a great deal too old; and here we meet for the same purpose, to learn two dead languages and some sciences that are only half living; and that’s the only way for either you or me to get ourselves made ministers. The English system’s an awful deal better, I’m meaning in theory;—as for the practice, that’s neither here nor there. Nothing’s right in practice. It’s a great thing to have a right idea at the bottom if you can.”
“Are you to be a minister?” said Colin, not well knowing what to say.
“When I was like you I thought so,” said his new friend; “it’s a long time since then; but, when I get a good grip of an idea, it’s no’ easy to get it out of my head again. This is my second session only, for all that,” he said, after a momentary pause; “many a thing I little thought of has stood in my way. I’m little further on than you, though I suppose I’m twice yourage; but to be sure you’re far too young for the college; that’s what the Greek professor in Edinburgh is aye havering about; he might turn to the other side of the question if he knew me.” And the stranger interrupted his own monologue to give vent to a long-drawn breath, by way of a sigh, which agitated the atmosphere in Colin’s little room, as if it had been a sudden breeze.
“Mr. Hardie’s son was only thirteen when he went to the college; and that’s two years younger than me,” said Colin, with some indignation. The lad heard a sound, as of knives and plates outside, and pricked up his ears. He was hungry, and his strange visitor seemed rooted upon his hard rush-bottomed chair. But, just as Colin’s mind was framing this thought, his companion suddenly gathered himself up, rising in folds, as if there was never to be an end of him.
“You want your dinner?” he said; “come with me, it will do you good. What you were to have will keep till to-morrow; tell the decent woman so, and come with me. I’m poor, but you shall have something you can eat, and I’ll show you what to do when you are tired ofherprovisions; so come along.”
“I would rather stay at home,” said Colin; “I don’t know you, I don’t know even your name,” he added a minute after, feeling that he was about to yield to the strong influence which was upon him, and doing what he could to save himself.
“My name’s Lauderdale; that’s easy settled,” said the stranger; “tell the honest woman; what’s her name?—I’ll do it for you. Mrs. Fergus, my young friend here is going to dinner with me. He’ll be back, by-and-by, to his studies; and, in the meantime,” said Colin’s self-constituted guardian, putting the lad before him, and pausing in the passage to speak to the widow, who regarded his great height and strange appearance with a little curiosity, “take you charge of his gown; put it up the chimney, or give it a good wash out with soap and soda; it’s too grand for Glasgow College; the sooner it comes to be like this,” said the gigantic visitor, holding up his own, which was of a dingy portwine colour, “the better for the boy.”
And then Colin found himself again walking along the Glasgow streets, in the murky, early twilight of that November afternoon, with this strange unknown figure which was leading him he knew not whither. Was it a good or a bad angel which had thus taken possession of the fresh life and unoccupied mind? Colin could not resist the fascination which was half dislike and half admiration. He went along quietly by the side of the tall student, who kept delivering over his head that flood ofmonotonous talk. The boy grew interested even in the talk before they had gone far, and went on, a little anxious about his dinner, but still more curious concerning the companion with whom Fate had provided him so soon.
“Nothat I mean to say I believe in fate,” said Lauderdale, when they had finished their meal; “though there is little doubt in my mind that what happens is ordained. I couldna tell why, for my part, though I believe in the fact—for most things in life come to nothing, and the grandest train of causes produce nae effect whatsoever; that’s my experience. Indeed, it’s often a wonder to me,” said the homely philosopher, who was not addressing himself particularly to Colin, “what the Almighty took the trouble to make man for at a’. He’s a poor creature at the best, and gives an awfu’ deal of trouble for very little good. Considering all things, I’m of opinion that we’re little better than an experiment,—and very likely we’ve been greatly improved upon in mair recent creations. Are you pleased with your dinner? You’re young now, and canna’ have much standing against you in the great books. Do you ever think, laddie, of what you mean to be?”
“I mean to be a minister,” said Colin, with a furious blush. His thoughts on the subject, if he could but have expressed them, were magnificent enough, but nothing was more impossible to the shy country lad, than to explain the ambition which glowed in his eager, visionary mind. He would have sacrificed a finger at any time, rather than talk of the vague but splendid intentions which were fermenting secretly in absolute silence within his reserved Scotch bosom. His new friend looked with a little curiosity at the subdued brightness of the boy’s eyes, which spoke more emphatically than his words.
