CHAPTER V.
MODERN ATHENIANS.
Edinburgh University may call herself with grim jocoseness the "almamater" of her students, but if she be a mother at all she is one of avery heroic and Spartan cast, who conceals her maternal affection withremarkable success. The only signs of interest which she ever designsto evince towards her alumni are upon those not infrequent occasionswhen guineas are to be demanded from them. Then one is surprised tofind how carefully the old hen has counted her chickens, and howpromptly the demand is conveyed to each one of the thousands throughoutthe empire who, in spite of neglect, cherish a sneaking kindness fortheir old college. There is symbolism in the very look of her, squareand massive, grim and grey, with never a pillar or carving to break thedead monotony of the great stone walls. She is learned, she ispractical, and she is useful. There is little sentiment or romance inher composition, however, and in this she does but conform to theinstincts of the nation of which she is the youngest but the mostflourishing teacher.
A lad coming up to an English University finds himself In an enlargedand enlightened public school. If he has passed through Harrow and Etonthere is no very abrupt transition between the life which he has led inthe sixth form and that which he finds awaiting him on the banks of theCam and the Isis. Certain rooms are found for him which have beeninhabited by generations of students in the past, and will be by as manyin the future. His religion is cared for, and he is expected to put inan appearance at hall and at chapel. He must be within bounds at afixed time. If he behave indecorously he is liable to be pounced uponand reported by special officials, and a code of punishments is hungperpetually over his head. In return for all this his University takesa keen interest in him. She pats him on the back if he succeeds.Prizes and scholarships, and fine fat fellowships are thrown plentifullyin his way if he will gird up his loins and aspire to them.
There is nothing of this in a Scotch University. The young aspirantpays his pound, and finds himself a student. After that he may doabsolutely what he will. There are certain classes going on at certainhours, which he may attend if he choose. If not, he may stay awaywithout the slightest remonstrance from the college. As to religion, hemay worship the sun, or have a private fetish of his own upon themantelpiece of his lodgings for all that the University cares. He maylive where he likes, he may keep what hours he chooses, and he is atliberty to break every commandment in the decalogue as long as hebehaves himself with some approach to decency within the academicalprecincts. In every way he is absolutely his own master. Examinationsare periodically held, at which he may appear or not, as he chooses.The University is a great unsympathetic machine, taking in a stream ofraw-boned cartilaginous youths at one end, and turning them out at theother as learned divines, astute lawyers, and skilful medical men.Of every thousand of the raw material about six hundred emerge at theother side. The remainder are broken in the process.
The merits and faults of this Scotch system are alike evident.Left entirely to his own devices in a far from moral city, many a ladfalls at the very starting-point of his life's race, never to riseagain. Many become idlers or take to drink, while others, after wastingtime and money which they could ill afford, leave the college withnothing learned save vice. On the other hand, those whose manliness andgood sense keep them straight have gone through a training which laststhem for life. They have been tried, and have not been found wanting.They have learned self-reliance, confidence, and, in a word, have becomemen of the world while their _confreres_ in England are still magnifiedschoolboys.
High up in a third flat in Howe Street one, Thomas Dimsdale, was goingthrough his period of probation in a little bedroom and a largesitting-room, which latter, "more studentium," served the purpose ofdining-room, parlour, and study. A dingy sideboard, with four stillmore dingy chairs and an archaeological sofa, made up the whole of thefurniture, with the exception of a circular mahogany centre-table,littered with note-books and papers. Above the mantelpiece was afly-blown mirror with innumerable cards and notices projecting in afringe all around, and a pair of pipe racks flanking it on either side.Along the centre of the side-board, arranged with suspicious neatness,as though seldom disturbed, stood a line of solemn books, Holden's_Osteology_, Quain's _Anatomy_, Kirkes' _Physiology_, and Huxley's_Invertebrata_, together with a disarticulated human skull. On one sideof the fireplace two thigh bones were stacked; on the other a pair offoils, two basket-hilted single-sticks, and a set of boxing-gloves.On a shelf in a convenient niche was a small stock of generalliterature, which appeared to have been considerably more thumbed thanthe works upon medicine. Thackeray's _Esmond_ and Meredith's _RichardFeveret_ rubbed covers with Irving's _Conquest of Granada_ and atattered line of paper-covered novels. Over the sideboard was a framedphotograph of the Edinburgh University Football Fifteen, and opposite ita smaller one of Dimsdale himself, clad in the scantiest of garb, as heappeared after winning the half-mile at the Inter-University Handicap.A large silver goblet, the trophy of that occasion, stood underneathupon a bracket. Such was the student's chamber upon the morning inquestion, save that in a roomy arm-chair in the corner the younggentleman himself was languidly reclining, with a short wooden pipe inhis mouth, and his feet perched up upon the side of the table.
