THE street that runs by the Tron Church, that
convenient centre point of all Edinburgh, begins at the Register House,
crosses the ravine by the gigantic North Bridge, jumps the Cowgate valley
by the South Bridge and proceeds by a short ascent on its way past the
University. Here we will stop. Let us take our place at one of the
booksellers’ windows on the east side of the street. You see before you,
across the way, a huge building of massive stone, built round a
quadrangle; within is a covered way by which you may walk round and round;
from it the large class-rooms on the ground floor open out. If you ascend
one of the numerous stairs you come upon another set of classrooms. These
are like others of their kind; in each is a raised platform, a desk and a
chair at one end, and rows of benches rising from the floor so as to make
an amphitheatre and fill up the rest of the room. On the south side is the
library, the reading-room, the senate hall and so forth. In session (or,
as they say in the south, "term "), as the bell
clangs forth the hour, the whole place hums and throbs with life; streams
of young men pour forth from every direction and cross and recross in
every way. A babel of tongues, a rush of feet for five noisy minutes and
then quiet. The human currents drain off to the different class-rooms and
the quadrangle is deserted. This is changing classes. You note that the
students have neither caps nor gowns.
The University, though not a mushroom institution of
the last half century, is one of the youngest of the great European
schools of learning. The Academy of James VI. is still its proper title;
the Town’s College was long its popular name, justified by the fact that
for some centuries the Town Council were its lords and patrons. The
buildings are nothing like as old as the name would imply, but before I in
brief tell their story I wish to direct your attention to the historic
ground on which they stand. There was once the Ecclesia Sanctae Maria
in Campis, otherwise Kirk o’ Field, known to all time as the scene of
the Darnley murder. The Kirk has its history before Mary and Darnley, but
it has no great interest or meaning for us to-day. It was called in
Campis because it was beyond the old walls, which, you will remember,
did not even include the Cowgate. The house of Kirk o’ Field attached to
it, but a little way distant, was built just on the wall at the north
corner of Drummond Street, a few yards from where you stand by the
bookshop window. Indeed, a door in the wall led right into the kitchen. It
was a little house of two stories.
The top entered by the outside stair, as you
see it still in many an old Scots house. It held but four rooms or so. The
Kirk had fallen into swift ruin since the Reformation, and the house
itself was in no good repair when Darnley was brought there from Glasgow
on the 31st January 1567. The tragedy
so terrible, so momentous, so impressive, must here be briefly recalled to
notice for the hundredth time. Why were all Scots criminal tragedies so
impressive and romantic? The actors seem to have crowded them, as if of
set purpose, with striking wealth of picturesque detail. It was the shock
and conflict of elemental passions, the violence of the time, the striking
character of the scenery, which, whether town or country, made a weirdly
appropriate background. Darnley was sick, well nigh to death, of a horrid
disease; he lay in one of the upper rooms of the house; Mary was in
constant attendance, a loving and devoted wife to all seeming. She meant
to have passed the evening of the 9th February with him, but there was a
masked ball at Holyrood preparatory to the marriage of Margaret Carwood,
one of her attendant women. As the evening fell she returned there,
attended by a gallant band with torch and sword—a very jewel set in
ghastly night! Darnley had some dim presentment of the coming tragedy.
Ominous warnings had reached him from various sources; he had read strange
matters in the faces of the Thanes. Ill at ease in mind and in body he
passed the final hours of his life. His last known act was to read one of
the penitential psalms. Some of the verses had a startling
appropriateness. In Holyrood the dance went on. At midnight Bothwell crept
from among the revellers, hastily changed his rich ball dress for some
plain stuff, and was soon knocking at the Netherbow Port demanding
admittance into the silent city for the friends of My Lord Bothwell. "What
do ye out of your bed at this time of night?" was the random but pertinent
query of the grumbling keeper. None of the five answered; they soon
reached the house and joined the other conspirators. One Hepburn of
Bolton, a friend and namesake of Bothwell, lighted the match; they then
locked the doors, withdrew and waited. The match was slow and Bothwell
fretted. How deadly that dread vast and middle of the night! Would that
match never burn its way? Exactly at two o’clock a wild light flared to
the sky; the whole house rose solid from the earth and then burst into
pieces with a roar that shook with dread at least one of the
conspirators—poor timid French Paris, lured from the gay warm south to his
destruction among those northern wolves. "I never felt as I do now," even
Bothwell murmured, perhaps realizing dimly that he had brought about one
of the world’s great historic tragedies. This at least forthwith ensured.
