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JANUARY, 1876. 


“you DEVIL!” 

THERE was a great silence in the school- 
room. A young girl of sixteen or seven- 
teen, tall and strikingly handsome in 
figure, with abundant masses of raven- 
black hair, dark eyes under darker 
eyelashes, and proud and well-cut lips, 
walked up to the schoolmistress’s table. 
There was scarcely anything of malice 
or mischief visible in the bold careless- 
ness of her face. 

The schoolmistress looked up from 
some accounts she had been studying. 

“Well, Miss North ?” she said, with 
marked surprise. 

“T have a question to ask, if you 
please, Miss Main,” said the handsome 
young lady, with great coolness and 
deliberation (and all the school was now 
listening intently.) “I wish to ask 
what sort of society we are expected to 
meet when we go abroad, and whether 
foreigners are in the habit of using 
language which is not usually applied 
to ladies in this country. Half an hour 
ago, when we were having our German 
conversation with Dr. Siedl, he made 
use of a very odd phrase, and I believe 
it was addressed to me. He said ‘ You 
devil!’ I only wish to ask, Miss Main, 
whether we must be prepared to hear 
such phrases in the conversation of 

The schoolmistress’s thin, grey, care- 
worn face grew red with mortification. 
Yet, what could she do? There was 

No. 195.—voL. xxxill, 

nothing openly rebellious in the demea- 
nour of this incorrigible girl—nothing, 
indeed, but a cool impertinence which 
was outwardly most respectful. 

“You may return to your seat, Miss 
North,” she said, rising. “I will inquire 
into this matter at once.” 

Miss Main, who was the proprietor 
as well as the head-mistress of the 
school, was greatly perturbed by this 
incident ; and she was quite nervous 
and excited when she went into the 
room where the German master still 
sate, correcting some exercises. "When 
he saw her enter, he rose at once; he 
guessed from her manner what had 
happened. The young man in the 
shabby clothes was even more excited 
than she was ; and why? Because, two 
years before, he had left his home in 
the old-fashioned little fortress of 
Neisse, in Silesia, and he had bade 
good-bye then to a young girl whom he 
hoped to make his wife. England 
was a rich country. A few years of 
absence would put money in his pocket; 
and he would return with a good Eng- 
lish pronunciation, which would be of 
value. So he came to England ; but he 
did not find the streets paved with 
gold. It was after long waiting that 
he got his first appointment ; and that 
appointment was the German master- 
ship at Miss Main’s school. At the 
present moment he believed he had for- 
feited this one chance, 

He came forward to her; and she 
might have seen that there was some- 


194 Madcap Violet. 

thing very like tears in his pale blue 

“Yes, she has told you, and it is 
qvite true,” said he, throwing out his 
hands. “ What can I say? But if you 
will forgif it, I will apolochise to her—I 
was mad—I do not know how I haf 
said soch a ting to a young lady, but I 
will apolochise to her, Meess Main F 

Miss Main had pulled herself together 
by this time. 

‘Really, Ido not know what to do 
with her, Dr. Siedl,” said she, in a sort 
of despairing way. “I have no doubt 
she irritated you beyond endurance; and 
although Iam afraid you must apologise 
to her, I can quite understand how you 
were maddened by her. Sometimes, I 
do think she is a devil ; that she has 
no human soul in her. She thinks of 
nothing but mischief from morning till 
night ; and the worst of it is, that she 
leads the whole school into mischief, for 
all the girls appear to be fascinated by 
her and wil] do anything she asks. I 
don’t understand it. You know how often 
I have threatened her with expulsion : 
she does not mind. Sometimes I think 
I must really get rid of her; for it is 
almost impossible to preserve the dis- 
cipline of the school while she is in 

The German master was so overjoyed 
to find his own position secured and 
his offence practically condoned that 
he grew generous. 

‘** And she is so clafer,” said he. 

“Clever?” repeated the schoolmis- 
tress. ‘‘ During the whole of my twenty- 
five years’ experience in schools, I have 
never seen a scholar to equal her. There 
is nothing she cannot do when she 
takes it into her head todoit. You 
saw how she ran up her marks in 
French and German last term—and 
almost at the end of the term—merely 
because she had a spite against Miss 
Wolf, and was determined she should 
not have the two prizes that she ex- 
pected. And that is another part of the 
mischief she does. Whenever she takes 
a special liking to a girl, she does her 
exercises for her in the evening. It 
costs her no tronble ; and then she has 
them ready to go with her in every 

frolic. Iam sure I don’t know what 
to do with her.” 

The schoolmistress sighed. 

“You see,” she added, with a frank 
honesty, “it is naturally a great thing 
for a school like mine to have the 
daughter of Sir Acton North in it. 
Everybody has heard of him; then 
the girls go home and tell their mothers 
that a daughter of Lady North is at 
our school; then the mothers—you 
know what some people are—talk of 
that to their friends, and speak of Lady 
North as if they had known her all 
their lives. I do not know Lady North 
myself, but I am sure she is a wise 
woman not to have this girl in the 
same house with her.” 

After a few words more, Miss Main 
went back to the school-room ; and we 
must do likewise to narrate all that be- 
fel in her absence. First of all it was 
the invidious duty of a small, fair- 
haired, gentle-eyed girl, called Amy 
Warrener, to take a slate and write 
down on it the names of any of her 
companions who spoke while Miss 
Main was out of the room, failing to do 
which she was deprived of her marks 
for the day. Now, on this occasion, a 
pretty considerable tumult arose, and 
the little girl, looking frightened, and 
pretty nearly ready to cry, did not know 
what to do. 

“Yes, you mean, spiteful little 
thing!” cried a big, fat, roseate girl, 
called Georgina Wolf, “put down all 
our names, do! I’ve a good mind to 
box your ears!” 

She menaced the little girl, but only 
for a brief second. With a rapid “Have 
you really?” another young lady—the 
tallest in the school—appeared on the 
scene ; and Miss Wolf received a ring- 
ing slap on the side of her head, which 
made her jump back, shrieking. The 
school was awe-struck. Never had such 
a thing occurred before. But pre- 
sently one girl laughed, then another ; 
then there was a general titter over 
Miss Wolf's alarm and discomfiture ; 
during whieh the tall young lady called 

“Amy Warrener, put us all down, 
and me at the head; for we are going 


Ae Ss Ls eC! 

PO o,.0 8B MH m 

“ot | 

os Orm oO 



Madcap Violet. 

to have a little amusement. Young 
ladies, shall I deliver a lecture to you 
on Old Calabar and our sewing-class ? 
Young ladies, shall we have a little 
music ?” 

She had suddenly assumed the prim 
demeanour of Miss Main. With great 
gravity she walked over to the door, 
locked it, and put the key in her pocket. 
Then she went to her own desk, smug- 
gled something into a light shawl, and 
proceeded to the mistress’s table, behind 
which she took her stand. 

“ Young ladies,” she said, pretend- 
ing to look at them through an ima- 
ginary pair of eye-glasses, j“ you are 
aware that it is the shocking practice 
of the little boys and girls in many 
districts of Africa to go about without 
clothes ; and you are aware of the Cam- 
berwell Society for helping the mis- 
sionaries to take out a few garments to 
these poor little things. Now, my dears, 
it is a useful thing for a seminary like 
mine to gain a reputation for being 
charitable ; and if we manage amongst 
ourselves to send from month to month 
parcels of beautifully-sewn garments, 
every one must get to know how well I 
teach you, my dears, to handle your 
needle. But then, my dears, you musi 
not all expect to join in this good work. 
You all get the credit of being chari- 
table ; but some of you are not so smart 
with your needle as others; and so I 
think it better to have the sewing of 
these garments entrusted to one or 
two of you, who ought to feel proud 
of the distinction. Do you understand 
me, my dears? Now some of you, I 
have no doubt, would like to see what 
sort of young people wear the beautiful 
dresses which your pocket-money and 
your industry send out to Africa. I 
have here the little pink frock which 
you, Miss Morrison, finished yesterday ; 
and if you will grant me a moment’s 

She took the pink frock from the 
table, and for a second or two stooped 
down behind the table-cover. Wren 
she rose, it appeared that she had 
smuggled a large black doll into the 
school ; and now the black and curly 
head of the doll surmounted the pink 


cotton garment with its white frills. 
There was a yell of laughter. She 
stuck the doll on the edge of the table ; 
she put a writing-desk behind it to 
support it ; she hit it on the side of the 
head when it did not sit straight. An 
indescribable tumult followed: all 
possible consequences were cast aside. 

“ Now, my dears, what hymn shall 
we sing to entertain the little stranger ? 
Shall it be ‘Away down south in 

The school had gone mad. With one 
accord the girls began to sheut the 
familiar air to any sort of words, led 
by the tall young lady behind the 
table, who flourished a ruler in place of 
a béton. She did not know the words 
herself ; she simply led the chorus with 
any sort of phrases. 

“* Oh it’s Dixie's land that I was born in, 
Early on a frosty morning, 
In the land! In the land } In the land! 
In the land!” 

“ A little more spirit, my dears! A 
little louder, if you please!” 

** Oh I wish I was in Dixie, oho! oho! 
In Dixie's land to take my stand, 
And live and die in Dixie's land, 

Oho! Oho! 
Away down South in Dixie!” 

“That's better. Now pianissino— 
the sadness of thinking about Dixie— 
you understand ¢” 

They sang it softly; and she pre- 
tended to wipe the eyes of the negro 
doll in the pink dress. 

“Now, fortissimo /” 
flourishing her baton. 
for the last time. 
me, my dears!” 

** Oh I wish I was in Dixie, 
Oho! Oho! 
In Dizxic’s land to take my stand,‘ 
And live and die in Dizxic’s land, 
Oho! Ohot 
Away down South in Dixie!” 

But the singing of this verse had 
been accompanied by certain strange 

“Open the door, Miss North, or I 
will break it open!” called the mis- 
tress from without, in awful tones. 

“My dears, resume your tasks— 
instantly!” said Miss Violet North ; 

o 2 

she cried, 
“Going, going, 
Take the word from 


and with that she snatched the doll out 
of the pink costume, and hurriedly 
flung it into her private desk. Then 
she walked to the door alone. 

The hubbub had instantly subsided. 
All eyes were bent upon the books 
before them; but all ears were listen- 
ing for the dreadful interview between 
Violet North and the schoolmistress. 

The tall young girl, having made 
quite sure that her companions were 
quiet and orderly, opened the door. 
The mistress marched in in a terrible 
rage—in such a rage that she could 
hardly speak. 

“Miss North,” she cried, “ what is 
the meaning of this disgraceful uproar?” 

“Uproar, Miss Main?” said she, 
with innocent wonder. “The young 
ladies are very quiet.” 

“‘ What is the meaning of your hav- 
ing bolted this door—how dare you 
bolt the door?” 

“Yes, I thought there was something 
the matter with the lock,” she answered, 
scanning the door critically. ‘ But you 
ought not to be vexed by that. And 
now I will bid you good morning.” 

Thus she saved herself from being 
expelled. She coolly walked into an 
adjacent room, put on her hat, took her 
small umbrella, and went out. As it 
was a pleasant morning, she thought she 
would go fora walk. 


Tus girl was as straight as a dart ; and 
she knew how to suit her costume to 
her fine figure, her bright and clear 
complexion, and her magnificent black 
hair. She wore a tight-fitting, tight- 
sleeved dress of grey homespun, and a 
grey hat with a scarlet feather—this 
bold dash of red being the only bit 
of pronounced colour about her. There 
was no self-conscious trickery of orna- 
ment visible on her costume—indeed, 
there was no self-consciousness of any 
sort about the girl. She had a thoroughly 
pagan delight in the present moment. 
The past was nothing to her; she had 
no fear of the future ; life was enjoy- 

Madcap Violet. 

able enough from hour to hour, and she 
enjoyed it accordingly. She never paused 
to think how handsome she was, for she 
was tolerably indifferent as to what other 
people thought of her. She was well- 
satisfied with herself, and well satisfied 
with the world—especially when there 
was plenty of fun going about ; her fine 
health gave her fine spirits ; her “bold, 
careless, self-satisfied nature took no 
heed of criticism or reproof, and caused 
her to laugh at the ordinary troubles of 
girl-life ; not even this great fact that 
she had practically run away from school 
was sufficient to upset her superb 

Incessit regina. There was nothing 
of the gawky and shambling schoolgirl 
in her free, frank step, and her erect 
and graceful carriage. When she met 
either man or woman, she looked him 
or her straight in the face; then pro- 
bably turned her eyes away indifferently 
to regard the flight of a rook, or the 
first blush of rose-colour on a red haw- 
thorn. For, on leaving school, Miss 
North found herself in the higher 
reaches of Camberwell Grove, and in 
this richly-wooded district,the glad new 
life of the spring was visible in the 
crisp, uncurled leaves of the chestnuts, 
and in the soft green of the mighty 
elms, and in the white and purple of the 
lilacs in the gardens of the quaint, old- 
fashioned houses, Never had any spring 
come to us so quickly as thatone. All 
England had lain black and cold under 
the grip of a hard and tenacious winter ; 
even the end of March found us with 
bitter east winds, icy roads, and leafless 
trees. Then all of a sudden camesouth 
winds and warm rains ; and the wet, grey 
skies parted at times to give usa brilliant 
glimpse of blue. The work of trans- 
formation was magical in its swiftness. 
Far away in secret places the subtle fire 
of the earth upsprang in pale primroses, 
in sweet violets, and in the glossy and 
golden celandine that presaged the 
coming of buttercups into the meadows. 
The almond trees, even in suburban 
gardens, shone out with a sudden glow 
of pink and purple. The lilac bushes 
opened their green leaves to the warm 
rains. ‘The chestnuts unclasped their 

Madcap Violet. 

resinous buds. And then, with a great 
wild splendour of blue sky and warm 
sunlight, the bountiful, mild, welcome 
spring came fully upon us; and all the 
world was filled with the laden blos- 
soms of fruit trees, and the blowing of 
sweet winds, and the singing of thrushes 
and blackbirds. To be abroad on such 
a morning was better than sitting over 
an Italian exercise in Miss Main’s 

“What sort of tree is that?” Miss 
Violet North asked of a little boy: a 
particular tree in oneof the old-fashioned 
gardens had struck her fancy. 

‘‘Dunnow,” said the boy, sulkily. 

“Then why don’t you know, you 
little fool, you!” she said indifferently 
passing on. 

She crossed Grove Lane, and went 
along the summit of Champion Hill, 
under the shade of a magnificent row of 
chestnuts. Could leaves be greener, 
could the sweet air be sweeter, could the 
fair spring sunshine be more brilliant 
in the remotest of English valleys? 
Here were country-looking houses, with 
sloping gardens, and little fancy farms 
attached ; here were bits of woodland, the 
remains of the primeval forest, allowed 
to grow up into a sort of wilderness ; 
here were rooks flying about their nests, 
and thrushes busy on the warm green 
lawns, and blackbirds whirring from 
one laurel-bush to another. She walked 
along to the end of this thoroughfare 
until she came to a lane which led 
abruptly down hill, facing the south. 
Far away below her lay the green 
meadows of Dulwich ; and beyond the 
trees, and looking pale and spectral in 

the glare of the heat, rose the towers of: 

the Crystal Palace. That was enough. 
She had nothing particular to do. 
Walking was a delight to her on such 
@ morning. Without any specific 
resolve she indolently set out for the 
Crystal Palace. 

There was indolence in her purpose, 
but none in her gait. She walked 
smartly enough down the steep and 
semi-private thoroughfare which is 
called Green Lane; she crossed the 
pleasant meadows by the narrow path- 
way; she got out upon the Dulwich 


road, and so continued her way to the 
Palace. But she was not to reach the 
goal of her journey without en adven- 

She was just passing the gateway 
leading up to a large house when a 
negro-page, very tall, very black, and 
wearing a bottle-green livery, with scar- 
let cuffs and collar, came out of the 
garden into the road, followed by a 
little terrier. The appearance of this 
lanky black boy amused her; and so, 
as a friendly mark of recognition, she 
drew her umbrella across the ground in 
front of the terrier just as she was 
passing, and said, “Pfst!” But this 
overture was instantly rejected by tho 
terrier, which turned upon her with 
voluble rage, yelping, barking, coming 
nearer and nearer, and threatening to 
spring upon her. For a second she 
retreated in dismay ; then, as she saw 
that the negro-boy was more frightened 
than herself, she became wildly angry. 

“Why don’t you take your dog 
away ?” she cried, “‘ you—you stick of 
black sealing-wax !” 

In this moment of dire distress help 
came to her from an unexpected quarter. 
A young gentleman quickly crossed the 
road, approached the irate terrier from 
the rear, and gave the animal a sharp 
cut with his walking-stick. The ra- 
pidity of this flank movement com- 
pletely took the terrier by surprise ; with 
a yelp, more of alarm and astonishment 
than of pain, it fled into the garden 
and was seen no more. 

Violet North looked up—and now 
her face was consciously red, for she 
had been ignominiously caught in a 

“T am sorry you should have been 
alarmed,” said the young man; and 
he had a pleasant voice. 

“Yes, the nasty little beast!” said 
she; and then recollecting that that 
was not the manner in which a stranger 
should be addressed, she said, “I thank 
you very much for driving the dog 
away—it was very kind of you.” 

“Oh, it was nothing,” said he; “I 
am very glad I happened to be by.’ 

For about the fifteenth part of a 
second he paused irresolutely ; then he 

198 Madcap Viclet. 

quickly lifted his hat, said, ‘ Good 
morning!” and passed on in front of 

She looked after him. Had she 
ever seen so handsome, so beautiful 
a young man? Never! 

Just at the present moment several 
of our English artists are very 
fond of painting a particular type of 
feminine beauty—a woman with a low 
and broad forehead, large, indolent, 
sleepy blue eyes, thin cheeks, short upper 
lip, full under lip, somewhat square 
jaw, and magnificent throat. It is a 
beautiful head enough—languid, unin- 
tellectual, semi-sensuous, but beautiful. 
Now this young man was as near as 
possible a masculine version of that 
indolent, beautiful, mystic-eyed woman 
whose face one meets in dusky corners 
of drawing-rooms, or in the full glare 
of exhibitions, He was no mere 
roseate youth, flabby-cheeked and curly- 
locked, such as a school-girl might try 
to paint in crude water-colours. His 
appearance was striking; there was 
something refined, special, character- 
istic about his features ; and, moreover, 
he had not cropped his hair as our 
modern youths are wont to do—the 
short wavy locks of light brown nearly 
reached his shirt-collar. For the rest 
he was sparely built, perhaps about 
five feet eight, square-shouldered, light 
and active in figure. Was there any 
harm in a school-girl admitting to her- 
self that he was a very good-looking 
young man? 

Walking about the Crystal Palace by 
one’s-self is not the most exciting of 
amusements. The place was very fa- 
miliar to Miss North ; and she had lost 
interest in the copper-coloured abori- 
gines, and in the wonderful pillar of 
gold. But she had one little bit of 
enjoyment. She caught sight of a 
small boy, who, when nobody was look- 
ing, was trying to “job” one of the 
cockatoos with the end of a toy-whip. 
Well, also when nobody was looking, 
she took occasion to get behind this 
little boy, and then she gave him a 
gentle push, which was just sufficient 
to let the cockatoo, making a downward 
dip at his enemy’s head, pull out a 

goodly tuft of hair. There was a 
frightful squeal of alarm from the boy ; 
but in a second she was round in some 
occult historical chamber, studying with 
becoming gravity the lessons taught us 
by the tombs of Kings. 

Then she became very hungry, and 
she thought she would go and have 
some luncheon. When she entered 
the dining-room she was a little shy— 
not much; but she was speedily at- 
tended by a friendly old waiter, who 
quite put her at her ease. When he 
asked her what she would take, she 
was on the point of answering, “ Cold 
beef, if you please,” as she would have 
done at school, but she suddenly be- 
thought herself that, being in a restau- 
rant, she might have something better, 
and so she asked for the bill of fare, 
scanned it, and finally ordered an oyster 
paté and a couple of lamb cutlets, with 
green peas and tomatoes. 

“ And what will you take to drink, 
miss?” said the old waiter. 

“Some water, thank you,” she said ; 
but directly afterwards she added, 
“ Wait a moment—I think I will take 
a glass of sherry, if you please.” 

So the waiter departed; and she 
turned to glance at her surroundings. 
The first thing she noticed, much to 
her surprise aud mortification, was that 
she had inadvertently sat down at the 
table at which, on the opposite side 
and further along, the young man was 
having lunch to whom she had spoken 
in the morning. She was annoyed. 
What must he think of a young lady 
who went wandering about the country 
by herself, and coolly walked into restau- 
rants to order cutlets and sherry? It 
was rather a strange circumstance that 
Miss North should be troubled by this 
conjecture ; for she rarely, if ever, paid 
the least attention to what people 
might think of her; but on this occa- 
sion she began to wish she might have 
some opportunity of explaining her 

The opportunity occurred. That 
friendly old waiter had apparently for- 
gotten the order; anyhow, the girl 
sate there patiently, and nothing was 
brought to her. She wished to attract 

a a ee ee ee 

Madcap Violet. 

the attention of the waiter, and made 
one or two attempts, but failed. Seeing 
the plight she was in, the young 
gentleman on the other side of the 
table made bold to address her, and 

“T beg your pardon, but I fear they 
are not attending to you. Will you 
allow me to speak to one of the 
waiters }” 

“T wish you would,” she said, blush- 
ing a little bit. 

The young man walked off and got 
hold of the manager, to whom he made 
his complaint. Then he came back ; 
and Miss North was more anxious than 
ever to justify herself in his eyes. The 
notion was becoming quite desperate 
that he might go away thinking she 
knew s0 little of propriety as to be in 
the habit of frequenting restaurants all 
by herself. 

“T am very much obliged to you— 
again,” she said, with something of an 
embarrassed smile. “I believed they 
meant to punish me for going away 
from school.” 

“ From school #” said he, doubtfully ; 
and he drew his chair a little nearer. 
“ Yes,” said she, resolved at any cost 

to put herself right in his opinion. “I 
ought to have been at school. I—I 
walked away—and one gets hungry, 
you know. I—TI thought it was better 
to come in here.” 

“Oh yes, certainly,” said he ; “ why 

“*T have always been left a good deal 
to myself,” said this anxious young 
lady, leading up to her grand coup. 
“My father is always away looking 
after railways, and I dislike my step- 
mother, so that I am never at home. 
Of course you have heard of my father’s 
name—Sir Acton North?” 

Now she was satisfied. He would 
know she was not some giddy maid- 
servant out for a holiday. She uttered 
the words clearly, so that there should 
be no mistake, and perhaps a trifle 
proudly ; then she waited for him to 
withdraw his chair again and resume 
his luncheon, But he did nothing of 
the sort. 

“Oh yes,” said he, with a respectful 


earnestness, “every one has heard of Sir 
Acton North. I am very pleased that 
—that I have been of any little ser- 
vice to you. I daresay, now, you have 
heard of my father, too — George 

“No, I haven't,” she said, seriously, 
as though her ignorance of that dis- 
tinguished name were a grave blot on 
her bringing up. 

‘Well, you know,” said the hand- 
some young man, “he is pretty well 
known as a merchant, but better known 
as a Protestant. He takes the chairs at 
meetings, and gives big subscriptions, 
and all that kind of thing. I believe 
the Pope can’t sleep in his bed o’ nights 
on account of him.” 

“‘T—TI think I have heard of him,” 
said Miss North, conscious that she 
ought to know something of so import- 
ant a person. 

At this point she was distinctly of 
opinion that the conversation should 
cease. Young ladies are not supposed 
to talk to young gentlemen to whom 
they have not been introduced, even 
although they may have heard of each 
other’s parents as being distinguished 
people. But George Miller the younger 
seemed an affable, easily-pleased young 
man, who had a frank smile, and an 
obvious lack of stiffness and circum- 
spection in his nature. They had 
brought her the oyster pété ; now came 
the cutlets. 

“That was the mistake you made,” 
said he, venturing to smile. “ When 
you are in a hurry you should not 
order out-of-the-way things, or they 
are sure to keep you waiting.” 

“T never came into a restaurant by 
myself before,” she said, with some 
asperity: would this foolish young 
man persist in the notion that sho 
habitually ordered luncheon in such a 
fashion ? 

“ What school was it you left, may I 
ask ?” said he, with a friendly interest 
in his eyes. 

“Oh!” she answered, with a return 
to her ordinary careless manner, “ Miss 
Main’s Seminary in Camberwell Grove, 
I knew she was going to expel me. 
We had had a little amusement when 


she was out of the room—a little too 
much noise, in fact— and though 
she has often threatened to expel me, 
I saw by her face she meant mischief 
this time. SoTIleft, Whata pleasant 
morning it was for a walk !” 

* Yes,” said he, looking rather puz- 
sled ; “ but—but—what are you going 
to do now?” 

“Now? Oh, I don’t know! There 
will be plenty of time for me to settle 
where I am going when I get back to 

“ Are you going back to London all 
by yourself?” 

“I came here by myself: 
not ?” 

“Well,” said he, with some real 
anxiety, “ it is rather an unusual thing 
for a young lady to be going about like 
that. I think you ought to—to go 
home “ 

“‘ My father is in Yorkshire ; I would 
rather not go to see my stepmother. 
We should have rather a warm evening 
of it, I imagine,” she added, frankly. 

“ Where, then —— ?” 

“Oh, I know where to go!” she 
said, indifferently. “There is a little 
girl at the school I am very fond of, 
and she is very fond of me; and she 
and her mother live with her uncle in 
Camberwell Grove, not far from the 
school. They will take me in, I know ; 
they are very kind people. He is rather 
a strange man—Mr. Drummond—you 
never can tell whether he is serious 
or joking. And he says very queer 
things ; and sometimes he laughs pro- 
digiously at jokes that nobody else can 
see to be jokes o 

“‘T should say he was mad.” 

“Oh no; he is not!” she said, 
abruptly. ‘You are quite mistaken. 
He is the very nicest gentleman I 

Did she fancy that he looked an- 
noyed? She hastily added, in a light 

“ He is an old man, you know—or at 
least. middle aged—over thirty, I should 

By this time she had finished her 
luncheon—the young man had neglected 
his altogether—and she asked the waiter 


Madcap Violet. 

for her bill. She certainly had plenty 
of money in her purse; she gave the 
old gentleman who had systematically 
not attended to her a shilling for 

“ Would you allow me to see you 
into a carriage,” timidly suggested Mr. 
George Miller, “if you are going up by 
rail ?” 

“Oh no!” she said, with a confident 
smile, ‘‘I can take care of myself.” 

Which was true. 

“Then,” said he, “‘ Miss North, I am 
afraid I cannot claim you as an ac- 
quaintance—because—because our meet- 
ing has been rather—rather informal, 
as it were; but would you allow me, 
supposing I were introduced to your 
father ——-” 

“ Oh, I should like you to know my 
father well enough,” said she, honestly. 

“That was not what I meant ex- 
actly,” said he. “I meant that if I 

got to know your father, that would be 

a sort of equivalent—don’t you think ? 

—to a formal introduction to you.” 
Thegirlvery nearly burst out laughing. 

“T think we are pretty well intro- 
duced already,” said she, ‘‘by means of 
a terrier-dog and a stupid waiter. Thank 
you very much for your kindness. Good 

She was going away with her ordi- 
nary erect carriage and careless bearing, 
when he suddenly put out his hand to 
shake hands with her. She had risen 
by this time. Well, she could not be 
guilty of the discourtesy of a refusal ; 
and so she allowed him to shake hands 
with her. 

“T hope this is not the last time we 
shall meet,” said he, with an earnestness 
which rather surprised her, and which 
she did not fail to remember when she 
got into the quiet corner of a railway 
carriage, Did he really wish to see her 
again? Was there a chance of their 
meeting? What would properly-con- 
ducted people say of her adventures of 
that morning ? 

She did not care much. She got out 
at Denmark Hill Station, and placidly 
walked up to the house of Mr. James 
Drummond, which was situated near the 
top of Camberwell Grove. 

Madcap Violet. 


Tas house was rather like a toy-cottage 
—a long, low, rambling place, with a 
verandah all round, ivy trained up the 
pillars, French windows, small peaked 
gables, some few trees and bushes in 
front, and a good garden behind. Miss 
North did not wait for an answer to 
her summons. She bethought herself 
that she would be sure to find Mr. 
Drummond, or his widowed sister, Mrs. 
Warrener, or his niece, Amy Warrener, 
in the garden ; and soshe made her way 
round the house by a side path. Here, 
indeed, she found Mr. Drummond. He 
was seated in the verandah, in a big 
reading chair; one leg’ was crossed 
over the other ; he was smoking a long 
clay pipe; but, instead of improving 
his mind by reading, he was simply 
idling and dreaming—looking out on 
the bushes and the blossom-laden trees, 
over which a dusky red sky was now 
beginning to burn. 

He jumped up from his seat when he 
saw her, and rather unwisely began to 
laugh. He was a tall, thin, somewhat 
ungainly man, with curiously irregular 
features, the expression of which seldom 
remained the same for a couple of 
seconds together. Yet there was some- 
thing attractive about this strange face— 
about its keen, vivacious intelligence 
and its mobile tendency to laugh ; and 
there was no doubt about the fine cha- 
racter of the eyes—full, clear, quick to 
apprehend, and yet soft and winning. 
Violet North had a great liking and 
regard for this friend of hers ; but some- 
times she stood a little in awe of him. 
She could not altogether follow his 
quick, playful humour ; she was always 
suspecting sarcasm behind his drolleries ; 
it was clear to her that, whatever was 
being talked about, he saw far more 
than she or anybody else saw, for he 
would suddenly burst into a prodigious 
roar of merriment over some point or 
other wholly invisible to her or to his 
sister. The man, indeed, had all the 
childish fun of 2 man of genius; anda 
man of genius he undoubtedly was, 
though he had never done anything to 


show to the world, nor was likely to do 
anything. Early in life he had been 
cursed by a fatal inheritance of some- 
where about 6002 a year, He was 
incurably indolent—that is to say, his 
brain was on the hop, skip, and jump 
from morning till night, performing all 
manner of intellectual feats for his own 
private amusement; but as for any 
settled work, or settled habits, he would 
have nothing of either. He was a very 
unworldly person—careless of the ordi- 
nary aims of the life around him; but 
he had elaborated a vast amount of 
theories to justify his indolence. He 
belonged to a good family; he never 
called on his rich or distinguished rela- 
tives. At college he was celebrated as a 
brilliant and ready debater; and as a 
capricious, whimsical, but altogether de- 
lightful conversationalist ; he was fairly 
studious, and obviously clear-headed ; 
yet no one ever left a University with 
less of glory surrounding him. He had 
a large number of friends, and they all 
loved him ; but they knew his faults. 
He had no more notion of time than a 
bird or a butterfly ; he was scarcely ever 
known to catch the train for which he 
set out; but then what ill-temper on 
the part of a companion could withstand 
the perfectly happy fashion in which 
he would proceed to show that a rail- 
way-station was an excellent place for 
reflection? Then he had a bewildering 
love of paradox—especially puzzling to 
a certain ingenuous ycung lady who 
sometimes sat and mutely listened to 
his monologues. Then he was very un- 
fair in argument; he would patiently 
lead his opponent on in the hope that 
at last this unprincipled debater was 
about to be driven into a corner—when 
lo! there was some sort of twitch about 
the odd face, a glimmer of humour in 
the fine eyes, and with some prepos- 
terous joke he was off, like a squirrel 
up a tree, leaving his antagonist dis- 
comfited below. 

He led his sister a hard life of it. 
The pale, little, fair-haired woman had 
a great faith in her brother; she be- 
lieved him to be the best and the 
cleverest man that ever lived ; and no one 
with less good-nature than herself could 


have listened patiently to the whim- 
sical extravagances of this incorrigible 
talker. For the worst about him was that 
he made remarks at random—suggested 
by the book he was reading, or by 
some passing circumstance—and then, 
when his puzzled interlocutor was try- 
ing to comprehend him, he was off to 
something else, quite unconscious that 
he had left the other a continent 
ora century behind him. Sometimes, 
indeed, he made a wild effort to show 
that this or that abrupt observation was 
a-propos to something—which it never 

“Do you know,” he would say to his 
patient sister, “I fancy I see something 
in Fawcett of a sort of political Shelley.” 

A moment's silence, 

“Yes, James,” his sister would say, 
seriously, “ but in what way?” 

Another moment’s silence. 

“Oh, about Fawcett? Well, I was 
thinking, do you know, that if the 
House of Commons were to introduce a 
Bill securing universal suflrage, this 
little terrier here would die of despair 
and disgust. That is the one weak 
point about dogs—you can’t convey to 
them any impression of moral grandeur. 
It is all fine clothes with them, and 
gentlemanly appearance — the virtues 
hidden beneath a shabby costume are un- 
known to them. Frosty, here, would 
wag her tail and welcome the biggest 
swindler that ever brought out sham 
companies ; but she would be suspicious 
of the honest workman ; and she would 
snap at the calves of the most deserving 
of beggars. Sarah, you really must cease 
that habit of yours of indiscriminate 
almsgiving—fancy the impostors you 
must be encouraging ——’” 

His sister opened her eyes in mild 

“Why, it was only yesterday you 
gave that old Frenchman half-a- 
crown ss 

“ Well,” said he uncomfortably, “well 
—you see—I thought that—that even 
if he was shamming, he looked such an 
unfortunate poor devil—but that is only 
a single case. There is a systematic 
outrage on your part, Sarah, of the com- 
mon principles of prudence P 

Madcap Violet, 

“ You do it far more than I do,” she 
said, with a quiet laugh ; and so she 
went her way, only she had got no in- 
formation as to how Mr. Fawcett re- 
sembled a political Shelley. 