“They a’ mean to be ministers,” said Lauderdale, in his reflective way; “half of them would do far better to be cobblers; but nae fool could ever be persuaded. As for you, I think there’s something in you, or I wouldna have fashed my head about you and your gown. You’ve got a fair start, and nae drawbacks. I would like to see you go straight forward, and be good for something in your generation. You needna lookglum at me; I’ll never be good for much mysel’. You see I’ve learnt to be fond of talking,” he said, philosophically; “and a man that takes up that line early in life seldom comes to much good; though I grant you there’s exceptions, like Macaulay, for example. I was just entered at college, when my father died,” he continued, falling into a historical strain, “I was only a laddie like yoursel’, but I had to give up that thought, and work to help the rest. Now they are all scattered, and my mother dead, and I’m my own master. No that I’m much the better for that; but, you see, after I got this situation”——
“What situation?” said Colin, quickly.
“Oh, an honourable occupation,” said his tall friend, with a gradually brightening smile. “There’s ane of the same trade mentioned with commendation in the Acts of the Apostles. Him and St. Paul were great friends. But you see I’m free for the most part of the day; and, it being a fixed idea in my mind that I was to go to the college some time or other, it was but natural that I should enter mysel’ as soon as I was able. I may go forward, and I may not; it depends on the world more than on me. So your name’s Colin Campbell?—the same as Sir Colin; but, if you’re to be a minister, you can never be anything mair than a minister. In any other line of life a lad can rise if he likes, but there’s nae promotion possible tothat. If I were you, and fifteen, I would choose another trade.”
“To this Colin answered nothing; the suggestion staggered him considerably, and he was not prepared with anything to say. He looked round the shabby room, and watched the shabby tavern-waiter carrying his dinner to some other customer; and Colin’s new and unaccustomed eyes saw something imposing even in the aspect of this poor place. He thought of the great world which seemed to surge outside in a ceaseless roar, coming and going—the world in which all sorts of honours and powers seemed to go begging, seeking owners worthy to possess them: and he was pursuing this splendid chain of possibilities, when Lauderdale resumed his monologue:—
“The Kirk’s in a queer kind of condition a’thegither,” said the tall student; “so are most Kirks. Whenever you hit upon a man that kens what he wants, all’s well; but that happens seldom. It’s no my case for one. And as for you, you’re no at the age to trouble your head about doctrine. You’re a young prince at your years—you don’t know your privileges; you believe everything you’ve been brought up to believe, and are far more sure in your own mind what’s false and what’s truethan a college of doctors. I would rather be you than a’ the philosophers in the world.”
“I’m no a fool to believe everything,” said Colin, angrily, rousing himself up from his dreams.
“No,” said his companion, “far from a fool; it’s true wisdom if you could but keep it. But the present temper of the world,” said the philosopher calmly, “is to conclude that there’s nothing a’thegither false, and few things particularly true. When you’re tired of the dinners in Donaldson’s Land,” he continued, without any change of tone, “and from the looks of the honest woman I would not say much for the cookery, you can come and get your dinner here. In the meantime, I’ll take ye up to Buchanan Street, if you like. It’s five o’clock, and the shop-windows are lighted by this time. I’m very fond of the lights in the shop-windows mysel’. When I’ve been a poor laddie about the streets, the lights aye looked friendly, which is more than the folk within do when you’ve no siller. Come along; it’s no trouble to me, and I like to have somebody to talk to,” said Lauderdale.
Colin got up very reluctantly, feeling himself unable to resist the strange personal fascination thus exercised over him. The idea of being only somebody to talk to mortified the boy’s pride, but he could not shake himself free from the influence which had taken possession of him. He was only fifteen, and his companion was thirty; and he had no power to enfranchise himself. He went after the tall figure into the street with very mingled feelings. The stream of talk, which kept flowing on above him, stimulated Colin’s mind into the most vigorous action. Such talk was not incomprehensible to a boy who had been trained at Ramore; but the philosophers of the Holy Loch were orthodox, and this specimen of impartial thoughtfulness roused all the fire of youthful polemics in Colin’s bosom. He set down his companion unhesitatingly, of course, as a “sceptic,” perhaps an infidel; and was already longing to rush in upon him, with arbitrary boyish zeal and disdain, to make an end on the spot of his mistaken opinions. As for Colin himself, he was very sure of everything, as was natural to his years, and had never entertained any doubts that the Shorter Catechism was as infallible a standard of truth, as it was a terrible infliction upon the youthful memory. Colin went along the murky streets, by his companion’s side, thinking within himself that, perhaps, his own better arguments and higher reason might convert this mistaken man, and listened tohim eagerly as they proceeded together along the long line of the Trongate, much excited by his own intentions, and feeling somehow, in his boyish heart, that this universal stimulation of everything, within and without, was a real beginning of life. For everything was new to the country boy, who had never in his life before been out of doors at night, anywhere, save in the silent country roads, through darkness lighted by the moon, or, when there was no moon, by the pale glimmer of the loch. Now his eyes were dazzled by the lights, and all his senses kept in exercise by the necessity of holding his own way, and resisting the pressure of the human current which flowed past him; while Lauderdale kept talking of a hundred things which were opposed to his boyish belief, and which, amid all this unaccustomed hubbub, he had to listen to with all his might lest he should lose the thread of the argument—a loose thread enough, certainly, but still with some coherence and connexion. All this made Colin’s heart thrill with a warmer consciousness of life. He was only in Glasgow, among floods of dusky craftsmen going home from their work; but it appeared to his young eyes that he had suddenly fallen upon the most frequented ways of life and into the heart of the vast world.
