A Son of the Soil

by Mrs. Oliphant

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 great change 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 Colin emerged 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.