Only one word needs to be added at 
present to this hasty and imperfect 
description of a bright and sparkling 
human individuality, the thousand facets 
of which could never be seen at once 
and from the same stand-point. There 
was no jealousy in the man’s nature of 
men who were more successful in the 
world than himself. He had a sort of 
profession—that is to say, he occa- 
sionally wrote articles for this or that 
learned review. But he was far too 
capricious and uncertain to be entrusted 
with any sustained and continuous 
work ; and, indeed, even with inci- 
dental work, he frequently vexed the 
soul of the most indulgent of editors. 
No one could guess what view of a par- 
ticular book or question he might not 
take at a moment’s notice. Of course, 
if it had not been for'that fatal 6007. a 
year, he might have been put in harness, 
and accomplished some substantial work. 
Even if he had had any extravagant 
tastes, something in that way might 
have been done ; but the little house- 
hold lived very economically (except as 
regards charity and the continual giving 
of presents to friends), its chief and im- 
portant expense being the cost of a long 
and happy holiday in the autumn. 
There was no jealousy, as I have said, 
in Drummond’s nature over the success 
of more practical men; no grudging, no 
detraction, no spite. The fire of his life 
burnt too keenly and joyously to have 
any smoke about it. 

“Mind you,” he would say—always 
to his consentient audience of one. “It 
is aserious thing for a man to endea- 
vour to become famous. He cannot 
tell until he tries—and tries for years— 
whether there is anything in him ; and 
then look at the awful risk of failure 
and life-long disappointment. You see, 
when once you enter the race for fame 
or for great riches, you can’t very well 
give in. You’re bound in honour not 
to give in. The presence of rivals all 
round you—and what is stronger still, 

Madcap Violet. 

the envious cavilling of the disappointed 
people, and the lecturing you get from 
the feebler Jabberwocks of criticism— 
all that kind of thing must, I should 
fancy, drive a man on in spite of him- 
self. But don’t you think it is wiser 
for people who are not thrust into the 
race by some unusual consciousness of 
power to avoid it altogether and live 
a quieter and more peaceable life ?” 

Sarah did think so; she was always 
sure that her brother was right, even 
when he flatly contradicted himself, and 
he generally did that half-a-dozen times 
in the day. 

“Well, Miss Violet,” he said to the 
young lady who had suddenly presented 
herself before him, “I hear you have 
rather distinguished yourself to-day.” 

“ Yes,” she said, with an embarrassed 
laugh, “I believe I have done it this 

“And what do you mean to do 
now ¢” 

“T don’t know.” 

“ And don’t care, perhaps?” 

“ Not much.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. But at 
this moment his sister came through 
the small drawing-room into the ve- 
randah ; and there was far more concern 
visible on her face. Mr. Drummond 
seemed to have but a speculative interest 
in this curious human phenomenon ; but 
his sister had a vivid affection for the 
girl who had befriended her daughter 
at school and become her sworn ally 
and champion. Both of them, it is 
true, were considerably attracted towards 
Miss North. To him there was some- 
thing singularly fascinating in her 
fine, unconscious enjoyment of the 
mere fact of living, in her audacious 
frankness, and even in the shrewd, clear 
notions about things that had got into 
her schoolgirl brain. In many respects 
this girl was more a woman of the 
world than her gentle friend and timid 
adviser, Mrs. Warrener. As for Mrs. 
Warrener, she had almost grown to love 
this bold, frank, sincere, plain-spoken 
companion of her daughter; but she 
derived no amusement, as her brother 
did, from the girl’s wild ways and love 
of fun, which occasionally made her 


rather anxious. To her it was not al- 
ways a laughing matter. 

“Oh, Violet,” she said, “ what have 
you been about this time? What can 
we do for you?” 

‘Well, not very much, I am afraid,” 
was the rueful answer. 

Apparently Miss Violet was rather 
ashamed of her exploit ; and yet there was 
a curious, half-concealed, comic expression 
about the face of the penitent which did 
not betoken any great self-abasement. 

“Shall I take you home?” said 
James Drummond, “and get your 
parents to come over and intercede for 

“No,” she said, “ that would be no 
use ; my father is in Yorkshire.” 

“ But Lady North - 

“T should like to see my stepmother 
go out of her way the length of a yard 
on my account! She never did like 
me ; but she has hated me worse than 
ever since Euston Square.” 

“ Euston Square 

“Yes,” continued the girl, “ don’t 
you know that I am a sort of equiva- 
lent for Euston Square ?” 

“This is becoming serious,” said Mr. 
Drummond, “ if you are about to amuse 
us with conundrums we had better all sit 
down. Here is achairfor you. Sarah, 
sit down. And so you were saying that 
you were an equivalent, Miss Violet?” 

“Yes,” she observed, coolly folding 
her hands on her knees. “ It is nota 
very long story. You know my step- 
mother was never a very fashionable 
person. Her father—well, her father 
built rows of cheap villas in the 
suburbs, on speculation ; and he lived 
in Highbury ; and he told you the price 
of the wines at dinner—you know the 
kind of man. But when she married 
my father”—there was always a touch 
of pride in the way Miss North said 
“my father ’’—“ she had a great notion 
of getting from Highbury to Park Lane, 
or Palace Gardens, or Lancaster Gate, 
or some such place, and having a big 
house and trying to get into society. 
Well, you see, that would not suit my 
father at all. He almost lives on rail- 
ways ; he isnot oncea week in London ; 
and he knows Euston Square a good 


deal better than Belgravia. So he pro- 
posed to my stepmother that if she 
would consent to havea house in Euston 
Square, for his convenience, he would 
study her convenience and comfort, by 
allowing me to remain permanently at 
a boarding-school ! Do you see? I can 
tell you I rejoiced when I heard of that 
bargain ; for the house that my step- 
mother and I were in was a good deal 
too small for both of us, Yet I don’t 
think she had always the best of it.” 

This admission was made so modestly, 
simply, and unconsciously that Mr. 
Drummond burst into a roar of 
laughter, while his sister looked a trifle 

“What did you do to her?” said he. 

“Oh, women can always find ways 
of annoying each other, when they 
wish it,” she answered, coolly. 

“Well,” said Mr. Drummond, “we 
must see what can be done. Let us 
have a turn in the garden, and talk 
over this pretty situation of affairs.” 

They descended the few steps. Mrs. 

Warrener linked the girl’s arm in hers, 

and took her quietly along the narrow 
garden path. James Drummond walk- 
ing beside them on the lawn. There 
was a strange contrast between the two 
women—the one tall, straight and lithe 
as a willow wand, proud-lipped, frank, 
happy, and courageous of face, with all 
the light of youth and strength shin- 
ing in her eyes; the other tender, 
emall, and wistful, with sometimes an 
anxious and apprehensive contraction 
of the brows. By the side of these 
two the philosopher walked—a long 
and lanky person, stooping somewhat, 
talking a good deal of nonsense to tease 
his companions, ready to explode at a 
moment's notice into a great burst of 
hearty and genuine laughter, and ready 
at the same time to tender any sacrifice, 
however great, that this girl could 
claim of him, or his sister suggest. 
For the rest, it was a beautiful evening 
in this still and secluded suburban 
garden. The last flush of rose-red was 
dying out of the sky, over the great 
masses of blossom on the fruit-trees. 
There was a cooler feeling in the air; 
and the sweet odour of the lilac-bushes 

Madcap Violet. 

seemed to become still more prevailing 
and sweet, 

“Don’t look on me as an encum- 
brance,” said Miss North, frankly. “TI 
only came to you for a bit of advice. 
I shall pull through somehow.” 

“We shall never look upon you as 
an encumbrance, dear,” said Mrs. War- 
rener, in her kindly way. “ You know 
you can always come and stay with us, 
if the worst comes to the worst.” 

“T think that would be the worst 
coming to the best,” said the girl, 

“ My notion,” said Mr. Drummond, 
trying to catch at a butterfly that was 
obviously getting home in a hurry— 
“is that you ought to give Miss Main 
a night to cool down her wrath; and 
then in the morning I will go round 
and intercede for you. I suppose you 
are prepared to apologize to her.” 

“Oh yes,” Miss North said, but not 
with the air of a conscious sinner. 

“Miss Main, I fancy, now,” con- 
tinued the philosopher, “is the sort of 
woman who would be easily pacified. 
So far as I have seen her, there is little 
pretence about her, and no vanity. It 
is only very vain people, you will find, 
who are easily mortified and implacable 
in their resentment. The vain man is 
continually turning his eyes inwards 
and addressing himself thus—‘ Sir, I 
most humbly beg your pardon for having 
brought discomtiture and ridicule on so 
august and important a personage as 
yourself.” He is always worshipping 
that little idol within him ; and if any- 
body throws a pellet of mud at it, he 
will never forgive the insult. A vain 
man * 

“But about Miss Main, James ?” 
said his sister. Sho had never any 
scruple about interrupting him, if any 
business was on hand; for she knew 
that, failing the interruption, he would 
go wandering off all over the world. 

“Oh yes—Miss Main. Well, Miss 
Main, I say, does not appear to be a 
morbidly vain person, likely to be im- 
placable. I think the best thing you 
can do is to stay with us to-night, and 
to-morrow morning I will go round to 

Miss Main, and try to pacify her——” 

Madcap Violet. 

“TI hope you won’t laugh at her, 
James,” his sister suggested. 

“My dear woman, I am the most 
diplomatic person in the world—as, for 
example: we are going in presently to 
dinner. Dinner without a fire in the 
grate is an abomination. Now, if I 
were to suggest to you to have a log of 
wood put on—a regular blazer, for the 
night is becoming chill—something to 
cheer us and attract the eyes, just as 
you always see the eyes of infants 
attracted by flames? And where is 
Amy?” he added, suddenly. 

*‘T have no doubt,” said Miss North, 
with humility, “that Amy is being kept 
out of the way, so that she shan’t meet 
a wicked person like me.” 

‘Indeed, no,” said Mrs. Warrener ; 
though sometimes she certainly did not 
consider Miss Violet’s conduct a good 
example for her daughter. “ Amy is at 
her lessons ; she is coming in to dinner 

‘Oh, do let me go and help her!” 
said the visitor. “And I promise to 
tell her how bad I have been, and how 

I am never going to do so any more.” 
So, for the time, the little party 
was broken up; but it met again in a 
short time, in a quaint little room that 
was cheerfully lit, round a bright table, 
and in view of a big log that was 

blazing in the fireplace. The banquet 
was not a gorgeous one — the little 
household had the simplest tastes—but 
it was flavoured throughout by a friendly 
kindness, a good humour, a sly merri- 
ment that was altogether delightful. 
Then, after the frugal meal was over, 
they drew their chairs into a semi-circle 
before the fire—Mr. Drummond being 
enthroned in his especial reading-chair, 
and having his pipe brought him by his 
niece. Violet North was pretty familiar 
with those quiet, bright, talkative even- 
ings in this little home ; and though at 
times she was a little perplexed by the 
paradoxes of the chief controversialist, 
she was not so much of a school-girl 
as not to perceive the fine, clear intel- 
lectual fire that played about his idle 
talk like summer lightning, while all 
unconsciously to herself she was drink- 
ing in something of the charm of the 


great unworldliness of this little house- 
hold which promised to be of especial 
benefit to a girl of her nature. She did 
not always understand him; but she 
was always delighted with him. Ifthe 
quaint humour of some suggestion was 
rather too recondite for her, she could 
at least recognize the reflection of it in 
his face, and its curious irregular lines. 
Sir Acton North was not aware that 
his daughter was attending two schools ; 
and this one the more important of the 
two. Here she saw nothing but gen- 
tleness and tender helpfulness ; here she 
heard nothing but generous criticism, 
and humorous excuses for human faults, 
and laughter with no sting in it ; here 
she was taught nothing but toleration, 
and the sinking of self, and the beauty 
of all good and true things. Then she 
did not know she was being taught any 
more than her teachers knew théy were 
teaching her ; for one of them spoke to 
her only by way of her own example, 
which was that of all sweetness and 
charity, and the other was so little of a 
lecturer that he shocked his own pupil 
by his whimsical extravagances and in- 
corrigible laughter. If, as Miss Main was 
convinced, this girl had no soul, she 
could not have come to a better place 
to get some sort of substitute. 

Next morning James Drummond went 
round and saw Miss Main. That patient, 
hard-working, and hardly-tried little 
woman confessed frankly that she her- 
self would be quite willing to have Miss 
North come back; but she feared the 
effect on her other pupils of condoning 
so great an offence. However, Mr. 
Drummond talked her over; and an 
arrangement having been come to about 
the public apology Miss North was to 
make, he went back home. 

Miss North had just come in, breath- 
less. She had run half a mile down 
hill, to the shops of Camberwell, and 
half a mile back since he had gone 
out: she would not tell him why. 

Well, she went round to the seminary 
in due course; and in the midst of an 
awful silence she walked up the middle 
of the floor to Miss Main’s table. 

“Miss Main, I have to beg your 
pardon for my conduct of yesterday, 


and I apologize to the whole school ; 
and I hope never to behave so badly 

“You may go to your seat, Miss 
North,” said the schoolmistress, who 
was a nervous little woman, and glad to 
get it over. 

Miss North, with great calmness of 
feature, but with a suggestion of a latent 
laugh in her fine dark eyes, walked 
sedately and properly to her seat, and 
opened her desk. With the lid well up, 
she deposited inside a curious little col- 
lection of oddities she had taken from 
her pocket—including a number of little 
paper pellets, a small tin goblet, and a 
wooden monkey at the end of a stick. 

The pellets were crackers which she 
could jerk with her finger and thumb to 
any part of the room, and which ex- 
ploded on falling. 

The toy goblet had a bit of string 
attached, and was intended for the cat’s 

The wooden monkey was an efligy to 
be suddenly presented to the school 
whenever Miss Main’s back was turned. 

These had been the object of Miss 
Violet’s sudden race down to Camber- 
well and back; so it was sufficiently 
clear that that young lady’s remorse 
over her evil deeds was not of a very 
serious or probably lasting character. 



A secRET rumour ran through the 
school that Violet North had not only 
got a sweetheart, but was also engaged 
in the composition of a novel. For 
once rumour was right; and there is 
now no longer any reason for suppress- 
ing the following pages, which will 
give an idea of the scope and style of 
Miss North’s story. The original is 
written in a clear, bold hand, and the 
lines are wide apart—so wide apari, 
indeed, that the observant reader can, 
if he chooses, easily read between them. 

“ Tt was a beautiful morning in May, 
and the golden sunshine was flooding 
the emerald meadows of D , an 
ancient and picturesque village about 
two miles nearer London than the 

Madcap Violet. 

Cc—— P. Little do the inhabit- 
ants of that great city, who lend them- 
selves to the glittering follies of fashion, 
little do they reck of the verdant beau- 
ties and the pure air which are to be 
had almost within the four-mile radius. 
It was on such a morning that our two 
lovers met, far away from the haunts of 
men, and living for each other alone. 
In the distance was a highway leading 
up to that noble institution, the C—— 
P—— ; and carriages rolled along it ; 
and at the front of the stately mansions 
high-born dames vaulted upon their 
prancing barbs and caracoled away to- 
wards the horizon.! Our lovers paid 
no heed to such pomps and vanities ; 
they were removed above earthly things 
by the sweet companionship of congenial 
souls ; they lived in an atmosphere of 
their own, and breathed a delight which 
the callous votaries of fashion could 
neither’understand nor share. 

“Virginia Northbrook was the name 
of the one. Some would have called 
her rather good-looking ; but it is not 
of that we mean to boast. We would 
rather speak of the lofty poetry of her 
soul, and of her desire to be just and 
honourable, and to live a noble life. 
Alas! how many of us can fulfil our 
wishes in that respect? The snares 
and temptations of life beset us on 
every side and dog our footsteps ; but 
enough of this moralising, gentle reader, 
we must get on with our story. 

“She was the daughter of a baronet, 
not a man of high lineage, but one on 
whom the eyes of the world were fixed. 
He had accelerated the industries of 
his native land in opening up stupen- 
dous commercial highways, and from 
all parts of the globe his advice was 
sought. Alas! he was frequently away 
from home; and as his second wife 

1 This sentence, or the latter half of it, may 
recall a passage in a famous novel which was 
published two or three years ago ; and‘I hasten 
to say that Miss North had really never read 
that work. The brilliant and distinguished 
author{fof ;the novel in question has so fre- 
quently been accused of plagiarism which was 
almost certainly unconscious, that I am sure 
he will counelidee with this young aspirant, 
and acquit her of any intentional theft. 

Madcap Violet. 

was a wretched and mean-spirited crea- 
ture, Virginia Northbrook may be con- 
sidered to have been really an orphan. 

“The other of our two lovers was 
called Gilbert Mount-Dundas. Neither 
was he of high lineage; but a grand 
nobility of nature was stamped on his 
forehead. His father had attained to 
great fame through his labours in the 
cause of benevolence and charity ; but 
it is not necessary to import him into 
our story. Gilbert Mount-Dundas was 
yet young; but his mind was fired by 
great ambitions, and what more neces- 
sary to encourage these than the loving 
counsel and worship of a woman? Ah, 
woman, woman, if you could understand 
how we men are indebted to you when 
you cheer us onward in the hard strug- 
gle of life! A ministering angel thou, 
truly, as the poet writes. If thou couldst 
perceive the value which we place on 
thy assistance, then thou wouldst never 
be capricious, coy, andhard to please. 
Mais revenons & nos moutons. 

“Tt would be a difficult, nay, an 
invidious task, to describe the manner 
in which our two lovers became ac- 
quainted with each other. Suffice it to 
say that, although the world might look 
coldly on certain informalities, their 
own souls informed them that they had 
no cause to blush for their mutual ac- 
quaintance, an acquaintance which had 
ripened into knowledge, esteem, and 
love! Not for these two, indeed, was 
the ordinary commonplace history of a 
courtship and marriage ; which, as the 
gentle reader knows, is an introduction 
at a dinner-table, a let of foolish con- 
versation always under the eyes of 
friends, an engagement with every- 
body’s knowledge and consent (i- 
cluding the lawyer's), and a marriage to 
be advertised in the newspapers! No, 
no!—there is still some romance in 
this cold and heartless world; and, 
whatever harsh critics may say, we, for 
one, have no intention of blaming Gil- 
bert Mount-Dundas and Virginia North- 
brook simply because, forsooth! the 
whole host of their friends did not 
happen to be present. And yet—for 
who knows into whose hands these pages 
may not fall!—we must’ guard against 


a misconception, We are not of those 
who scorn the ceremonies of our social 
life—far from it; and we would not 
be understood as recommending to the 
youth of both sexes a lofty contempt 
for the proper convenances. Tout au 
contraire. In our opinion a young 
lady cannot be too particular as to the 
acquaintances she makes; and in fact 
the way some girls will giggle and look 
down when young gentlemen pass them 
in the street is shocking, and perfectly 
disgusting. They ought to remember 
they are not servant-mai¢s on their 
Sunday out. A school-mistress is not 
doing her duty who does not check 
such unladylike conduct at once; and 
it is all nonsense for her to pretend 
that she does not see it. I know very 
well she sees it ; but she is nervous, 
and afraid to interfere, lest the girls 
should simply deny it, and so place her 
at a disadvantage. We will recur to 
this subject at a future time. 

“It was, alas! but to say farewell 
that Virginia Northbrook and Gilbert 
Mount-Dundas had met. Such was the 
hard fate of two who had known 
the sweet companionship of love for 
a period far too short; but destiny 
marches along with an unpitying 
stride, and we poor mortals are hurried 
along in the current. Tears stood in 
the maiden’s eyes, and she would fain 
have fallen on her knees, and besought 
him to remain; but he was of firmer 
mettle, and endeavoured to be cheerful, 
so that he might lessen the agony of 
their farewell. 

“¢Oh, my Gilbert!’ she exclaimed, 
‘when shall I see you once more? 
Your path is clouded over with: dan- 
gers ; and, scan as I may the future, I 
see no prospect of your return. Do 
you know that beautiful song which 

* Shall we walk no more in the wind and the 

Till the sea gives up her dead ?’ 

“He was deeply affected ; but he 
endeavoured to conceal his grief with a 

“*What!’ said he, in a humorous 
manner, “when we meet I hope it 

208 Madcap Violet. 

won’t be in wind and rain. We have 
had enough of both this spring.’ 

“She regarded him with surprise ; 
for she saw not the worm that was cor- 
roding his heart under this mask of 
levity. And here it might be well to 
remark on the danger that is ever at- 
tendant on those who are ashamed of 
their emotions, and cloak them in a 
garb of indifference or mockery, Alas! 
what sad mistakes arise from this cause. 
The present writer is free to confess 
that he is acquainted with a gentleman 
who runs a great risk of being mis- 
understood by a hollow world through 
this inveterate habit. We believe that 
no truer-hearted gentleman exists than 
J—D , although he is not what 
a foolish school-girl would call an 
Adonis ; but how often he perplexes 
his best friends by the frivolous man- 
ner in which he says the very opposite 
of the thing which he really intends. 
It is very annoying not to know when 
a person is‘ serious. If you make a 
mistake, and treat as serious what is 
meant to be a joke, you look foolish, 
which is not gratifying even to the 
most Stoical-minded ; whereas, on the 
other hand, you may treat as a joke 
something that is really serious, and 
offend the feelings of persons whom 
you love. No, youthful reader, if I 
may be bold enough to assume that 
such will scan these pages, candour 
and straightforward speech ought to be 
your motto. Magna est veritas, said 
the wise Roman. 

“ How sadly now shone the sun on 
the beautiful meadows of D , and 
on the lordly spires of the C P 
as our two lovers turned to take a last 
adieu. He was going away into the 
world, to conquer fame and fortune for 
both ; she was about to be left behind, 
to nurse an aching heart. 

**¢ Take this sixpence ; I have bored 
a hole in it,’ observed Virginia. 

“ He clasped the coiu to his breast and 
smothered it with a thousand kisses, 

“*My beloved Virginia!’ he cried, 
‘I will never part with it. It will re- 
mind me of you in distant lands, under 
the flaming skies of Africa, in the 
mighty swamps of America, and on 

the arid plains of Asia. Our friend- 
ship has been a brief one; but ah! 
how sweet! Once more, farewell, 
Virginia! Be true to your vow!’ 

“He tore himself away; and the 
wretched girl was left alone. We 
must pursue her further adventures 
in our next chapter.” 

Here, then, for the present, end our 
quotations from Miss North’s MS. 
work of fiction ; it is necessary to get 
back to the real facts of the case. To 
begin with, the relations between Violet 
North and the young gentleman whom 
she met on the Dulwich Road were 
much less intimate, tender, and roman- 
tic than those which existed between 
the lofty souls of Virginia Northbrook 
and Gilbert Mount-Dundas. Miss Main’s 
young ladies were not allowed to go 
wandering about the country unattended 
by any escort, however brightly the 
sun might be shining on the emerald 
meadows, and on the towers of the 
Cc P Those of them who 
were boarders as well as pupils were 
marched out in pairs, with Miss Main 
and Miss North at their head ; and no 
one who saw them would have imagined 
for a moment that the tall and hand- 
some young lady was only a school- 
girl, When they were allowed to go 
and see their friends, their friends had 
to send someone for them. But to this 
rule there was one exception, which 
seemed innocent and trifling enough. 
Miss Main knew of the intimacy be- 
tween Violet North and the mother and 
uncle of little Amy Warrener ; and she 
very warmly approved of it, for it 
promised to exercise a good influence 
over this incorrigible girl. Then Mr. 
Drummond’s house was only about a 
dozen doors off; and when Miss Violet 
chose to ge round and visit her friends 
in the afternoon, as she frequently did, 
was it necessary that they should be at 
the trouble of sending for her for such 
a short distance? Mr. Drummond 
himself invariably accompanied her 
back to the school, and on those 
evenings Miss Main found that she 
had less trouble with this dreadful 
pupil of hers. 

oe > eo fe © = 


Madcap Violet. 

So it came about that George Miller 
on one or two occasions had the good 
fortune to run against Miss North when 
she was actually walking out alone. 
On the first occasion she was just going 
into James Drummond’s house, and she 
had turned round after knocking-at the 
door, For a second the young man 
stopped, embarrassed as to what he 
should do; while she, looking rather 
amused, graciously and coolly bowed to 
him. He took off his hat ; and, at this 
moment, as the door was opened, his 
doubt was resolved, for, with a frank 
smile to him, she disappeared. 

On the next occasion, he caught her 
a few yards farther down the Grove, 
and made bold to address her. He 
said rather timidly— 

“Won't you recognize our acquaint- 
ance, Miss North?” 

“T do,” she said, with her colour a 
bit heightened. “I bow to you when 
I see you. Isn’t that enough?” 

“Tf you were as anxious as I am to 
continue our acquaintance—” said he. 

“Tam not at all anxious,” she said, 
with something very like a wilful toss 
of the head, “ not at all anxious to con- 
tinue it like this, anyway. You must 
get to know my friends if you wish to 
know me.” 

She was for moving on: but some- 
how he seemed to intercept her, and 
there was a great submission and en- 
treaty in his downcast face. 

“But how can I, Miss North? I have 
tried. How can I get an introduction 
to them ?” 

“ How do I know?” she said, rather 
brusquely ; and then she bade him a 
curt “Good afternoon,” and passed 

Her heart smote her for a moment. 
Was it right to treat a faithful lover 
so? But then she was not herself very 
sensitive to injury ; she did not suppose 
she had mortally wounded him; and 
she speedily was rejoicing over tho 
thought that the most faithful of lovers 

ought to be put to the proof. If he 

was worth anything, he would bear 

wrong, he would overcome obstacles, he 

would do anything to please the imperial 

will of his beloved mistress. If he was 
No. 195.—vob. xxxui1, 


only an ordinary young man he had 
better go away. 

Mr. George Miller was only an ordi- 
nary young man; but he did not go 
away. He had not been suddenly in- 
spired by any romantic attachment for 
the young lady whom he had met in the 
Dulwich Road ; but he had been greatly 
struck by her good looks ; he was rather 
anxious to know something more about 
her ; and then—for he was but twenty- 
two—there was even a spice of adven- 
ture in the whole affair. She did not 
know how patiently and persistently he 
had strolled all about the neighbourhood 
in order to catch an occasional glimpse 
of her; and how many afternoons he 
had paced up and down beneath those 
large elms near the head of Camber- 
well Grove before he found out the hour 
when she generally paid her visit to 
Mr. Drummoud’s small household. It 
was some occupation for him; and he 
had none other at present ; for his father 
was then looking out for some business 
a share in which he could purchase and 
present to his son in order to induce 
him to do something. Mr. George 
Miller was not averse to that proposal. 
He had grown tired of idling, riding, 
walking, and playing billiards all day, 
and going out in the evening to dull 
dinners at the houses of a particular 
clique of rich commercial people living 
about Sydenham Hill. It would be 
better, he thought, to go into the city 
like everybody else; and have a com- 
fortable private room in the olfice, with 
cigars and sherry in it. ‘Then he would 
have himself put up at one of the city 
clubs ; and have a good place for lun- 
cheon and an afternoon game of pool ; 
and make the acquaintance of a lot of 
blithe companions. He knew a good 
many city men already ; they seemed to 
have an abundance of spirits and a good 
deal of time on their hands—from 1.30 
onwards till it was time to catch the 
train and get home to dinner. 

Meanwhile this little adventure with 
a remarkably pretty girl piqued his 
curiosity about her ; and he was aware 
that, if he did succeed in making her 
acquaintance, the friendship of the 
daughter of so distinguished a man as 



Sir Acton North was worth having. 
He did not go much further than that 
in his speculations. He did not, as some 
imaginative youths would have done, 
plan out a romantic marriage. He had 
met, in an informal and curious way, a 
singularly handsome girl, whom he could 
not fail to admire; and there were just 
those little obstacles in the way of gain- 
ing her friendship that made him all 
the more desirous to secure it. It does 
not often occur to a somewhat matter- 
of-fact young man of twenty-two, who has 
good looks, good health, and ample pro- 
vision of money, that he should sit 
down and anxiously construct the horo- 
scope of his own future. To-day is a 
fine day in spring, and the life-blood of 
youth runs merrily in the veins: to- 
morrow is with the gods. 

Yet, to be taunted and snubbed by a 
school-girl# He was rather angry when 
he left her on this second occasion. She 
was, he thought, just a little too inde- 
pendent in manner and blunt of speech. 
He did not at all look at their relations 
from her point of view ; if she had told 
him that he ought to be her knight- 
errant and prove himself worthy by 
great sacrifices he would scarcely have 
understood what she meant. Indeed, 
a consciousness began to dawn on him 
that the young lady was a school-girl 
only in name; and that there was a 
more definite character about her than 
is generally to be discovered in a young 
miss who is busy with her Italian verbs. 
George Miller was in a bad humour all 
that evening ; and on going to bed that 
night he vowed he would straightway 
set off for Wales next morning, and 
Miss Violet North might go hang for 
aught he cared. 

In the morning, however, that wild 
resolution—although, indeed there was 
more prudence in it than he suspected 
—was abandoned; and he somewhat 
listlessly went into town, to see if he 
could hunt up somebody who knew Sir 
Acton North personally. His inquiries 
had to be conducted very cautiously ; 
and there was something of interest in 
the search. Eventually, too, that day 
he failed ; and so, as he had to get back 
to Sydenham to dress for an early 

Madcap Violet. 

dinner, he thought he would go out to 
Denmark Hill station, and walk across, 
He might get another glance of Violet 
North ; and it was possible she might 
be in a better temper. 

Well, he was going up Grove Lane 
when, turning the corner, he suddenly 
found himself in presence of Miss North 
and another lady. He felt suddenly 
guilty ; he checked his first involuntary 
impulse to take off his hat ; andhe en- 
deavoured to pass them without any 
visible recognition. 

But that was not Violet North’s way. 

“Oh, Mr. Miller,” she said, aloud, 
“how do you do?” 

He paused in time to prevent Mrs. 
Warrtener observing his effort at escape ; 
and he took off his hat, and rather ner- 
vously shook hands with her. 

“Let me introduce you,” said the 
young lady, boldly, ‘‘ to Mrs. Warrener. 
Mr. Miller—Mrs, Warrener.” 

He received a very pleasant greeting 
from the little fair-haired woman, who 
liked the look of the young man. 

“* What a beautiful afternoon it is!” 
said he, hastily. ‘And how fine those 
fruit-trees look now. We deserve some 
good weather after such a winter. Do 
you—do you live up here, Mrs. War- 
rener $” 

“Oh yes. You know the cottage 
with the thatched roof near the top of 
the Grove?” she said: she began to 
think that this young man was really 

“Of course—every one about here 
knows it. What a charming place; 
and the garden you must have behind ! 
Well, don’t let me hinder you; it is a 
beautiful evening for a walk. Good- 
day, Miss North.” 

He ventured to shake hands with 
her ; he bowed to Mrs. Warrener, and 
then he turned away—scarcely knowing 
what he had said or done, 

“A friend of your father’s, I sup- 
pose?” said Mrs. Warrener to Miss 
Violet, as they passed on. 

“N—no, not exactly,” said the girl, 
looking down. 

“ Oh, I dare say some friends of yours 
know him.” : 

“ N—no, not exactly that, either.” 

anew Tean se OS e eSSULULl em,” 



« Madcap Violet. 211 

Then she suddenly lifted her eyes, 
and said, frankly— 

“Mrs, Warrener, I suppose you'll 
think me a most wicked creature; but 
—but it is better you should know; 
and I never saw that young man till 
the day I left school over that disturb- 
ance, you remember—and he knows no 
one I know—and I was never intro- 
duced to him by anybody.” 

Each sentence had been uttered with 
increasing desperation. 

“ Oh, Violet,” her friend said, “ how 
could you be so thoughtless—and worse 
than thoughtless? You have been con- 
cealing your acquaintance with this 
young man even from your best friends 
—I—I don’t know what to say about 
it i 

“You may say about it anything you 
please—except that,” said the girl, in- 
dignantly. “I deserve everything you 
can say about me—only don’t say I 
concealed anything from you. There 
was nothing to conceal. I have only 
spoken a few words with him ; and the 
last time I saw him I told him if he 
wanted our acquaintance to continue 
he must get to know either my father 
or some of my friends. There was 
nothing to conceal. I should be 
ashamed to conceal ——” 

At this point it seemed to occur to 
her that a self-convicted prisoner ought 
not to lecture the judge to whom he is 
appealing for a merciful judgment. 

‘“‘ Well, Mrs. Warrener,” she said, in 
a humbler way, “I hope you won’t 
think I tried to conceal anything of im- 
portance from you. I thought it would 
be all cleared up and made right when 
he got properly introduced. And 
just now, when he did not wish to com- 
promise me, and would have passed 
without a word, I thought 1 would just 
tell you how matters stood, and so I 
stopped him. Was there any conceal- 
ment in that?” 

“ But how did you meet him—where 
did you meet him?” said Mrs. Warrener, 
still too much astonished to be either 
angry or forgiving. 

“T saw him on the road to the 
Crystal Palace,” said Miss North. “I 
was attacked by a ferocious dog—such 

a ferocious dog, Mrs. Warrener! 
You've no idea how he flew at me! and 
Mr. Miller came and beat him and drove 
him away.” 

“Then you know his name?” 

“Oh yes!” said Miss North, quite 
brightly. “I am sure you must have 
heard of Mr. George Miller, the great 
merchant and philanthropist, who builds 
churches, and gives large sums of money 
to charities ?” 

“T have heard of him,” Mrs, 
Warrener admitted. 

“ Then that is his son!” said Violet, 

“ But, you know, Violet, Mr. George 
Miller’s philanthropy is no reason 
why you should have formed the ac- 
quaintanceship of his son in this man- 
ner. When did you see him next?” 

“ At the Crystal Palace,” said Violet, 
and the burden of her confessions 
seemed growing lighter. “I was very 
hungry. I had to go and get some- 
thing to eat at the restaurant. I 
couldn’t do anything else, could I? 
Well, the waiters weren't attending to 
me ; and Mr. Miller was there ; and he 
helped me to get something to eat. 
Was there any harm in that?” 