“I’m fond of a walk in the Trongate mysel’, especially when the lamps are lighted,” said Lauderdale; “I never heard of a philosopher but was. No that I am much of a philosopher, but—. It’s here ye see the real aspect of human affairs. Here, take the shopwindows, or take the passengers, there’s little to be seen but what’s necessary to life; but yonder,” said the reflective student, pointing over Colin’s head to the street they were approaching, “there’s nothing but luxury. We spend a great deal of siller in Glasgow—we’re terrible rich, some of us, and like the best of everything—but there’s no so much difference as you would think. I have no pleasure in that side of wealth for my part; there’s an awful suggestion of eating and drinking in everything about there. Even the grand furniture and the pictures have a kind of haze about them, as if ye could only see them through a dinner. I don’t pretend to have any knowledge for my own part of rich men’s feasts; but it’s no think pleasant to that Genius and Art, no to speak of a great deal of skilful workmanship, should be all subservient to a man’s pleasure in his dinner, and thatthat’swhat they’re here for. Hallo, laddie, I thought you had no friends in Glasgow? there’s somebody yonder waving their hands to you. What doyou hang back for? it’s a lady in a carriage. Have you no respect for yoursel’ that you’re so slow to answer?” cried Colin’s monitor, indignantly. Colin would gladly have sunk through the pavement, or darted up a friendly dark alley which presented itself close by, but such an escape was not possible. It was Lady Frankland who was making signals to him out of the carriage-window, and with all his awkwardness, he was obliged to obey them.
As for Lauderdale, whose curiosity was considerably excited, he betook himself to the window of a printshop to await hisprotégé, not without some surprise in his mind. He knew pretty nearly as much about Colin by this time as the boy himself did, though Colin was quite unaware of having opened up his personal history to his new friend; but he had heard nothing about young Frankland, that being an episode in his life of which the country lad was not proud. Lauderdale stood at the printshop-window with a curious kind of half-pathetic egotism mingling with his kindly observation. No fair vision of women ever gleamed acrosshisfirmament. He was just about shaking hands with youth, and no lady’s face had ever bent over him like a star out of the firmament, as the gracious countenance of the English lady was just then bending over the farmer’s son from Ramore. “It’s maybe the Duchess,” said Lauderdale to himself, thinking of the natural feudal princess of the lochs; and he looked with greater interest still, withdrawn out of hearing, but near enough to see all that passed. Colin for his part did not know in the least what to say or to do. He stood before the carriage looking sulky in the excess of his embarrassment, and did not even take off his cap to salute the lady, as country politeness and his anxious mother had taught him. And, to aggravate the matter, there was a bewildering little girl in the carriage with Lady Frankland—a creature with glorious curls over her shoulders, and a wonderful perfection of juvenile toilette, which somehow dazzled Colin’s unused and ignorant eyes. In the midst of his awkwardness it occurred to the boy to note this little lady’s dress, which was a strange thing enough for him, who did not know one article of feminine attire from another. It was not her beauty so much as the delicacy of all her little equipments which amazed Colin, and prevented him from hearing what Lady Frankland had to say.
“So you have gone to the University?” said that gracious lady. “You are ever so much further advanced than Harry, who is only a schoolboy as yet; but the Scotch are so clever.You will be glad to hear that dear Harry is quite well, and enjoying himself very much at Eton,” continued Harry’s mother, who meant to be very kind to the boy who had saved her son’s life. Now the very name of Harry Frankland had, he could not have told how, a certain exasperating effect upon Colin. He said nothing in answer to this satisfactory intelligence, but unconsciously gave a little frown of natural opposition, which Lady Frankland’s eyes were not sufficiently interested to see.
