University of Virginia Library

Not In Touch

The don reports to the
Faculty on student affairs but
admits he is no longer in
touch with "middle of the road
students." First-year students
regularly receive his strong
warning: "Beware of glib
theorists, know-it-all
politicians, and sophisticated
smoothies." He blames student
militancy on people whose
attitudes to authority are
immature. "This stems," he
observes, "from their
relationships with their
parents."

Sir Michael's University,
now with over 10,000
students, is young (founded
1583) compared to Oxbridge,
and is the most prestigious in
Scotland. But higher education
differs markedly from the U.S.
brand.

Here the student has
virtually no "requirements" in
the American sense. Ranging
from classes of ten to much
larger ones of 300, lectures in
the Arts faculty are held every
day of the week but there is no
particular obligation to attend.
Intimate tutorials (followed by
stiff essays) form the core of
the British system; the close,
face-to-face relations provide
one key to its success. In spite
of an inferior library, amenities
at the University, though few,
are civilized: the Staff Club is a
plush, warm, comfortable
refuge, with squash court,
cocktail lounge, liquor store,
billiards, ping-pong, formal
dining room and cafeteria–
clearly one of the most popular
erogenous zones in the
University.

But, given their endurance
of the cold weather, in homes
without central heating, the
Scots and the students here are
a Spartan lot. In fact, there
seems to be a sort of analogy
between the University as
guided by Sir Michael and the
city itself.

Observing the city itself has
become one of my pastimes. I
make the trek between my
"flat" and the Celtic dept.
while trying to understand the
people and assimilate the way
of life in this "modern
Athens," whose topography is
a sort of icy blend between
Boston's classic order, San
Francisco's hills, and Chicago's
howling winds.

In many ways, it is a naive,
conservative city, full of
contradictions, a curious
melange of British and Scottish
mores. You still see
horse-drawn milk wagons in
town– next to the latest model
Lotus. Indeed, austere is the
word that comes to mind: my
continuous efforts to locate a
pornography shops have been
unsuccessful.

On Sunday, it is Edinbore,
with pubs closed, no football,
and few restaurants. By
mid-September, the famed
Festival has ended, leaving a
cultural vacuum in its wake.
After that colorful excitement,
John Knox's old truant returns
to a habitual Presbyterian grey
for another year, the single
exception being Friday night
when the pubs are mobbed
(closing at 10 p.m.).

Dominating the city is the
ancient Edinburgh Castle. Near
it, The Mound– a stingy pile of
dirt preserved from excavations
for the New Town and covered
now with bank buildings–
looks down on the opulent
New Town of high finance,
law, industry and business.
Edinburgh offers the obverse
of Galbraith's maxim, for it has
public affluence and private
squalor– not the image
prescribed in tourist brochures.

Yet like some tasty memory
cake, the city is filled with fine
flashes of Scottish history.
From the castle walls,
overlooking Princes St. and the
Gardens, you can grasp the
whole of Sir Walter Scott's
land of lemonade: a
commanding view of the
Forth, of the surrounding
vigilant mountains and hills,
and of the misty, cloudy air
hanging over "Auld Reekie."