Sir Robert Hart | Page 5

to take two as his share. One was English, the other Logic,
which he had studied under the famous Dr. McCosh, which he
delighted in, and which undoubtedly developed his natural talent for
getting directly at the point of an intricate matter. He worked eighteen
hours a day during the last three weeks before the Literature
Examination, and when it came he did well--at least, so he supposed.
The rule was that only those in each class who had shown marked
ability and knowledge of their subject at the "pass" examination should
be recommended for re-examination for honours. But to his surprise,
when the list was read out, Hart's name was not even amongst the
successful candidates. The Belfast students were thoroughly angry.
They felt the honour of the College was at stake; he had not done his
share in upholding it, and they did not hesitate to tell him so. Hart
listened to their reproaches and answered never a word, but quietly
went on, in the week that intervened between the pass examination and
the final, with his preparations for the latter. The ability to do so
showed courage and character--and he hath both in an unusual degree.
The very night before the "final" his reward came. Some one hurried up
his stairs and burst into his little sitting-room. It was the Professor--the
famous George Lillie Craik--who had set the papers for the Literature
class.
"I come to apologize to you for a mistake," he said very kindly, "and to
explain why you have not been chosen for re-examination. The truth is
you answered so well at the 'pass' that I wrote your name on the first

sheet, and nobody else's--as nobody came near you. Unfortunately this
page, almost blank, was mislaid, and that is how it happened that you,
who should have been chosen before all the rest, were overlooked. Now
I want to ask you to come up for re-examination to-morrow, and, at the
same time, wish you the best of luck."
Robert Hart went--and won. He received a gold medal and £15 for this
subject, a gold medal and £15 also for Logic and Metaphysics, and
sufficient honour and glory besides to turn a less well-balanced head.
Meanwhile the choice of a future career naturally filled the young
man's thoughts. First he seriously debated whether he should become a
doctor, but gave up the idea when he found he came home from every
operation imagining himself a sufferer from the disease he had just seen
treated. Next there was some talk of putting him into a lawyer's
office--talk which came to nothing; and finally a lecture he heard on
China at seventeen almost decided him to become a missionary to the
heathen, but he soon abandoned this plan like the others.
After taking his B.A., he went instead to spend a post-graduate year at
Belfast, and read for a Master's degree--this in spite of the fact that he
was worn out with the strain of eighteen hours' work a day, and used to
see authors creeping in through the keyhole and wake in the night to
find illuminated letters dancing a witches' dance around his bed.
Then, just at the critical moment of his life--in the spring of 1854--the
British Foreign Office gave a nomination for the Consular Service in
China to each of the three Irish Queen's Colleges, Belfast, Cork and
Galway. He immediately abandoned all idea of reading for a fellowship,
and applied. So did thirty-six others. A competitive examination was
announced, but when the College authorities saw Hart's name among
the rest, they gave the nomination to him, without examination.
Two months later he presented himself at the Foreign Office in London
and saw the Under-Secretary of State, Mr. (afterwards Lord) Hammond,
who gave him some parting advice. "When you reach Hongkong," said
he, "never venture into the sun without an umbrella, and never go snipe
shooting without top boots pulled up well over the thighs." As no snipe

have ever been seen on Hongkong, the last bit of counsel was as absurd
as the first was sensible.
He actually started for China in May 1854. It is not easy to imagine in
these feverish days of travel what that journey must have meant to a
young Irish lad brought up in a small town lad to whom even London
probably seemed very far away. But the mothers of other sons can give
a pretty shrewd guess at how the mere thought of it must have terrified
those he was leaving behind. "Will he come back a heathen?" one
might ask, and another--but never aloud--"Will he come at all?"
But, whatever they felt, none would have selfishly held him back; on
the contrary, they were all encouragement, and the last thing his father
did was