“He doesn’t care for Harry, aunt,” said the miniature woman by Lady Frankland’s side, darting out of the dusky twilight a sudden flash of perception, under which Colin stood convicted. She was about his own age, but a world in advance of him in every other respect. A little amusement and a little offence were in the voice, which seemed to Colin, with its high-bred accent and wonderful “English,” like the voice of another kind of creature from any he had encountered before. Was she a little witch, to know what he was thinking? And then a little laugh of triumph rounded off the sentence, and the unfortunate boy stood more speechless, more awkward, more incapable than before.
“Nonsense, Matty; when you know we owe Harry’s life to him,” said bland Lady Frankland. “You must come and dine with us to-morrow; indeed you must. Sir Thomas and I are both so anxious to know more of you. Sir Thomas would be so pleased to forward your views in any way; but the Scotch are so independent,” she said, with her most flattering smile. “Was that your tutor who was walking with you, that very tall man? I am sure we should be delighted to see him too. I suppose he is something in the University. Oh! here comes my husband. Sir Thomas, this is—Oh! I am sure I beg your pardon; I forget your name—the dear, brave, excellent boy who saved Harry’s life.”
Upon which Sir Thomas, coming out of one of the shops, in that radiance of cleanness and neatness, perfectly brushed whiskers, and fresh face, which distinguishes his class, shook hands heartily with the reluctant Colin.
“To be sure, he must dine with us to-morrow,” said the good-humoured baronet, “and bring his tutor if he likes; but I thought you had no tutors at the Scotch Universities. I want to know what you’re about, and what your ideas are on a great many subjects, my fine fellow. Your father is tremendously proud, and so are you, I suppose; but he’s a capital specimen of a man; and I hope you allow that I have a right to recollectsuch an obligation. Good-bye, my boy,” said Sir Thomas. “Seven to-morrow—but I’ll probably be at your college and see you in the morning. And mind you bring the tutor,” he cried, as the carriage drove off. Lady Frankland shed a perfect blaze of smiles upon Colin, as she waved her hand to him, and the creature with the curls on the other side gave the boy a little nod in a friendly condescending way. He made a spring back into the shade the minute after, wonderfully glad to escape, but dazzled and excited in spite of himself; and, as he retired rapidly from the scene of this unexpected encounter, he came sharp up against Lauderdale, who was coming to meet him, with his curiosity largely excited.
“It was me he took for the tutor, I suppose?” said the strange Mentor who had thus taken possession of Colin; and the tall student laughed with a kind of quaint gratification. “And so I might have been if I had been bred up at Oxford or Cambridge,” he added, after a moment; “that is to say, if it had been my lot to be bred up anywhere; but they’ve a grand system in these English universities.Thatwas not the Duke,” he said interrogatively, looking at Colin, whose blood of clansman boiled at the idea.
“Thatthe Duke!” exclaimed the boy with great disdain; “no more than I am. It’s one of the English that are aye coming and making their jokes about the rain; as if anybody wanted them to come,” said Colin, with an outbreak of scorn; and then the boy remembered that Archie Candlish had just bought a house in expectation of such visitors, and stopped abruptly in full career. “I suppose the English are awfu’ fond of grouse, or they wouldna’ come so far for two or three birds,” he continued, in a tone of milder sarcasm. But his companion was not to be so easily diverted from his questions.
“Grouse is a grand institution, and helps in the good government of this country,” said Lauderdale, “and, through this country, of the world—which is a fine thought for a bit winged creature, if it had the sense to ken. Yon’s another world,” he said, after a little pause, “no Paradise to be sure, but something as far removed from this as Heaven itself; farther, you might say, for there’s many a poor man down below here that’s hovering on the edge of heaven. And how came you to have such grand friends?” asked the self-constituted guardian, stooping from his lofty height to look straight into Colin’s eyes. After a time, he extracted the baldest narrative that ever was uttered by a hero ashamed of his prowess from the half-indignant boy, and managedto guess as clearly as the wonderful little lady in the carriage the nature of Colin’s sentiments towards the young antagonist and rival whom he had saved.