Mrs. Warrener was not going to 
answer offhand ; but as she felt that 
she almost stood in the light of a parent 
towards the girl, she was determined to 
know exactly how matters stood. 

“ Has he written to you, or have you 
written to him?” 

“Certainly not!” 

“He knows your name, and who you 


So far the affair was all clear and 
open enough ; and yet Mrs. Warrener, 
who was not as nimble a reasoner as her 
brother, was puzzled. There was some- 
thing wrong, but she did not know 
what. By this time they had got back 
to the house, 

“ Violet, just come in for a minute. 
James will take you down to the school 

“Oh, Mrs, Warrener,” said the girl, 
with sudden alarm, “I very much wish 
you not to say anything about all this 
to Mr. Drummond !” 

rp 2 

Madcap Violet. 

“Why not?” 

“T would much rather you said 
nothing !” 

“‘ Well, I cannot promise that, Violet, 
but I will not speak of it to him just 

They entered the parlour, which was 
empty, and Violet sat down ona chair 
looking less bold‘and defiant than usual, 
while her friend, puzzled and perturbed, 
was evidently trying to find out what 
she should do. 

““What I can’t understand is this, 
Violet,” she said, hitting by accident on 
the kernel of the whole matter. “ What 
object was there in his or your wishing 
to continue an acquaintance so oddly 
began? That is what I can’t under- 
stand. Men often are of assistance in 
such trifles to ladies whom they don’t 
know ; but they do not seek to become 
friends on the strength of it. Why 
does he wish to know you, and why 
should you tell him to go and get some 
proper introduction to you?” 

“T did not tell him anything of the 
kind,” said Miss Violet, respectfully but 
very proudly. “I told him that if he 
wished to speak to me in the future he 
must go and get some proper introduc- 
tion. But do you think I asked him 
to come and see me? Certainly not. 
What is it to me?” 

She was obviously much hurt. 

“Then why should you continue 
this—this—clandestine acquaintance, 
Violet ?” Mrs. Warrener asked, timidly. 

“There is no such thing as a clandes- 
tine acquaintance,” the girl said, warmly. 
“But if Mr. Miller wishes to add 
another person to the circle of his 
acquaintance, am I to forbid him? Is 
there any harm in that? Don’t you 
sometimes see people whom you would 
like to know? And then, if he could 
not at the time get anyone to introduce 
him to me in the usual way, his getting 
to know you was quite as good; and 
now, if you choose to do so, you can 
take away all the clandestine look from 
our acquaintance. You have seen him. 
You could ask him to call on you.” 

Mrs. Warrener seemed to shrink in 

dismay from this bold proposal. But 
before she could answer Violet North 

had hastily, and with some confusion, 
corrected herself. 

“Of course,” she said, quickly, “I 
don’t wish you to ask him to call on 
you, not at all. But when you speak 
of our clandestine acquaintance, here 
is an easy way of making it not clandes- 

“No, Violet,” her friend said, with 
unusual firmness, “I cannot do that. 
I could not assume such a responsibility. 
Before making such an acquaintance in 
this extremely singular way you ought 
to ask your mamma.” 

“ Havn’t got any,” said Miss North, 
with a toss of her head. 

“ Or some one qualified to give their 

“T don’t know anyone so well as I 
know you, ” said the girl ; and then she 
said, “ but do you think I am begging 
of you to patronize that young man? I 
hope not. Mrs. Warrener, I think I 
had better go down now.” 

At this moment James Drummond 
made his appearance, an old brown 
wideawake on his head. 

“Ah, well, Miss Violet; no more 
singing at Dixie’s Land, eh? You have 
never been in Dixie’s Land, I suppose. 
But were you ever in the Highlands? 
Have you ever seen the mountains and 
lochs of the West Highlands ?” 

“ T have heard of them,” Miss North 
said, coldly. She was very far from 
being pleased at the moment. 

“ Now do sit down for a moment till 
I open out this plan before you. That 
is better. Well, I think we shall take 
no less’ than two months’ holiday this 
autumn, August and September, and I 
have my eye on a small but highly 
romantic cottage in the Highlands, 
connected with which is some little 
shooting and fishing ; plenty of fishing, 
indeed, for there are a great many fish 
in the sea up there. Now, Miss Violet, 
do you think you could persuade your 
father and Miss Main to let you come 
with us part of the time? It must be 
very wretched for you spending your 
holidays every year at school.” 

“T beg your pardon, Mr. Drum- 
mond,” said Miss Violet, with great 
dignity. “Itis very kind of you; you 

Madeap Violet. 

ate always kind ; but if my friends are 
not fit to be introduced into your house, 
then neither am I.” 

He stared in astonishment, and then 
he looked at his sister, whose pale and 
gentle face flushed up. Miss Violet 
sat calm and proud; she had been 
goaded into this declaration. 

“What do you mean?” said he. 

“Oh, James,” cried . his sister, “I 
thought Violet did not wish you to 
know ; but now I will tell you, and I 
am sure you will say I am right. Itis 
no disrespect I have for the young 
man. I liked his appearance very much 

“What young man $” 

Then the story had to be told; and 
if Miss North had been in a better 
temper she would have acknowledged 
that it was told with great fairness, 
gentleness, and consideration. James 
Drummond put his hands in his pockets 
and stretched out his long legs. 

“Well, Violet,” said he, in his quiet 
and kindly way, “I can understand 
how you should feel hurt, if you sup- 

pose for a moment that my sister thinks 
you wish us to ask that young man 

here for your sake. But you are quite 
wrong if you assume that to be the 
ease. We know your pride and self- 
respect too much for that. On the 
other hand, might not this Mr. Miller 
consider it rather curious if we asked 
him to come here to meet you? You 
see ” 

“T don’t wish anything of the kind,” 
she said hastily. “ Do you think I wish 
to meet him? What I wish is this—that 
you should not talk of clandestine 
acquaintanceship when I offer to intro- 
duce him to you, and when you can get 
to know him if you please.” 

He was too good-natured to meet the 
girl’s impatience with a retort. He only 
said, in the same gentle fashion— 

“Well, I think you have tumbled 
by accident into a very awkward posi- 
tion, Violet, if I must speak the truth, 
and I would strongly advise you to have 
nothing further to do with Mr. Miller, 
however amiable the young man may 
be, unless you should meet him at the 
house of one of your friends.” 


“T go to so many friends’ houses!” 

“ How can you expect to go? You 
are at school: your whole attention 
should be taken up with your lessons,” 

“T thought even school-girls were 
allowed to have friends. And you know 
Iam kept at school only to be out of 
the way.” 

She rose once more; the discussion 
was obviously profitless. 

“T don’t think I need trouble you to 
come down with me, Mr. Drummond,” 
said she, with much lofty courtesy of 

“Tam going with you, whether you 
consider it a trouble or not,” said he, 

She somewhat distantly bade Mrs. 
Warrener good-bye ; and that fair-haired 
little woman was grieved that the girl 
should go away with harsh thoughts of 
her in her heart. As for Mr. Drummond, 
when he got outside, he was deter- 
mined to charm away her disappoint- 
ment, and began talking lightly and 
cheerfully to her, though she paid but 
little heed. 

“Yes,” said he, “ you always disgust 
people by giving them good advice ; but 
you wouldn’t have us give you bad 
advice, Violet? Now you will bea 
reasonable young lady ; and by to-morrow 
morning you will see that we have acted 
all round in a highly decorous and proper 
fashion, and if you try to gain Miss 
Main’s good-conduct prize this session 
I will ask her to put you down a hun- 
dred marks on account of certain cir- 
cumstances that have come to my 
knowledge, though I can’t reveal them. 
That is settled; is it not now? 
So your father has come back to Lon- 
don: I see he was in a deputation at 
the Home Office yesterday. How tired 
he must be of railways; or does he 
languish when he has to stop in town 
three days running? Do you know I 
once heard of a boatman at Brighton 
—one of those short and stout men 
who pass their lives in leaning over the 
railings of the parade—and somebody 
went and died and left him a public- 
house in the Clapham Road. You would 
think that was a great advance in life? 
I tell you he became the most miserable 


of men. He got no rest; he moved 
about uneasily; and at last, when the 
place was killing him, he happened to 
put up a wooden railing in front of the 
public-house just where the horses used 
to come and drink at the trough, and 
quite by accident he found it was a 
capital place to put his elbows on and 
lean over. I declare to you he hadn’t 
lounged on that railing twenty minutes 
when all the old satisfaction with life 
returned to his face ; and any day you'll 
see him lounging there now, looking 
at the horses drinking. That shows 
you what custom does, doesn’t it?” 

Of course, there was no such thing— 
no such boatman or public-house in the 
Clapham Road ; but it was a peculiarity 
of this talker that when once he had 
imagined an anecdote he himself almost 
took it to be true. He did not mean to 
deceive his listener. If this thing had 

not happened, how did he know of it? 
The creations of his fancy took the 
place of actual experiences ; his sister 
never could tell whether he had really 
seen certain things during his morning’s 

walk, or only imagined them, and stuck 
them in his memory all the same. 

It was a fine, quiet evening up here 
among the green foliage of the spring. 
It was a grey twilight, with a scent of 
the lilacs in the cool air ; and the mighty 
chestnut trees, the spiked blossoms of 
which looked pale in the fading light, 
seemed to be holding these up as spec- 
tral lamps to light the coming dusk. It 
was a still, calm, peaceable evening ; but 
even the unobservant Mr. Drummond 
could remark that his companion was 
not at all attuned to this gentle serenity. 
Her moody silence was ominous. 

“You will come round and see us 
to-morrow afternoon ?” said he. 

“Tam not sure,” she said, with her 
hand on the open door. 

“ Now be a sensible girl, Violet, and 

Madcap Violet. 

believe me that we have given you good 
advice. Don’t forget what I said to 
you; and come up to-morrow evening 
to show me that we are all still good 

So Mr. Drummond walked away up 
the hill again, whistling absently ; one 
hand in his trouser’s pocket ; his hat 
rather on the back of his head ; and an 
unusual gravity of thoughtfulness in 
his face. Miss Violet, on the other 
hand, went indoors, and up to her 
own room. She was the only boarder 
in the place who had a room all to 
herself; but on this Sir Acton North 
had insisted. 

She threw open the window, and sate 
down: far below her they had lit a 
street lamp, and there was a curious 
light shining on the lower branches of 
the chestnuts. The sound of one or 
two people walking in the distance 
seemed to increase the stillness of the 
night; and one would not have been 
surprised to find the first faint glimmer 
of a star in the darkening heavens. 

Peace enough without ; but a fierce 
fire of wrath within. 

“ They have done it now,” she was 
saying to herself. “Yes, they have 
done it. I gave them the chance, and 
wished to be as proper in my conduct 
as anybody could be; but now they 
have driven me to something very dif- 
ferent. I don’t want to see him—I 
dare say I shall hate him when I see 
him; but I will see him—and I will 
meet him whenever he likes; and I 
will write letters to him till two in the 
morning ; and if he wishes me to marry 
him, I wild marry him just at once, and 
offhand, whatever comes of it. And 
that is what they have done !” 

So the wild winds of folly and anger 
and unreason blow us this way and 
that—that the gods may have their 
sport of us ! 

To be continued. 


Canapa—by the words of the warm- 
hearted and eloquent Irish noble, who, 
under the Sovereign, is its constitutional 
ruler—is the happiest and most fortu- 
nate of countries. Any one, in Eng- 
land or the United States, who read 
the speech lately made by Earl Dufferin 
at a dinner given in his honour by 
the Canada Club, London, must have 
felt a thrill of surprise at the glowing 
picture of the young, buoyant, and 
vigorous New Dominion, so ardent and 
devoted in its attachment to the mother 
country, 80 possessed by an ineradicable 
conviction of the superiority of her 
political institutions, so animated by a 
noble spirit of independence, and of de- 
termination to build up a nationality 
worthy of that parent state, so splen- 
didly endowed with a magnificent and 
boundless territory, rich in natural re- 
sources, and made richer by the industry, 
skill, and enterprise of her sons by 
nativity and adoption, so free from em- 
barrassments contracted in the past, and 
so little troubled in the present by 
party strifes, or by the divisions growing 
out of differences of race and religion. 
The reader would probably put down 
his paper with a feeling of respect for 
the speaker, and might say to himself, 
that the Governor-General had certainly 
made a splendid speech for the occasion, 
and had drawn a very flattering picture 
of the condition of Canada; but, if he 
had at all an intimate knowledge of its 
past and present history, he might think 
that the noble earl had spoken out of 
the enthusiasm of an imaginative nature, 
and soared above the region of hard fact. 

The New Dominion dates from 1867, 
in which year Upper and Lower Canada, 
Nova Scotia, and New Brunswick were 
united in a Confederation under the 
name of Canada. The chief cause that 
brought about that union was the proved 
impossibility of the two Canadas living 

peacefully together under one govern- 
ment, on account of their being harassed 
by strifes and jealousies growing out of 
differences of race and religion. Since 
confederation, Canada has encountered 
difficulties which may be traced to 
similar troubles, and at the present 
time the stability of the union is almost 
shaken, and New Brunswick is em- 
barrassed in carrying out its free-non- 
sectarian school law—a matter entirely 
within its jurisdiction—and the in- 
fluence and authority of the Queen and 
Imperial Parliament are being invoked 
to induce its government and legis- 
lature to yield to the demands of a 
miuority of the people of that province, 
all on account of a difficulty originating 
in an embarrassment contracted in the 
past. The people of that minority are, 
in a great part, French by extraction, be- 
ing descendants of the earliest settlers, 
and Catholics in religion. With 
the Irish, by birth and descent, and 
of the same faith, they form about one- 
third of the whole pupulation of the 
province, and, together with the French 
Canadians and Catholic Irish in the 
other provinces, constitute the minority 
in the whole Dominion, numbering 
about a million and a half in a total 
population of four millions. This 
minority, as a whole, works together on 
all questions, especially on those affect- 
ing its religious interests. 

The embarrassment by which the 
Dominion has been harassed during the 
last four years aroso from the opposi- 
tion of the minority of New Brunswick 
to the Common School Act passed by 
the Legislature of that province in 
1871. This chapter in the history of 
the new Dominion merits a brief review, 
both from the importance of the contest 
to Canada and her imperial mother, and 
from its affording an additional lesson 
on the danger that threatens confede- 


rations generally from the usurpation of 
power by the federal authority. For a 
better understanding of the contest, and 
in order to show the controlling influence 
that the French, Canadian, and Catholic 
element has exercised on the politics of 
Canada in the past, it will be necessary 
to give a brief history of the provinces 
confederated as far as it bears on the 
present question. 

The religious idea was prominent in 
the minds of Jacques Cartier, the dis- 
coverer of Canada (including Acadie), 
and of Samuel de Champlain, its foun- 
der. Besides the glory of holding vast 
dominions, the great incentive that 
caused the French crown to maintain a 
hold upon provinces whose material 
resources it always undervalued, and 
whose government was a constant tax 
upon its treasury, was the glorious field 
that they were supposed to afford for 
proselytism and the spread of the 
Roman Catholic Faith. That faith 

gained no computable increase by ex- 
pansion among the native tribes, for the 
red man withered away in the presence 

of the white ; but it took root in the 
soil. In their carly desperate struggles, 
the French settlers in Canada were sus- 
tained by the spiritual zeal, and, to some 
extent, by the means of the Jesuits. 
For a considerable time—a period of 
strange enthusiastic pietism—Canada 
was in the hands of the Fathers, and 
governors and their councils gave their 
influence to support the rigid rule of the 
Church. Obedience to the mandates of 
priests, strict observance of the rules of 
the Church, were the sentiment and 
practice of the colony, especially of 
Canada, and impressed a character on 
the French Canadians, who were noted 
for their simplicity and their piety, and, 
it may be said, for their superstition and 
ignorance. Opposition to ecclesiastical 
rule arose in time. Governors-General, 
like the old Count Frontenac, brooked 
with impatience the exalted preten- 
sions of the priests “ of the black robe ” 
to domination over the State, and a 
great dissoluteness of manners broke 
out amongst the “runners of the woods,” 
the wild and roving fur-traders ; but 

A Chapter of Canadian History. 

the paramount authority of the Church 
over the settled part of the colony, over 
the agricultural Aabitants, was never 
much weakened. The city of Quebec, 
founded by Champlain in 1608, was 
then, and has since been, the centre of 
Romish ecclesiastical authority, and on 
the great province that now bears the 
name of Quebec, there still rests the im- 
press that the Jesuit fathers gave the 
infant mind of the colony. 

Canada was pre-eminently a Catholic 
province, not only under the French 
régime, but after its conquest by the 
British in 1760. By the treaty of Paris 
(February 10th, 1763), the French in 
Canada were left to the fullest freedom 
of worship in the Roman Catholic re- 
ligion, and to the continued use of their 
own peculiar code of laws relating to 
marriage, and to the determining the 
conditions of the possession, acquisition, 
and alienation of property, as well as of 
their own language in all public proceed- 
ings. It was thought by some observers 
of the condition and the spirit of the 
priesthood and the people at that time, 
that the opportunity was lost to make 
Canada, that was British by conquest 
and possession, British also in religion 
and constitution. There never was a 
time when Rome was less feared, less in 
a position or temper of mind to put for- 
ward pretensions, or entertain hopes 
of subjecting the world to her sway, 
when she met more opposition to her 
claims of spiritual sovereignty over 
Catholic countries, (notably in Germany, 
where she was less jealous in maintain- 
ing her hold on the members of her 
fold) than in the second half of the 
eighteenth century, a time ever historic- 
ally memorable for the Seven Years’ War 
that left Protestant England and Prussia 
the greatest powersin Europe, for the out- 
break of the American war, and the out- 
burst of the French revolution. The 
policy of the British crown towards 
Canada might unreservedly be called gen- 
erous, if it were not open to the charge of 
indifference, and of having been followed 
without any prevision of what Canada 
might become in the hands of a British 
people. It was British energy that 

A Chapter of Canadian History. 

infused a spirit of inde and of 
enterprise into Canada, and the French 
Canadians profited by the influence of 
their example; but for a long period 
the British, few in numbers compared 
with the French Canadians, were dis- 
couraged by the crown policy, and 
hampered by the foreign laws and 
customs of the province. 

Immediately after the conquest, a 
royal proclamation was issued, promis- 
ing the introduction of British law and 
representative institutions into Canada ; 
but, to the intense dissatisfaction of the 
British settlers, that promise was not 
fulfilled. The disaffection in the Eng- 
lish colonies, from Maine to Georgia, 
was then ripening into active rebellion. 
As an intimidation to the spirit of 
liberty, Canada, with immensely ex- 
tended boundaries, was erected into the 
province of Quebec, with an absolute 
government, and wilh the Roman 

Catholic faith recoguised as the reli- 
gion of the State. 

The result of the revolutionary war— 
the declaration of the independence of 

the United States—was the great era 
in the history of the western Continent. 
The republic, having achieved its liberty, 
commenced its wonderful career of 
growth, expansion, and material pros- 
perity. Founded on the equality of 
man as to his political rights—by 
the letter of its constitution and the 
spirit of its people opposed to the con- 
nection of Church and State—allow- 
ing perfect freedom to individuals 
and sects to worship God according to 
their spiritual insight and the dictates 
of their conscience—rejecting the claim 
of any sect to peculiar favour, and 
especially opposed to the claims of the 
Church of Kome—that republic was, 
both in its political constitution and 
ecclesiastical polity, the diametrical op- 
posite of Canada, where a few British 
offivials, in the spirit of a privileged 
class, ruled the country with a high 
hand, and the Catholic hierarchy held 
spiritual sway over the mass of the in- 
habitants. But the American revolu- 
tion had great influence on the future of 
Canada, for it led to the foundation by 


the Loyalists in 1784 of the British 
province of New Brunswick, detached 
from Nova Scotia (whose combined ter- 
ritory formed the ancient Acadie), and, a 
few years later, of that of Upper Canada, 
From that time the British element 
made itself more strongly felt, and an 
impetus was given to commercial and 
industrial progress. 

In 1792, Upper and Lower Canada 
were divided under separate govern- 
ments (a division that was strongly op- 
posed by many as tending to keep alive: 
the distinctions of race, and to arouse 
commercial jealousies); and, for half 
a century afterwards, the latter con- 
tinued to be the leading province, and 
to be distinguishably French, although 
all the highest political positions were 
held by British officials, and though its 
commerce was mainly in the hands of 
British merchants. During this period 
occurred the struggle for what was 
called ‘Responsible Government,” 
which resulted in the breaking down of 
the small irresponsible oligarchies by 
an amendment of the constitution, by 
which the governments of the provinces 
could only hold their position so long 
as they commanded the confidence of a 
majority of representatives in the lower 
branches of their legislature. The con- 
test was very much embittered in Lower 
Canada by the enmities of race, but 
not specially by the difference of re- 
ligions, as religious interests were not 
then at stake. Of the loyalty of the 
Catholic priesthood, there was no ques- 
tion. It had stood the test of the 
stormy times of the American re- 
bellion, the French revolution, and the 
war of 1812, and the priests had good 
reason to be convinced that their re- 
ligion, language, and laws (guaranteed 
by the Treaty of Paris), were safer 
under the union-jack than they would 
be, without guarantee, under the “ stars 
and stripes.” In the political con- 
test, therefore, the priests were 
found generally on the side of the 
constituted authorities, using their in- 
fluence to restrain the deluded French 
habitants from rushing into rebellion 
under their disloyal leaders. 

218 A Chapter of Canadian History. 

As a final step to compose the politi- 
cal strife, and to pacify the commercial 
jealousy of Upper Canada, the two pro- 
vinces were, in 1841, united under one 
government that recognized the prin- 
ciple of responsibility, and with one 
Legislature in which each had an equal 
representation. But it was not until 
1849 that responsible government was 
really established and frankly accepted 
by all parties. 

After union, the Canadas made great 
progress in matters of internal reform. 
Among the first measures passed was 
a Common School Act for the United 
Provinces. The difference between the 
character, sentiments, and views of Bri- 
tish Upper Canada and French Lower 
Canada was displayed especially on 
the subject of education. ‘The majority 
of the Upper Provinces was in favour 
of free non-sectarian schools, under 
governmental and municipal control ; 
the majority of the Lower Province, or 
at least the hierarchy that controlled 
that majority, contended for sectarian 
schools, under ecclesiastical super- 
vision. In the Upper Province there 
was a Catholic minority, and in the 
Lower a Protestant minority, about equal 
in point of numbers, and entertaining 
the same views on the common school 
question as the majorities of their own 
race and religion. There was continual 
battle and legislation over the school 
question for years. The endeavour to 
unite the provinces educationally,as they 
were politically, was frustrated by the in- 
fluence brought to bear by the hierarchy 
on the French Canadian and Catholic 
representatives, who, though in a 
minority, were, owing to party divisions 
among the British and Protestant re- 
presentatives, enabled, to throw their 
support on the side of the party in power, 
and thus exercise a control on legisla- 
tion. As a concession to their “ con- 
scientious convictions,” the Catholics 
were permitted to establish separate 
schools in Upper Canada, while the Pro- 
testants in Lower Canada were allowed 
to maintain dissentient schools. The 
minorities were thus seemingly on an 
educational par ; but in effect they were 

not. There was a liberal air in the free 
non-sectarian system of Upper Canada, 
and Catholic parents who happened to 
be of French extraction, and to live 
in districts where they were unable to 
maintain separate schools, might really 
send their children to the public schools 
without scruple ; and felt sate, when pay- 
ing taxes for their support, that they were 
not contributing to a system of teaching 
that interfered either with their religion 
or their nationality. But the British 
minority of Lower Canada lived in a 
close atmosphere, among a people alien 
in feeling, language, and habits, in the 
presence of a school system under the 
tule of the clergy of a dominant 
Church, and which they felt was not 
calculated to foster a healthy British 
national spirit. They were called upon 
to support schools of which they could 
not approve, and in all educational mat- 
ters felt the pressure of the prevailing 
ecclesiastical rule. 

By the end of the first decade of the 
union, Upper Canada had outstripped 
Lower. In the first-named province, 
where impatience at French-Canadian 
influence was strongly fe!t, a movement 
was commenced for representation ac- 
cording to population. The French 
Canadians, fearful that their power 
would be weakened, and their peculiar 
institutions endangered, if the British 
Protestant element became predominant, 
defended their position in the Legisla- 
ture with great tenacity. The sectional 
strife produced such bitter feeling, and 
such frequent ministerial crises, as to 
make government almost impossible. 
At length, in 1864, the leading men 
of all parties stopped to consider 
seriously the position. A proposal 
was made to substitute a federal, 
instead of a legislative, union ; but, 
favourable circumstances occurring, a 
scheme to confederate all the British 
North American Provinces was pro- 
posed, and the “Quebec Scheme ”—so 
called from the city where the provin- 
cial delegates met—was drawn up in 
the October of that year. Many in the 
British and Protestant provinces of 
Upper Canada (now Ontario), Nova 

oe oe elle les ot Oe, @ 66S 2 am Otte Oe Oe Oe Ot Ot Zee 6 

A Chapter of Canadian History. 

Scotia, and New Brunswick, would have 
preferred a legislative union, but Lower 
Canada (now Quebec) stood in the way. 
Her leaders would have nothing but a 
federal union which should give to the 
local Legislature, where the French and 
Catholic element would be all predomi- 
nant, the guardianship of her peculiar 
institutions. In a legislative union the 
trouble under which the Dominion now 
labours could hardly have occurred ; 
yet it is Lower Canada, which was so 
jealous of her own rights and indepen- 
dence, that fouments it. The Quebec 
Scheme was modified in some particulars, 
but it formed the ground-work of the 
“ British North American Act” passed 
by the Imperial Parliament in 1867, 
which is now the constitution of the con- 
federated provinces. Certain specified 
powers were entrusted to the “ general” 
and “local” legislatures. To the latter 

bodies, for instance, was especially re- 
served, by the 93rd Clause, the exclusive 
right to make laws relating to education, 
with a general reservation that nothing 
in such laws should prejudicially affect 

the right that any class of persons might 
have by law in the provinces at the time 
of union with respect to denominational 
schools, Further, during the time that 
confederation was being discussed, the 
British minority of Lower Canada, who 
had vainly pleaded for a quarter of a 
century for the establishment of public 
non-sectarian schools, urged that it 
should not take place unless they 
were guaranteed rights with respect to 
such schools, As under confederation 
Upper Canada would have independent 
power to make laws relating to educa- 
tion, and might revoke its separate 
school system, ecclesiastical influence 
was brought to bear to prevent such 
action, and to fix in perpetuity the 
separate and dissentient schools in the 
two provinces ; and certain special ex- 
ceptions were accordingly appended to 
the Clause already mentioned, enact- 
ing that the rights possessed by the 
Roman Catholic minority of Upper 
Canada at the time of the union, with 
respect to separate schools, should be 
extended to the minorities of Quebec, 

and giving the minorities remedy from 
any Act of the Provincial Legislatures 
affecting those rights. 

A confederation of all the British 
North American Provinces had, at 
several crises in the history of the 
Canadas, been put forth as a means 
not only of promoting their general 
prosperity, but of increasing the power 
of the British Protestant element, and 
lessening French Canadian Catholic 
influence, and of getting rid of the 
embarrassments caused by sectional 
jealousies, Confederation, it was hoped, 
would give the provinces united some- 
thing like a national status. Events, 
however, have occurred since 1871, 
which appear to show that Confedera- 
tion has not answered the expectations 
of its most sanguine supporters. The 
influence of the hierarchy of Lower 
Canada over the Legislature of the 
United Canadas on all matters affecting 
religion and education has been felt as 
directly in the Parliament of the Do- 
minion; and many of the representa- 
tives of British Ontario find themselves 
now fettered in their action by engage- 
ments contracted through that influence 
in the past, and are committed to pur- 
sue an unconstitutional course. 

In the eighty years since its founda- 
tion in 1784, New Brunswick had 
shown itself to be the most peaceful 
and loyal of all the provinces. It had 
been agitated, indeed, by a political 
contest similar to that which had con- 
vulsed the Canadas, but without evinc- 
ing either a rancorous or rebellious 
spirit, and its politics had been little 
embittered by sectarian strife or “ re- 
ligious” animosities. Its Legislature 
had always given much attention to 
the subject of education, and had 
liberally provided means to promote 
it, but with only partial good results. 
In conjunction with legislative aid— 
direct taxation on the property of the 
country (so levied and apportioned as 
best to call forth the liberality of the 
people of the parishes to eupplement 
the amount so raised) had long been 
advocated as the efficient motive power 
that would infuse life and vigour into 


the common school system, and as the 
most just way to support it ; and before 
1867 the other British provinces had 
adopted the principle. A few years 
after confederation the Local Govern- 
ment of New Brunswick grappled with 
a question which their predecessors had 
always been very chary of touching. 
In 1871 a Common Schools Act was 
passed, repealing all then existing 
School Acts, making assessment compul- 
sory, and enacting that all schools to 
be entitled to legislative aid under its 
provisions must be non-sectarian. The 
Act did not interfere with the right of 
any class of persons of any denomina- 
tion to maintain, outside the common 
school system, schools in which distine- 
tive religious doctrines might be taught ; 
nor could it take away the right of the 
Legislature to grant public money in 
aid of their support. But its imme- 
diate effect was to deprive the schools, 
seminaries, and academies of the Epis- 
copal, Catholic, Presbyterian, Metho- 
dist, and Baptist bodies of the legisla- 
tive grants which they had enjoyed 
before its passing. The clergy and laity 
of the Catholic minority felt aggrieved. 
They claimed; that under the Parish 
School Act (which had been repealed) 
they possessed the privilege of main- 
taining schools of a denominational 
character, to which legislative aid was 
granted, and that their rights were pro- 
tected by the exceptions of the 93rd 
clause of the British North American 
Act, 1867. As the Common School 
Act was not to come into operation 
until January Ist, 1872, and as the 
constitution gave the Governor-General 
authority to disallow Acts of the 
Local Legislatures within a year after 
their passing, they immediately peti- 
tioned the Privy Council of Canada to 
advise the Governor-General to exercise 
his prerogative. 

Sir John A. Macdonald, Minister of 
Justice, replied to the petitions, re- 
porting that the Legislature of New 
Brunswick had acted entirely within 
its jurisdiction in passing the Common 
Schools Act, 1871; that it had sole 
power to redress any grievance under it, 

A Ohapter of Canadian History. 

and to give or withhold public moneys 
in support of schools ; that no separate 
or dissentient schools, coming under 
the protecting clauses of the British 
North American Act, were sanctioned 
by any law of the Legislature of New 
Brunswick ; and that, therefure, the 
Governor-General had no right to in- 
tervene, and the Act must go into 

This opinion, putting so strong a 
bar against the pretensions of the mi- 
nority, and coming from so high a con- 
stitutional authority as Sir John A. 
Macdonald, who could not be accused 
of hostility to the Catholics, as he 
had always advocated separate schools, 
was of great weight, and entitled to be 
received with deference. 

To introduce so embarrassing a ques- 
tion as this School Act into a body like 
the House of Commons of Canada was 
the surest way of awakening sectional 
strifes and “religious animosities” to 
compose which confederation had been 
entered upon, and of making the 
people of New Brunswick regret that 
they had given up their constitutional 
independence for embarrassments of 
which they had so little experience in 
the past. But this was the course that 
the minority was determined to pursue, 
counting on the sympathy of their co- 
religionists throughout the Dominion, 
and on the support of many of the 
representatives of British Ontario. 

The Dominion Parliament met in 
April, 1872, before the expiration of 
the year within which the school law 
(which had been in operation in New 
Brunswick for five months) might be dis- 
allowed. Mr. Costigan, Representative 
of Victoria County, New Brunswick, 
a mixed constituency in which the 
French Catholic element is predomi- 
nant, attacked the law on the grounds 
set forth in the minority petitions, and 
called on the Governor-General to dis- 
allow it. The right course for the 
Government, that was bound by the 
opinion of the Minister of Justice, 
and of all upholders of the constitu- 
tion, would have been to vote the 
question out by a direct resolution, 

A Chapter of Canadian History. 

expressing the opinion that the Parlia- 
ment of Canada had no righ to inter- 
fere. What they did was to oppose 
the disallowance motion. If they were 
not disposed for thorough action, the 
leaders of the minority, at any rate, 
were prepared to go all lengths. M. 
Chaveau, Representative of Quebec 
County, assuming that the framers of 
the British North American Act must 
have intended to protect such rights as 
were claimed by the minority of New 
Brunswick, moved a resolution for an 
address praying the Queen to cause an 
Act to be passed amending the British 
North American Act in the sense which 
the House believed to have been intended 
at the time of its passing, by providing 
that each religious denomination in the 
Province should continue to possess all 
such rights, advantages, and privileges, 
with regard to its schools, as it had 
enjoyed at the time of the passing of 
the Act. 

On learning the purport of the 
Chaveau resolution, the Government of 
New Brunswick very promptly trans- 
mitted, on the 29th of May, by tele- 
graph, to the Privy Council of Canada, 
a very earnest and forcible protest 
against this attempt to overthrow the 
school legislation, and to destroy the 
powers and independence of the Pro- 
vincial Legislatures. Desirous of pre- 
serving the union, the Government 
declared that they could not refrain 
from drawing the attention of the 
Government and Parliament of Canada 
to the alarming character and conse- 
quences of that resolution. 

“Those consequences far outweigh 
the importance of the particular subject 
involved. The assumption by the 
Government and Parliament of Canada, 
of the right to seek the imposition of 
further limitations of the powers of the 
Provincial Legislatures is subversive of 
the federal character of the union, tend- 
ing to the destruction of the powers and 
independence of the Provincial Legisla- 
tures, and to the centralization of all 
power in the Parliament of Canada. 
The people of New Brunswick cannot 
and will not so surrender their rights of 


self-government within the limits of the 
constitution, and will regard the passage 
of such resolution as an infringement of 
the constitution by those whose duty and 
interest should lead them to uphold the 
rights of the Provinces, while maintain- 
ing the powers of the General Govern- 
ment, The executive council in com- 
mittee, therefore, hasten to warn the 
Government and Parliament of Canada 
of the danger involved in the passage of 
such resolution, which if passed, what- 
ever its effect upon the cause of Imperial 
legislation, must stand as a precedent of 
innovation of provincial rights fruitful 
of evil; and in the name of the people 
of New Brunswick, and invoking the 
protection of the constitution, the execu- 
tive council in committee protest against 
the passage of such resolution, and em- 
phatically assert the right of the Legis- 
lature of New Brunswick to legislate 
upon all questions affecting the education 
of the country, free from interference 
by the Parliament of Canada.” 