Grey-eyed, yellow-haired, broad in the chest and narrow in the loins,with the strength of a bullock and the graceful activity of a stag, itwould be hard to find a finer specimen of young British manhood.The long, fine curves of the limbs, and the easy pose of the round,strong head upon the thick, muscular neck, might have served as a modelto an Athenian sculptor. There was nothing in the face, however, torecall the regular beauty of the East. It was Anglo-Saxon to the lastfeature, with its honest breadth between the eyes and its nascentmoustache, a shade lighter in colour than the sun-burned skin. Shy,and yet strong; plain, and yet pleasing; it was the face of a type ofman who has little to say for himself in this world, and says thatlittle badly, but who has done more than all the talkers and the writersto ring this planet round with a crimson girdle of British possessions.
"Wonder whether Jack Garraway is ready!" he murmured, throwing down the_Scotsman_, and staring up at the roof. "It's nearly eleven o'clock."
He rose with a yawn, picked up the poker, stood upon the chair, andbanged three times upon the ceiling. Three muffled taps responded fromthe room above. Dimsdale stepped down and began slowly to discard hiscoat and his waistcoat. As he did so there was a quick, active stepupon the stair, and a lean, wiry-looking, middle-sized young fellowstepped into the room. With a nod of greeting he pushed the table overto one side, threw off his two upper garments, and pulled on a pair ofthe boxing-gloves from the corner. Dimsdale had already done the same,and was standing, a model of manly grace and strength, in the centre ofthe room.
"Practice your lead, Jack. About here." He tapped the centre of hisforehead with his swollen gauntlet.
His companion poised himself for a moment, and then, lashing out withhis left hand, came home with a heavy thud on the place indicated.Dimsdale smiled gently and shook his head.
"It won't do," he said.
"I hit my hardest," the other answered apologetically.
"It won't do. Try again."
The visitor repeated the blow with all the force that he could command.
Dimsdale shook his head again despondently. "You don't seem to catchit," he said. "It's like this." He leaned forward, there was the soundof a sharp clip, and the novice shot across the room with a force thatnearly sent his skull through the panel of the door.
"That's it," said Dimsdale mildly.
"Oh, it is, is it?" the other responded, rubbing his head."It's deucedly interesting, but I think I would understand it better ifI saw you do it to some one else. It is something between the explosionof a powder magazine and a natural convulsion."
His instructor smiled grimly. "That's the only way to learn," he said."Now we shall have three minutes of give-and-take, and so ends themorning lesson."
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br /> While this little scene was being enacted in the lodgings of thestudent, a very stout little elderly man was walking slowly down HoweStreet, glancing up at the numbers upon the doors. He was square anddeep and broad, like a bottle of Geneva, with a large ruddy face and apair of bright black eyes, which were shrewd and critical, and yet had amerry twinkle of eternal boyishness in their depths. Bushy sidewhiskers, shot with grey, flanked his rubicund visage, and he threw outhis feet as he walked with the air of a man who is on good terms withhimself and with every one around him.
At No.13 he stopped and rapped loudly upon the door with the head of hismetal-headed stick. "Mrs. McTavish?" he asked, as a hard-lined, angularwoman responded to his summons.
"That's me, sir."
"Mr. Dimsdale lives with you, I believe?"
"Third floor front, sir."
"Is he in?"
Suspicion shone in the woman's eyes. "Was it aboot a bill?" she asked.
"A bill, my good woman! No, no, nothing of the kind. Dr. Dimsdale ismy name. I am the lad's father--just come up from London to see him.I hope he has not been overworking himself?"
A ghost of a smile played about the woman's face. "I think not, sir,"she answered.
"I almost wish I had come round in the afternoon," said the visitor,standing with his thick legs astride upon the door-mat. "It seems apity to break his chain of thought. The morning is his time for study."
"Houts! I wouldna' fash aboot that."
"Well! well! The third floor, you say. He did not expect me so early,I shall surprise the dear boy at his work."
The landlady stood listening expectantly in the passage. The sturdylittle man plodded heavily up the first flight of stairs. He paused onthe landing.
"Dear me!" he murmured. "Some one is beating carpets. How can theyexpect poor Tom to read?"
At the second landing the noise was much louder. "It must be a dancingschool," conjectured the doctor.
When he reached his son's door, however, there could no longer be anydoubt as to whence the sounds proceeded. There was the stamp andshuffle of feet, the hissing of in-drawn breath, and an occasional softthud, as if some one were butting his head against a bale of wool."It's epilepsy," gasped the doctor, and turning the handle he rushedinto the room.
One hurried glance showed him the struggle which was going on.There was no time to note details. Some maniac was assaulting his Tom.He sprang at the man, seized him round the waist, dragged him to theground, and seated himself upon him. "Now tie his hands," he saidcomplacently, as he balanced himself upon the writhing figure.
The Firm of Girdlestone Page 5