Every human being in Edinburgh was awake on the instant, but there is no
record of crowded streets, or a curious mob pressing towards Kirk o’
Field. "No rash interference in the quarrels of great folk" was a maxim
impressed on the minds of those honest burghers by every day’s experience.
Bothwell was allowed to return as
he came with not a question. He retired to what can scarcely be called his
rest, presently to be summoned, and to hear with such surprise as he could
assume the story of the deed which was in fact his own. Darnley was found
dead in the garden, and it was soon whispered with no mark of burning on
him. It was thought he was strangled as he tried to escape. Not even the
superfluous wealth of powder had availed to touch him, living or dead. It
was exactly eleven months since Rizzio’s murder. Mary’s prophecy had been
fulfilled; ere a year was gone a fatter than he should lie as low. In
"hugger-mugger" Darnley was "greenly interred" well nigh in the next grave
to the other.
I return to the more prosaic records
of the University, whose story I tell in a few dates and a few words. In
1558 Reid, the last of the Romish bishops of Orkney, gave 8000 marks to
the city to found a University. The other three Scots seats of learning
had their beginning in papal bulls. It is only just to point out that even
in the fourth and youngest, and always most essentially modern, the old
faith had its share. In 1566
Queen Mary drew up a charter for the foundation, but in the subsequent
troubles it came to naught. In 1582 her son, by his charter, really
founded it, and the small and quaint buildings of that period rose on the
present site. James VI. gave it little else but this charter, and for long
years the poverty-stricken University lived on, cherished indeed by the
Town Council, who appointed the professors. It was not till 16th November
1789 that the foundation stone of the place, as it now appears, was laid,
and it was not till 1834 that Playfair, with some modifications, completed
Adam’s original design. Twenty-four years afterwards the Scottish
Universities Act remodelled the organization of the University, and took
away from the Town Council the all powerful influence which they had
hitherto exercised, and exercised, it is only just to say, on the whole,
sanely and wisely. Since then it has had its full share in the rising tide
of Scots wealth; its students have reached 3000; splendid new buildings
for the Medical School were erected, 1878-91, to the south-west of the old
structure, and between them is the great M’Ewan University Hall, called
from its donor; and there is a new Infirmary, 1870-80, conveniently near
the Medical School. As late as 1887 a dome was placed on the old building,
thus completing Adam’s original design. Altogether the place is as
complete and perfect of its kind as you shall anywhere find, and there are
endless new professorships of every subject under or over the sun; and
what is there that you would like to learn that the University of
Edinburgh cannot teach you? And now the Carnegie Trust has given to the
Scot, almost for the asking, a college education. You can only wonder and
admire how the devout dreams of mediaeval bishops and passionate reformers
alike (for whatever their faults and feuds they were one in their zeal for
the advancement of learning) have been fulfilled in our own day by
American ironmasters and local brewers, and indeed men of all
denominations. In old Scotland they would have said,
"It is the hand of God," and whatever
your creed you will contemn the selfish nobles who sneered at the devout
imaginations of prelate and preacher alike, for these last had lofty
ideals which the wealthy commoners, nobler than the nobles in after ages,
made realities. This is an outside view of the University. What of its
inner life? The typical student is not in the majority nowadays. For many
are law and more are medical, and some are science, and it is among the
residue who look to the Kirk, or perhaps teaching, as their calling that
we find what has usually been accepted as the student of the north.
There is a charming paper by the
late Professor Veitch, in
Edinburgh Essay; on the feeling of a student of philosophy when he
entered Edinburgh and Sir William Hamilton’s class, devoted to that
subject. The motto on the wall, "On earth there is nothing great but man,
in man there is nothing great but mind," struck the confident note most
likely to appeal to his youth. But of all University cities Edinburgh
ought most to stimulate the imagination of a native. Here is the theatre
of his country’s past. What better place wherein to explore that past or
be fired to exertion in any field? There is a fascination that Scotsmen
have felt in metaphysical studies; many eminent philosophers have called
Edinburgh their own town by birth or adoption. She has not yet lost the
inspiring tradition, she has yet eminent men among her teachers or
writers. Again, for those destined for the Kirk and faithful to its
traditions, Edinburgh is the sacred city, the city of the Covenants,
of the Assemblies, still more,
the city of the martyrs. And not less those inclined to pour new wine into
old bottles, to try old dogmas by modem scientific tests, have here found,
for the last half century, an ever growing strong, daring, inquiring,
sceptical spirit, that with startling rapidity tears off their old
spiritual vesture and leaves their minds in a state of bewildering, though
it may be pregnant, disorder. Can we doubt that many who came here to
learn were moved by high impulses to rich and profitable exertion in
various fields of activity?