“I wouldna have let a dog drown,” said the aggrieved Colin; “there was nothing to make a work about. But you would have laughed to see that fellow, with his boots like a lassie’s and feared to wet his feet. He could swim, though,” added the boy, candidly; “and I would like to beat him,” he said, after a moment; “I’d like to run races with him for something, and win the prize over his head.”
This was all Colin permitted himself to say; but the vehement sentiment thus recalled to his mind made him, for the moment, less attentive to Lauderdale, who, for his part, was considerably moved by his young companion’s excitement. “I’m not going to see your fine friends,” he said, as he parted from the boy at the “stairfoot” which led to Colin’s lodging; “but there’s many a true word spoken in jest, and, my boy, you shall not want a tutor, though there’s no such thing in our Scotch colleges.”
When he had said so much, hastily, as a man does who is conscious of having shown a little emotion in his words, Colin’s new friend went away, disappearing through the misty night, gaunt and lean as another Quixote. “I should like to have something to do with the making of a new life,” he said to himself, muttering high up in the air over the ordinary passengers’ heads, as he mused on upon his way. And Colin and his story had struck the rock in the heart of the lonely man, and drawn forth fresh streams in that wilderness. He was more moved in his imaginative, reflective soul, than he could have told any one, with, half-consciously to himself, a sense of contrast, which was natural enough, considering all things, and which coloured all his thoughts, more or less, for that night.
As for Colin—naturally, too—he thought no more of Lauderdale, nor of his parting words, and found himself in no need of any tutor or guide, but fell asleep in the midst of his Greek, as was to be expected, and dreamt of that creature with the curls nodding at him out of gorgeous Lord Mayor’s coaches, in endless procession. And it was with this wonderful little vision dancing about his fancy that the Scotch boy ended his first day at the University, knowing no more what was to come of it all than the saucy sparrow which woke him next morning by loud chirping in the Glasgow dialect at his quaint little attic window. The sparrow had his crumbs, and Colin had another exciting day before him, and went out quite calmly to lay his innocent hands upon the edge-tools which were to carve out his life.
Wonderscome natural at fifteen; the farmer’s son of Ramore, though a little dazzled at the moment, was by no means thrown off his balance by the flattering attentions of Lady Frankland, who said everything that was agreeable and forgot that she had said it, and went over the same ground again half a dozen times, somewhat to the contempt of Colin, who knew nothing about fine ladies, but had all a boy’s disdain for a silly woman. Thanks to his faculty of silence, and his intense pride, Colin conducted himself with great external propriety when he dined with his new friends. Nobody knew the fright he was in, nor the strain of determination not to commit himself, which was worthy of something more important than a dinner. But after all, though it shed a reflected glory over his path for a short time, Sir Thomas Frankland’s dinner and all its bewildering accessories was but an affair of a day, and the only real result it left behind was a conviction in the mind of Lauderdale that his youngprotégéwas born to better fortune. From that day the tall student hovered, benignly reflective, like a tall genie over Colin’s boyish career. He was the boy’s tutor so far as that was possible where the teacher was himself but one step in advance of the pupil; and as to matters speculative and philosophical, Lauderdale’s monologue, delivered high up in the air over his head, became the accompaniment and perpetual stimulation of all Colin’s thoughts. The training was strange, but by no means unnatural, nor out of harmony with the habits of the boy’s previous life, for much homely philosophy was current at Ramore, and Colin had been used to receive all kinds of comments upon human affairs with his daily bread. Naturally enough, however, the sentiments of thirty and those of fifteen were not always harmonious, and the impartial and tolerant thoughtfulness of his tall friend much exasperated Colin in the absolutism of his youth.
“I’m a man of the age,” Lauderdale would say as they traversed the crowded streets together; “by which I am claiming no superiority over you, callant, but far the contrary, if you were but wise enough to ken. I’ve fallen into the groove like the rest of mankind, and think in limits as belongs to my century—which is but a poor half-and-half kind of century, to say the best of it—but you are of all the ages, and know nothing aboutlimits or possibilities. Don’t interrupt me,” said the placid giant; “you are far too talkative for a laddie, as I have said before. I tell you I’m a man of the age: I’ve no very particular faith in anything. In a kind of a way, everything’s true; but you needna tell me that a man that believes likethatwill never make much mark in this world or any other world I ever heard tell of. I know that, a great deal better than you do. The best thing you can do is to contradict me; it’s good for you, and it does me no harm.”
