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not keep Easter Sunday at the proper time, but from the fourteenth to the twentieth moon, which computation is contained in a revolution of eighty-four years. Besides, they did several other things which were against the unity of the Church; (2), I refer again to the statement of Laurentius, that the Irish Bishop Dagan refused to eat even in the same house in which he and his clergy were entertained ; to the declaration of Ceolfrid that nonconformity on the subject of Easter was equivalent to believing that there could be salvation without Christ; to the declaration of Seginus that nonconformity on the Easter question deserved excommunication ; and to the expulsion of the Scottish monks from Ripon by Wilfrid ; to the expulsion of Colman from his Bishoprick and Monastery; and to the expulsion of the Columban clergy from his kingdom by Nectan, for all which I have already given references to Bede; and, lastly, take this passage from Bede referring to the Easter controversy. “Whereupon this dispute began naturally to influence the thoughts and hearts of many, who feared, lest having received the name of Christians, they might happen to run or to have run in vain." That is, they feared that if they were wrong on this question they might be lost. If necessary, I could give many other quotations from Bede, showing that the clergy of the Roman Church in Britain considered conformity as to the question of Easter essential to Catholic unity, but the above will surely suffice. It is not disputed that the Columban Church did not conform; and, therefore, the contemporary evidence that the Churches were not in unity is complete. I would point out, however, in conclusion, that two Churches may be in unity and still be separate and distinct Churches in the sense for which I contend, as, for instance, the English and Scottish Episcopal Churches, to which I have already referred.

H. C. MACANDREW.

GLASGOW STUDENTS.