There are other types less pleasant
to contemplate. The Scots student was left, and to some extent still is
left, curiously alone. He lives where he likes and as he likes; he goes to
lectures, and he often has a mere nodding acquaintance with those who sit
next to him; he retires to his solitary lodgings and sits there over his
books, and one day is like another. It not rarely happened that he was
badly educated to start with, and a man of no real ability. Scotland used
to be, and still is, though to a less extent, a land of many sects and
many churches. Those who ministered therein were numerous and had poor
stipends, for which an early settlement in life and a certain position
possibly compensated. Thus there was a great demand, and the supply was
not of the first order; many a mediocre young man studied for the Church.
Till recently there was no entrance examination; our student passed
through the classes and learned very little during his seven or eight
years of college training, for such it
needed
to make a minister. The only heroism about him was a
stoical endurance of cold and scanty commons, for he managed to subsist on
an incredibly small sum, little more, if more, than a shilling a day, and
Edinburgh is not a cheap town, far from it, but a little goes a long way
if one lives like a prisoner in his cell. Sometimes even the small
standard which the little country kirk required was not reached, and the
man became what is known as a "stickit minister," a being whom kail-yard
romance has endowed with wondrous virtues, but who is mostly a very dull
dog indeed. Times have changed for the better. The elementary schools are
more organized, the secondary more plentiful, and there are entrance
examinations which help to keep off the useless and the unworthy. But the
lonely life is still too frequent, and sometimes it drives men to the
bottle, and that has destroyed some of the finest and most genial natures
in Scotland; a painful subject, at which it is fortunately unnecessary for
us here to do more than hint. Now athletic sports are more in evidence,
and certainly for good, and the Students’ Union and University
Settlements, established in some of the historic houses in the High
Street, must have brought many men together, and will do so still more in
the future, though again the enormous diversity of studies may, in some
ways, prevent this union. Take it all in all, this great University ought
to have a splendid future, as it has an illustrious past. There, if
anywhere, the student should live—
"Nourishing a
youth sublime,
With the fairy tales of science and the long results of time."
It were tedious to speak in detail
of the other educational institutions of Edinburgh. Chief is the High
School, dating from 1519 at any rate. Once it stood on the site of the old
Infirmary, a little way to the east of the University. There Scott and a
hundred other famous men fought and studied. In 1825-29 it was re-edified
in the Doric style, on the south slope of the Calton Hill.
I cannot leave the buildings of the
old Infirmary without referring to one incident in its career memorable
for all who love English letters. W. E. Henley was a patient for twenty
months in the place in 1873-75. There R. L. S. visited him, "And the poor
fellow sat up in his bed, with his hair and beard all tangled, and talked
as cheerfully as if he had been in a king’s palace, or the great King’s
Palace of the blue air." In the series of poems—In
Hospital, Rhymes and Rhythms—Henley has recorded his impression. I
think he never did better work. Here is realism without grossness,
charming verse on a subject difficult to touch. Among the most famous of
the etchings is Apparition__the portrait of it L. S. drawn from the
life. Henley’s account of their first meeting was given some fifteen years
afterwards in the lines to Charles Baxter which he added on collection and
re-publication:
"Do you remember
That afternoon—that Sunday afternoon
When, as the kirks were ringing in
And the grey city teemed
With Sabbath feelings and
aspects,
Lewis—our Lewis then,
Now the whole world’s!—and you,
Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came
Laden with Balzacs,
(Big, yellow books, quite impudently French)
The first of many times,
To that transcendent back-kitchen where I lay
So long, so many centuries—
Or years is it !—ago?"
I pass on to George Heriot’s
Hospital in Lauriston, built 1658-60, a peculiar Scots mixture of French,
Flemish and Italian, blended to a harmonious whole. It is said that, save
in one case, no two of its two hundred windows are decorated alike! You
remember it is called after "Jinglin’ Geordie," as the British Solomon
delighted to nickname his favourite goldsmith, he who followed his master
from Edinburgh to London, and in both cities made money which he devoted
to this foundation. The present entrance from Lauriston only dates from
1833; before that you entered by Heriot Bridge from the Grassmarket. There
is, moreover, a long series of hospitals, as these foundations were
called, an infinite variety of schools endowed and unendowed, and parts of
the University are repeated over and over again throughout the town.
Edinburgh is a city of schools. "Every man gets a mouthful and no man gets
a bellyful," sneered Doctor Johnson of Scots education in his own time.
The shaft had enough truth to wing its flight; but now whilst every man
has his mouthful a great many have their bellyful also, and the lack of it
in any must be counted to them for unrighteousness. |