Colin acted upon this permission to the full extent of all his youthful prowess and prejudices, and went on learning his Latin and Greek, and discussing all manner of questions in heaven and earth, with the fervour of a boy and a Scotsman. They kept together, this strange pair, for the greater part of the short winter days, taking long walks, when they left the University, through the noisy dirty streets, upon which Lauderdale moralized; and sometimes through the duller squares and crescents of respectability which formed the frame of the picture. Sometimes their peregrinations concluded in Colin’s little room, where they renewed their arguments over the oatcakes and cheese which came in periodical hampers from Ramore; and sometimes Lauderdale gave his friend a cheap and homely dinner at the tavern where they had first broken bread together. But not even Colin, much less any of his less familiar acquaintances, knew where the tall Mentor lived, or how he managed to maintain himself at college. He said he had his lodging provided for him, when any inquiry was made, and added, with an odd humourous look, that his was an honourable occupation; but Lauderdale afforded no further clue to his own means or dwelling-place. He smiled, but he was secret and gave no sign. As for his studies, he made but such moderate progress in them as was natural to his age and his character. No particular spur of ambition seemed to stimulate the man whose habits were formed by this time, and who found enjoyment enough, it appeared, in universal speculation. When he failed, his reflections as to the effect of failure upon the mind of man, and the secondary importance after all of mere material success, “which always turns out more disappointing to a reflective spirit than an actual break-down,” the philosopher would say, “being aye another evidence how far reality falls short of the idea,” became more piquant than usual; and when he succeeded, the same sentiments moderated his satisfaction. “Oh ay, I’ve got the prize,” he said, holding it on a level with Colin’s head, and regarding its resplendentbinding with a smile; “which is to say, I’ve found out that it’s only a book with the college arms stamped upon it, and no a palpable satisfaction to the soul as I might have imagined it to be, had it been yours, boy, instead of mine.”
But with all this composure of feeling as respected his own success, Lauderdale was as eager as a boy about the progress of his pupil. When the prize lay in Colin’s way, his friend spared no pains to stimulate and encourage and help him on; and as the years passed, and the personal pride of the elder became involved in the success of the younger, Lauderdale’s anxieties awoke a certain impatience in the bosom of hisprotégé. Colin was ambitious enough in his own person, but he turned naturally with sensitive boyish pride against the arguments and inducements which had so little influence upon the speaker himself.
“You urgemeon,” he would say, “but you think it does not matter for yourself.” And though it was Colin’s third session, and he reckoned himself a man when he said this, he was jealous to think that Lauderdale urged upon him what he did not think it worth his while to practise in his own person.
“When a thing’s spoilt in the making, it matters less what use ye put it to,” said the philosopher. It was a bright day in March, and they were seated on the grass together in a corner of the Green, looking at the pretty groups about, of women and children—children and women, perhaps not over tidy, if you looked closely into the matter, but picturesque to look at—some watching the patches of white linen bleaching on the grass, and some busily engaged over their needlework. The tall student stretched his long limbs on the grass, and watched the people about with reflective eyes. “There’s nothing in this world so important to a man as a right beginning,” he went on. “As for me, I’m all astray, and can never win to any certain end—no that I’m complaining, or taking a gloomy view of things in general; I’m just as happy in my way as other folk are in theirs—but that’s no the question under discussion. When a man reaches my years without coming to anything he’ll never come to much all his days; but you’re only a callant, and have all the world before you, said Lauderdale.” He did not look at Colin as he spoke, but went on in his usual monotone, looking into the blue air, in which he saw much that was not visible to the eager young eyes which kept gazing at him. “When I was like you,” he continued, with a half-pathetic, half-humourous smile, “it looked like misery and despair to feel that I was not to get my own way in this world. I’m terrible indifferentnow-a-days—one kind of life is just as good as another as long as a man has something to do that he can think to be his duty; but such thoughts are no for you,” said Colin’s tutor, waking up suddenly. “For you, laddie, there’s nothing grand in the world that should not be possible. The lot that’s accomplished is aye more or less a failure; but there’s always something splendid in the life that is to come.”
“You talk to me as if I were a child,” said Colin, with a little indignation; “you see things in their true light yourself, but you treat me like a baby. What can there be that is splendid in my life?—a farmer’s son, with perhaps the chance of a country church for my highest hope—after all kinds of signings, and confessions, and calls, and presbyteries. It would be splendid, indeed,” said the lad, with boyish contempt, “to be plucked by a country presbytery that don’t know six words of Greek, or objected to by a congregation of ploughmen—that’s all a man has to look for in the Church of Scotland, and you know it, Lauderdale, as well as I do.”