On the evening of the same day the 
Chaveau resolution was voted down in 
the Parliament of Canada, 126 nays,\34 
yeas, Buta resolution, moved by Mr. 
Colby (Quebec), was afterwards carried, 
117 yeas, 42 nays, expressing regret that 
the school law of New Brunswick was 
unsatisfactory to a portion of the inha- 
bitants, and a hope that it might be so 
modified during the next session of the 
Legislature as to remove any just ground 
of discontent, and a rider was appended, 
on the motion of Ifon. Alexander 
M‘Kenzie (Lambton, Ontario), referring 
the case to the Law Ollicers of the 
Crown, and if possible, to the Judicial 
Committee of the Privy Council, England, 
for their opinion, in order to ascertain 
whether it came within the terms of the 
exceptions to the 93rd clause of the 
British North America Act. 

During the autumn and winter of 
1872 Earl Dufferin, Governor-General, 
transmitted to Earl Kimberley, Colonial 
Secretary, documents on the School-law 
case, and the arguments of the Govern- 
ment of New Brunswick, and of the 
counsel of the Catholic Bishop of St. 
John, New Brunswick, thereon. These 


were severally submitted to the Law 
Officers of the Crown, whose opinion 
substantially sustained the position taken 
at the first by Sir John A. Macdonald. 
Early in the spring of 1873, this opin- 
ion was corroborated by the judgment 
of the Supreme Court, New Brunswick, 
in the case of parties who contested the 
legality of an assessment on the ground 
that it included a sum for the support of 
schools levied under authority of the 
Common Schools Act, which they held 
was unconstitutional. Thus by the highest 
legal authorities the constitutional right 
of the Legislature of New Brunswick to 
pass the School-law was amply vindi- 
cated ; still the supreme tribunal had 
not given judgment, for the Privy 
Council intimated that it could not then 
take cognizance of the case, though it 
might, at some future time, be brought 
before the Judicial Committee on appeal 
from Canadian courts of Justice. There 
was no danger of an opportunity not 

It may be here remarked that the 
School-law, where it received anything 
like fair play, had been proved to be a 
most beneficial measure. Within a 
short period after the commencement 
of its working, the number of pupils 
attending school had largely increased, 
many fine new school-houses, fitted 
with all educational requirements, had 
been constructed, and generally through 
the untiring energy of the central ad- 
ministration, a vigour not before known 
had been infused throughout the common 
school system. Owing partly to local 
jealousies, partly to dislike to the law 
itself, and partly to opposition raised 
in some quarters to the legality of the 
school-assessment, the Board of Educa- 
tion and the chief superintendent had 
many difficulties in inducing the people 
of some of the districts to work it 
out in good faith. During the session 
of the Local Legislature that terminated 
early in April 1873, laws were passed 
legalising assessments that had been 
entered, and providing a remedy in 
cases where they should again be con- 
tested in the courts; also alaw amend- 
ing the School Act so as to increase the 

A Chapter of Canadian History. 

power of the central control vested in 
the Board of Education over the trustees 
and districts, and to determine more pre- 
cisely the time and mode of levying, 
collecting, and apportioning the county 
funds and district assessments. 

During the summer and autumn of 
1872, a general election had taken place 
in the Dominion, and the contest between 
the two political parties, the Conserva- 
tives and the Liberals, or Grits, had been 
very bitter in Ontario and Quebec. The 
extraordinary steps taken by the leaders 
of the government to carry it were after- 
wards brought to light, and raised the 
notorious “‘ Pacific Scandal” which cost it 
power, place, and’prestige. At the polls, 
especially in Quebec, the New Brunswick 
School-law was made a test question, and 
the result of the election there was to 
increase and concentrate the hostility 
of French and Catholic representatives 
against it. Two months after the meet- 
ing of the first session of the new Par- 
liament, a determined, though indirect 
attack was made on the School-law, and 
a resolution was thrown on the House, 
which, after reciting the arguments of 
the opponents of the law, and the action 
taken in 1872, set forth that the parties 
aggrieved should have an opportunity of 
bringing the matter judicially before the 
Privy Council, and that in the meantime 
it was the duty of the government to 
advise the Governor-General to disallow 
the acts (already mentioned) just passed 
by the Legislature of New Brunswick. 

On this occasion, Sir John A. Mac- 
donald, sympathizing with the mi- 
nority, made a forcible defence of the 
constitution. When a matter —he 
argued in effect—which was within the 
sole competence of a Provincial Legisla- 
ture was brought up in Parliament, the 
only question with the House’should be 
that it was one with which it had no 
right to interfere. The very discussion 
of it was an injury to the Federal con- 
stitution and an insult to the Provincial 
Legislatures. If Parliament could over- 
ride local legislation on the school ques- 
tion, if it presumed to decide that local 
laws could not be passed, amended, or 
modified to meet the wants of the people, 

'mMmire FP OoOed' &@ Se & 

a> oe 

A Chapter of Canadian History. 

it might interfere with every other 
matter left to the jurisdiction of the 
Provincial Legislatures. The powers of 
these bodies in the constitution might as 
well be written on a slate, and be wiped 
out at pleasure with a wet sponge, if 
Parliament could reduce their acts to a 
nullity ; if it could centralize all author- 
ity in itself, all confidence would be 
destroyed, and the Federal system of 
government be broken down; the union 
itself would come to an end if the Pro- 
vincial Legislatures had no assurance 
that in legislating on subjects within 
their jurisdiction they were legislating 
in reality ; if they found that they had 
only a sham power, and their acts no 
force unless by the will of Parliament. 
The resolution that had been moved was 
not only in violation of the Federal con- 
stitution, but it counselled an unwarrant- 
able invasion on the royal prerogative. 
By the British North America Act the 
Queen might within two years, exercise 
the prerogative of disallowing any act of 
the Federal Parliament, and the Gover- 
nor-General, who was now the only 
direct representative of the sovereign, 
might within one year disallow bills of 
the Local Legislatures. If the House 
passed the resolution it would be in 
effect dictating to the Governor-General 
that he should not wait until the year 
were expired, but disallow the bills in 
question at once. Even if the resolution 
was carried it would be a dead letter. 
As the bills had been passed by a sufli- 
cient majority of the Legislature of New 
Brunswick acting entirely within its 
jurisdiction, and as there had been no 
appeal by the people against their acts, 
they did not come under the condi- 
tions that warranted the exercise of the 

The resolution was carried by the 
majority of 35 votes—yeas, 98, nays, 63 
—Hon. Alexander M‘Kenzie and Hon. 
E. Blake (South Bruce, Ontario), the 
leading members of the present adminis- 
tration, voting with the majority. Be- 
fore the close of the session, the Premier 
being questioned as to the action taken 
on it, informed the House that the 
Governor Gencral felt it, in this case, to 

be his duty to apply to the Home 
Government for further instructions ; 
but he assured the House that the 
government would undertake to have 
the question of the School-law brought 
under the consideration of the Privy 
Council of England. 

It was surely a fortunate thing for 
the new Dominion that in this matter 
the ultimate authority is in the hands 
of the Imperial Parliament; for if 
Canada had been an independent coun- 
try, if the Governor-General had been 
an officer elected by the people, and if 
the Parliament had insisted on having 
its wishes carried out, the break-up of 
the union or the outburst of a revolu- 
tion could hardly have been prevented. 
The mover of the resolution threatened 
the Government with a vote of want of 
confidence, but he was constrained or 
persuaded to allow that matter to drop. 
A French member afterwards twitted 
him by saying that it was much to be 
regretted that after having had victory 
in his hands he did not know how to 
profit by it. If the Frenchman only 
meant that the vote would have been 
carried, it si possibly true. The Go- 
vernment, however, was soon enough 
put on its trial ; and for the remainder 
of the year the whole Dominion was 
agitated by the developments of the 
Pacific Scandal, by the resignation of 
the Macdonald and the formation of the 
M‘Kenzie administrations, and by an- 
other general election—and during the 
excitement the constitutional contest 
over the New Brunswick School-law 
was almost forgotten. 

The Catholic minority had some 
grounds for hoping that their position 
would be stronger under the M‘Kenzie 
administration, as the leaders of that 
administration had, when in opposition, 
given it active encouragement. But the 
possession and responsibility of power 
have generally a restraining effect. 
During the session of the new parlia- 
ment that met March 1874, the School- 
law question was raised, but there was 
no contest over it. Five thousand 
dollars were voted to defray the expenses 
of appeal in England ; to aid, in fact, 

A Chapter of Canadian History. 

the Catholic Bishop of St. John, New 
Brunswick, to contest the constitution- 
ality of the School Act—a pretty prac- 
tical proof, at least, of sympathy ! 

The contest over the School-law has 
a religious as well as a political aspect. 
It is matter of fact that it has been 
synchronous with the great conflict in 
the German Empire between the State 
and the Papacy, which has had a dis- 
turbing effect on the political action of 
countries like Canada, where the popu- 
lation is mixed Catholic and Protes- 
tant; and, as its world-wide significance 
became more and more apparent, it has 
been watched, both in America and in 
Europe, with keen and keener interest. 
In Canada, the ecclesiastical authorities 
whose local central seat is the ancient 
Quebec, the city of Champlain and 
the Jesuit Fathers, are animated by 
the spirit that has gone forth from 
Ultramontane Rome, and their zeal, 
since the promulgation of the Syllabus 
and the Vatican decrees, has been in- 
creased in denouncing mixed and com- 
mon schools as dangerous to faith and 
morals, in upholding the necessity of 
ecclesiastical authority, government, and 
interference in education, and in insist- 
ing upon the removal of all restrictions 
upon religious instruction that may enter 
into the course of daily secular education. 

In New Brunswick, while the con- 
tinued onslaughts of the Parliament of 
Canada on the independence of the Local 
Legislature were calculated to inflame the 
majority of the people, the attitude as- 
sumed by the hierarchy of the Dominion 
towards the School-law tended to cause 
a feeling of repulsion to anything like 
Ultramontane dictation, a feeling which 
was strengthened by the very violent 
spirit in which the chief Catholic organ 
advocated the claims of the minority 
and reviled the Government who intro- 
duced the School-law, the Legislature 
who carried it, and the people who sup- 
ported both. In the summer of 1874 
the people of New Brunswick had an 
opportunity to express their feelings 
and sentiments on the question. <A 
general election for the Local Legislature 
took place in June. The result was 

remarkable, and plainly showed the de- 
termination of the majority to uphold 
the law and the Government administer- 
ing it. Not an opponent of the govern- 
ment or the law was returned, even 
from large counties, where the opposi- 
tion to both had been strong. Out of 
forty-one representatives only five were 
elected in the interests of the minority, 
and of the whole number a large pro- 
portion were new men. 

While New Brunswick was still under 
the excitement of the election contest, 
the final steps to test the constitu- 
tionality of the School Act were taken. 
The action of the Federal Parliament in 
giving money to aid the advisers of the 
minority to argue their case by appeal, 
threw on the Local Legislature the neces- 
sity of voting means to defray the charges 
of defence. The Hon. George E. King, 
Attorney-General, and leader of the 
Government, who had taken the fore- 
most part in framing and carrying 
through the School-law, proceeded to 
London in the interest of the province. 
On the 17th of July the question was 
argued before the Judicial Lords of the 
Privy Council—the Right Honourables 
Sir J. W. Colville, Lord Justice Mellish, 
Lord Justice James, Sir Montague Smith, 
and Sir Robert P. Collier—in the case of 
an appeal from an adverse judgment of 
the Supreme Court of New Brunswick 
by a ratepayer of Portland, St. John, 
who objected to the assessment for 
school purposes made on the town, on 
the ground that the School Act, under 
authority of which it had been ordered, 
was void. The counsel of the appellant 
was kept strictly to the short point at 
issue, whether the general exception 
to the 93rd Clause of the British 
North American Act protecting any 
rights or privileges with respect to 
denominational schools which any class 
of persons might have had by law 
in the province applied to schools—con- 
ducted under the Parish School Act of 
1858, which was repealed by the Act 
of 1871. The arguments advanced by 
the counsel of the appellant (who was, 
as it were, the stalking-horse <f the 
minority) were deemed sa conclusive 

ee «ae ae eS a ae 


A Chapter of Canadian History. 225 

against his case, that the counsel of the 
New Brunswick Government was not 
called on to argue in defence. Their 
Lordships ruled that there was nothing 
in the ground taken on which to found 
a claim with respect to denominational 
schools, nor anything unconstitutional 
in the School Act, and dismissed the 
appeal with costs. The minority was 
thus driven from its last refuge. 

Some circumstances tended to raise a 
rather bad state of feeling in New Bruns- 
wick. Individuals of the minority re- 
fused to pay the school taxes, and the 
authorities—principally in the city of 
St. John—were placed under the dis- 
agreeable necessity of compelling them, 
by causing some of their effects to be 
seized and publicly sold. A most un- 
fortunate incident occurred during the 
last winter. The people of Gloucester— 
the majority of whom are French, and for 
the greater part under the rule of priests 
thoroughly imbued with Ultramontane 
ideas—have all along been bitterly 
opposed to the School-law. They are, 
moreover, represented in the Dominion 
Parliament by one of its most violent 
and able opponents, who is now Speaker 
of the House of Commons, and the 
editor of a paper in the Catholic interest, 
which, circulating freely in the country, 
tends to excite a feeling of active hos- 
tility. Some ratepayers of the district 
of Caraquet met in the school-house to 
vote money for school purposes. A party 
of Frenchmen from the surrounding 
country broke up the meeting in a vio- 
lent manner, and teok possession of the 
building. They afterwards behaved 
themselves riotously in the settlement, 
compelling certain persons to sign a 
document pledging themselves not to 
vote for assessment ; they breathed out 
fire and slaughter generally against pro- 
minent supporters of the law, and be- 
sieged a member of the local government 
in his house, drawing off quickly, how- 
ever, when they found that they were 
threatened with a hot reception. A 
party of militia from the neighbouring 
county of Northumberland was brought 
by the sheriff to quell the riot. On 
forcing a way into the house where some 

No. 195.—vobL. XXXuI. 

of-the rioters were lodged, one of the 
militia men was shot dead, and a French- 
man shared the same fate. The ring- 
leaders were captured and imprisoned, 
and are now awaiting trial. 

The leaders of the minority were now 
debarred from again demanding a judicial 
hearing. The door of appeal was closed 
against their case. They no longer had 
an excuse for entertaining the delusion 
that they had constitutional ground 
on which to found a claim for educa- 
tional rights and privileges ; since, in 
consent, the Minister of Justice, the 
Supreme Court of New Brunswick, the 
law officers had pronounced against 
them. Still, from the altar and the 
press their spiritual and political ad- 
visers decreed that, being denied con- 
stitutional redress, they must resort 
to agitation. The Catholic minority of 
the Dominion was, in spirit and in 
mind, the same minority that had from 
1841 to 1867 exercised, especially on 
educational matters, a controlling in- 
fluence on the Legislature of the United 
Canadas; and it had little cause to 
think that that influence was weakened 
in the Parliament of the Confederation, 
or that its combined votes were not as 
necessary for the support of a Ministry, 
or that its opposition was not as much 
to be feared as formerly. The leaders 
would still continue to press its demands 
on Parliament, and hope to weary or 
worry it into acquiescence, and the 
could look above and beyond to the 
Parliament of Great Britain. Some of 
the more reckless and impulsive of the 
minority even hinted that physical force 
might be necessary to enforce the grant- 
ing of their claims, and dark intimations 
were not wanting that the Catholics of 
the Dominion would receive sympathy 
and succour from their co-religionists 
over the line. Such threats might not 
have been seriously made, certainly they 
were seriously listened to. 

When Parliament met this year 
(1875), the intense interest displayed 
in its proceedings by all orders of 
the clergy of the minority, when the 
School-law question was again brought 
up, was very noticeable. Men in the 



clerical garb crowded the lobbies, and 
they could not have been more anxious 
and more in earnest had tl eir solicitude 
reached to the spiritual welfare of the 
legislators instead of to their votes. It 
was a visible proof that the clergy as a 
body were determined to act on the 
policy indicated by one of their then 
most pronounced supporters, that the 
minority would besiege every govern- 
ment and every Parliament until 
“justice” was meted out to it. 
“ Justice,” in their view, now, meant 
that the minority of New Brunswick 
should have, by law, similar rights to 
those possessed by the minorities in 
Ontario and Quebec, and that the British 
North America Act should be amended 
by the Imperial Parliament to bring 
about that result. A political party loses 
its memory when its passions are aroused 
and its immediate interests are con- 
cerned. The great constitutional con- 
flict, the result of which bestowed on 
the people of the provinces, through 
their representatives in the Legislatures, 
the right of self-government, free from 
the interference of the Imperial Parlia- 
ment in their local concerns, had been 
to a great extent excited by that inter- 
ference ; and now, the minority, which 
certainly had profited as much by the 
“boon” of responsible government as 
the majority, were eager to invite that 
interference, which, if forced upon it, 
would arouse the wildest indignation. 
The Imperial Government had encour- 
aged confederation with the view of 
placing the provinces in a more inde- 
pendent position, and getting rid more 
completely of the necessity of interfer- 
ing in their local matters ; the course 
taken since confederation by the Im- 
perial Government has shown an un- 
willingness to interfere in local matters, 
or questions affecting the rights of the 
provinces guarded by the constitution, 
and it is extremely unlikely that they 
will ever be induced to propose to the 
Imperial Parliament to amend the Act 
of the constitution, especially in pro- 
visions essential to the independence of 
the Local Legislatures, without the 
consent of the provinces interested. 

A Chapter of Canadian History. 

The Dominion Government was placed 
in rather an embarrassing position ; its 
leading members had, when in opposi- 
tion, encouraged the minority in press- 
ing their demands ; but now, instead of 
being the heads of an assaulting party, 
they were in the place of defenders of 
the constitution. They could now see 
clearly the danger of allowing attacks 
to be made upon it ; and though their 
sympathy for the minority might be 
patriotic and not political, they could 
not as guardians of the union join in 
any action that would endanger it. If 
they could not vanquish the difficulty 
openly, they could go round it. They 
could openly oppose any attempt to 
encroach upon the powers of the Local 
Legislatures, and still give the minority 
sympathy and support. They might 
induce members to pledge themselves 
not to vote for any resolution that in- 
cited Imperial Legislation, by recom- 
mending a course of action, that without 
any seeming violence, might bring about 
the result desired. Notice of a resolution 
was given by the Hon. Edward Blake 
(the foremost man of the liberal party, 
and all through the contest a strong 
supporter of the minority demands) 
regretting that the hope expressed by 
Parliament in 1872 had not been 
realised, and moving for an address to 
the Queen, praying that Her Majesty 
would be graciously pleased to use Her 
influence with the Legislature of New 
Brunswick, to procure such a modifica- 
tion of the School Act as would remove 
any just grounds of discontent. 

The Premier, the Hon. Alexander 
M‘Kenzie, in his place in Parliament, 
invited the House to consent to the 
proposition that, Imperial legislation 
encroaching on any of the powers re- 
served te the Provinces would violate 
their constitution, and that to incite it 
would endanger their right of self- 
government, and the House did by a 
large majority consent, and did also by 
a similar large majority agree to the 
further proposition that the Blake reso- 
lution, which was proposed by the Hon. 
J. E. Cauchon (Quebec centre) should 
be added thereto, and that both should 

be embodied in an address to the 

The course taken had the effect of 
raising a sort of misunderstanding 
amongst the representatives of the mi- 
nority. One of the leaders of the Irish 
Roman Catholic party, who had made 
himself specially prominent in declaim- 
ing that the minority would besiege 
every government and every parliament 
until justice was meted out to it, voted 
with the large majority, declaring that 
he did so with the knowledge and con- 
sent of the Catholic Bishop of St. John’s, 
New Brunswick. The statement was 
denied by the extremists, who opposed 
the royal address, praying for the ex- 
ercise of Her Majesty’s influence, as 
a step, which would in its issue lead to 
no practical or satisfactory result, and 
merely postponed the difficulty which 
would return next year upon Parliament 
with more perplexing force than ever. 

By inviting the Royal influence, the 
Dominion Government, no doubt, hope 
that such a pressure will be brought to 
bear on the Legislature of New Bruns- 
wick as to induce it to yield the demands 
made by the minority, and thus relieve 
them from their embarrassment. 

So the question stands for the pre- 
sent awaiting Imperial action on the 
Royal Address. The Government of 
New Brunswick, backed by an over- 
whelming majority in the Legislature, 
has not receded from the position taken 
in the protest of the 29th of May, 
1872 ; it rests on constitutional ground. 
Though on that ground the Government 
has been supported, it has received little 
sympathy from the political leaders and 
representatives of the Dominion at large. 
The Parliament of Canada is seemingly 
governed by the traditions of the past ; 
that it is still under the influence of the 
minority that has done so much to shape 
the course of history in the past, a 
significant action has shown, During 

A Chapter of Canadian History. 227 

the last session the Government carried 
through Parliament a measure erecting 
the North-West Territory into a separate 
Government, with the responsibility of 
settling the primary institutions—(not 
of one province only but of the several 
provinces that may in the future be 
carved out of that vast region)—under 
which, as the Hon. Edward Blake ob- 
served, “we hope to see hundreds of 
thousands—and the more sanguine 
among us millions—of men and families 
settled and flourishing.” A special 
provision was inserted in the clause 
of the constitution relating to education 
determining in perpetuity that the 
minorities, Catholic and Protestant, 
shall have the right to establish sepa- 
rate schools, and this was done with 
the avowed intention of letting people, 
who might emigrate thither, know what 
they might expect, and with special 
reference to the trouble in New Bruns- 
wick. But the same section of the 
British North America Act, which 
grants to the Legislature of New 
Brunswick the exclusive right to make 
laws in reference to education, grants in 
no less degree like powers to the Legis- 
latures of all future provinces through- 
out the Dominion. This action of the 
Parliament of Canada is obviously wéra 
vires, since it seeks to abridge powers 
conferred by the Imperial Parliament. 

From this sketch of a trouble which 
has, during the term of Earl Dufferin’s 
rule, arisen in Canada, it may be in- 
ferred that “ the epoch” has not been so 
haleyonian as the glowing description 
drawn by His Excellency would lead 
one to imagine ; but it is to be hoped 
that the position of affairs is still not of 
such gravity as to be beyond the poli- 
tical wisdom, experience, and ability 
which, we are assured, have grown with 
the growth of wealth and happiness 
within the New Dominion. 

Sept. 1875. 


In this country there are some who still 
remember Edoardo Fusco, who between 
the years 1854 and 1859 taught Italian 
and modern Greek in London and at 
Eton. He inspired interest even on a 
first acquaintance ; and the interest could 
not but grow, as one came to know him 
better, into singular confidence and 
esteem. He was born at Trani, in 
Apulia, in the year 1824. He took 
an ardent part in the revolutionary 
movement which in 1848 broke out 
in the kirgdom of Naples; when it 
failed he took refuge at Corfu, and 
after passing four or five years at Corfu, 
Athens, and Constantinople, acquaint- 
ing himself thoroughly with the state 
of Turkey, and making himself known 
by several publications, he came to 
London in 1854, when the Crimean 
war broke out, and remained in this 
country until the war of Italian Inde- 
pendence in 1859. Then he returned 
to Italy, and from the time that peace 
was established, laboured unceasingly 
in the cause of what he thought the 
great want for Italy—education. He 
became inspector-in-chief of the schools, 
both primary and secondary, in all the 
provinces of the old kingdom of Naples; 
he was charged with the delicate and 
difficult task of re-organizing the clerical 
schools when they were opened anew 
after having been closed by the Govern- 
ment ; he edited the Progresso Educa- 
tivo, and at the time of his death, in 
December, 1873, he had the chair of 
Anthropology and Pedagogy in the uni- 
versity of Naples. I saw much of him 
while I was visiting Italian schools for 
the Schools Inquiry Commission in 
1865. He had a strong liking for Eng- 
land and English life, a strong sense 
of what was faulty in Italian life and 
habite. There was much in his work 

at Naples to harass and try him, much 
elsewhere to invite and tempt him 
away. But in that southern Italy, such 
a fairy-land to the foreign idler, so 
full of harsh cares and toils to the 
serious patriot, was his post ; and there 
he laboured, and died there. 

The following lecture is the first of a 
short course given by him in English, 
at Queen’s College, in London. The 
course is interesting by its subject. The 
human spirit finds animation and en- 
largement in having these weltgeschicht- 
liche Massen, as Goethe calls them, pre- 
sented to it—these broad masses of the 
world’s main history. Fusco’s treat- 
ment of his great subject is clear and 
instructive, although his point of view 
is, naturally, too Italian. An Italian is 
always apt to count literary and artistic 
achievement as all in all in a nation’s 
life ; to concentrate his thoughts upon 
this, which has been Italy’s glory, and 
to forget what has been her curse—a 
relaxed moral fibre. To Dante’s defini- 
tion of civilization—civilization is the 
development of the human faculties—we 
may oppose Goethe’s: civilization is a 
higher conception of political and mili- 
tary relations, with skill to bear oneself 
in the world, and to strike in when neces- 
sary. Neither definition quite satisfies ; 
but Goethe’s is at least as true as Dante’s. 
Perhaps a man of the north would do 
well to keep before his mind Dante’s, 
and an Italian Goethe’s. Fusco, how- 
ever, if in writing the history of Euro- 
pean development he took too little 
note of Italy’s deficiencies in the virtus 
verusque labor of practical life, was 
in his own practical life nobly free from 
those deficiencies, and indeed made it 
the work of that life to cure them in 

his nation. 
Mattuew ARNOLD. 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante. 


A.D. 1000—1300. 

In undertaking to give a rapid sketch 
of the state of Art and Literature in 
Italy at a period preceding the time of 
Giotto and Dante, I feel I am attempting 
to elucidate a difficult and obscure pas- 
sage in the history of the Italian mind. 
It is not that ample materials have not 
been gathered on the subject by many 
learned and industrious men, but the 
variety of elements which have con- 
curred to form this extraordinary age 
seems to have been so large as to make 
it difficult to find a link connecting 
them synthetically so as to exhibit them 
clearly as a whole. I do not pretend, 
however, to exhaust so vast a subject 
in the limits of my lectures. They 
are only parts of larger studies, and, 
whatever may be their present state 
of incompleteness, I shall be glad if I 
succeed in conveying to the mind of 
my hearers some idea of the influence 
this period has had on the history of 
the human mind in the modern world. 
A period when litgrature is not the 
result of a public desire for books and 
novelties ; a period when art is not a 
trade ; a period when whatever emanates 
from the mind is but the spontaneous 
expression of the new civilization rising 
among a people who possessed the 
whole inheritance of ancient traditions, 
cannot fail to offer a wide field for 
speculation to a thinking and observing 
mind. To the large stock of knowledge 
transmitted from antiquity, we have 
the addition of an immense amount of 
new ideas ; we have facts of a magni- 
tude which has no parallel in history ; 
we have in this period, which has 
been called the dark ages—as much, 
I think, for the little that is known of 
them, as for the revolution which they 
confusedly and mysteriously worked 
in the whole aspect of the world—we 
have, I said, the fall of Paganism, the 
rise of Christianity, the birth of Islam- 
ism, and their successive struggles 
with each other; we have the exten- 
sion of civilization to new people; the 

+ us. 


extinction of old languages ; the crea- 
tion of new ones ; the intrdduction of 
new institutions ; in short the formation 
of a new era with the ferment, the 
transformation of the old world into 
the new, and it is no wonder that the 
human mind undergoes radical and 
extraordinary changes. 

We will follow these changes; we 
will to discover in this wreck of 
one civilization the plank which leads 
to the other; we will endeavour to 
point out the landmarks which the 
intellect has left amid the ruins of 
centuries in monuments of art and 
literature, which are its most promi- 
nent and loftiest expression, till ‘we 
finally come out to the broad daylight 
of modern civilizatiqn. 

But before treating of civilization in 
its intellectual, as well as historical, 
value, let us understand fully the mean- 
ing which this word conveys when re- 
ferred to ancient time. 

What is “ civilization ?” Does it repre- 
sent an idea known to the ancients } 

The word itself has no equivalent, 
that I know of, in ancient languages. 
The Greeks had “ atticism ” to indicate a 
social refinement brought to the highest 
point. The Romans had “ urbanitas” to 
express individual as well as social ac- 
complishments ; but these meanings are 
evidently far more limited among them 
than that of “ civilization” is among 
The Greeks expressed the negative 
idea by the word “ barbarism,” which 
they lent to the Romans. They could 
see what civilization was not, but they 
could not see clearly what it was. 
The idea of civilization begins with 
Christianity. It transpires first in St. 
Paul and the early Fathers, and espe- 
cially in St. Augustin, but with them 
it is still confused. We find it clearly 
expressed in the middle ages, in the 
ages most actively working for its reali- 
zation ; and it is Dante who first uses 
the word and defines its meaning, 
saying, Civilization is the development 
of the human faculties. Observe, Dante 
says, civilization is a development which 
points immediately to the idea of pro- 
gress. Progress, an idea entirely and 


exclusively Christian, an idea which 
was not and could not be Pagan for the 
simple reason that the Pagan world 
had the consciousness of its decline, 
and of the perishable elements of its 
edifice. Fatalism was its belief as it 
was of every religion except the Chris- 
tian. Fatalism is openly professed in 
the sacred books of the Indians; 
fatalism is continually expressed in the 
Koran ; fatalism also was the belief 
of Greek and Roman polytheism, and 
always associated with the idea of de- 
cline and degeneration. Hence we see 
the poet Hesiod amusing the Greeks 
with the description of the four ages 
of mankind, the last of which would 
see justice depart, leaving to mortals 
only burning grief and irreparable evils. 
Fatalism, then, is the negation of civili- 
zation ; hence civilization was an idea 
unknown to the ancients. 

But we must not say that because 
the ancient world had not the notion 
of progress, we could have begun a new 
period of civilization without the aid 
of all it has left us. We do not 
agree in the opinion of those philo- 
sophers who think that there are 
periods of greatness and of humilia- 
tion, of civilization and of barbarism, 
which it is the lot of all nations to go 
through alternately. We cannot see 
why Providence should give greatness 
to a people to-day and humiliate that 
people to-morrow that their greatness 
may pass to other nations. We cannot 
imagine that, without imagining that 
God punishes with tremendous repro- 
bation whatever is great, noble and 
elevating in this world; we cannot 
imagine that, without imagining that 
humanity, like Sisyphus, is condemned 
to carry the work of civilization with 
great efforts, by slow labour, through 
difficult trials, up to the steep summit of 
a lofty mountain, that it may again fall 
down into the abyss of degeneration and 
barbarism, that other nations with re- 
newed energy may again begin the same 
work, predestined to the same end. 

Reason, as well as history, is against 
this opinion, and history shows that a 
new period of civilization has never 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante, 

entirely dispensed with the elements 
of the preceding period, so that to ex- 
plain the progress of mankind at a 
certain time we must not forget the 
contributions of the preceding ages. 

In Italy, then, how many periods of 
civilization have accumulated heaps of 
ruins, and left vestiges of splendour, 
which like so many strata, show the 
work of successive peoples, and testify 
their greatness, their power, and their 
transformation! If, looking at the 
map. of Europe, you want to know 
what place, what extension, Italy occu- 
pies, you will undoubtedly be struck 
by its smallness. It is geographically 
small, it is but a little fraction of the 
whole, and yet it fills so great a part 
in the history of mankind that the 
memory of her name and influence shall 
live as long as man. 

Four important periods of civilization 
heve grown and flourished on the 
Italian soil at no great distance from 
each other, and each springing from 
the other in a countless succession of 
generations, like new leaves upon an 
ever fruitful and growing branch. 

How do we recognise these four 
periods ? From their art and literature. 
How could we otherwise recognise 
them? Art and literature are the two 
landmarks by which we can assign to 
nations their place in the history of 
human intellect. Nations may have 
been great, people may have been 
powerful, kingdoms may have been 
splendid and rich for a time, even for a 
long time, but if they have left no 
artistic or literary monuments of their 
greatness, their power, their splendour, 
and their wealth, if they have set no 
original addition, no marked impress 
of their own in the paths of art and 
literature, they pass away, they are 
forgotten, history takes no note of 
them, as they have failed in the noblest 
achievements of man—the achievements 
of genius and of intellect. By art and 
literature we construe the history of 
the human mind in its progress from 
one part of the world to another, from 
one period to another. 

Now as these four periods of the 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante. 

intellectual history of Italy are clear, 
distinct, and known to all, it suffices 
briefly to recall them to your memory. 

We have the Etruscan civilization, of 
which every day brings forth new 
vestiges and monuments attesting its 
originality and perfection; we have 
the Italo-Greek civilization, which, 
arising from the intercourse of the 
Southern Italians with the Greeks, 
acquired power and stability sufficient 
to create an artistic and literary period 
so important in ancient history as to 
have given the name of Magna Grecia 
to a part which was originally only a 
Greek colony; we have the Roman 
civilization, which originated in the 
contact of the rude Roman soldier 
with the refinement of the Etruscans 
in the north, and the accomplishments 
of the Italo-Greeks in the south ; and 
last, not least, the Italian civilization, 
the first-born child of Christianity in 
the west of Europe, which has com- 
municated its main influences, tenden- 
cies, characteristics, institutions, and 
tastes to the modern world. 