I

WHY did I go to college Upon my word I hardly know. I loved books with a whole-souled and passionate devotion, but I also loved to read them under the greenwood tree or by the blazing winter fire, and I preferred that they should be written, not in a tongue to be learned from professors, but in that which I had learned, with no perceptible toil and trouble, at my mother's apron strings. My ideal of life was and is a cottage in some sunny land, where the soil is easy to be wooed and won to yield her harvests, and which is not too far distant from civilisation to prevent me from getting a parcel of books and papers at least once a week. That, with a wife who would accept my verses as poetry, reverence my idleness as philosophy, and who would prefer an old bonnet to a new, make up the life I would have led, had the choice been my own. For really when one has only a paltry three score and ten years to act that tedious, farcical tragedy called “life,” it becomes a question whether he should not go through it as cannily as he may. Had one, now, a thousand or so years to put in, the case might be altered, but thank goodness one has not. Therefore, it was by no means my own inclination that took me to Glasgow University, but that very common-place agent in human affairs called “the force of circumstances.” But whatever took me, I remained there for six half years, in which I was supposed to study “Arts,” and in which I passed an existence so happy that if all the years of my life were to be as fortunate as these, I should not object to have my life indefinitely prolonged. Some of my observations of life and things during these years I am going to set down here, and, my reader, if you are the man of sense and judgment that I believe you to be, you are going to read them. The October days had been full of that sad and solemn beauty which more belongs to Scotland, I believe, than to any other land. It would seem as if the summer sun and this wintry land were loathe to part. Soon, very soon, the wild waters will rage around, the winds will hold fierce riot among the hills, the gentle streams will swell with the torrent fury, or will lie bound in iron frosts. Therefore the country, as if touched by the spirit of those who dwell upon it, seems to look behind and before—to the gloomy winter that is coming, and to the radiant summer that is past—and to pause awhile in gentle melancholy like one going forth from his father's home, he knows not where or to what. On such a fair, sad day was it that the railway train ran shrieking through the gleaming atmosphere and bore me to Glasgow. Byand-bye the clear air thickened, the sweet sun grew dim, and I was in that wonderful city of the North. At that time all I knew of Glasgow was the road from one station to another. And as I stood alone on that autumn day, not knowing in which direction to turn, and being too shy to ask, as I looked upon the lofty buildings seeming grey and grim in the afternoon, and as I beheld the quickly hastening crowds all as intent upon business as if the world were to end to-morrow, and they had only to-day left to settle their affairs, it seemed to me as if Glasgow were a huge vanity fair, in which all the vanities had grown hard and cold. Afterwards, I thought that Glasgow is a very fair type of the character of its people. At first, except you are a visitor with a very great name or a very great purse, Glasgow people seem a grim and dismal race. There is a hardness and an angularity, a fixity and a sternness about the character, both of the city and the citizens, that does not invite affection. You feel as if you would only be a Glasgow citizen upon compulsion. By-and-bye you find that they are not frozen to the bottom. Then you discover that under the apparent ice are the deepest wells of true and honest feeling. And at last you come to think that nowhere beat more warm hearts under more rugged exteriors. But to a lad, standing at the gateway of a railway station, having a list of lodging-houses in his pocket, situated in streets as unfamiliar to him as the wilds of Africa, and having the very faintest idea of the four points of the compass, Glasgow did not seem a paradise. Had I been English born and bred, I would at once have gone to an hotel, eaten a hearty dinner, passed a merry evening at the theatre, and next day would have set about my search in a four-wheeled cab. But I was only a raw and rustic Scottish boy, with the idea firmly fixed in my mind that a penny saved was a penny gained. A University training had not yet taught me better. Therefore, having discovered which side of Glasgow was the west side, I got into a car and arrived at last in the neighbourhood of the College. I will confess that the first sight of that noble seat of learning upon Gilmorehill stirred me to enthusiasm. I almost ran up the steep incline that leads to it from the road between Glasgow and Partick. It is a building grand but not stern, stately but with no haughty pretension. Placed upon a hill-top, it looks upon its surroundings, mean and magnificent alike, with the air of one too strong to fear rivalry, too magnanimous to provoke it. On one side lies a noble park, with the classic but dirty Kelvin flowing between, and beyond, on a somewhat remote hill, the houses of the Glasgow rich; on the other side, and very near is that great building of mercy, the Western Infirmary. Behind is a road at that time occupied by oldfashioned mansions and their gardens; in front were gaunt houses, the second ugliest church in Glasgow, unbuilded lots, a region of glare and dirt, and cheap advertisements, but happily separated from the College by the green grass of the sloping hill. A moment you stand viewing Glasgow and thinking of its toil, its sin, its Sorrow ; the next you are in quiet courts and in atmosphere of learned calm, where you might think yourself gone altogether out of the world of unquiet things into some dim and noiseless region where there are only thoughts. “Here," I said to myself, “is a spiritual manufactory, and what it manufactures is power. To this place come youths wishing to know how they may mould and change the face of nature, and men the minds of their fellows. In this place processes are shaping human souls, and they in their turn will shape the century. How happy am I to have come hither. For three guineas I shall learn logic, and that will teach me how to dissever truth from error. At the same moderate price I shall be taught philosophy, and then I shall be quite certain that I am I and nobody else. Three guineas will unlock for me the palaces of Greece, and other three the fortresses of Rome. For sixty-three shillings, paid in advance, I shall be shown how to become an orator like Burke, and a writer like Ruskin. For these few coins, too, I shall be taught the mathematics, and thus I will be able to measure the church spire without climbing to the top of it with a string. In this sacred spot I may learn law, which is the art of breaking hearts, physic, which is the art of tormenting bodies, and divinity, which is the art of showing how difficult the simplest truths may be made if you only look at them in the proper manner.” What wonderful wishes of ambition opened before my eyes, great things done, applauding nations, even to a funeral cortegé half-a-mile long, a funeral sermon filling two volumes, and a funeral editorial filling one—all for the small sum of three guineas. But without the three guineas you may by no means attain to these worthy things. And so, having looked carefully around to see that no one observed me, I took off my hat and said, “Now, I know that there is one thing the most powerful upon earth that doth rule all men and all mothers, that is omnipotent in the State and in the Church, that is supreme in the bustling market, and that here also in these quiet courts of learning is lord and master. Thou buyest all material things, thou buyest even love, and so thou buyest also learning. Monarch of monarchs' All hail to thee, King Cain.” Moral reflections are—as we philosophers know—extremely conducive to an appetite for beef and pudding. Accordingly, I was led to forsake this train of ideas, and to leave the halls of the muses in search of an eating-shop. The dinner was very good— as a warning of all a dinner should not be. But, in truth, had stewed paving stones and roasted fire-irons been served up to me I would hardly have minded, for the idea had come down upon me, with dismal force, that I had not yet found a lodging. I am not going to describe my search for a place of abode. The subject is too horrible. I had a list of landlords all highly recommended—heaven forgive those who recommended them. I had come up rather late in the season, and all the lodgings that were not recommended, that is to say, all the good lodgings, were occupied. When Glasgow sets herself to do a thing she does it thoroughly, and she has produced one class of female lodgingkeepers that I would with calm certainty back against the same number of friends—not necessarily the worst friends, but friends of an ordinary quality. Into the hands of some of these one or more of my friends afterwards fell, and these added a new clause

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