Chapter II: “remember, Remember This Fifth of November”--Maclean’s Rooms

Classes were once more up. The session had opened, and once again the streets of Aberdeen were gay with the crimson togas of the students. Everybody was glad to see everybody else, and the several professors professed themselves rejoiced to meet again their pupils in the old and classic halls of the University. They hoped work would now go on apace, so that in after years of their lives the students would be able to look back with pleasure to the time they spent so profitably within the embrace of their beloved _alma mater_.

A week or two passed by, then came the never-forgotten 5th of November.

Now, I do not believe that such a scene, as I fear I shall now all too inadequately describe, is possible in the Aberdeen of to-day. I can only premise that it is painted from the life.

Castlegate, let me tell you, is a large square formed at the junctions of those splendid pearly-walled thoroughfares, Union and King Streets. It has a granite statue of the Duke of Gordon, a fine old cross similar to that in Chichester, and some other ancient cities, also a few pieces of cannon captured from the Russians at Sebastopol.

In a line with King Street, and from the other side of the square, runs Marischal Street, which is very steep, and leads direct to the quay, where lie the ships. This is all I wish you to remember.

On this particular 5th of November, it did not appear that there would be any greater excitement than usual.

“Only a bit of fun and a few fireworks,” Willie explained to Sandie, and thus induced him to come along.

But by nine o’clock, not only was the square densely thronged by a mob bent on merriment and mischief, but all the streets leading thereto.

About half-past nine the fun waxed fast and furious. Even had they tried, the police force would have been powerless to clear the Castlegate. They would have but infuriated the mob, and an Aberdeen mob, if it loses its temper, is very terrible indeed, as witness the meal-mobs and the Chartist riots.

The discharge of fireworks was incessant and marvellous. Pyrotechny was there in every form. Rockets, Roman candles, St. Catherine wheels, even dangerous maroons; while as for squibs, the deft young fellows stuck them in pistols, lit them, and fired them in the air, or in through open first-floor windows, much to the terror of those leaning over to gaze at the pandemonium going on beneath.

Nearly everybody had their jackets closely buttoned up, but crackers and squibs were lit and thrust into every available pocket that could be seen. Many thus had their clothes burned and ruined.

A little after ten o’clock, policemen and watchmen, full ninety strong, made their appearance in marching order, and attempted to clear the square. They had no truncheons, only simply their sticks. Their endeavours, however, were utterly unsuccessful. If the crowd disappeared before them at one place, it was only to bank up in double force in another.

The police were good-natured.

“Gang hame noo, like good bairns,” was about all they said.

But the action of one townsman--I am glad to say he was no student--precipitated a crisis at last. He was foolish enough to seize a watchman and attempt to throw him. Both men came heavily to the ground, then others took the townsman’s part, and in less time than it takes me to write it, truncheons on the one side, and heavy bludgeons on the other were drawn, and blood flowed like water. Ninety men opposed to about two thousand have little chance, despite the fact that they have law on their side, so the upshot of the collision was that in twenty minutes’ time the Bobbies and Charlies were beaten back, and had to take refuge behind the Town Hall.

“Hadn’t we better get home now?” said Sandie. “If I am found or captured in this crowd I shall lose my bursary, and that means ruin.”

“Father,” said Willie exultantly, “will be out before long to read the Riot Act. After that you know the soldiers will come. We shall make a move just before that.”

But now the riot entered upon a new phase. Some one raised the cry “A boat! a boat!” and in a moment it spread like wildfire through all that vast determined mob.

Sandie and Willie had only time to back into an entry, when the crowd went surging past them, one vast human river, flowing down Marischal Street towards the harbour.

They seemed to have been gone no time when they were back again, singing and yelling and shouting triumphantly, as they dragged a boat along.

Where, I wonder, did the hammers come from? I cannot answer, but here they were.

Bang, bang, smash, smash, and in a very few minutes the broken timbers of the boat were piled in a heap in the middle of the square.

Where did that bucket of tar come from? I cannot even answer that. But it was poured upon the woodwork, and the bucket itself was left on top.

Then a light was set to the pile, and in a few minutes the flames were ascending sky-high. Every house around stood out in bold and fiery relief, and the Duke’s monument looked like a martyr at the stake.

“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the frantic mob. Then in a huge circle they joined hands and danced around the blazing fire, just as many a time since have I seen savages in Central Africa do.

How they yelled! How they shouted! How they sang!

But the fire began to burn dull and low at last, and just about this time there arose a shout of alarm: the Provost in his robes was coming in an open carriage to read the Riot Act.

“Come now, Sandie,” cried Willie, “we’ve had enough fun for one night. Father musn’t see me here.”

Nor did he.

Indeed, he saw but very few.

For the mob had no wish to have a collision with the soldiers--“the gallant Forty-twa,” so they melted away like snowflakes in a river, and truly speaking, the Act was read to the dying embers of the fire.

One large party of students had still a little fun left in them, however. They formed fours-deep, and went marching off down King Street, singing “The Land o’the Leal.”

“We’re wearin’ awa’, Jean,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,
We’re wearin’ awa’--a’--a’
To the Land o’the Leal.”