It is, then, at least thirty centuries 
that civilization has never left the soil 
of Italy; it is thirty centuries since 
the fine arts and literature have lived 
now a luxuriant, now a humble life, 
but still they always have lived on that 
narrow tongue of land projecting into 
the sea, like a ship ready to sail to 
the south, east, west or north, wher- 
ever her genius, her fate, her power of 
expansion, leads her. 

There is a link connecting these four 
periods. The Etruscans were flourish- 
ing at the north of Rome when the 
Italo-Greek spread philosophy, art, and 
literature in the south. ‘The Etruscans 
and Italo-Greeks are stifled, and dis- 
appear under the all-absorbing power 
of Rome, and the Romans gather the 
artistic and literary traditions of both. 
When Rome herself disappears, and re- 
leases the people of the peninsula from 
the nightmare of her oppression, the 
modern Italians rise to keep up the 
sacred fire of learning and of the arts 
by associating them with Christianity, 
the new reviving power of modern life. 


It is of the beginning of this era, that 
is to say, of the intermediate state be- 
tween the Roman and the Christian 
period, which prepared the new Italian 
revival, that I intend now to give a rapid 
sketch. I- shall briefly pass over the 
earliest part, merely to show the continu- 
ity of the literary and artistic traditions, 
their transformation in passing from 
Paganism to Christianism, the changes 
they undergo through many and divers 
influences, until by various ways we 
come to the times of Giotto and Dante 
as by so many rivers, which all run to 
the same sea. 

Paganism and Christianism! What 
a revolution in the history of mankind 
these two words suggest? Minds of 
great power have long meditated upon 
their influence on society and civiliza- 
tion. Gibbon, your celebrated historian, 
had visited Rome as a youth. One 
day, while walking alone on the Capitol, 
his mind filled with enthusiasm and 
associations of the great grandeur of 
Rome, he suddenly heard the chanting 
of saered songs, and turning, saw a long 
procession of Franciscan monks leaving 
the Basilica of Ara Ceeli, slowly tread- 
ing with their wooden sandals the 
marble pavement of that vestibulum, the 
scene of so many triumphs—so often 
traversed by the conquerers of nations. 
Indignation seized the mind of the 
severe Briton, who, comparing the 
puerilities of the new religion with the 
achievements of an unparalleled great- 
ness, saw in Paganism the power and 
glory of ancient Rome, in Christianity 
the cause of its decline, and conceived 
at once the design of avenging antiquity 
for the outrage which Christianity, he 
said, had inflicted upon it, by writing the 
history of the decline and fall of the 
Roman Empire. 

Does modern criticism see things in 
the same light? Certainly not. Pagan- 
ism had accomplished great things ; had 
dictated great philosophy, had inspired 
arts, had created literature, had sat upon 
the altars and upon the thrones, had 
passed from land to land with the fleets 
of the Tyrrhenians, the Tyrians, and the 
Pheenicians ; had led the conquering 


legions of Cyrus, of Alexander and 
Cesar; had raised the Pyramids, the 
Acropolis, the Parthenon, the Amphi- 
theatre, and the Forum; had looked 
splendid in the Olympian games, majes- 
tic and commanding on the Capitol ; but 
had not descended into the hearts of 
men, had not raised the whole human 
race to a higher level, had not pronounced 
the word humanity, in spite of the philo- 
sophy of Pythagoras, Socrates, and 
Plato, which did not go beyond the 
thresholds of their schools. We look in 
vain to antiquity for the elevation of the 
masses by the noble and lofty idea which 
makes Christianity the only religion 
under which peoples and nations pros- 
per and progress ; we seek in vain its 
sublime teachings among the great of the 
earth as a check to their oppressions ; 
we look in vain for it among the multi- 
tudes as a comfort in their sufferings ; we 
find this raising of man’s mind to a 
merciful, loving, forgiving divinity only 
among Christians, and we take the aspira- 
tion it suggests as the characteristics of 
Christian art and Christian literature. 

Now, where shall we find the link 
connecting these two periods, or rather 
the line marking their separation? It 
is in Italy. It is on the ruins of the 
ancient civilization that the modern 
raises its fabric ; it is in the arts and 
literature of Pagan Rome that the arts 
and literature of Christian Italy have 
their roots, and it is from Italy that 
the seeds were first scattered to all other 
Christian nations. 

To construe this passage of the intel- 
lectual history of Italy, we must descend 
to subterranean Rome. The new Italian 
people, the new Italian civilization, the 
new Italian art, the new Italian litera- 
ture, begin in the catacombs of Rome. 
There is the origin of all that afterwards 
became great. It is there that the new 
people, the poor, the weak, children and 
women, the aged and the suffering, all 
whom the Roman patrician and the 
ancient historians despised in their pride 
as vulgus and plebs, are assembled. It 
is there that the stranger, the oppressed, 
the persecuted, the converts, the threat- 
ened victims of the circus or the tor- 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante. 

tures of the emperors, found a shelter 
and a home. There is a whole cycle of 
art and poetry in these catacombs. It 
is not poetry as yet perfect in form, pre- 
cise in language, elegant in style; but 
there is in everything an effort to convey 
a sentiment under an image, to show the 
ideal in the reality, to give a symbol to 
architecture, to painting, to sculpture, 
and to the inscriptions, 

The way in which these innumerable 
galleries have been cut under the old cam- 
pagna Romana, these intricate and con- 
fusing passages, diverging in every direc- 
tion—the work of terror and necessity, 
and yet eloquent in their mysterious 
teachings, enjoining separation from the 
world, and the world’s pleasure, speak- 
ing of hope in an immortal life, which 
alone could make such an abode endur- 
able. From this mystery, from this 
ideality, arose the architecture of the 
new religion. 

The paintings which cover these walls 
often show tle inexperience of the artist 
and the ignorance of the people; some- 
times the traditions of antiquity reveal 
themselves in the images ; yet through 
that ignorance, through those traditions 
you perceive the new idea, the new faith, 
destined to animate and transform art ; 
faith is in the face, in the look, in the 
attitude of those figures, which with 
eyes upturned and hands pointing to 
heaven are types of the new Christians, 
and no other than the Christian. You 
recognize the novelty of the Christian 
painting at every step by the intensity 
of feeling, by the inspiration which 
animates these rude figures, and which 
determines their arrangement, and sug- 
gests their forms. No picture of distress, 
despair, or desolation is there, where 
desolation must have assumed its most 
fearful aspects. In those dark vaults 
you may see now the Good Shepherd 
gently bearing the young lamb in his 
arms, showing his protection to the weak 
and innocent ; now four compartments 
in which are drawn subjects from the 
Old and New Testaments, surrounded by 
garlands of flowers and fruit; now it is 
Noah in his ark ; now Moses striking 
the rock, or Job on the dung-hill, or the 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante. 

miracle of Cana, the multiplication of 
loaves, or Lazarus rising from the tomb. 
More frequently it is Daniel in the lions’ 
den, a symbol of martyrdom by wild 
beasts ; or Jonas ejected by the whale, a 
symbol of martyrdom by water ; or the 
three children in the furnace, a symbol 
of martyrdom by fire. These scenes of 
triumphant martyrdom were evidently 
painted to give courage and consolation. 
But no traces of contemporary persecu- 
tions, no representations of Christian 
slaughters do we find; nor scenes of 
bloodshed to awake hatred and revenge, 
while images of pardon, love, and hope 
are predominant. This is Christian 
painting in the catacombs. This is 
Christian symbolism. 

We pass to sculpture. The resting- 
place of their dear ones would not be left 
without a trace of affection and of regret. 
Sculpture begins with hieroglyphics, with 
figures void of proportion or grace, of no 
importance except from the idea they 
represent. Thus a leaf expressed the 
fragility of life; a boat with a sail the 
rapidity of life; the dove bearing a 
branch the approach of a better life. 
Here the easel, unable to represent the 
secret idea of the artist, called in the 
assistance of language. Every word 
in the inscriptions betrays want of 
knowledge; everything proves that it 
was the poor, the ignorant classes of 
the people, which the new religion was 
about to regenerate, Latin inscriptions 
in Greek letters, faults of language, 
errors of construction, incorrect ortho- 
graphy, all reveal the mother, the slave 
father, furtively cutting the expressions 
of their grief and of their hopes in the 
stone, before which they fall on their 
knees and weep and groan. “Here is 
Florentius, happy little lamb of God,” 
says one. “ You fell too early, Con- 
stance, miracle of beauty and goodness,” 
said another,and soon. This was early 
Christian art and poetry. 

But from those miserable dens, which 
the persecutors perhaps heard of with 
contempt, a new civilization was about 
to arise. Rome was mined by a sub- 
terrean city, and that city had mined 
the foundation of the Roman power. 


When its fall is inevitable, when all 
is lost, or seems lost, then the sacred 
asylums of the early Christians open 
beneath the feet of Pagan Rome, and 
save the arts and establish a poetry, 
which in the Basilicas of St. Paul and 
Santa Maria Maggiore, in a thousand 
monuments erected from the fourth to 
the thirteenth century illustrates the 
harmony between Art and Faith. 

Christianity now abandons the dark 
subterranean caves which had witnessed 
such great and unknown heroism, ani 
re-echoed so many groans and sobs of 
anguish, and sits upon the throne. The 
eloquent, inspired, uneducated orator, 
who had been the obscure comforter in 
desolation, preaches now in the Pagan 
temple the word of the true God, enters 
the splendid house of the Roman sena- 
tor to inculcate and expound the gospel, 
mixes freely with the people to remind 
all of their equality before God, goes 
into the hut of the poor to console and 
comfort, speaks abroad his high religious 
teaching until it pervades the school, 
the family, the state, the whole human 
family. By this noble enthusiasm every- 
thing is renewed and transformed. The 
science of Aristotle and Plato revives 
in the early fathers. The eloquence of 
Cicero and of the Gracchi adorns the 
homilies of St. Augustine and St. 
Jerome. The poetry of Virgil and 
Horace is renewed in the poems of 
Prudentius, the singer of the cata- 
combs, in the hymns of St. Ambrose, 
and in numerous popular poets. The 
Pagan superstitions themselves give 
place to legends of miracles, tales of 
martyrdom, and histories of a super- 
natural kind. 

And yet, though Paganism is decrepit 
and vanquished, Christianity young and 
victorious, the classical traditions of 
the first are too strong to be quite for- 
gotten in the life of the second. The 
adherence to ancient types is sometimes 
obstinate in the representation of holy 
images. At Ravenna, for instance, the 
river Jordan is represented on the 
baptismal font under the figure of the 
river-god, crowned with sea-weeds, after 
the fashion of the Pagans, leaning on 


the urn, whence run the waters in which 
the Redeemer is in the act of immerg- 
ing. The same imitation is seen in 
Venice, where the four Evangelists have 
at their sides the four rivers of the 
Terrestrial Paradise, of which they are 
symbols. Charlemagne complains in the 
Carolingian books of this profanation ; 
but he could not even in his time cause 
these Pagan figures to be abandoned in 
Christian subjects. Painting and sculp- 
ture, however, are secondary arts, and 
only accessories to architecture at the 
time. Architecture is actually the most 
important branch of art. It is then to 
architecture that we must look for the 
principal changes. 

The house of Pagan diviriities could 
not be the house of the true God. The 
Pagan temple did not answer to the 
character of the new religion as a place 
of worship. Pagan art was external ; as 
became the worship of gods who had 
all the passions of humanity. Christian- 
ity was a spiritual religion, and its art, 
therefore, must be spiritual; it must 
express human aspirations to an in- 
visible world, and make stones and 
colours harmonize with the spirituality 
of its teachings and aspirations. How 
was it possible to make architectural 
forms realize the lofty ideal of the new 
religion ? 

The first churches seem to be the 
germination, so to say, of the catacombs. 
It seems as if those secret places of wor- 
ship had emerged from underground to 
spread themselves over the earth. The 
chapel, the sepulchre, the baptismal font 
have the same shape as in the catacombs. 
Whether square, round, or polygonal, 
they are almost always covered with 
a vault. The baptistery of St. Giovanni 
Laterano at Rome, the sepulchre of 
St. Constance, erected by Constantine 
to the memory of his sister, the cathe- 
dral of Brescia, and other sacred build- 
ings of the time are circular. In the 
East the cupola prevails. The Church 
of the Holy Apostles, erected by Con- 
stantine, consisted of a cupola raised 
over the centre of a Greck cross. In 
the Church of St. Sophia, at Constan- 
tinople, the cupola enlarges and extends 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante. 

over the armsof the cross; hence the 
origin of the Byzantine style. 

Then the Roman basilica, which was 
the ancient palace of justice, was turned 
into a place of Christian worship. The 
basilica was a large and spacious build- 
ing divided into three compartments, a 
large nave in the centre, and two lateral 
aisles, with a vestibule separating the 
building from the street. The three com- 
partments have three doors symbolic 
of the Trinity. The marble chair of the 
bishop at the end of the nave facing the 
principal entrance replaces the judge’s 
seat; the choir encircles it. The 
aisles are set apart, the one for the men, 
the other for the women; while the 
nave is devoted to the catechumens and 
a portion of the penitent. This is the 
Roman basilica, The Byzantine cupola 
passes from the east to the west, and is 
added to the Roman basilica in the 
north of Italy ; whence that style called 
Lombard, because of the people which 
occupied those provinces ; but which is 
indeed founded on the style of the 
Roman basilica. 

The basilica was destined soon to 
collect within its walls all the spiritual 
and intellectual life of the people. The 
idea of life redeemed by baptism, the 
idea of death associated with eternity, 
became part of religion; hence the 
baptistery and the graveyard are placed 
by the side of the cathedral. The church 
becomes also the principal school. Even 
the stones of the pavement and walls 
are made to teach the Bible, for mosaics 
fulfil this purpose. If people are too 
ignorant to read and understand the 
Bible, mosaics are made to represent 
histories from the Old and New Testa- 
ments, that they may speak to and move 
the heart and the imagination. All the 
scenes, representations, and symbolic 
signs of the early Christians in the 
catacombs are preserved by an inter- 
rupted tradition and adorn now the 
hemicycle of the sanctuary, now the 
walls, and sometimes even the facade, 
all in mosaics. Painting sometimes and 
sometimes inscriptions come also in aid 
of mosaics, and so on the walls of St. 
Mark, in Venice, there a is poem of 250 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante. 

lines. The churches of Rome and Raven- 
na, and also those of Milan, Capua, 
and Palermo, of a later period, exhibit 
the same features, by which the temple 
of God is converted, in times of barbar- 
ism and ignorance, into a compendium 
of theology and sacred history for the 
people. Art is transformed, while it 
acquires that spirituality which it would 
not receive but by Christianity. 

That spirituality, however, is only 
comparative. The figurative arts are 
still very imperfect ; the outline is sharp 
and stiff; the eyes staring and fixed ; 
the types are all conventionally. shaped 
on a certain form ; but they mark the 
efforts of the artists striving to repre- 
sent an ideality which only time and 
the progress of general learning could 
bring to perfection. Instead of taste 
and perfection there is great richness. 
No less than 453 pounds weight of gold 
were employed by Pope Leo III. in the 
eighth century for the pavement of the 
Confessional of St. Peter’s, and 1,573 
pounds of silver fora balustrade to the 

entrance of the sanctuary. The same 
Pope was the first to use stained glass, 
and with this he adorned the basilica of 
the Lateran. 

Let us hasten, meanwhile, to other 
elements of intellectual life, modifying 

the native Latin element. We have 
seen this element only as affected by the 
new religion. We have seen this reli- 
gion in the silence of the catacombs 
sowing the seeds of new arts and new 
literature among a different class of 
people from the ancient. We have seen 
the new religion, after triumphing over 
all obstacles, meeting the art and 
literature of Paganism and assimilat- 
ing new food. We have hinted at the 
struggles which followed between the 
old and the new life. But with all 
we have not yet explained other facts, 
more or less considerable, of the utmost 
historical importance in a literary and 
artistic point of view. 

Poets delightin describing the moment 
when the savage people of the Scandi- 
navian tribes appeared at the top of the 
Alps, looking down first with astonish- 
ment, then with eagerness on the beau- 


tiful plains of Italy, of the like of which 
they had never dreamt. But we will 
not expatiate on a point so widely 
known. That the barbarians were the 
scourge of Italy nobody can deny, not 
even the Germans, who believe them- 
selves their descendants. Civilization, 
monuments, statues, books, all is de- 
stroyed. The languages of Europe in 
this, as in many other cases, have pre- 
served the trace of the fact. For the 
Vandals, one of those races living on 
the shores of the Baltic, have identified 
their name with the destruction of 
monuments; so that Vandalism and 
Vandalic are now used in all Euro 
languages to designate acts hostile to 
art and literature. 

There is, however, something provi- 
dential in the fate of Italy, and all great 
thinkers have recognised it as such. 
The barbarians invading a country of 
high intellectual and artistic cultivation, 
absorb some particles of Latin civiliza- 
tion, are converted to Christianity, and 
returning to their land bring with them 
notions they had not before, and relate 
the wonders of the Italian cities, which 
become subjects of bards’ songs in the 
Scandinavian mountains. 

They return to establish themselves 
in that land of promise, and are there 
absorbed in the focus of Roman life, 
strong even in its decay. They become 
masters of the country, but as kings, 
officer, or emperors they are compelled 
to adopt Latin, the language of their 
subjects, if they wish to reign. So the 
northern invaders, whom Germans 
pretend to have caused the regenera- 
tion of Italy, were on the contrary 
morally and intellectually conquered by 
the nation they had materially subjected. 
Generations of Huns, Vandals, Goths, 
Visigoths, Ostrogoths, Franks, Lombards 
and Greeks successively pass, like floods, 
over the Italian soil, but none succeed 
in establishing a firm footing in the 
country, none can alter its language or 
its name, as it happened in Gaul, in 
Brittany, and in Iberia. 

It would be absurd, however, to assert 
that centuries of foreign invasion bring 
no stock of new ideas to the invaded 


country. Our inquiry, therefore, now 
is: What part have the invaders in 
the intellectual history of Italy ? 

The invaders either preserved, in 
some parts, the arts and learning they 
found in the country, or added some 
new elements in art and literature to the 
existing ones. In the first aspect the 
Goths and Charlemagne deserve more 

The Gothic kings were more acces- 
sible to the ideas and refinements of 
civilized life. Theodoric, the greatest 
of them, did his best to reconcile the 
proud Romans to the sway of barbarians. 
He protected schools, honoured the 
learned, and erected some monuments ; 
but he laboured principally for the pre- 
servation of existing institutions, by 
which he endeavoured to gratify the 
tastes of the Latin race in order to make 
them yield more willingly to his au- 
thority. The Goths conceived a bold 
idea, worthy of record in the intellectual 
history of Italy, and that was that they 
attempted to impose their language on 
the Italians, just as the Austrians have 
done in our days, and with the same 
marked failure. They feared the glori- 
ous recollections of Rome; they were 
jealous of a greatness which spoke 
every moment to the imagination of the 
whole people ; wherefore Boethius, the 
last of the Roman senators, a philo- 
sopher and a poet, a man in whom the 
learning and taste of the Augustan age 
were still alive, fell by their hands, a 
victim for his attachment to the tra- 
ditions of Imperial Rome. 

Then came the Lombards, a fierce and 
warlike race, whose passage over the 
Italian soil has left more lasting vestiges 
than any other, from having given their 
name to an Italian province. The Lom- 
bards were not, and could not be patrons 
of art and literature at first; but when 
by their long dominion in the country 
they were absorbed in the life of 
Italy, they also paid a tribute to the 
refinement they had not succeeded in 
entirely effacing, and the School of 
Pavia, their capital, flourished for some 

Then Charlemagne entered Italy, as a 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante. 

liberator with the Franks. This cele- 
brated warrior is considered a restorer 
of the literature and studies of Italy. 
It is as creditable to Charlemagne to 
have satisfied the desire of the Italians 
for public schools, as itis creditable to 
the Italians to have wished for them. 

The literary education of the Frank 
captain was, however, Italian. From 
his earliest age he had been surrounded 
by Italian scholars who had inspired 
him with literary tastes. Peter of Pisa 
had been his tutor. This Peter of Pisa 
was the founder of those French Schools, 
in which the scholastic philosophy was 
originated, and which in after times re- 
flected so much honour upon Charle- 
magne and the French nation. Among 
the other leaders who aided Charlemagne 
in educating the French in literature 
and converting the Germans to Christi- 
anity were Paul Diaconus, George of 
Venice, and Theophilus, who were 
Italian, and the celebrated Alwin, a 
Saxon, who had been educated in Italy, 
and whom Charlemagne met for the first 
time at Parma. 

Whilst this northern influence of 
Goths, Lombards and Franks is princi- 
pally felt in the arts and studies of the 
northern provinces of Italy, except 
Venice, in the south it is the Eastern 
world which more immediately comes 
in contact with it. During this period 
the Eastern influence in Italy is two-fold. 
First it is in Greek, or more properly 
Byzantine, secondly Mussulman, or 
rather Arabic. 

Underthe nominal protection of the Eas- 
tern Empire the Republics of Southern 
Italy enjoyed considerable liberty and in- 
dependence, and Amalfi, Naples, Bari, 
&c. progressed civilly and commercially. 
Venice also, free and independent, 
never subjected to foreign invasion, 
Queen of the Adriatic, unfolded the 
flag of the winged lion in the Eastern 
seas. Hence we see the Byzantine 
style prevailing in the architecture of 
St. Mark. And not only that, but the 
employment of Byzantine artists by the 
Lombards and Franks, and afterwards 
by the Normans, is sufficiently proved 
to account for their great and continued 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante, 

influence on the Italian arts, to the 
days of Cimabue, and others. 

But the chief controversy has been 
what amount of influence may be attri- 
buted to the Arabians in the cultiva- 
tion of the arts and the learning of 
the Italians. 

No people of the world have suffered 
more imputation of being hostile to 
art and literature than the converts to 
Islamism. The famous dilemma of the 
Caliph Omar for a pretext for heat- 
ing the four thousand public baths of 
Alexandria for six months with that 
celebrated library, was often repeated 
against the Mussulmans, especially dur- 
ing the first period of their warlike reli- 
gious fanaticism. But though Omar did 
wrong, it is very little known that a 
Christian emperor did worse. For Leo 
the Isaurian, Emperor of Constanti- 
nople, not only caused another celebrated 
library of the East to be burnt, but 
ordered that the librarian and the 
readers should also perish with the 

‘ books, and this auto-da-fé took place in 
the eighth century ! 

Be it, however, as it may, there is a 
period in which the Arabians were at 
the height of their intellectual cultiva- 
tion, that is from the eighth to the 
tenth century, which is not the brightest 

in the history of the west. Their con- 
nection with Italy is double ; through 
Syria they have an influence on the 
Provencal, and through the Provencal 
on the Italians; through Sicily, which 
they conquered in the ninth century and 
held till the eleventh, their influence on 
the Italians is even more direct and cer- 
tain. Spain, Provence and Sicily are 
in fact the three countries in which the 
literature of the new era appears first, 
and it may be that in these three 
countries the field was first opened by 
Arabian influence. We know that the 
Arabic language had become very general 
in Sicily, and even to the time of Frede- 
rick IL., that is to say, the twelfth 
century, there were coins struck with 
Arabic mottoes, while Arabic inscriptions 
could still be seen on the shops. There 
were besides literary men in Italy who 
earned a livelihood by translating Arabic 


works, or Arabian translations of Greek 
works into Latin, and two among them 
acquired a certain celebrity ; they are 
Gherardo of Cremona and Plato of 
Tivoli. It is besides established beyond 
doubt by modern critics that the Ara- 
bians availed themselves of their geo- 
graphical position to appropriate the in- 
ventions of the Chinese, the erudition 
of the Indians, the learningof the Greeks, 
and the philosophy of the Egyptians. 
Hence it was through them that Flavio 
Gioja introduced into Italy the mariner’s 
compass, already known among the 
Chinese ; and Fibonani the Arabic nu- 
merals ; it was through them that the 
discoveries of gunpowder and writing- 
paper were brought to Europe, and 
through them that some of the Greek 
classics were first transmitted. 

We thus close this sketch of the 
foreign influences upon the Italian mind, 
a sketch which was necessary to explain 
much of the period we have undertaken 
to review. 

But here a natural question arises ? 
How far was the Latin element, that 
is to say, the Latin or Italian, affected 
by these influences? That the Italians 
were givers of civilization to their count- 
less invaders, and not receivers, is a 
fact none can doubt. The various pro- 
vinces of Italy had been at first reluct- 
antly annexed to Rome ; but had after- 
wards become partakers of her greatness 
and glory. The traditions of this great- 
ness was after many centuries of decline 
strong not only among the enlightened, 
but also among the people. The Ger- 
man historian, Otho of Freyingen, in 
describing the entrance of the Emperor 
Frederick I. into Lombardy, bears wit- 
ness to the tenacity of the recollections 
of Rome among the Italians. When 
the Germans entered Italy, he says, they 
expected to find in the Lombards natural 
allies, because they had heard of the 
Germanic origin of that people. But it 
was not so; and they were surprised to 
find “a race subdued by the mildness 
of the climate, and the fertility of the 
land, heirs of Roman refinement and 
sagacity, preservers of the elegance of 
the Latin tongue, and of the costumes 


and wisdom of the Romans, from whom 
they had adopted their art of govern- 
ment and the organization of their 
cities.” These are the words of a non- 
Italian historian. 

Intellectually then the Italians had 
not submitted to the influence of a civi- 
lization higher than that which they 
possessed. There was in fact no higher 
civilization in the world than the Latin. 
There had been no higher civilization 
in the world before the Roman, except 
the Greek. It was the result of Greek 
and Italian mind united, which had 
created the greatness of Rome, and 
which made its vitality felt in politics, 
in literature, in art, in society, long 
after the twilight of its splendour had 
vanished in a long series of dark cen- 
turies. The Scandinavian, Teutonic, 
Scythian, Slavonian tribes would have 
lived for many centuries a nomadic, 
wandering, savage life, if they had not 
invaded Italy, where they learnt the arts 
of civilization. 

But if the foreigners were barbarians, 
when compared with the Italians, if they 
had to learn all the elements of art and 
literature from the latter; still, it is 
evident that by the conflict of customs, 
manners, institutions and tongues; by 
the influence of their northern and 
eastern imaginations ; by their more wild 
but stronger and more primitive nature, 
by their peculiar chevaleresque institu- 
tions and supernatural mythology, new 
blood is infused into the Italian race 
which powerfully increases the intellec- 
tual wealth of the nation. It isas a 
flood, which whilst bringing devastation 
and destruction on a rich, fruitful, and 
beautiful country, leaves, however, after 
its passage, additional fertility to the 
soil, having brought from afar new 
seeds of other regions, which afterwards 
grow and become indigenous. 

By the foundation of these and other 
seeds we will see arising the new litera- 
ture, and the new arts of Italy. Butin 
order to bring down this general sketch 
to the tenth century of the Christian 
era, we must mention an event which 
had a singular and powerful influence 
on the Italian mind, as well as on 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante. 

the revival of art and literature in 

This was the belief spread by ill-in- 
spired prophets, supported by some ill- 
interpreted passage from the Gospel, 
confirmed by the authority of some 
early Italian sectarians, that in the year 
one thousand the world was to end. 

Ridiculous as such a prophecy may 
appear to the majority of the people in 
our days, it was not so in those ages. 
The corruption of morals, the abuse of 
brute force, the violation of all rights, 
the ignorance and superstition of the 
people, and, more than all, a famine 
which lasted many years—of the 
effects of which chronicles have left us 
most heart-rending descriptions—made 
men dejected, and disposed their minds 
to believe that God was going to punish 
their sins and to put an end to the 
human race. The imagination of the 
people was inflamed. The coldest minds 
could not escape the epidemic of feverish 
excitement at the idea that in the fulness 
of their health and of life, at a fixed, 
day and hour, they were going to find 
themselves in presence of their Creator 
and of Eternity. 

This excitement, which prevailed for 
at least fifty years before the dreaded 
day, had its influence on art, literature, 
and society in several ways. 

In the first place, religious life being 
considered as more fit to bring men to 
God, people rush to the monasteries 
and convents, and places of worship in 
such numbers that new churches, cathe- 
drals, and convents have to be built. 
And as money given in alms, or in the 
erection of sacred buildings, or in the 
dotation of convents is so much dedi- 
cated to God for the good of their souls, 
so no money is spared to make them 
splendid. Hence a great impulse is 
given to ecclesiastical architecture. The 
number of churches and cathedrals 
erected in and out of Italy during the 
half century preceding the year 1000, 
and the half immediately following it 
is really wonderful. In France, in 
Germany, in England the same move- 
ment is going on, and the same revival 
of church architecture. The cathedrals of 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante. 

Cologne, Mayence, Winchester, Worms, 
Chartres, Gloucester, and Westminster, 
all belong to this period. 

In the second place the clergy and 
the monks, whose revenue had swelled 
to an enormous amount through the 
donations of many believers, employed 
painting, and especially mosaics, to im- 
press more sensibly on the people the 
image of the eternal world, with re- 
presentations now of glory and joy in 
Paradise, now of sufferings and tor- 
ments in hell, now of expiation and 
penance in purgatory, and now of the 
terrible last judgment before which all 
were in a short time to appear. Mira- 
culous revelations of the other world, 
visions and legends, fill the popular 
literature of the time, and form one of 
its principal features, and we shall see 
how these legendary traditions are 
adopted by painters and poets, and how 
they gave to Italy Giotto and the Divina 

The third consequence of this excite- 
ment is, that, having raised the religious 
enthusiasm of this people to the utmost, 
it became possible to tax them to some 
advantage ; as popes, kings, and monks 
did by preaching the Crusade against 
the most formidable foe of Christianity, 
the Mussulman. To fight against the 
infidel, to make a pilgrimage to Jeru- 
salem, isto prepare for a better world. 
Thus the western sinners rush to the 
East, as the best and shortest road to 

When, after that terrible night of the 
31st of December, of the year 1000, 
people wordered that they were still 
standing on their feet, and saw the sun 
still shining on the face of the earth, 
and on the buildings they had erected, 
confidence revived, churches and cathe- 
drals were still built to thank God for 
the miracle of having spared the world 
from destruction ; but there is commerce 
also, there is trade, industry, activity, 
the feeling of a new life, the resur- 
rection of military valour, and the rise 
of new and powerful cities, precursors of 
a new era which is rapidly approaching. 
Italy begins a new era, but this era is 
no longer Etruscan, Greek, or Roman ; 


it is no longer limited to one province, it 
is general, it is totally and exclusively 

Italy, however, this new Italy, has 
not yet a language. No wonder. There 
was a time, says a great writer, when 
nearly all the nations of Europe had no 
language of their own. When the 
strong unity of the Roman empire broke 
down, the countries which had been its 
provinces lost the language of their con- 
querors and formed their own dialects, 
These dialects, however, bear the mark 
of the tie which once bound their 
people to the victorious chariot of the 
metropolis of the world. Provengal, 
French, Catalan, Castiglian, Portuguese, 
Walachian, and Italian are all romance 
or neo-Latin languages, which still pre- 
serve, though in different degrees, their 
affinity with Latin, Their principal 
difference depends on the modification 
they undergo in the mixture of Latin 
with their primitive languages, or the 
languages of their new masters. This 
causes a period of transformation, when 
these languages are no longer Latin, 
and still not French, Spanish, or Italian ; 
then they are like the burning sheet of 
paper described by Dante, 

‘‘Which is not black, and yet is white no 

This is the period when writers work 
unconsciously to their formation. 

The Italian writers are the last among 
the neo-Latin nations to cultivate the 
Italian language, for the reason that 
Latin is, for some time and to a great 
degree, still the language of the country. 
The languages of Spain, France, Pro- 
vence, &c., are formed by the mixture of 
Latin with the native dialects of their 
countries; but the native language of 
Italy had long before become Latin itself. 

Italian is but Latin popularized, it is 
the vulgar language, as it was called, 
the language of the people. Latin and 
Italian literature co-existed for several 
centuries, the one as the noble, the other 
as the popular literature. All the ques- 
tioning then about the origin of the 
Italian, which has puzzled foreign and 
native writers, is a mere waste of time. 


Italian is contemporary with Latin as far 
as it is only a corrupted Latin. The 
corruption of Latin can be traced to the 
time of Tacitus and Seneca, that is to say, 
to the first century of the Christian era, 
when the barbarians had not yet invaded 
Italy. The translation of the Bible 
made at that time for the people, and 
revised afterwards by St. Jerome in the 
time of the Empire, and always, for the 
multitude, is the most important proof 
of this cbrruption. There we find the 
use of articles and prepositions, or signs 
of the cases for the firsttime. There we 
find Italian idioms, which are still the 
same. This corruption was, of course, 
continued and accelerated by foreign 
invasions, by the absence of a national 
literature, by centuries of popular ignor- 
ance and want of political existence, and 
by loose grammar; causes which even in 
our day would all lead to the same 

We see then by this review of the 
principal features of the long and 
laborious intellectual revolution which 
took place in Italy between the Roman 
decline and the Italian revival, that the 
first and most important fact which 
transforms civilization, is the intro- 

Italian Art and Literature before Giotto and Dante. 

duction of Christianity into Rome, the 
great centre of the ancient Pagan world. 

A second and also important event is 
that of foreign invasions, which more or 
less contribute to quicken a revival of 
art, science, and literature, and the 
influence of which originates in the 
courts, whence they spread to the nation. 

A third and equally important fact is 
that of the political, artistic and literary 
traditions of Rome, which are still re- 
tained by the bulk of the nation, and 
like a smouldering fire} only wait the 
opportunity to break out; and they do 
in fact revive in the Italian Republics, 
and create the most splendid period of 
Italian history, which is also the golden 
era of Italian literature and art. 

These three facts, influencing in dif- 
ferent degrees, Italian art and litera- 
ture before Giotto, and Dante, bring us 
naturally to the division of the three 
following Lectures, to which the present 
is but an introduction. That is to say, 
art, and literature in relation— 

Ist, To Religious Life ; 
2nd, To Court Life ; 
ord, To National Life. 