Colin broke off suddenly, with a considerable show of heat and impatience. He was eighteen, and he was of the advanced party, the Young Scotland of his time. The dogmatic Old Scotland, which loved to bind, and limit, and make confessions, and sign the same, belonged to the past centuries. As for Colin’s set, they were “viewy” as the young men at Oxford used to be in the days of Froude and Newman. Colin’s own “views” were of a vague description enough, but of the most revolutionary tendency. He did not believe in Presbytery, nor in that rule of Church government which in Scotland is known as Lord Aberdeen’s Act; and his ideas respecting extempore worship and common prayer were much unsettled. But as neither Colin nor his set had any distinct model to fall back upon, nor any clear perception of what they wanted, the present result of their enlightenment was simply the unpleasant one of general discontent with existing things, and a restless contempt for the necessary accessories of their lot.
“Plucked is no a word in use in Scotland,” said Lauderdale; “it smacks of the English universities, which are altogether a different matter. As for the Westminster Confession, I’m no clear that I could put my name to that myself as my act and deed—but you are but a callant, and don’t know your own mind as yet. Meaning no offence to you,” he continued, waving his hand to Colin, who showed signs of impatience, “I was once a laddie myself. Between eighteen and eight-and-twenty you’llchange your ways of thinking, and neither you nor me can prophesy what they’ll end in. As for the congregation of ploughmen, I would be very easy about you if that was the worst danger. Men that are about day and night in the fields when all’s still, cannot but have thoughts in their minds now and then. But it’s no what you are going to be, I’m thinking of,” said Colin’s counsellor, raising himself from the grass with a spark of unusual light in his eyes, “but what youmightbe, laddie. It’s no a great preacher, far less what they call a popular minister, that would please me. What I’m thinking of is, the Man that is aye to be looked for, but never comes. I’m speaking like a woman, and thinking like a woman,” he said, with a smile; “they have a kind of privilege to keep their ideal. For my part, I ought to have more sense, if experience counted for anything; but I’ve no faith in experience. And, speaking of that,” said the philosopher, dropping back again softly on the greensward, “what a grand outlet for what I’m calling the ideal was that old promise of the Messias who was to come! It may still be so for anything I can tell, though I cannot say that I put much trust in the Jews. But aye to be able to hope that the next new soul might be the One that was above failure, must have been a wonderful solace to them that had failed and lost heart. To be sure, they missed Him when He came,” continued Lauderdale; “that was natural. Human nature is aye defective in action; but a grand idea like that makes all the difference between us and the beasts, and would do, if there were a hundred theories of development—which I would not have you put faith in, laddie,” continued the volunteer tutor. “Steam and iron make awful progress, but no man—”
“That is one of your favourite theories,” said Colin, who was ready for any amount of argument; “though iron and steam are dead and stationary, but for the mind which is always developing. What you say is a kind of paradox; but you like paradoxes, Lauderdale.”
“Everything’s a paradox,” said the reflective giant, getting up slowly from the turf; “and the grass is damp, and the wind’s cold, and I don’t mean to sit here and haver nonsense any longer. Come along, and I’ll see you home. What I like women for is, that they’re seldom subject to the real, or convinced by what you callants call reason. Reason and reality are terrible fictions at the bottom. I never believe in facts, for my part. The worst of it is, that a woman’s ideal is apt to look a terrible idiot when she sets it up before the world,” continued Lauderdale, his facebrightening gradually with one of his slow smiles. “The ladies’ novels are instructive on that point. But there’s few things in this world so pleasant as to have a woman at hand that believes in you,” he said, suddenly breaking off in his discourse at an utterly unexpected moment. Colin was startled by the unlooked-for silence, and by the sound of something like a sigh which disturbed the air over his head; and being still but a boy, and not superior to mischief, looked up, with a little laughter.
“You must have once had a woman who believed in you, or you would not speak so feelingly,” said the lad, in his youthful amusement; and then Colin, too, stopped short, having encountered quite an unaccustomed look in his companion’s face.
“Ay,” said Lauderdale, and then there was a pause. “If it were not that life is aye a failure, there would be some cases harder than could be borne,” he continued, after a moment; “no that I’m complaining; but if I were you, laddie, I would set my face dead against fortune, and make up my mind to win. And speaking of winning, when did you hear of your grand English friends, and the callant you picked out of the loch? Have they ever been here in Glasgow again?”