For the life of him the douce Provost could not help laughing, as they went filing past his carriage.

Willie went with Sandie to his attic, and Sandie’s little busybody of a landlady placed before them a delicious supper of mashed potatoes, stewed tripe, and fragrant coffee.

“Glad we’ve got safe home,” said Sandie. “Aren’t you, Willie?”

“Oh, delighted, but I must say I enjoyed myself immensely. That bonfire was a beauty. I hope my dear old father won’t catch cold. And the soldiers will have nothing to do, if they do come, but drown out the dying embers of the fire.”

* * * * *

The great prize of sixty pounds, tenable for two years, was to be competed for at the end of the present session. There were in reality two, one for Greek, the other for higher mathematics, but it was to the latter Sandie determined to bend all his energies, as he thought the competition would not here be so great.

Next to Sandie, if not indeed superior in this branch of the curriculum, was a Highland student of the name of Maclean, with whom I must now make the reader better acquainted.

Sandie, by the way, had made quite enough at the herring-fishing to render him independent of his dunderheaded pupil for one session at least; and for this he felt he could not be too thankful.

Maclean and he one day, while sauntering arm-in-arm along Union Street, deep in the mysteries of _x_ + _y_, entered into a compact to study together. One evening it was to be in Sandie’s garret, and the next in Maclean’s diggings, as he termed his lodgings.

The first grind took place in our hero’s attic. At one o’clock, when both parted for the night, they each agreed that the evening had been most profitably spent.

Next night, at eight o’clock, Sandie, after some difficulty, found his way to Maclean’s door. The house in which the lodgings were was a somewhat cheap and unsavoury thoroughfare off George Street.

The stairs were sadly rickety, the house itself was not a sweet one. From a room on the ground-floor issued the scraping of a vile old fiddle, accompanied by the scuffling of feet, and every now and then an eldritch shriek of laughter. But Sandie went onwards and upwards, and on the top floor of all a door was suddenly thrown open, and Maclean held out his hand to welcome him in.

A great oil lamp was burning on a table at one end of the long room. This lamp served for heat and light both, for there was no fire. In fact, these students--of whom there were four in all living in this one room--could not afford fire except to cook.

“You are right welcome, Mr. M‘Crae,” said Maclean.

Then he pointed to another young man who sat book in hand by the table.

“My brother,” he said; “he is at the grammar-school, but he won’t disturb us. Now,” he continued, “look around you, and I’ll put you up to our domestic economy and household arrangements. To begin with, you know we are all as poor as rats, though all bursars, and we all mean to study for the Church, or to be teachers at least. Yonder, in that bed, are the brothers Macleod. They come from our parish. Well, you see, they go to bed--we only have one--at seven and sleep till one. My brother and I study till one, then we have the bed and they begin their studies, though often enough they curl up in their plaids and have a few more hours on the floor.”

“Yes, I understand, and I don’t blame them.”

“Well, we have no landlady. The few sticks of furniture you see are all hired, except the frying-pan and other cooking utensils. These we bought. We are not going to invite you to dinner, Mr. M‘Crae, because our fare is far too meagre.

“You see those barrels? Well, two contain herrings, salt and red, one contains nice oatmeal, and the small one pease-flour. And with the addition of milk that is brought to us every morning, and now and then an egg, and a bit of butter, with always a nice sheep’s head and trotters on Sunday, I can assure you we live like fighting-cocks. Don’t we, Donal?”

“That we do,” said Donal, looking smilingly up from Xenophon’s Anabasis.

And poor though an Englishman would consider fare like this, it must be confessed that the two Macleans were as hard and brown as hazel-nuts upon it.

“And now then, my friend, if you are ready, let us begin the grind.”

And the “grind” was commenced accordingly. And hardly did those earnest plodding students lift head except to address each other in low monotones, till forth from the great steeple of the East Church peeled the solemn stroke of one.

Then Maclean closed his books with a bang and jumped joyfully up.

“Turn out the Macleods,” he shouted as loud as he could. “One o’clock, my hearties. Turn out! Turn out! There, Donal! pull the blankets off them while I see Mr. M‘Crae safely down the rickety old stairs.”

He lit match after match for this purpose.

“Don’t lean on the bannisters,” he said, “else over you go.”

Sandie was safe in the street at last, and bade his friend good-night, just as every watchman in the city with stentorian lungs was bawling--

“Past one! Pa-a-ast one-n-n,” with a long ringing musical emphasis on the “n” of the one.

Sandie went homewards happy enough, and just a little tired and sleepy, but he had found out one truth, namely, that poor though he himself might be, he was not, by a long way, the poorest student at the great Northern University.

Sandie and his friend Maclean kept up their mathematical studies together in the most friendly way till the very last day. Everybody knew that the prize lay between these two hard-working students, and it came to pass that when the day of competition arrived at last, and Sandie and Maclean found their way to the class-room where the papers were to be given out, they only found two other opponents there, and both left within an hour without handing in a paper.

The Professor looked up from his desk and smiled.

“When Greek meets Greek,” he said, “then comes the tug of war.”