Epoarpo Fusco. 

To be continued. 


Dear Mr. Epirorn,—I am much 
flattered by your request that I would 
send you another Card Article for 
your Christmas Number; but I fear 
I have almost exhausted the range of 
the subject. I have written on games 
of cards which may be played by a 
room-full of people (January, 1870) ; 
on games for four players (December 
1861, January 1863); on games for 
three players (January 1873); on 
games for two players (Decomber 1861); 
and last January you did me the honour 
to insert an article on games at cards 
for a single player. It would seem diffi- 
cult to go on to games not played at 
all; but there is something like an 
approach to them in an invention lately 
put before the world, namely, games at 
cards played by machinery. I need 
hardly say I allude to the wonderful 
automaton, exhibited by Messrs. Mas- 
kelyne and Cooke, at the Egyptian Hall, 
Piccadilly. This ingenious mechanical 
figure at present plays whist, and plays 
it well; but it would play picquet, 
cribbage, écarté, or almost any ordinary 
card game with equal facility and 
success. In default of a better subject 
I propose to give your Christmas 
readers some account of this singular 

The proprietors of the figure are 
something more than mere exhibitors 
of the art of legerdemain, for they 
have for some years past attracted in- 
terest by novel and startling contri- 
vances which have involved ingenious 
applications of physical science, and 
which, if their explanation had become 
generally known, would have secured 
a more honourable appreciation than 
the blind admiration of the wondering 

Some time ago, acting on a hint 
given them by a friend, these gentlemen 
conceived the idea of making an auto- 

No. 195,—-vot. xxx1u. 

maton figure which should, without any 
apparent human agency, perform feats 
exhibiting intelligence and volition ; 
they spent two years in the manu- 
facture, and the result was the produc- 
tion of “Psycho,” who has been now 
before the public for about twelve 
months, attracting crowds of visitors, 
and exciting great wonder and curi- 

Psycho is a figure a little less than 
adult size, who sits cross-legged in 
Oriental fashion, on an oblong box, 
resembling one of the hand organs 
carried about the streets. The dimen- 
sions of the box are, judging by the 
eye, about twenty-two inches long by 

eighteen inches wide, and fifteen inches 

high, and from the top of the box to 
the crown of the figure’s head may be 
between two and three feet. 

The box,. withthe figure on it, is 
entirely detached, and is carried about 
by Mr. Maskelyne and an assistant. 
When in action it is placed on the top 
of a strong hollow cylinder of trans- 
parent glass, about ten inches diameter 
and eighteen inches high. This cylinder 
rests on a loose wooden platform about 
four feet square, which again is sup- 
ported at a distance of about nine inches 
clear above the floor of the stage by 
four short legs, one at each corner. 

When Psycho performs his intelligent 
feats, both his arms move, in a way to 
be hereafter described, and he also 
shakes his head ; but as this shake has 
not the tremendous significance of Lord 
Burleigh’s, we may ignore it in our 
present description. 

Before commencing the performance, 
the foundation platform is lifted up, 
turned about, and exhibited to the 
audience, before being placed in posi- 
tion. The glass cylinder is then handed 
round to the spectators, who may 
satisfy themselves it is nothing but 


Games at Cards Played by Machinery. 

what it professes to be, and has no 
concealed contrivance about it. It is 
then placed upright on the platform, and 
Psycho and his box are put loosely 
upon its upper end. Mr. Maskelyne 
invites upon the stage any of the spec- 
tators who may wish to examine the 
apparatus more closely. Several parts of 
the figure are uncovered and exposed, 
and doors are opened at the end of the 
box, along stick being passed completely 
through, to show that nothing of any 
large size can be concealed within. At 
the same time, persons are requested to 
walk completely round the figure and to 
pass their hands over his head, to satisfy 
themselves that there is no wire or 
other means of communication between 
the figure and the sides or ceiling of 
the room ; while the transparency of the 
glass cylinder, and the detached posi- 
tion of the platform above the floor, 
forbid the supposition of any me- 
chanical connection in a downward 
direction. Altogether the perfect isola- 
tion of the figure is guaranteed by the 
most unquestionable evidence. 

The performance begins by Mr. Mas- 
kelyne declaring Psycho’s ability to 
perform arithmetical calculations. Two 
numbers are chosen by the audience, 
Psycho is requested to multiply them 
together, and he then by a motion of 
his left hand causes to appear succes- 
sively on a small tablet the several 
digits of the product. Other arith- 
metical operations, such as dividing, 
squaring, and cubing, are performed in 
a similar way. I asked him on one 
occasion for the cube of 12, and the 
figures 1, 7, 2, 8, were immediately 

Then comes the great feature of the 
evening, the hand at whist. A table 
is prepared on the stage, three persons 
from the audience are invited to play, 
and Psycho makes the fourth. After 
cutting for partners, the deal takes place, 
and Psycho’s cards are taken up by Mr. 
Maskelyne, and placed upright, one by 
one, in a frame forming the arc of a 
circle in front of the figure ; the faces 
of the cards being turned towards him 
and away from the other players. When 

it is Psycho’s turn to play, his right 
hand passes with a horizontal circular 
motion over the frame till it arrives at 
the right card ; he then takes this card 
between his thumb and fingers, and by 
anew vertical movement of the hand 
and arm, he extracts it from its place, 
lifts it high in the air, and exposes it to 
the view of the audience ; after which, 
the arm descending again, the card is 
taken away from the fingers by Mr. 
Maskelyne, and thrown on the table to 
be gathered into the trick. 

The play of one whist-hand suffices 
to exhibit the skill of the automaton ; 
and he concludes his performance by a 
few tricks of conjuring—such as ex- 
tracting a certain card from the pack 
when placed in a box—striking on a 
hand-bell to answer questions and to 
indicate drawn cards, and so on. 

We may confine attention to the 
whist-play, and it will be well at once 
to dissipate any notions about con- 
federacy, packed cards, and soon. There 
is conclusive evidence that the play 
is perfectly bona fide. Any person 
may join in it, the process is precisely 
of the usual character, and it is certain 
that Psycho’s hand is played under the 
same circumstances as that of any player 
at a club or at a domestic fireside. He 
is said to play very well, and to under- 
stand perfectly what I have called in 
my little book “The Modern Scientific 
Game.” I may give an example of a 
hand, offering some interest, which I 
saw played about a month ago. I will 
call the three human players A, B, and 
C, B being Psycho’s partner. B had the 
deal, turning up the 7 of clubs, and the 
cards dealt were :— 

A’s Hann. 

Ace, Nine, Two. 
. Ace, Knave. 
Queen, Ten, Four, Three: 
Ace, King, Ten, Eight. 


Hearts . 
Spades. . 
Diamonds . 

{ B’s Hann. 

Seven, Six, Five, Four. 
Ten, Four. 

Knave, Six, Five, Two.! 
Nine, Five, Three. 

C’s Hanp. 
Clubs .. . Ten. 
Hearts . Eight, Six, Three, Two. 
Spades . Ace, King, Nine, Eight, Seven. 
Diamonds . Queen, Seven, Six. 

Psycno’s Hanp. 

Clubs . . King, Queen, Knave, Eight, Three. 

Hearts. . King, Queen, Nine, Seven, Five. 
Diamonds. Knave, Four, Two. 

The play was as follows; the winner 
of each trick being marked by an 

TRICK. Puay. 

I. . C . . Ace of Spades. 
*Psycho . Three of Clubs. 
A’. . . Three of Spades. 

B. . . Two of Spades. 
II. . . Psycho . King of Hearts. 

*A. . . Ace of Hearts. 
B. . . Fourof Hearts. 
C. . . Twoof Hearts. 

Ill. . . *A. . . King of Diamonds. 
B. . . Three of Diamonds. 
C. . . Six of Diamonds. 
Psycho . Two of Diamonds. 

fV. . . *A. . . Ace of Diamonds. 

B. . . Five of Diamonds. 
- . « Seven of Diamonds. 

Psycho . Four of Diamonds. 

V « Be . Eight of Diamonds. 
B. . Nine of Diamonds. 
*C. - Queen of Diamonds. 
Psycho . Knave of Diamonds. 
VI... ©. + . Tenof Clubs. 
Psycho . Knave of Clubs. 

. « Ace of Clubs. 
B. . . Four of Clubs. 

VIL. . . A. . « Nine of Clubs. 
B. . . Five of Clubs. 

C. . . Three of Hearts. 

*Psycho . Queen of Clubs. 
VIII. . . *Psycho . King of Clubs. 
A. . . Two of Clubs. 

B. . . Six of Clubs. 
- «+ Seven of Spades. 
IX. . . *Psycho . Queen of Hearts. 
— Knave of Hearts. 
- » Ten of Hearts. 
C. . . Six of Hearts. 


x Pyscho . Nine of Hearts. 
A. . . Ten of Diamonds. 
*B. . . Seven of Clubs. 

C. . . Eightof Hearts. 

ae « Be . Five of Spades. 
C. . . King of Spades. 

*Psycho . Eight of Clubs. 

A. . . Four of Spades. 

XII. . . *Psycho . Seven of Hearts. 
XIII. . . *Psycho : Five of Hearts. 

Games at Cards Played by Machinery. 243 

—the result being that Psycho and his 
partner score two by cards and two by 

Psycho’s play was evidently dictated 
by judgment and principle. Having 
been forced to trump the first trick, he 
abstained from leading trumps till he 
had done something towards clearing 
his long heart suit, and he was after- 
wards favoured by his opponent A., who 
fell into the very common blunder of 
leading trumps when weak, for the in- 
sufficient reason of his suit being ruffed ; 
his lead of clubs at Trick VI. was just 
what Psycho wanted, and the latter 
accordingly followed it up till his 
opponents were disarmed. His partner 
afterwards did his best to thwart him 
in Trick X. by trumping his best heart, 
and so stopping his suit, but Psycho was 
fortunately able to regain the lead, and 
so to bring in his remaining long cards. 

There can, I repeat, be no doubt 
whatever of the genuineness of the play ; 
and I confess that to me, standing 
beside this little wooden doll, appar- 
ently isolated from any human agency, 
and seeing it not only imitate human 
motions, but exert human intelligence 
and skill, the effect seemed weird and 
uncanny ; and I could hardly wonder at 
the Spiritualists, who seriously con- 
jecture that Psycho may be one of the 
manifestations comprised in their own 
Psychological creed. 

However, we may dismiss such 
fanciful notions, and may take it for 
granted that the automaton is actuated 
by purely mundane forces, and we come 
now to the question, How is it done? 
Mr. Maskelyne throws down the gaunt- 
let to the world, challenging them to 
discover his secret if they can, and I 
confess it is a very pretty scientific and 
mechanical problem. It will be worth 
while to review the various modes by 
which the solution may be possible, and 
to consider which of them is the most 
likely to be the correct one. 

The most obvious suggestion is that 
a human being may be concealed inside 
the figure. This, as the exhibitor re- 
minds his audience, was the explanation 
of the celebrated automaton chess- 
R 2 


player, produced by De Kempelen many 
years ago. In this case there is very 
little room indeed, but it is said a small 
child would suffice to obey signals con- 
veyed to him from outside. For my 
part, after looking at the figure as 
opened, I have no hesitation in accept- 
ing Mr. Maskelyne’s assurance that 
there is not available space even for 
this ; and, moreover, it appears to me that 
the character of the motions is such as 
to reveal clearly to a mechanically-edu- 
cated eye that they are produced by 
mechanism, and not by direct muscular 

The idea of transmission of motion by 
wires or connections, either for mechan- 
ical action or for the conduction of 
electricity, is negatived by the oppor- 
tunity for thorough inspection all 
round the figure, above, at the sides, and 
underneath ; and failing this, suggestions 
have been made of forces which will 
act at a distance. Magnetism, for 
example, will influence a needle a good 
way off ; as is instanced every day by 
the aberration of ships’ compasses, 
owing to masses of iron in the hull or 
interior of the vessel. Heat also will 
radiate to long distances, as is shown in 
the well-known experiment of lighting 
a match by heat caused to converge 
upon it from a hot body on the other 
side of the room. It might, perhaps, 
be possible to produce some mechanical 
effects on the figure in either of these 
ways; but when it was attempted to 
work out in detail either of these sug- 
gestions, I fear the difficulties of 
accounting for the motions actually pro- 
duced would be very great, if not insur- 

There remains another possible 
solution which appears to me very much 
simpler, easier, and more satisfactory. 
Whether it is the correct one or not, I 
will not venture to say, for the pro- 
prietors naturally disguise or conceal 
with much care all the weak points 
which would lead to detection. I will 
endeavour, however, to show that this 
plan is consistent with all the facts 
and appearances, so far as they are 
visible to the outside observer ; that it 

Games at Cards Played by Machinery. 

is easy of construction and working, and 
that it will account for everything that 
is done. 

On this view, the secret is that, 
although there is no visible mechanical 

‘communication between the automaton 

and any human agency, there is such a 
communication in an invisible form, 
namely in the form of a column of air, 
extending from the lower part of the 
box, through the glass cylinder, and 
certain openings below it, to some place 
either below the stage or behind the 
scenes. It is well known, according to 
the laws of pneumatics, that if we have 
a closed space, filled with an elastic 
fluid, and an alteration of the density 
of the fluid be effected at any one point, 
that alterationwill be quickly distributed 
over the whole contents. And, since the 
pressure varies with the density, if by 
any artificial means we exercise a com- 
pressing or exhausting action at one end 
of a column of air, that action is im- 
mediately transferred to the other end 
of the column in the shape of an increase 
or diminution of pressure, which is 
capable of producing mechanical action. 
Hence, supposing a column of air to 
extend from the figure to some place 
behind the scenes, the air in the column 
may be operated on at that place at any 
given moment, and the effect of such 
operation will be at once to communi- 
cate the power of motion to some part 
of the figure. 

It is curious how the invisibility of 
the atmosphere around us deadens our 
appreciation of the fact that air is 
really a material substance, endowed 
with physical and mechanical properties 
as positive as those of water or mercury. 
We see, every day, follies committed in 
pneumatic arrangements which are in- 
comprehensible except on the supposi- 
tion that the authors of them have 
treated air as a sort of transcendental 
ether, without any real entity, or any of 
the commonplace qualities of ponder- 
able matter. The usual arrangements 
for what is called, by an amiable 
courtesy, ‘“ ventilation,” are generally 
striking examples of this. Take, as a 
most notorious instance, those of our 

Gans at Cards Played by Machinery. 

chief metropolitan concert hall. The 
builders have been at great trouble and 
expense to make copious provisions 
for the air to get out, but they have 
unluckily forgotten to make any corre- 
sponding provisions for other air to get 
in to supply its place. Consequently, 
on the ancient principle that “ nature 
abhors a vacuum,” the “ ventilation” of 
course refuses to work, and the atmo- 
sphere, during a well-attended evening 
concert, is like the Black Hole of Cal- 
cutta, until the lower doors are opened, 
when the fierce natural effort of the air 
to rush in and remedy the blunder of 
the designers gives all the people around 
bronchitis and rheumatism. A certain 
ventilation doctor has lately acquired 
fame by simply having common sense 
enough to perceive, what architects in 
general do not perceive, that air requires 
be treated on the same laws as matter 
in general. I must apologize for this 
digression, but it illustrates the singular 
illusions which may attend the mecha- 
nical action of an invisible fluid, and 
may serve to explain how, if this be 
Psycho’s secret, it may have so long 
escaped detection by general observers. 

The idea of transmitting power to a 
distance by means of air is by no means 
new. It was first suggested by the 
celebrated Denys Papin, the person 
who has, in my opinion, a good claim to 
the title of the first inventor of the 
steam-engine. In 1688 he described! 
an apparatus in which a partial vacuum 
produced in a long tube by air-pumps 
fixed at one end, caused the motion of 
pistons placed at the otherend. One 
of our most eminent writers on 
mechanics, speaking of this scheme 
about half a century ago, says :—“ It is 
rather surprising that so simple and ad- 
vantageous a method of exerting power 
at a distance from the first mover, 
should have remained neglected and un- 
noticed so long.” The principle has, 
however, been more attended to of late ; 
it formed the basisof the well-known 
atmospheric railway, which made such a 
sensation from 1840 to 1848 ; and those 
who are acquainted with modern tele- 

1 Acta Eruditorum, Leipsic, 1690. 

graph engineering, know that there are 
miles of air-tubes now laid along the 
streets of London, Paris, Berlin, and 
Vienna, to effect motion by pneuma- 
tic power. While writing this article, 
I have received a prospectus of a 
“Pneumatic Despatch System of Domes- 
tic Telegraphs,” for the purpose of send- 
ing messages in this way from the dining- 
room to the kitchen, or from the drawing- 
room to the stables. One of the most 
striking and elegant applications of the 
system is at Schaffhausen, where a 
large amount of power obtained from 
the river Rhine is caused to be utilized 
in the city, some mile or two away, by 
the medium of air-tubes. 

If, therefore, Messrs. Maskelyne and 
Cook adopt this system, they are in 
good company. It remains to explain 
how it is, or at least might be, applied. 

The glass cylinder is ground smooth 
on its two ends, and if these ends are 
applied against the surface of some soft 
material, they will, when the weight 
comes upon them, form joints at the 
top and bottom sufficiently air-tight for 
the object in view. To indicate how the 
air passage is continued further down- 
wards is not so easy, seeing that it must 
pass through the movable platform on 
which the glass stands. I confess that 
this part of the contrivance is con- 
cealed with consummate skill; but I 
think there is a possible way out of the 

If the upper surface of the platform 
were of uncovered wood, in which no 
opening was visible, one would hardly 
see how the thing could be done; but 
this is notso. The boarding is covered 
with soft baize, and there is no reason 
why the part within the cylinder may 
not have holes covered by the baize, 
through the pores of which the air 
would pass freely. From these holes a 
small channel may exist through the 
body of the wood, passing either down 
one of the legs or out at the back, and 
so continued by a pipe to the operator. 
When the platform is turned about and 
shown to the audience, the communi- 
cating hole may be concealed, and the 
connection may be made when the 

Games at Cards Played by Machinery. 

platform is in place, either from below 
or behind. Supposing this done, the 
necessary air column is established be- 
tween the operator behind the scenes 
and the bottom of Psycho’s box, and we 
have next to consider how this is to be 

The air may be operated on in two 
ways, both in common use; one called 
the plenum action, by compressing the 
air; the other the vacuum action, by 
exhausting or expanding it. These 
actions may be effected by several me- 
chanical modes :—ifa large difference of 
pressure is required the most prompt 
way is to have at hand two reservoirs, 
one of compressed, the other of ex- 
panded air, and to open communica- 
tions with them by cocks, which would 
instantly induce the corresponding ac- 
tion in the tube. But probably for 
the present purpose the alteration of 
pressure need only be slight, and might 
be effected, either way, by a simple 
bellows or analogous contrivance. Or 
possibly a simpler mode still, the action 
of the breath, in alternative blowing 
and sucking, might be made available.! 
A clever mechanician, like Mr. Maske- 
lyne would have no difficulty in design- 
ing a simple contrivance, easily under 
the hand of the operator, by which the 
air in the tube could be either com- 
pressed or expanded at pleasure, and 
regulated with the greatest nicety. 

We have then only to suppose two 
pistons, or diaphragms, or other equiva- 
lent apparatus, within the figure box, 
connected with the interior of the glass 
cylinder and properly adjusted, and the 
whole is in order. On applying the 
plenum impulse behind the stage one of 
the pistons in the figure would be caused 
to move; on applying the vacuum im- 
pulse the other piston would be caused 
to move, and thus the hidden operator 
would command two separate influences 
at pleasure. 

And, going a step further, we shall see 
that these two distinct influences are 
exactly what are required to effect 

1 A tolerably strong man may produce, with 

his breath, a pressure of about 2 lbs. to the 
square inch, or an exhaustion of about 1} lbs. 

Psycho’s whist playing. He does two 
things, and only two ; one consists of a 
horizontal movement of the arm to 
choose the card, the other consists of a 
vertical movement of the arm to raise 
the card in the air, 

The horizontal action is arranged with 
peculiar ingenuity. There is a clock- 
work motion, which if acting freely 
would cause the figure’s hand to travel 
backwards and forwards over the 13 
ecards ; this action can be checked at any 
given point, probably by the action of a 
break, or a detent stopping the fly vane, 
as in a musical-box. If we suppose this 
check to be worked, say by the plenum 
piston, the operator has only to exert 
his plenum action and lift off the check, 
when the hand will slowly move by the 
clock-work influence, and when it arrives 
at the proper card the stopping of the 
influence will put the check in action 
again and stop the further progress. 

The operator then changes to the 
vacuum action, setting in motion the 
vacuum piston within the figure, and it is 
clear that by proper machinery this may 
be made to raise Psycho’s arm, which is 
the second thing to be done. By delicate 
manipulation the arm may be made at 
will to rise, to fall, or to stand still in 
any position, effects which Mr. Maske- 
lyne exhibits with very proper pride. 

Thus the whole problem of the whist- 
playing may be accounted for. Whether 
the real player is Mr. Maskelyne, who 
remains on the stage and signals to his 
assistant behind, or whether it is the 
operator himself, who has some means 
of knowing the cards, I do not pretend 
to say, but this is of little consequence ; 
the only important thing is to discover 
how the will and intention of the ope- 
rator can be made to work the figure. 
I have, of course, only indicated the 
salient points of the hypothesis, omit- 
ting the details, which an expert 
mechanician like Mr. Maskelyne would 
easily apply. 

The arithmetical trick is explained in 
a similar way, namely, by a dual move- 
ment ; the digital figures are caused to 
revolve by clock-work, which is stopped 
by the plenum check when the right 

a a a ae ae ee ee ee ee ee en ee ee ee, ee 

Games at Cards Played by Machinery. 

figure comes to the right place; and 
then the vacuum movement causes the 
motion of the figure’s left arm, which 
exhibits the digit to the audience. The 
transfer of the pneumatic actions from 
the whist-playing to the arithmetical 
machinery, and vice versd, may be easily 

The conjuring tricks involve no mo- 
tions beyond what have been described. 

If the foregoing explanation be the 
true one, then I heartily endorse the 
statement Mr. Maskelyne publicly 
makes, that “if the secret should be 
discovered, it will not detract from the 
merit of the construction.” So far 
from it, I say he becomes, by the dis- 
covery, entitled to a much more worthy 
and discriminating praise for the skill 
and knowledge he has shown, and I do 
not think it likely that the publica- 
tion will be likely to diminish his more 
substantial reward. If, on the other 
hand, my suggestion does not apply, 
then he has a store of ingenuity yet un- 
appreciated, and I must take the merit 
to myself of inventing, de novo, another 
card-playing automaton, competent to 
do all that Psycho does, and under the 
same conditions, so far as they are at 
present visible. 

There is another very pretty and in- 
genious feature in the exhibition, which 
I should like to mention, that is the ani- 
mated tambourine, An assistant brings 
out, during the performance, a little loose 
table, with a round top about a foot in 
diameter, and sets it down in the middle 
of the room among the audience. He 
then places on it a tambourine, also 
perfectly loose, and obviously without 

any connection either with the table or 
elsewhere. It is further quite clear 
that there is no pin or other moving 
part projecting above the table. Yet 
no sooner is the instrument placed on 
the table than it becomes endowed with 
animation and intelligence. It answers 
by shakes when spoken to, and it ap- 
plauds vigorously when anything clever 
is done. The secret of this is, I pre- 
sume, that there are two electric magnets 
concealed on two opposite sides of the 
table, and connected by wires to some 
distant place where they can be thrown 
rapidly in and out of circuit in the 
usual way; these magnets attract 
pieces of soft iron in the tambourine, 
which is formed slightly convex on its 
under side ; and the rapid alternation of 
the two magnetic actions, gives the 
shaking effect observed. In setting 
the loose table in its place, the wires 
are no doubt thrown into connection 
by dipping into little cups of mer- 
cury. This clever device hardly re- 
ceives the attention it deserves, for it 
ought to appear a most astounding won- 
der to those who do not know its 
scientific rationale. 

It would be well, I think, if Messrs. 
Maskelyne and Cooke would give up 
the “spiritualistic” nonsense, which 
at present occupies so much of their 
evening. It means nothing ; the dark- 
ness is objectionable on many grounds, 
and it does not do justice to the talents 
which they might exhibit more favour- 
ably in other ways. 

I am, dear Mr. Editor, 
Yours faithfully, 
W P. 



CiceLy went to her room that night in 
a very nervous and disturbed condition. 
It was her last night, too, in the house 
in which she had been born; but she 
had no leisure to think of that, or to 
indulge in any natural sentiments on 
the subject. She was very much 
alarmed about her father, whose looks 
were so strange, but did not know what 
to do. That he should take her for her 
mother was perhaps not wonderful at 
sucha moment of agitation; but it 
frightened her more than words can say. 
What could she do? It was night, 
and there was no one in the house with 
her but Betsy, who had for hours been 
buried in deepest slumbers ; and even 

had she been able to send for the doctor, 
what advance would that have made !— 
for he was not ill, only strange, and it was 
so natural that he should be strange ; 
—and the good steady-going country doc- 
tor, acquainted with honest practical, 
fevers ahd rheumatism, what help could 

he bring to a mind diseased? Cicely 
had changed her room in her new office 
of nurse, and now occupied a small inner 
chamber communicating with that of 
the twochildren. She was sitting there 
pondering and thinking when she heard 
her father come up stairs. Then he 
appeared suddenly bending over the 
children’s little cots. He had a candle 
in his hand, and stooping feebly, kissed 
the little boys. He was talking to him- 
self all the time; but she could not 
make out what he said, except, as he 
stood looking at the children, “ Poor 
things, poor things! God bless you.” 
Cicely did not show herself, anxiously as 
she watched, and he went outagainand on 
to hisown room. He was going to bed 
quietly, and after all it might turn out 
to be nothing; perhaps he had been 

dozing when he zalled her Hester, and 
was scarcely awake. After this she 
intended to go to bed herself; for she 
was sadly worn out with her long day’s 
work and many cares, and fell dead 
asleep, as youth unaccustomed to watch- 
ing ever will do in the face of all 
trouble. The house was perfectly still 
so long as she was awake ; not a sound 
disturbed the quiet except the breathing 
of Harry and Charley, and the tap of 
the jessamine branches against her win- 
dows. There was one last blossom at 
the end of a branch, late and long after 
its neighbours, which shed some of its 
peculiar sweetness through the open 
window. The relief was so great to 
hear her father come up stairs, and to 
know that he was safe in his room, that 
her previous fright seemed folly. She 
said her prayers, poor child ! in her lone- 
liness, giving tearful thanks for this 
blessing, and fell asleep without time to 
think of any bothers or sorrow of her 
own. Thus sometimes, perhaps, those 
who have other people to carry on 
their shoulders avoid occasionally the 
sharp sting of personal feeling—at least, 
of all the sentiments which are of a 
secondary kind. 

The morning was less warm and bright 
than usual, with a true autumnal haze 
over the trees. This soothed Cicely 
when she looked out. She was very 
early, for there were still various last 
things to do. She had finished her own 
individual concerns, and locked her box 
ready for removal, before it was time to 
call the children, who slept later and 
more quietly than usual by another 
happy dispensation of providence. Cicely 
heard the auctioneer arrive, and the 
sound of chatter and laughter with 
which Betsy received the men, with 
whom already she had made acquaint- 
ance. Why not? Shall everybody be 
sad because we are in trouble, Cicely 
asked herself? and she leant out of 


mon kr eS ‘Ss oO ct Py 


mea oT Pr ON 

The Curate in Charge. 249 

the window which overlooked the gar- 
den, and took a deep draught of the 
dewy freshness of the morning before she 
proceeded to wake the children and 
begin the day’s work. Her eyes, poor 
child! were as dewy as the morning ; 
but she did not give herself time to cry, 
or waste her strength by such an 
indulgence. A knock at her door dis- 
turbed her, and she shut the window 
hastily, and shaking off those stray 
drops from her eyelashes, went to see 
what Betsy wanted so early. Betsy 
stood outside, looking pale and excited. 

“ The men says, please, Miss, will you 
come down stairs?” said Betsy, making 
an effort at a curtsey, which was so very 
unusual that Cicely was half amused. 

“What do they want? I have to 
dress the children, Betsy. Could not 
you do instead?” 

“Tf you please, Miss, I'll dress the 
children. Do go—go, please, Miss 
Cicely! I’m too frightened. O Miss, 
your poor papa!” 

“Papa?” Cicely gave the girl one 
frightened beseeching look, and then 
flew down stairs, her feet scarcely touch- 
ing the steps. Why was he up so early ? 
Why was he vexing himself with those 
men, and their preparations, making 
himself miserable about nothing, when 
there were so many real troubles to bear ? 
The men were standing in a little knot 
by the study door, which was half open. 
“ What do you want with me? What 
is it?” 

They were confused; one of them 
put forward another to speak to her, 
and there was a little rustling, and 
shuffling and changing of position, which 
permitted her to see, as she thought, 
Mr. St. John sitting, facing the door, in 
his usual chair. “Ah! it is papa who 
has come down, I see—thank you for 
not wishing to disturb him. I will 
tell him,” said Cicely, passing through 
the midst of them with swift light 
youthful steps. 

“ Don’t let her go ! Stop her, for God’s 
sake!” cried one of the men, in sub- 
dued confused tones. She heard them, 
for she remembered them afterwards ; 
but at that moment the words conveyed 

no meaning to her. She went in as any 
child would go up to any father. The 
chair was pushed away from the writing- 
table, facing towards the door, as if he 
had been expecting some one. What 
surprised Cicely more than the aspect 
of his countenance, in which at the first 
glance she saw no particular difference 
was that he had upon his knees, folded 
neatly, a woman’s cloak and hat—her 
mother’s cloak and hat—-which had 
remained in his room by his particular 
desire ever since Hester died. 

“Papa, what are you doing with 
these ?” she said. 

There was no reply. “Papa, are you 
asleep?” cried Cicely. She was getting 
very much frightened, her heart beating 
against her breast. For the moment 
some impulse of terror drove her back 
upon the men atthe door. ‘“ He has 
gone to sleep,” she said, hurriedly ; ‘‘he 
was tired, very much tired last night.” 

‘‘We have sent for the doctor, Miss,” 
said one of the men. 

“ Papa, papa!” said Cicely. She had 
gone back to him paying no attention 
to them ; and then she gave a low cry, 
and threw herself on her knees by his 
side, gazing up into his face, trembling. 
“ What is the matter?” said the girl, 
speaking low; “what is it, papa? 
Where were you going with that hat 
and cloak? Speak to me; don’t sit 
there and doze. We are to go away— 
to go away—don’t you remember—to- 

Some one else came in just then, 
though she did not hear. It was the 
doctor, who came and took her by the 
arm to raise her. “Run away, my 
dear ; run up stairs till I see what is to 
be done,” he said. ‘ Somebody take her 

Cicely rose up quickly. “I cannot 
awake him,” she said. ‘“ Doctor, I am 
so glad you have come, though he would 
not let me send yesterday. I think he 
must be in a faint.” 

“Go away, go away, my dear.” 

It neither occurred to the poor girl to 
obey him nor to think what he meant. 
She stood by breathless while he looked 
at the motionless figure in the chair, and 

250 The Curate 
took into his own the grey cold hand 
which hung helpless by Mr. St. John’s 
side. Cicely did not look at her father, 
but at the doctor, to know what it 
was ; and round the door the group of 
men gazed too awestricken, with Betsy, 
whom curiosity and the attraction of 
terror had brought down stairs, and 
one or two labourers from the village 
passing to their morning’s work, who 
had come in, drawn by the strange 
fascination of what had happened, and 
staring too. 

“ Hours ago,” said the doctor to him- 
self, shaking his head; “he is quite 
cold ; who saw him last ?” 

“Q doctor, do something!” cried 
Cicely, clasping her hands ; “ don’t lose 
time ; don’t let him be like this; do 
something—oh, do something, doctor ! 
Don’t you know that we are going 
to-day ?” 

He turned round upon her very 
gently, and the group at the door moved 
with a rustling movement of sympathy. 
Betsy fell a crying loudly, and some of 
the men put their hands to their eyes. 
The doctor took Cicely by the arm, and 
turned her away with gentle force. 

“ My dear, you must come with me. 
I want to speak to you in the next 

“But papa ?” she cried. 

“My poor child,” said the compas- 
sionate doctor, “we can do nothing for 
him now.” 

Cicely stood quite still for a moment, 
then the hot blood flushed into her face, 
followed by sudden paleness. She drew 
herself out of the kind doctor’s hold, 
and went back and knelt down again 
by her father’s side. Do nothing more 
for him—while still he sat there, just as 
he always did, in his own chair ? 

“Papa,what is it?” she said,trembling, 
while they all stood round. Suddenly 
the roughest of all the men, one of the 
labourers, broke forth into loud sobs. 

“Don’t you, Miss—don’t, for the 
love of God!” cried the man. 

She could not hear it. All this came 
fresh to her word for word a little later, 
but just then she heard nothing. She 
took the hand the doctor had taken, and 

in Charge. 

put her warm cheek and her young lips 
to it. 

“He is cold because he has been 
sleeping in his chair,” she cried, appeal- 
ing to them. “Nothing else—what 
could it be else? and we are going away 
to-day ?” 

The doctor grasped at her arm, almost 
hurting her. “ Come,” he said, “ Cicely, 
this is not like you. We must carry 
him to bed. Come with me to another 
room. I want to ask you how he was 
last night.” 

This argument subdued her, and she 
went meekly out of the room, trying to 
think that her father was to be carried 
to his bed, and that all might still be 
well. Trying to think so; though a 
chill had fallen upon her, and she 
knew, in spite of herself. 