At which question Colin drew himself to his full height, as he always did at Harry Frankland’s name; he was ashamed now to express his natural antagonism to the English lad in frank speech as he had been used to do, but he insensibly elevated his head, which, when he did not stoop, as he had a habit of doing, began to approach much more nearly than of old to the altitude of his friend’s.
“I know nothing about their movements,” he said, shortly. “As for winning, I don’t see what connexion there can be between the Franklands and any victory of mine. You don’t suppose Miss Matilda believes in me, do you?” said Colin, with an uneasy laugh; “for that would be a mistake,” he continued, a moment after. “She believes in her cousin.”
“Maybe,” said Lauderdale, in his oracular way, “it’s an uncanny kind of relationship upon the whole; but I would not be the one to answer for it, especially if it’s him she’s expected to believe in. But there were no Miss Matildas in my mind,” he added, with a smile. “I’ll no ask what she had to do in yours, for you’re but a callant, as I have to remind you twenty times in a day. But such lodgers are no to be encouraged,” said Colin’s adviser, with seriousness; “when they get into a young head it’s hard to get them out again; and the worst of them is, that they take more room than their fair share. Have you got youressay well in hand for the Principal? That’s more to the purpose than Miss Matilda; and now the end of the session’s drawing near, and I’m a thought anxious about the philosophy class. Yon Highland colt with the red hair will run you close, if you don’t take heed. It’s no prizes I’m thinking upon,” said Lauderdale; “it’s the whole plan of the campaign. I’ll come up and talk it all over again, if you want advice; but I’ve great confidence in your own genius.” As he said this, he laid his hand upon the lad’s shoulder and looked down into his eyes. “Summer’s the time to dream,” said the tall student, with a smile and a sigh. Perhaps he had given undue importance to the name of Miss Matilda. He looked into the fresh young face with that mixture of affection and pathos—ambition for the lad, mingled with a generous, tender envy of him—which all along had moved the elder man in his intercourse with Colin. The look for once penetrated through the mists of custom and touched the boy’s heart.
“You are very good to me, Lauderdale,” he said, with a little effusion; at the sound of which words his friend grasped his shoulder affectionately and went off, without saying anything more, into the dingy Glasgow streets. Colin himself paused a minute to watch the tall, retreating figure before he climbed his own tedious stair. “Summer’s the time to dream,” he repeated to himself, with a certain brightness in his face, and went up the darkling staircase three steps at a time, stimulated most probably by some thoughts more exciting than anything connected with college prizes or essays. It was the end of March, and already now and then a chance breeze whispered to Colin that the primroses had begun to peep out about the roots of the trees in all the soft glens of the Holy Loch. It had only been in the previous spring that primroses became anything more to Colin than they were to Peter Bell; but now the youth’s eyes were anointed—he had begun to write poetry, and to taste the delights of life. Though he had already learned to throw a very transparent vein of pretended sadness upon his verses, it did not occur to Colin as possible that the life which was so sweet one year might not be equally delightful the next, or that anything could occur to deprive him of the companionship he was looking forward to. He had never received any shock yet in his youthful certainty of pleasure, and did not stop to think that the chance which brought Sir Thomas Frankland’s nursery, and with it his pretty niece, to the Castle, for all the long spring and summer, might never recur again. So he wentupstairs three steps at a time, in the dingy twilight, and sat down to his essay, raising now and then triumphant, youthful eyes, which surveyed the mean walls and poor little room without seeing anything of their poverty, and making all his young, arrogant, absolute philosophy sweet with thoughts of the primroses, and the awaking waters, and the other human creature, the child-Eve of the boy’s Paradise. This was how Colin managed to compose the essay, which drew tears of mingled laughter and emotion from Lauderdale’s eyes, and dazzled the professor himself with its promise of eloquence, and secured the prize in the philosophy class. The Highland colt with the red hair, who was Colin’s rival, was very much sounder in his views, and had twenty times more logic in his composition; but the professor was dazzled, and the class itself could scarcely forbear its applause. Colin went home accordingly covered with glory. He was nearly nineteen; he was one of the most promising students of the year; he had already distinguished himself sufficiently to attract the attention of people interested in college successes; and he had all the long summer before him, and no one could tell how many rambles about the glens, how many voyages across the loch, how many researches into the wonders of the hills. He bade farewell to Lauderdale with a momentary seriousness, but forgot before the smoke of Glasgow was out of sight that he had ever parted from anybody, or that all his friends were not awaiting him in this summer of delight.