The men shut the door reverently as 
the doctor took her away, leaving him 
there whom no one dared to touch, while 
they stood outside talking in whispers. 
Mr. St. John, still and cold, kept pos- 
session of the place. He had gone last 
night, when Cicely saw him, to fetch 
those relics of his Hester, which he had 
kept for so many years in his room ; 
but, in his feeble state, had been so 
long searching before he could find 
them, that sleep had overtaken Cicely, 
and she had not heard him stumbling 
downstairs again with his candle. 
Heaven knows what fancy it was that 
had sent him to seek his wife’s cloak 
and hat; his mind had got confused 
altogether with trouble and weakness, 
and the shock of uproctal ; and then he 
had sat down again with a smile, with 
her familiar garments ready for her, to 
wait through the night till Hester came. 
What hour or moment it was no one 
could tell; but Hester, or some other 
angel, had come for him according to his 
expectation, and left nothing but the 
case and husk of him sitting, as he had 
sat waiting for her, with her cloak 
upon his knees. 

“T am going to telegraph for her 
sister,” said the doctor, coming out with 
red eyes after all was done that could be 
done, both for the living and the dead, 
“Of course you will send and stop the 

The Curate in Charge. 

people from coming ; there can be no 
sale to-day.” 

“Of course,” said the auctioneer. 
“The young lady wouldn't believe it, 
my man tells me. I must get them off 
at once, or they'll get drinking. They're 
all upset like a parcel of women—what 
with finding him, and what with seeing 
the young lady. Poor thing! and, so 
far as I can learn, very badly left?” 

“Left!” cried the doctor; there was 
derision in the very word. “ They 
are not /e/t at all ; they have not a penny 
in the world. Poor St. John, we must 
not say a word now against him, and 
there is not much to say. He got on 
with everybody. He did his duty by 
rich and poor. There was never a better 
clergyman ; always ready when you 
called him, early or late ; more ready for 
nothing,” the doctor added remorsefully, 
“than I am for my best paying patients. 
We might have done more to smooth 
his way for him perhaps, but he never 
could take care of money or do any- 
thing to help himself; and now they'll 
have to pay for it, these two poor girls.” 

Thus the Curate’s record was made. 
The news went through the parish like 
the wind, in all its details; dozens of 
people were stopped in the village going 
to thesale, and a little comforted for their 
disappointment by the exciting story. 
Some of the people thought it was poor 
Miss Brown, the other Mrs. St. John, 
whom he was looking for. Some felt 
it a strange heathenish sort of thing of 
him, a clergyman, that he should be 
thinking at that last moment of any- 
thing but the golden city with the 
gates of pearl; and thought there was a 
dreadful materialismin the cloak and hat. 
But most people felt a thrill of real 
emotion, and the moment he was dead, 
mourned Mr. St. John truly, declaring 
that Brentburn would never see the like 
of him again. Mrs. Ascott cried so that 
she got a very bad headache, and was 
obliged to go and lie down. But she 
sent her maid to ask if they could do 
anything, and even postponed a dinner- 
party which was to have been that 
evening, which was a very gratifying 
token of respect. Mrs. Joel, who was 


perhaps at the other extremity of the 
social scale, cried too, but had no head- 
ache, and went off at once to the Rectory 
to make herself useful, pulling all the 
blinds down, which Betsy had neglected, 
and telling all the callers that poor Miss 
Cicely was as well as could beexpected, 
though “it have given her a dreadful 
shock.” The trunks stood all ready 
packed and corded, with Mr. St. John’s 
name uponthem. But he had no need 
of them, though he had kept his word 
and left Brentburn on the appointed 
day. After a while people began to 
think that perhaps it was the best thing 
that could have happened—best for him 
certainly—he could never have borne 
the rooting up, they said—he could 
never have borne Liverpool, so noisy 
and quarrelsome. ‘“ Why, it would 
have killed him in a fortnight, such a 
place,” said Mr. Ascott, who had not, 
however, lent a hand in any way to help 
him in his struggle against fate. 

Mab, it is needless to say, came 
down at once with Aunt Jane, utterly 
crushed and helpless with sorrow. 
Poor Cicely, who was only beginning 
to realize what it was, and to make 
sure that her father absolutely was 
dead, and beyond the reach of all bring- 
ing back, had to rouse herself, and take 
her sister into her arms and console her. 
Mab sobbed quietly when she was in 
her sister’s arms, feeling a sense of strong 
protection in them. 

“T have still you, Cicely,” she said, 
clinging to her. 

“ But Cicely has no one,” said Aunt 
Jane, kissing the pale girl with that 
compassionate insight which age some- 
times brings even to those who do not 
possess it by nature. “ But it is best 
for you to have them all to look after, if 
you could but see it, my poor child!” 

“T do see it,” said Cicely—and then 
she had to disentangle herself from 
Mab’s clinging, and to go out of the 
room where they had shut themselves 
up, to see somebody about the “arrange- 
ments,” though indeed everybody was 
very kind and spared her as much as 
they could. 

After the first shock was over it may 

252 The Curate 
well be supposed what consultations 
there were within the darkened rooms. 
The funeral did not take place till the 
following Tuesday, as English custom 
demands, and the days were very slow 
and terrible to the two girls, hedged 
round by all the prejudices of decorum, 
who could do nothing but dwell with 
their grief in the gloomy house which 
crushed their young spirits with its 
veiled windows and changeless dimness. 
That, and far more, they were ready to 
do for their father and the love they 
bore him ; but to feel life arrested and 
stopped short by that shadow of death 
is hard upon the young. Miss Maydew, 
whose grief naturally was of a much 
lighter description than that of the girls, 
and with whom decorum was stronger 
than grief, kept them up stairs in their 
rooms, and treated them as invalids, 
which was the right thing to do in the 
circumstances. Only at dusk would 
she let them go even into the garden, to 
get the breath of air which nature de- 
manded. She knew all the proper cere- 
monials which ought to be observed 
when there was “a death in the house,” 
and was not quite sure even now how 
far it was right to let them discuss what 
they were going to do. ‘To make up for 
this, she carried to them the scraps 
of parish gossip which she gleaned from 
Mrs. Joel and from Betsy in the kitchen. 
There had, it appeared, been a double 
tragedy in the parish, A few days 
after the death of the Curate, the village 
schoolmistress, a young widow with 
several babies had “dropped down” 
and died of heart disease in the midst 
of the frightened children. “It is a 
terrible warning to the parish,” said 
Miss Maydew, “two such events in one 
week. But your dear papa, everybody 
knows, was ready to go, and I hope Mrs. 
Jones was so too. ‘They tell me she 
was a good woman.” 

“‘ And what is to become of the chil- 
dren ?” said Cicely, thinking of her own 

“Oh, my dear, the children will be 
provided for ; they always are somehow. 
There are so many institutions for 
orphans, and people are very good if you 

in Charge. 

know how to get at them. No doubt 
somebody will take them up. I don’t 
doubt Mr. Ascott has votes for the 
British Orphans’ or St. Ann’s Society, 
or some of these. Speaking of that, 
my dears, I have been thinking that we 
ought to try for something of the same 
kind ourselves. Cicely, hear first what 
I have got to say before you speak. It 
is no disgrace. How are Mab and you 
to maintain these two little boys? Of 
course you shall have all that I can give 
you, but I have so little; and if girls 
can maintain themselves, it is all they 
are likely todo. There isa society, I am 
sure, for the orphans of clergymen—” 

“Aunt Jane! Papa’ssons shall never 
be charity boys—never! if I should work 
my fingers to the bone, as people say.” 

“Your fingers to the bone—what 
good would that do? Listen to me, girls. 
Both of you can make a fair enough 
living for yourselves. You will easily 
get a good governess’s place, Cicely ; for, 
though you are not very accomplished, 
you are so thorough—and Mab, perhaps, 
if she succeeds, may do still better. 
But consider what that is : fifty pounds 
a year at the outside ; and at first you 
could not look for that; and you are 
always expected to dress well and look 
nice, and Mab would have all sorts of 
expenses for her materials and models 
and so forth. The cheapest good school 
for boys I ever heard of was forty 
pounds without clothes, and at present 
they are too young for school. It is a 
woman’s work to look after two little 
things like that. What can you do with 
them? If you stay and take care of them, 
you will all three starve. It would be 
far better to get them into some asylum 
where they would be well looked after ; 
and then,” said Aunt Jane, insinuatingly, 
“if you got on very well, or if anything 
fortunate happened, you could take them 
back, don’t you see, whenever you 

Mab, moved by this, turned her eyes to 
Cicely for her cue ; for there was a great 
deal of reason in what Aunt Jane said. 

“Don’t say anything more about it, 
please,” said Cicely. “We must not 
say too much, for I may break down, or 

The Curate in Charge. 

anyone may break down ; but they shall 
not go upon charity if I can help it. 
Oh, charity is very good, I know; we 
may be glad of it, all of us, if we get 
sick or can’t find anything to do ; but I 
must try first—I must try!” 

“QO Cicely, this is pride, the same 
sort of pride that prevented your poor 
papa from asking for anythin 

“Hush, Aunt Jane! Whatever he 
did was right ; but I am not like papa. 
I don’t mind asking so long as it is for 
work. I haveanideanow. Poor Mrs. 
Jones! I am very, very sorry for her, 
leaving her children desolate. But 
someone will have to come in her place. 
Why should it not be me? There is a 
little house quite comfortable and plea- 
sant where I could have the children ; 
and I think the parish would not refuse 
me, if it was only for papa’s sake.” 

“Cicely ! my dear child, of what are 
you thinking?” said Miss}Maydew, in 
dismay. ‘A parish schoolmistress ! you 
are dreaming. ll this has been too 
much for you. My dear, my dear, you 

must never think of such a thing 

+ 1» 

“OQ Cicely, it is not a place for a 
lady, surely,” cried Mab. 

“ Look here,” said Cicely, the colour 
mounting to her face. “ I’d take in wash- 
ingif itwas necessary, and if I knew how. 
A lady! there’s nothing about ladies 
that I know of in the Bible. What- 
ever a woman can do I’m ready to try, 
and I don’t care, not the worth of a pin, 
whether it’s a place for a lady or not. 
O Aunt Jane, I beg your pardon. I 
know how good you are—but charity ! 
I can’t bear the thought of charity. I 
must try my own way.” 

“Cicely, listen to me,” cried Aunt 
Jane, with tears. “I held back, for the 
children are not my flesh and blood as 
you are. Perhaps it was mean of me 
to hold back. O Cicely, I wanted to 
save what I had for you; but, my dear, 
if it comes to that, better, far better, that 
you should bring them to London. I 
don’t say I’m fond of children,” said 
Miss Maydew ; “it’s so long since I had 
anything to do with them. I don’t say 
but what they'd worry me sometimes ; 


but bring them, Cicely, and we'll do 
what we can to get on, and when you 
find a situation, 11—T'll—try—” 

Her voice sank into quavering hesita- 
tion, a sob interrupted her. She was 
ready to do almost all they wanted of her, 
but this was hard ; still, sooner than 
sacrifice her niece’s gentility, the stand- 
ing of the family—Cicely had good 
sense enough to perceive that enough 
had been said. She kissed her aunt 
heartily with tender thanks, but she did 
not accept her offer or say anything 
further about her own plans. For the 
moment nothing could be done, what- 
ever the decision might be. 


Mr. Mitpmay came to Brentburn the 
Saturday after the Curate’s death. The 
Ascotts invited him to their house, and 
he went there feeling more like a culprit 
than an innocent man has anyright to do. 
He fairly broke down in the pulpit next 
day, in the little address he made to the 
people. “God knows,” he said to them, 
‘* that I would give everything I have in 
the world to bring back to you the 
familiar voice which you have heard 
here so long, and which had the teach- 
ings of a long experience to give you, 
teachings more precious than anything 
a new beginner can say. When I think 
that but for my appointment this 
tragedy might not have happened, my 
heart sinks within me; and yet lam 
blameless, though all who loved him 
have a right to blame me.” His voice 
quivered, his eyes filled with tears, and 
all the Brentburn folks, who werénot 
struck dumb with wonder, wept. But 
many of them were struck dumb with 
wonder, and Mr. Ascott, who was his 
host, and felt responsible for him, did 
more than wonder. He interfered 
energetically when the service was over. 
“ Mildmay,” he said, solemnly, “mark 
my words, this will never do. You are 
no more to blame for poor St. John’s 
death than I am or any one, and nobody 
has a right to blame you. Good 


heavens, if you had never heard of the 
poor fellow, don’t you think it would 
have happened all the same? You did 
a great deal more than anyone else would 
have done—is that why you think it is 
your fault?” 

Mildmay did not make any reply 
to this remonstrance. Perhaps after 
he had said it, he felt, as so many 
impulsive men are apt to do, a hot 
nervous shame for having said it, and 
betraying his feelings; but he would 
not discuss the question with the 
Ascotts, who had no self-reproach in 
the matter, no idea that anyone cculd 
have helped it. They discussed the 
question now, the first shock being over, 
and a comfortable Sunday put between 
them and the event, with great calm. 

“‘He was just the sort of man that 
would not even have his life insured,” 
said Mr. Ascott. “ What those poor girls 
are to do I do not know. Go out for 
governesses, I suppose, poor things ! the 
common expedient ; but then there are 
those babies. There ought to be an 
Act of Parliament against second 
families. I never had any patience 
with that marriage ; and Miss Brown, I 
suppose, had no friends that could take 
them up ?” 

“None that I know of,” his wife 
replied. “It is a dreadful burden for 
those girls. It will hamper them in 
their situations, if they get situations, 
and keep them from marrying—” 

“They are pretty girls,” said Mr. 
Ascott. “I don’t see why they 
shouldn’t marry.” 

“That is all very well, Henry,” she 
replied ; “ but what man, in his senses, 
would marry a girl with a couple of 
children dependent on her?” 

“ A ready-made family,” he said, with 
a laugh. 

This was on the Sunday evening after 
dinner. It was dusk, and they could 
not see their guest’s face, who took no 
part in the conversation. To hear such 
a discussion as this, touching the spoil- 
ing of a girl’s marriage, is quite a com- 
monplace matter, which the greater part 
of the world would think it foolishly 
fastidious to object to, and probably Mr. 

The Curate in Charge. 

Mildmay had heard such talk upon other 
occasions quite unmoved; but it is 
astonishing the difference it makes when 
you know the girl thus discussed, and 
have, let us say “a respect” for her. 
He felt the blood come hot to his face ; 
he dared not say anything,lest he should 
say too much, Was it mere poverty 
that exposed those forlorn young 
creatures, whose case surely was sad 
enough to put all laughter out of court, 
to suchcomment? Mrs. Ascott thought 
itquite possible that Mr. Mildmay, fresh 
from Oxford, might consider female 
society frivolous, and was reserving him- 
self for loftier conversation with her 
husband, and that this was the reason 
of his silence—so she went away smil- 
ing, rustling her silken skirts, to the 
drawing-room, in the humility which 
becomes the weaker vessel, not feeling 
herself equal to that loftier strain, to 
make the gentlemen’s tea. 

Her husband, however, came up stairs 
after her by himself. Mildmay had gone 
out for a stroll, he said, and seemed to 
prefer being alone ; he was afraid, after 
all, he was a morose sort of fellow, 
with very little “go” in him. As for 
the new Rector, he was very glad to get 
out into the stillness of the dewy com- 
mon after the hot room and the fumes 
of Mr. Ascott’s excellent port, which he 
disliked, being altogether a man of the 
new school. Ie skirted the common 
under the soft light of some stars, and 
the incipient radiance of the moon, 
which had not yet risen, but showed 
that she was rising. He went even as 
far as the back of the Rectory, and that 
little path which the Curate’s feet had 
worn, which he followed reverently to 
the grey cross upon Hester's grave. 
Here a flood of peaceful and friendly 
thoughts came overthe youngman, bring- 
ing the tears to his eyes. He had only 
known Mr. St. John for about twenty- 
four hours, yet how much this short 
acquaintance had affected him! He 
seemed to be thinking of a dear old 
friend when he remembered the few 
moments he had stood here, six weeks 
before, listening to the Curate’s simple 
talk. “The lights in the girls’ win- 

The Curate 

dows ;”—there they were, the only lights 
in the dark house, a glimmer through 
the half-closed shutters. Then he 
thought of the old man, bewildered with 
death and death’s weakness, sitting with 
his wife’s cloak and hat ready, waiting 
for her to come who had been wait- 
ing all these years under the sod for him 
to come. “I shall go to her, but she 
will not come to me,” said the new 
Rector to himself, letting a tear fall 
upon the cross where the Curate’s hand 
had rested so tenderly. His heart was 
full of that swelling sensation of sym- 
pathetic sorrow which is both sweet 
and painful. And she was, they all 
said, so like her mother. Would any- 
one, he wondered, think of her some- 
times as Mr. St. John had done of his 
Hester? Or would nobody, in his 
senses, marry a girl burdened with two 
babies dependent on her? When those 
words came back to his mind, his cheeks 
reddened, his pace quickened in a sud- 
den flush of anger. And it was a 

woman who had said it—a woman 
whose heart, it might have been thought, 

would have bled for the orphans, not 
much more than children any of them, 
who were thus left in the world to 
struggle for themselves, 

It was Mildmay who took all the 
trouble about the funeral, and read the 
service himself, with a voice full of 
emotion. The people had scarcely known 
before how much they felt the loss of 
Mr. St. John. If the new parson was 
thus affected, how much more ought 
they to be! Everybody wept in the 
churchyard, and Mr. Mildmay laid that 
day the foundation of a popularity far 
beyond that which any clergyman of 
Brentburn, within the memory of man, 
had enjoyed before. “ He was so feelin’ 
hearted,” the poorpeople said ; they shed 
tears for the old Curate who was gone, 
but they became suddenly enthusiasts 
for the new Rector. The one was past, 
and had got a beautiful funeral, 
carriages coming from all parts of the 
county; and what could man desire 
more? The other was the present, 
cheerful and full of promise. A thrill 
of friendliness ran through every 

in Charge. 

corner of the parish. The tragedy which 
preceded his arrival, strangely enough, 
made the most favourable preface pos- 
sible to the commencement of the new 

“Do you think I might call upon 
Miss St. John?” Mildmay asked, the 
second day after the funeral. “I would 
not intrude upon her for the world; 
but they will be going away, I suppose 
—and if you think I might ven- 
ture ——” 

He addressed Mrs. Ascott, but her 
husband replied. “ Venture ? to be sure 
you may venture,” said that cheerful 
person. “Of course you must want to 
ascertain when they go and all that. 
Come, I'll go with you myself if you 
have any scruples. I should like to see 
Cicely, poor thing! to tell her if I can 
be of any use—We are not much in the 
governessing line; but you, Adelaide, 
with all your fine friends——” 

“ Tell her I should have gone to her 
before now, but that my nerves have 
been upset with all that has happened,” 
said Mrs. Ascott. “Of course I have 
written and told her how much I feel 
for her; but say everything for me, 
Henry. I will make an effort to go to- 
morrow, though I know that to enter 
that house will unhinge me quite. If 
she is able to talk of business, tell 
her to refer anyone to me. Of course 
we shall do everything we possibly can.” 

“ Of course ; yes, yes, I'll say every- 
thing,” said her husband; but on the 
way, when Mildmay reluctantly fol- 
lowed him, feeling his purpose defeated, 
Mr. Ascott gave forth his individual 
sentiments. “Cicely St. John will 
never answer as a governess,” he said ; 
“she is far too independent, and 
proud—very proud. So was her father 
before her. He prided himself, I 
believe, on never having asked for any- 
thing. God bless us! a nice sort of 
world this would be if nobody asked for 
anything. That girl spoke to me once 
ab ut the living as if it were my busi- 
ness to do something in respect to what 
she thought her father’s rights! Ridicu- 
lous! but women are very absurd in 
their notions. She was always what is 

256 The Curate in Charge. 

called a high-spirited girl; the very 
worst recommendation I think that any 
girl can have.” 

Mildmay made no reply ; he was not 
disposed to criticise Cicely, or to dis- 
cuss her with Mr. Ascott. The Rectory 
was all open again, the shutters put 
back, the blinds drawn up. In the 
faded old drawing-room, where the 
gentlemen were put by Betsy to wait 
for Miss St. John, everything looked as 
usual, except a scrap of paper here and 
there marked Lot—. This had been 
done by the auctioneer, before Mr. St. 
John’s death. Some of these papers 
Betsy, much outraged by the sight of 
them, had furtively rubbed off with her 
duster, but some remained. Mr. Mild- 
may had something of Betsy’s feeling. 
He, too, when Mr. Ascott was not look- 
ing, tore off the label from the big old 
chiffonnier which Mab had called a 
tomb, and threw it behind the orna- 
ments in the grate—a foolish sort of 
demonstration, no doubt, of being on the 
side of the forlorn family against fate, 
but yet comprehensible. He did not 
venture upon any such freaks when 
Cicely came in, in the extreme blackness 
of her mourning. She was very pale, 
keeping the tears out of her eyes with a 
great effort, and strung to the highest 
tension of self-control. She met Mr. 
Ascott with composure ; but when she 
turned to Mildmay, broke down for the 
moment. “Thanks!” she said, with a 
momentary pressure of his hand, and 
an attempt at a smile in the eyes which 
filled at sight of him, and it took her a 
moment to recover herself before she 
could say any more. 

“ Mrs. Ascott charged me with a great 
many messages,” said that lady’s hus- 
band. “Iam sure you know, Cicely, 
nobody has felt for you more ; but she is 
very sensitive—that you know too—and 
I am obliged to interpose my authority 
to keep her from agitating herself. She 
talks of coming to-morrow. When do 
you go?” 

“On Saturday,” said Cicely having 
just recovered the power of speech, 
which, to tell the truth, Mildmay did 
not quite feel himself to have done. 

“On Saturday—-so soon ! and you are 
going—— ” 

“With my aunt, Miss Maydew,” 
said Cicely, “to London for a time— 
as short a time as possible—till I get 
something to do.” 

“ Ah—h !” said Mr. Ascott, shaking 
his head. ‘ You know how sincerely 
sorry we all are; and, my dear Cicely, 
you will excuse an old friend asking, is 
there no little provision—nothing to 
fall back upon—for the poor little 
children, at least ?” 

“Mr. Ascott,” said Cicely, turning 
full towards him, her eyes very clear, her 
nostrils dilating a littlke—for emotion can 
dry the eyes as well as dim them, even 
of a girl—* You know what papa had 
almost as well as he did himself. He 
could not coin money ; and how do you 
think he could have saved it off what 
he had? There is enough to pay every 
penny he ever owed, which is all I care 

“And you have nothing—absolutely 

“* We have our heads and our hands,” 
said Cicely; the emergency even gave 
her strength to smile. She faced the two 
prosperous men before her, neither of 
whom had ever known what it was to 
want anything or everything that money 
could buy, her small head erect, her 
eyes shining, asmile upon her lip—not 
for worlds would she have permitted 
them to see that her heart failed her at 
sight of the struggle upon which she 
was about to enter ;—“ and fortunately 
we have the use of them,” she said, 
involuntarily raising the two small 
hands, looking all the smaller and 
whiter for the blackness that surrounded 
them, which lay on her lap. 

“Miss St. John,” said Mildmay, 
starting up, “I dare not call myself 
an old friend. I have no right to be 
present when you have to answer 
such questions, If I may come another 

To look at his sympathetic face took 
away Cicely’s courage. “ Don’t make me 
cry, please ; don’t be sorry forme !” she 
cried, under her breath, holding out her 
hands to him in a kind of mute appeal. 

Then recovering herself, “I would rather 
you stayed, Mr. Mildmay. I am not 
ashamed of it, and I want to ask some- 
thing from you, now that you are both 
here. Ido not know who has the ap- 
pointment ; but you must be powerful. 
Mr. Ascott, I hear that Mrs. Jones, 
the schoolmistress, is dead—too.” 

“Yes, poor thing! very suddenly— 
even more suddenly than your poor 
father. And so much younger, and an 
excellent creature. It has been a sad 
week for Brentburn. She was buried 
yesterday,” said Mr. Ascott, shaking his 

“ And there must be some one to re- 
place her directly, for the holidays are 
over. I am not very accomplished,” 
said Cicely, a flush coming over her 
face ; “but for the rudiments and the 
solid part, which is all that is wanted 
in a parish school, I am good enough. 
It is difficult asking for one’s self, or 
talking of one’s self, but if I could get 
the place——” 

“Cicely St. John!” cried Mr. As- 
cott, almost roughly in his amazement ; 
“you are going out of your senses—the 
appointment to the parish school ?” 

“T know what you think,” said 
Cicely, looking up with a smile ; but 
she was nervous with anxiety, and 
clasped and unclasped her hands, feel- 
ing that her fate hung upon what they 
might decide. ‘You think, like Aunt 
Jane, that it is corzing down in the 
world, that it is not a place for a lady. 
Very well, 1 don’t mind ; don’t call me 
a lady, call me a young woman—a per- 
son even, if you like. What does it 
matter? and what difference does it 
make after all?” she cried. ‘ No girl 
who works for her living is anything 
but looked down upon. I should be 
free of all that, for the poor people know 
me, and they would be kind to me, and 
the rich people would take no notice. 
And I should have a place of my own, 
ahome to put the children in. The 
Miss Blandys, I am sure, would recom- 
mend me, Mr. Mildmay, and they know 
what J can do.” 

“This is mere madness!” cried Mr. 
Ascott paling a little in his ruddy com- 
No. 195.—vou, Xxx. 

The Curate in Charge. 257 

plexion. Mildmay made a rush at the 
window as she spoke, feeling the situa- 
tion intolerable. When she appealed 
to him thus by name, he turned round 
suddenly, his heart so swelling within 
him that he scarcely knew what he was 
doing. It was not for him to object or 
to remoustrate as the other could do. He 
went up to her, scarcely seeing her, and 
grasped for a moment her nervous inter- 
laced hands, “ Miss St. John,” he cried, 
in a broken voice, “ whatever you want 
that I can get you, you shall have— 
that, if it must be so, or anything 
else,” and so rushed out of the room 
and out of the house, passing Mab in 
the hall without seeing her. His ex- 
citement was so great that he rushed 
straight on, into the heart of the pine- 
woods a mile off, before he came to him- 
self. Well! this, then, was the life he 
had been wondering over from his safe 
retirement. He found it not in anything 
great or visible to the eye of the world, 
not in anything he could put himself 
into, or share the advantages of. He, 
wel] off, rich indeed, strong, with a 
man’s power of work, and so many 
kinds of highly-paid, highly-esteemed 
work open to him, must stand aside and 
look on, and see this slight girl, nine- 
teen years old, with not a tittle of his 
education or his strength, and not two- 
thirds of his years, put herself into 
harness, and take up the lowly work 
which would sink her in social estima- 
tion, and, with all superficial persons, 
take away from her her rank as gentle- 
woman. The situation, so far as Cicely 
St. John was concerned, was not remaik- 
able one way or another, except in so 
much as she had chosen to be village 
schoolmistress instead of governess in 
a private family. But to Mildmay it 
was as arevelation. He could do nothing 
except get her the place, as he had pro- 
‘mised to do. He could not say, Take 
part of my income ; I have more than I 
know what to do with, though that was 
true enough. He could do nothing for 
her, absolutely nothing. She must 
bear her burden as she could upon her 
young shrinking shoulders; nay, not 
shriuking—when he remembered Cicely’s 

258 The Curate 

look, he felt something come into his 
throat. People had stood at the stake 
so, he supposed, head erect, eyes smiling, 
a beautiful disdain of the world they 
thus defied and confronted in their 
shining countenances. But again he 
stopped himself ; Cicely was not defiant, 
not contemptuous, took upon her no 
vole of martyr. If she smiled, it was at 
the folly of those who supposed she 
would break down, or give in, or fail of 
courage for her work ; but nothing more. 
She was, on the contrary, nervous about 
his consent and Ascott’s to give her the 
work she wanted, and hesitated about 
her own powers and the recommendation 
of the Miss Blandys; and no one—not 
he, at least, though he had more than he 
wanted—could do anything! If Cicely 
had been a lad of nineteen, instead of a 
girl, something might have been possible, 
but nothing was possible now. 

The reader will perceive that the ar- 
bitrary and fictitious way of cutting this 
knot, that tour de force which is always 
to be thought of in every young woman’s 
story, the very melodramatic begging of 
the question, still, and perennially pos- 

sible, nay probable, in human affairs, had 

not occurred to Mildmay. He had felt 
furious indeed at the discussion of 
‘Cicely’s chances or non-chances of mar- 
riage between the Ascotts; but, so far 
as he was himself concerned, he had not 
‘thought of this easy way. For why? 
he was not in love with Cicely. His 
sympathy was with her in every possible 
way, he entered into her grief with an 
almost tenderness of pity, and her 
‘courage stirred him with that thrill of 
fellow-feeling which those have who 
‘could do the same ; though he felt that 
nothing he could do could ever be the 
same as what she, at her age, so boldly 
undertook. Mildmay felt that she could, 
f she pleased, command him to anything, 
that, out of mere admiration for her 
bravery, her strength, her weakness, and 
youngness and dauntless spirit, he could 
have refused her nothing, could have 
dared even the impossible to help her 
in any of her schemes. But he was not 
in love with Cicely ; or, at least, he had 
no notion of anything of the kind. 

in Charge. 

It was well, however, that he did not 
think of it ; the sudden“ good marriage,” 
which is the one remaining way in 
which a god out of the machinery can 
change wrong into right at any moment 
in the modern world, and make all sun- 
shine that was darkness, comes dread- 
fully in the way of heroic story ; and how 
such a possibility, not pushed back into 
obscure regions of hazard, but visibly 
happening before their eyes every day, 
should not demoralize young women 
altogether, it is difficult to say. That 
Cicely’s brave undertaking ought to come 
to some great result in itself, that she 
ought to be able to make her way nobly, 
as her purpose was, working with her 
hands for the children that were not 
hers, bringing them up to be men, hav- 
ing that success in her work which is 
the most pleasant of all recompenses, 
and vindicating her sacrifice and self- 
devotion in the sight of all who had 
scoffed and doubted—this, no doubt, 
would be the highest and best, the most 
heroical and epical development of a 
story. To change all her circumstances 
at a stroke, making her noble intention 
unnecessary, and resolving this tremen- 
dous work of hers into a gentle domestic 
necessity, with the ‘‘hey presto!” of 
the commonplace magician, by means of 
a marriage, is simply a contemptible ex- 
pedient. But, alas ! it is one which there 
can be no doubt is much preferred by 
most people to the more legitimate con- 
clusion ; and, what is more, the acci- 
dental way is, perhaps, on the whole, 
the most likely one, since marriages 
occur every day which are perfectly im- 
probable and out of character, mere 
tours de force, despicable as expedients, 
showing the poorest invention, a dis- 
grace to any romancist or dramatist, 
if they were not absolute matters of 
fact and true. (Pardon the parenthesis, 
gentle reader. Mr. Mildmay was not 
in love with Cicely, and it never oc- 
curred to him that it might be possible 
to settle matters in this ordinary and 
expeditious way.) 

Mr. Ascott remained behind when 
Mildmay went away, and with the com- 
placence of a dull man apologised for 

—=— Oo of > eer wD aw se ws . 

o-oo = S| 

Sra > 

his young friend’s abrupt departure. 
“ He is so shocked about all this, you 
must excuse his abruptness. It is not 
that he is without feeling—quite the re- 
verse, I assure you, Cicely. He has felt it 
all—your poor father’s death, and all that 
has happened. You should have heard 
him in church on Sunday. He feels 
for you all very much.” 

Cicely, still trembling from the sudden 
touch on her hands, the agitated sound 
of Mildmay’s voice, the sense of sym- 
pathy and comprehension which his 
looks conveyed, took this apology very 
quietly. She was even conscious of the 
humour in it. And this digression being 
over, “her old friend ” returned seriously 
to the question. He repeated, but with 
much less force, all that Miss Maydew 
had said. He warned her that she 
would lose “ caste,” that, however much 
her friends might wish to be kind to 
her, and to treat her exactly as her 
father’s daughter ought to be treated, 
that she would find all that sort of 
thing very difficult. “Asa governess, 
of course you would always be known 
asa lady, and when you met with old 
friends it would be a mutual pleasure ; 
but the village schoolmistress!” said 
Mr. Ascott ; “I really don’t like to men- 
tion it to Adelaide, 1 don’t know what 
she would say.” 

“She would understand me when 
she took all into consideration,” said 
Cicely. ‘I could be then at home, in- 
dependent, with the little boys.” 

“ Ah, independent, Cicely !” he cried ; 
“ now you show the cloven hoof—that is 
the charm. Independent! What woman 
can ever be independent? That is your 
pride ; it is just what I expected. An 
independent woman, Cicely, is an ano- 
maly ; men detest the very name of it ; 
and you, who are young, and on your 

“T must be content with women 
then,” said Cicely, colouring high with 
something of her old impetuosity ; 
“they will understand me. But, Mr. 

Ascott, at least, even if you disapprove 

of me, don’t go against me, for I cannot 

bring up the children in any other way.” 
“ You could put them out to nurse.” 

The Curate in Charge. 259 

“* Where?” cried Cicely ; “and who 
would take care of them for the money 
I could give? They are too young for 
school ; and I have no money for that 
either. If there is any other way, I 
cannot see it; do not go against me at 

This he promised after a while, very 
doubtfully, and by and by went home 
to talk it over with his wife, who was 
as indignant as he could have wished. 
“What an embarrassment it will be!” 
she cried. “Henry, I tell you before- 
hand, I will not ask herhere, I cannot 
in justice to ourselves ask her here if 
she is the schoolmistress. She thinks, 
of course, we will make no difference, but 
treat her always like Mr. St. John’s 
daughter. It is quite out of the ques- 
tion. I must let her know at once that 
Cicely St. John is one thing and the 
parish schoolmistress another. Think 
of the troubles that might rise out of 
it. A pretty thing it would be if 
some young man in our house was to 
form an attachment to the schoolmis- 
tress! Fancy! She can do it if she 
likes ; but, Henry, I warn you, I shall 
not ask her here.” 

“That’s exactly what I say,” said 
Mr. Ascott. “I can’t think even how 
she could like to stay on here among 
people who have known her in a differ- 
ent position; unless—” he concluded 
with a low whistle of derision and sur- 

“ Please don’t be vulgar, Henry—un- 
less what ?” 

“ Unless—she’s after Mildmay ; and 
I should not, wonder—he’s as soft as wax, 
and as yielding. If a girl like Cicely 
chooses to tell him to marry her, he'd 
do it. That’s what she’s after, as sure 
as fate.” 



I witt not follow all the intermediate 

steps, and tell how the Curate’s family 

left their home, and went to London; 

or how Miss Maydew made the most 

conscientious effort to accustom herself 

to the little boys, and to contemplate 
. s 2 

260 The Curate in Charge. 

the possibility of taking the oversight 
of them. They were not noisy, it is 
true ; but that very fact alarmed Aunt 
Jane, who declared that, had they been 
“natural children,” always tumbling 
about, and making the walls ring, she 
could have understood them. Perhaps, 
had they been noisy, she would have 
felt at once the superiority of “quiet 
children.” As it was, the two little 
tiny, puny old men appalled the oll 
lady, who watched them with fascinated 
eyes, and a visionary terror, which grew 
stronger every day. Sometimes she 
would jump up in a passion and flee to 
her own room to take breath, when the 
thought of having them to take care of 
came suddenly upon her. And thus 
it came about that her opposition to 
Cicely’s scheme gradually softened. It 
was a bitter pill to her. To think of a 
Miss St. John, Hester’s child, drop- 
ping into the low degree of a parish 
schoolmistress, went to her very heart: 
but what was to be done? How could 
she oppose a thing Cicely had set her 
heart upon? Cicely was not one to 
make up a scheme without some reason 
in it; and you might as well (Miss 
Maydew said to herself) try to move 
St. Paul's, when the girl had once made 
up her mind. I do not think Cicely 
was so obstinate as this, but it was a 
comfort to Miss Maydew to think so. 
And after everybody had got over their 
surprise at the idea, Miss St. John was 
duly installed as the schoolmistress at 
Brentburn. The few little bits of fur- 
niture which had belonged to them in 
the Rectory—the children’s little beds, 
the old faded carpets, &c.—helped 
to furnish the schoolmistress’s little 
house. Cicely took back the little 
Annie whom she had sent away from 
the Rectory for interfering with her 
own authority, but whose devotion to 
the children was invaluable now, and 
no later than October settled down to 
this curious new life. It was a very 
strange life. The schoolmistress’s house 
was a new little square house of four 
rooms, with no beauty to recommend it, 
but with little garden plots in front of 
it, and a large space behind where the 

children could play. The little kitchen, 
the little parlour, the two little bed- 
rooms were all as homely as could be. 
Cicely had the old schoolroom piano, 
upon which her mother had taught her 
the notes, and which Miss Brown had 
shed teare over on that unfortunate day 
when Mr. St. John proposed to marry 
her rather than let her go back to the 
Governesses’ Institute—and she had a 
few books. These were all that repre- 
sented to her the more beautiful side of 
life; but at nineteen, fortuvately, life 
itself is still beautiful enough to make 
up for many deprivations, and she had 
a great deal to do. As for her work, 
she said, it was quite as pleasant to 
teach the parish children as to teach 
the little ladies at Miss Blandy's; and 
the “parents” did not look down upon 
her, which was something gained. 

And it was some time before Cicely 
awoke to the evident fact that, if the 
parents did not look down upon her, her 
old acquaintances were much embar- 
rassed to know how to behave to her. 
Mrs. Ascott had gone to see her at once 
on her arrival, and had been very kind, 
and had hoped they would see a great deal 
of her. On two or three occasions after 
she sent an invitation to tea in the even- 
ing, adding always, “ We shall be quite 
aloue.” “ Why should they be always 
quite alone?” the girl said to herself; 
and then she tried te think it was out of 
consideration for her mourning. But it 
soon became visible enough what Mrs. 
Ascott meant, and what all the other 
people meant. Even as the Curate’s 
daughter Cicely had but been a girl 
whom they were kind to; now she was 
the parish schoolmistress—‘“a very 
superior young person, quite above 
her position,” but belonging even by 
courtesy to the higher side no more. 
She was not made to feel this brutally. 
It was all quite gently, quite prettily 
done; but by the time spring came, 
brightening the face of the country, 
Cicely was fully aware of the change in 
her position, and had accepted it as best 
she could. She was still, eight months 
after her father’s death—so faithful is 
friendship in some cases—asked to tea, 

ee en. ae a. ae hd ed ee an | 

“a @> 


eo -« ff et eS Dae SS 42® HS Ho + GS OD lh CO 

when they were quite alone at the 
Heath; but otherwise, by that time, 
most people had ceased to take any 
notice of her. She dropped out of 
sight except at church, where she was 
only to be seen in her plain black dress 
in her corner among the children ; and 
though the ladies and gentlemen shook 
hands with her still, when she came in 
their way, no one went out of his or 
her way to speak to the schoolmistress. 
It would be vain to say that there was 
no mortification involved in this change. 
Cicely felt it in every fibre of her sen- 
sitive frame, by moments; but fortu- 
nately her temperament was elastic, and 
she possessed all the delicate strength 
which is supposed to distinguish 
“blood.” She was strong, and light 
as a daisy, jumping up under the 
very foot that crushed her. ‘This kind 
of nature makes its possessor survive 
and surmount many things that are 
death to the less elastic ; it saves from 
destruction, but it does not save from 

As for Mr. Mildmay, it was soon 
made very apparent to him that, for 
him at his age to show much favour or 
friendship to the schoolmistress at hers 
was entirely out of the question. He 
had to visit the school, of course, in the 
way of his duty, but to visit Cicely was 
impossible. People even remarked upon 
the curious frequency with which he 
passed the schooi. Wherever he was 
going in the parish (they said), his road 
seemed to turn that way, which, of 
course, was highly absurd, as every 
reasonable person must see. There was 
a side window by which the curious 
passer-by could see the interior of the 
school as he passed, and it was true 
that the new Rector was interested in 
that peep. There were the homely 
children in their forms, at their desks, 
or working in the afternoon at their 
homely needlework : among them, 
somewhere, sometimes conning little 
lessons with portentous gravity, the 
two little boys in their black frocks, and 
the young schoolmistress seated at her 
table ; sometimes (the spy thought) with 
a flush of weariness upon her face. The 

The Curate in Charge. 261 

little house was quite empty during 
school-hours ; for Annie was a scholar 
too, and aspiring to be pupil-teacher 
some day, and now as reverent of Miss 
St. John as she had once been critical. 
Mildmay went on his way after that 
peep with a great many thoughts in his 
heart. It became a kind of necessity to 
him to pass that way, to see her at her 
work. Did she like it, he wondered ? 
How different it was from his own! 
how different the position—the estima- 
tion of the two in the world’s eye! 
He who could go and come as he liked, 
who honoured the parish by conde- 
scending to become its clergyman, and 
to whom a great many little negligences 
would have been forgiven, had he liked, 
in consequence of his scholarship, and 
his reputation, and his connections. 
“ We can’t expect a man like Mildmay, 
fresh from a University life, to go pot- 
tering about among the sick like poor 
old St. John,” Mr, Ascott would say. 
“ That is all very well, but a clergyman 
here and there who takes a high posi- 
tion for the Church in society is more 
important still” And most people 
agreed with him; and Roger Mildmay 
went about his parish with his head in 
the clouds, still wondering where life 
was—that life which would string the 
nerves and swell the veins, and put 
into man the soul of a hero. He 
passed the schoolroom window as often 
as he could, in order to see it afar off 
—that life which seemed to him the 
greatest of all things; but he had not 
yet found it himself. He did all he 
could, as well as he knew how, to be a 
worthy parish priest. He was very 
kind to everybody ; he went to see the 
sick, and*tried to say what he could to 
them to soothe and console them. What 
could he say? When he saw a man of 
his own age growing into a gaunt 
great skeleton with consumption, with 
a wistful wife looking on, and poor 
little helpless children, what could the 
young Rector say? His heart would 
swell with a great pang of pity, and 
he would read the prayers with a fal- 
tering voice, and, going away wretched, 
would lavish wine and soup, and every- 

a ee 

262 The Curate in Charge. 

thing he could think of, upon the invalid ; 
but what could he say to him, he whose 
very health and wealth and strength 
and well-being seemed an insult to the 
dying? The dying did not think so, 
but Mildmay did, whose very soul was 
wrung by such sights. Then, for lighter 
matters, the Churchwardens and the 
parish business sickened him with their 
fussy foolishness about trifles ; and the 
careful doling out of shillings from the 
parish charities would have made him 
furious, had he not known that his 
anger was more foolish still. For his 
own part, he lavished his money about, 
giving it to everybody who told him a 
pitiful story, in a reckless way, which, if 
persevered in, would ruin the parish. And 
when anyone went to him for advice, 
he had to bite his lip in order not to 
say the words which were on the very 
tip of his tongue longing to be said, and 
which were, “Go to Cicely St. John at 
the school and ask. It is she who is 
living, not me. I am a ghost like all 
the rest of you.” This was the leading 
sentiment in the young man’s mind. 

As for Cicely, she had not the slightest 
notion that anyone thought of her so, or 
thought of her at all, aud sometimes as 
theexcitementof the beginning diedaway 
she felt her life a weary business enough. 
No society but little Harry, who always 
wanted his tea, and Charley, with his 
thumb in his mouth; and those long 
hours with the crowd of little girls 
around her, who were not amusing to 
have all day long as they used to be for 
an hour now and then, when the clergy- 
man’s daughter went in among them, 
received by the schoolmistress curtsey- 
ing, and with smiles and bobs by the 
children, and carrying a pleasant ex- 
citement with her. How Mab and she 
had laughed many a day over the funny 
answers and funnier questions ; but they 
were not funny now. When Mab came 
down, now and then from Saturday to 
Monday, with all her eager communica- 
tions about her work, Cicely remembered 
that she too was a girl, and they were 
happy enough ; but in the long dull level 
of the days after Mab had gone she used 
to think to herself that she must be a 

widow without knowing it, left after all 
the bloom of life was over with her 
children to work for. “But even that 
would be better,” Cicely said to herself; 
“for then, at least, I should be silly 
about the children, and think them 
angels, and adore them.” Even that 
consolation did not exist for her. Mab 
was working very hard, and there had 
dawned upon her a glorious prospect, 
not yet come to anything, but which 
might mean the height of good fortune. 
Do not let the reader think less well of 
Mab because this was not the highest 
branch of art which she was contemplat- 
ing. It was not that she hoped at 
eighteen and a half to send some great 
picture to the Academy, which should be 
hung on the line, and at once take the 
world by storm. What she thought of 
was the homelier path of illustrations. 
“Tf, perhaps, one was to take a little 
trouble, and try to find out what the 
book means, and how the author saw a 
scene,” Mab said; “they don’t do 
that in the illustrations one sees : the 
author says one thing, the artist quite 
another—that, I suppose, is because the 
artist is a great person and does not 
mind. But Iam nobody. I should try to 
make out what the reading meant, and 
follow that.” This was her hope, and 
whether she succeeds or not, and though 
she called a book “the reading,” those 
who write will be grateful to the young 
artist for this thought. “ Remember 
I am the brother and you are the sister,” 
cried Mab. It was on the way to the 
station on a Sunday evening—for both 
of the girls had to begin work early next 
morning—that this;was said. ‘ And as 
soon as I make money enough you are 
to come and keep my house.” Cicely 
kissed her, and went through the usual 
process of looking for a woman who was 
going all the way to London in one of 
the carriages. This was not very like the 
brother theory, but Mab was docile as a 
child. And then the elder sister walked 
home through the spring darkness with 
her heart full, wondering if that re- 
union would ever be. 

Mr. Mildmay had been out that even- 
ing at dinner at the Ascotts, where he 

ee lee ee ee oe 

ii ek a th ah ae 

very often went on Sunday. The school 
was not at all in the way between the 
Heath and the Rectory, yet Cicely met 
him on her way back. It was a May 
evening, soft and sweet, with the bloom 
of the hawthorn on all the hedges, and 
Cicely was walking along slowly, glad 
to prolong as much as possible that 
little oasis in her existence which Mab’s 
visit made. She was surprised to hear 
the Rector’s voice so close to her. 
They walked on together for a few steps 
without finding anything very particular 
tosay. Then each forestalled the other 
ina question. 

“T hope you are liking Brentburn ?” 
said Cicely. 

And Mr, Mildmay, in the same breath, 
said : 

“ Miss St. John, I hope you do not 
regret coming to the school ?” 

Cicely, who had the most composure, 
was the first to reply. She laughed 
softly at the double question. 

“It suits me better than anything 
else would,” she said. “I did not pre- 
tend to take it as amatter of choice. It 
does best in my circumstances; but 
you, Mr. Mildmay ?” 

“T want so much to know about 
you,” he said, hurriedly. “I have not 
made so much progress myself as I 
hoped Ishould; but you? I keep think- 
ing of youall the time. Don’t think me 
impertinent. Are you happy in it? 
Do you feel the satisfaction of living, 
as it seems to me you must?” 

“Happy?” said Cicely, with a low 
faint laugh. Then tears came into her 
eyes. She looked at him wistfully, 
wondering. He so well off, she so poor 
and restricted. By what strange wonder 
was it that he put such a question to 
her? “Do you think [ have much 
cause to be happy?” she said; then 
added hastily, “I don’t complain, I am 
not uxnhappy—we get on very well.” 

“Miss St. John,” he said, “I have 
spoken to you about myself before now. 
I came here out of a sort of artificial 
vegetation, or at least, so I felt it, with 
the idea of getting some hold upon life— 
true life. I don’t speak of the misery 
that attended my coming here, for that, 

The Curate in Charge. 263 

I suppose, was nobody’s fault, as people 
say; and now [ have settled down again. 
I have furnished my house, made what 
is called a home for myself, though an 
empty one ; and, lo, once more I find my- 
self as I was at Oxford, jlooking at lite from 
the outside, spying upon other people’s 
lives, going to gaze at it enviously, as I do 
at you through the end window—” 

“Mr. Mildmay!” Cicely felt her 
cheeks grow hot, and was glad it was dark 
so that noone couldsee. “I am a poor 
example,” she said, witha smile. “I 
think if you called it vegetation with me 
you would be much more nearly right 
than when you used that word about 
your life at Oxford, which must have 
been full of everything impossible to me. 
Mine is vegetation ; the same things to 
be done at the same hours every day ; 
the poor little round of spelling and 
counting, never getting beyond the rudi- 
ments. Nobody above the age of twelve, 
or I might say of four, so much as to talk 
to. I feel L am living to-night,” she 
added, in a more lively tone, “ because 
Mab has been with me since yesterday. 
But otherwise—indeed you have mado 
a very strange mistake.” 

“It is you who are mistaken,” said 
the young Rector, warmly. “The rest 
of us are ghosts ; what are we all doing? 
The good people up there,” and he 
pointed towards the Heath, “ myself, 
almost everybody I know? living for 
ourselves—living to get what we like 
for ourselves, to make ourselves comfort- 
able—to improve ourselves, let us say, 
which is the best perhaps, yet despicable 
like allthe rest. Self-love, self-comfort, 
self-importance, self-culture, all of them 
one more miserable, more petty than the 
other—even self-culture, which in my 
time I have considered divine.” 

** And it is, I suppose, isn’t it?” said 
Cicely. “It is what in our humble 
feminine way is called improving the 
mind. I have always heard that was 
one of the best things in existence.” 

“Do you practise it?” he asked, 
almost sharply. 

“ Mr. Mildmay, you must not be hard 
upon me—how can I? Yes, I should like 
to be able to pass an examination and 

oo i aris 

264 The Curate in Charge. 

get a—what is it called ?—dipléme the 
French say. With that one’s chances are 
so much better,” said Cicely, with a sigh ; 
“but [ have so little time.” 

How the young man’s heart swelled 
in the darkness ! 

“ Self-culture,” he said, with a half 
laugh, “ must be disinterested, I fear, to 
be worthy the name. It must have nu 
motive but the advancement of your 
mind for your own sake. It is the 
culture of you for yon, not for what you 
may do withit. It is a state, not a pro- 

“That is harder upon us still,” said 
Cicely. “ Alas! I shall never be rich 
enough nor have time enough to be dis- 
interested. Good-night, Mr. Mildmay ; 
that is the way to the Rectory.” 

* Are you tired of me so soon ¢” 

“ Tired of you ?” said Cicely, startled ; 
“oh, no! It is very pleasant to talk a 
little ; but thatis your way.” 

‘IT should like to go with you to your 
door, please,” he said ; “this is such en 
unusual chance. Miss St. John, poor 
John Wyborn is dying ; he has four 
children and a poor little wife, and he is 
just my age.” 

There was a break in the Rector’s voice 
that made Cicely turn her face towards 
him and silently hold out her hand. 

“* What am I to say to them ?” hecried ; 
‘preach patience tothem? tell them it 
is for the best ? I who am not worthy the 
poor bread I eat, who live for myself, 
in luxury, while he—ay, and you—” 

“Tell them,” said Cicely, the tears 
dropping from her eyes, “that God 
sees all—that comforts them the most ; 
that He will take care of the little ones 
somehow and bring them friends. Oh, 
Mr. Mildmay, it is not for me to preach 
to you; [know what you mean; but 
they, poor souls, don’t go thinking and 
questioning as we do—and that comforts 
them the most. Besides,” said Cicely, 
simply, “it is true; look at me—you 
spoke of me. See how my way has 
been made plain for me. I did not 
know what I should do, and now I can 
manage very well, live, and bring up the 
children ; and after all these are the great 
things, and not pleasure,” she added, 
with a soft little sigh. 

“The children!” he said. “There 
is something terrible at your age to hear 
you speak so. Why should you be thus 
burdened—why ?” 

“ Mr. Mildmay,” said Cicely, proudly, 
“ one does not choose one’s own burdens, 
But now that I have got mine I mean 
to bear it, and I do not wish to be pitied. 
I am able for all I have to do——” 

“Cicely!” he cried out, suddenly 
interrupting her, bending low, so that 
for the moment she thought he was on 
his knees, “put it on my shoulders ! 
See, they are ready ; make me somehody 
in life, not a mere spectator. What! are 
you not impatient to see me standing by 
looking on while you are working? [ 

am impatient, and wretched, and soli- - 

tary, and contemptible. Put your 
burden on me, and see if I will not 
bear it! Don’t leave me a ghost any 
more !” 

“Mr. Mildmay!” cried Cicely, in 
dismay. She did not even understand 
what he meant in the confusion of the 
moment. She gave him no answer, 
standing at her own door, alarmed and 
bewildered ; but only entreated him to 
leave her, not knowing what to think. 
** Please go, please go; I must not ask 
you to come in,” said Cicely. “Oh, I 
know what you mean is kind, whatever 
it is; but please, Mr. Mildmay, go! 
Good-night !” 

“Good-night!” he said. “I will go 
since you bid me; but I will come back 
to-morrow for my answer. Give me a 
chance for life.” 

“What does he mean by life?” 
Cicely said to herself, as, trembling and 
amazed, she went back into her hare 
little parlour, which always looked 
doubly bare after Mab had gone. Annie 
had heard her coming, and had lighted 
the two candles on the table ; but though 
it was still cold, there was no fire in the 
cheerless little fireplace. The dark walls, 
which a large cheerful lamp could 
scarcely have lit, small as the room was, 
stood like night round her little table, 
with those two small sparks of light. 
A glass of milk and a piece of bread 
stood ready on a little tray, and Aunie 
had been waiting with some impatience 

. hear 
» thus 



as on 
ders ! 
t ! are 
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a | 

soli- - 

1 not 

r, in 
f the 
| and 
im to 
t ask 
Oh, I 
, go! 

ill go 
me a 

ife 2” 
z and 

n the 
| was, 

The Curate in Charge. 265 

her young mistress’s return in order to 
get to bed. The little boys were asleep 
long ago, and there was not a sound in 
the tiny house as Cicely sat down to 
think, except the sound of Annie over- 
head, which did not last long. Life! 
Was this life, or was he making a bad 
joke at her expense? What did he 
mean? It would be impossible to deny 
that Cicely’s heart beat faster and faster 
as it became clearer and clearer to her 
what he did mean ; but to talk of life ! 
Was this life—this mean, still, solitary 
place, which nobody shared, which 
neither love nor fellowship brightened ? 
for even the children, though she de- 
voted her life to them, made no warm 
response to Cicely’s devotion. She sat till 
far into the night thinking, wondering, 
musing, dreaming, her heart beatiny, 
her head buzzing with the multitude of 
questions that crowded upon her. Life! 
lt was he who was holding open to her 
the gates of life; the only life she 
knew, but more attractive than she had 
ever known it. Cicely was as much 
bewildered by the manner of his appeal 
as by its object. Could he—love her? 
Was that the plain English of it? Or 
was there any other motive that could 
make him desirous of taking her burden 
upon his shoulders? Could she, if a 
man id love her, suffer him to take such 
a weight on his shoulders? And then— 
she did not love him. Cicely said this to 
herself faltering. “ No, she had never 
thought of loving him. She had felt 
that he understood her. She had felt 
that he was kind when many had not 
been kind. There had been between 
them rapid communications of senti- 
ment, impulses flashing from heart to 
heart, which so often accompany very 
close relations. But all that is not 
being in love,” Cicely said to hersvlf. 
Nothing could have taken her more 
utterly by surprise ; but the surprise 
had been given, the shock received. Its 
first overpowering sensation was over, 
and now she had to look forward to the 
serious moment when this most serious 
thing must be settled, and her reply 

Cicely did not sleep much that night. 

She did not know very well what she 
was doing next morning, but went 
through her work in. a dazed condition, 
fortunately knowing it well enough to 
go on mechanically, and preserving her 
composure more because she was par- 
tially stupetied than for any other 
reason. Mr. Mildmay was seen on the 
road by the last of the little scholars 
going away, who made him little bobs of 
curtsies, and of whom he asked where 
Miss St. John was ? 

“Teacher’s in the sehoolroom,” said 
one unpleasant little girl. 

“Please, sir,” said another, with 
more grace or genius, ‘Miss Cicely ain't 
come out yet. She's. a-settling of the 
things for to-morrow.” 

Upon this young woman the Rector 
bestowed a sixpence anda smile. And 
then he went into the schoolroom, the 
place she had decided to receive him in. 
The windows were all open, the desks 
and forms in disorder, the place as mean 
and bare as could be, with the maps 
and bright-coloured pictures of animal 
history on the unplastered walls. Cicely 
stood by her own table, which was 
covered with little piles of plain needle- 
work, her hand resting upon the table, 
her heart beating loud. What was she 
to say to him? The truth somehow, 
such as it really was ; but how? 

But Mr. Mildmay had first a great 
deal to say. He gave her the history of 
his life since August, and the share she 
had in it. He thought now, and said, 
that from the very first day of his 
arrival in Brentburn, when she looked 
at him like an enemy, what he was 
doing now had come into his mind ; and 
on this subject he was eloquent, as a man 
has aright to be once in his life, if no 
more. He had so much to say, that he 
forgot the open public place in which he 
was telling his love-tale, and scarcely 
remarked the little response she made. 
But when it came to her turn to reply, 
Cicely found herself no less impas- 
sioned, thongh in a different way. 

“Mr. Mildmay,” she said, “there is no 
equality between us. How can you, such 
a man as you, speak like this to a girl 
such as I am? Don’t you see what 


you are doing—holding open to me the 
gates of Paradise ; offering me back all I 
have lost ; inviting me to peace out of 
trouble, to rest out of toil, to ease and 
comfort, and the respect of the world.” 

“Cicely!” he said; he was dis- 
couraged by hertone. He sawin it his 
own fancy thrown back to him, and for 
the first time perceived how fantastic 
that was. “ You do not mean,” he said, 
faltering, “ that to work hard as you 
ared oing, and give up all the pleasure 
of existence, is necessary to your—your 
—satisfaction in your life?” 

“T don’t mean that,” she said, simply ; 
“but when you offer to take up my 
burden, and to give me all your com- 
forts, don’t you see that one thing—one 
great thing—is implied to make it pos- 
sible? Mr. Mildmay, I am not—in love 
with you,” she added, in a low tone, 
looking up at him, the colour flaming 
over her face. 

’Tis Christmas-day. 

He winced, as if he had received a 
blow ; then recovering himself, smiled. 
“T think I have enough for two,” he 
said, gazing at her, as pale as she was 

‘But don’t you see, don’t you see,” 
cried Cicely passionately, “if it was 
you, who are giving everything, that 
was not in love, it would be simple; 
but I who am to accept everything, who 
am to put burdens on you, weigh you 
down with others beside myself, how 
can I take it all without loving you? 
You see—you see it is impossible !” 

“Do you love anyone else?” he 
asked, too much moved for grace of 
speech, taking the hand she held up to 
demonstrate this impossibility. She 
looked at him again, her colour 
wavering, her eyes filling, her lips 

“Unless it is you—nobody!” she 


‘Tis Christmas Day ! 
To one another 
I hear men say, 
Alas! my brother! 
Its winds blow bitter, 
Our Christmas suns 
No longer glitter 
As former ones: 
If this be so 
Then let us borrow 
From long ago 
Surcease of sorrow ; 
Let dead Yules lend 
Their bright reflections, 
Let fond friends blend 
Their recollections ; 
Let love revive 
Life’s ashen embers, 
ror love is life 
Since love remembers. 



Awone the friends of Bilderdijk was 
a student of the name of Van der 
Palm. The friendship was neither 
very lasting nor very deep, for it would 
have been impossible to find two tem- 
peraments more utterly unlike. Our 
readers are acquainted with the char- 
acter of Bilderdijk, let me introduce 
them to Van der Palm; for if the 
former was the greatest of Dutch 
poets, the latter was destined to be 
chief amongst the prosaists of Holland. 
Van der Palm was one of those 
moderate men who are never very 
great, but who are always safe men. 
A calm, gentle nature, not given to ex- 
cess of any kind, knowing nought of 
indigestion, either physical or moral, 
yielding, practical, knowing how to 
turn everything to account, and never 
betrayed into anything rash by zeal or 
enthusiasm,—he was a type of what 
may be called a comfortable man. But 
the Bilderdijks cannot bear them ; the 
placidity of the Van der Palms ruffles 
them ; the unbroken evenness appears 
to them, to say the least, wearisome, 
and the much-boasted moderation, so 
far from being a sign of strength, is 
to them a symptom of weakness. 
Moderate men generally manage to 
make the best of both worlds. The lives 
of Van der Palm and of Bilderdijk were 
as unlike as their characters. Van der 
Palm, who never contradicted any one, 
was voted an agreeable man; Van der 
Palm, whose flight was like that of the 
swallow, while Bilderdijk soared to tie 
skies like the eagle, was looked upon as 
aman full of learning. Van der Palm, 
who was always calm, because he was 
not a man of strong feelings, either 
one way or the other, was in the eyes 
of the people the embodiment of love. 
Men flocked around him to do him 


honour, and to show him how much 
they respected and admired him. For 
in doing so they really worshipped 
themselves. The majority, being essen- 
tially mediocre, fears and hates that 
which is above their level, and delights 
to worship mediocrity under the name 
of greatness.? 

Van der Palm was born in the year 
1763 at Rotterdam, where he was edu- 
cated during the first part of his life. 
Thence he passed to Leyden, to be- 
come the pupil, and afterwards the 
friend of the famous Orientalist, Schul- 
tens. He had resolved to enter the 
ministry, and his success as a preacher 
was marked from the beginning. The 
few verses which he published during 
his academical career are not remarkable 
either for beauty of form or originality 
of conception. But his Commentary on 
Ecclesiastes, though evidently a youth- 
ful production, was full of promise, and 
received no small commendation from 
competent authorities. 

The moment he left the univer- 
sity he was appointed to a cure of souls 
at a short distance from Utrecht. His 
ministerial career, however, lasted only 
three years. We next find him at the 
University of Leyden again, as the suc- 
cessor of his former master. In the days 
of the French dominion, which he bore 
with his usual equanimity, he resigned 
his professorship to accept the post of 
Inspector of National Education, which 
the Government had offered to him. 
After a few years he once more returned 
to the university, where he occupied 
in succession the professorships of belles 
lettres and of Eastern languages. The 
restoration of the House of Orange he 
hailed with all the enthusiasm he was 
capable of ; and after a long life of use- 
fulness, he died in the year 1841. 

1 To be popular three things are required : 
shallowness, eccentricity, and audacity. 


His literary activity during those 
years was perfectly astonishing, and his 
fame had kept pace with it. As a 
preacher he had no rival in the opinion 
of the people. His style was simple, 
clear, and picturesque ; the subject of 
his discourses was generally a moral or 
practical theme. About these sermons 
there is nothing very striking ; there are 
no passionate outbursts or thrilling pas- 
sages ; there is nothing to startle you, 
or to keep you an unwilling captive ; 
but, on the other hand, there is a quiet 
beauty about them which heals and 
soothes, and makes one forget the 
weariness of the day. A people like 
the Dutch could not but admire them. 

In addition to his sermons, he pub- 
lished several other works. The most 
celebrated of his non-theological writings 
is his Monument of the Restoration of 
Holland. The style of Van der Palm 
here reveals itself in its undeniable 
excellency and its characteristic defects. 
The historical portraits are the produc- 
tions of a highly polished man of taste. 
But one is inclined to wish for some- 
what less finish ; the perfection of the 
style is almost wearisome—nay, at times 
irritating. It may be faultless accord- 
ing to the rules of the schools, but the 
heart rebels, and demands something 

His exegetical works are, as a matter 
of ccurse, those which command the 
greatest interest. He spent seven years 
on a translation of the Bible. He also 
published Commentaries on Isaiah, and 
on The Proverbs of Solomon, and a 
Bible for Children. The latter work 
was intended to supply a want which 
must be evident to every one who has 
considered the matter. The publica- 
tion of Van der Palm, however, did 
not exactly meet the case; it is de- 
cidedly above the comprehension of 
children, and he himself was conscious 
that it was open to criticism of that 
kind. His classical work is bis Com- 
mentary on the Proverbs of Solomon. 
The collection of the scattered fragments 
of Jewish wisdom, in which the wise 
King of Israe] had probably a part, was 
the favourite study of the Dutch pro- 

The Literature of Holland during the Nineteenth Century. 

fessor. He delighted to dig into that 
mine of practical wisdom, and to bring 
to the surface things new and old. He 
began his commentary as a young man, 
and he returned to it in the evening of 
his life. If I have at all succeeded in 
picturing Van der Palm, it requires no 
explanation to understand the fascina- 
tion which a book like the Proverbs 
must have exercised on him. There he 
found life in its varied aspects as it 
presented itself to: the master-minds of 
a great nation, a calm and subtle 
analysis of human thought and action, 
a kind and gentle Mentor ready to 
guide the perplexed heart through the 
labyrinth of life. That Shemitie book, 
so human, so practical, so moral, con- 
tained the religion of Van der Palm—it 
was his Gospel. 

But we must now eall attention to 
the greatest follower and friend of Bil- 
derdijk, Isaac da Costa. Bilderdijk has 
had no greater and moe faithful dis- 
ciple than this young Jew, who traced 
his descent to one of the noble families 
of the Spanish Peninsula, driven by a 
cruel edict in the fifteenth century from 
hearth and home. And he has shared 
his master’s fate. Treated with scorn 
by many of his contemporaries, now 
laughed at, then violently attacked, 
then again completely ignored, he did 
not receive the tribute which must 
sooner or later fall to greatness, till 
after his death. 

The turning-point of his life was 
the moment at which he came into con- 
tact with Bilderdijk. A poem writien 
by the young Jew came under 
his notice; he recognised in it at 
once the ring of the true poet, and 
invited its author to his house. Da 
Costa was in an unsettled state of 
mind ; the firm grasp of Bilderdijk’s 
hand seemed to impart the strength 
after which he vainly sought. Too 
much of a Jew to be a philosopher, 
he was too much of a Greek to be an 
unreasoning, unquestioning _ believer. 
In Bilderdijk he found a man like one 
of the prophets of bis nation, conscious 
of a divine illumination, which admits 
of no doubt or uncertainty, a character 

fall of 

ergy a 
have a 
of ah 
wal of 
a pam) 
few p’ 
der een 
age) D 
Satan | 
as beir 
But a 
titled : 
a ming 
heart « 
that fi 
away § 


The Literature of Holland during the Nineteenth Century. 

full of firmness, a life of great unity, 
governed by a few fundamental thoughts 
carried intv practice with uutiring en- 
erxy and indomitable courage ; a man, 
oriental in his absolutism, and yet 
European in his subjectivity—is it 
strange that Da Costa should have felt 
irresistibly drawn to him, and that ia 
embracing his religion he should also 
have adopted his theology? The fiery 
young Jew is to draw the chariot of an 
ultra-Conservatism, lashed by the whip 
of a high Calvinism. 

For a long time the influence of Bil- 
derdijk was paramount with him. The 
wal of the neophyte found an outlet in 
a pamphlet which, wherever it became 
known, acted like a firebrand. In the 
few pages of Bezwaren tegen den geest 
der eeun (objections to the spirit of the 
age) Da Costa declared war @ l'outrance 
against modern society. The world 
seemed to him to have gone over to 
Satan ; the doctrines, institutions, and 
practices of society were to be denounced 
as being of the evil one. The sovereign 
remedy was to be looked for in the 
advent of a theocracy, and in the decla- 
ration of the infallibility of the Cal- 
vinistic theology. 

For several years the poet, who had 
already shown his genius in masterly 
translations and in minor original 
poems, was buried in the theologian. 
But after years of silence he sud- 
denly emerged from his obscurity to 
astonish the world with a poem, en- 
titled: Vyfen twintijg jaren (five-and- 
twenty years.) It was the first 
great poem in which he showed his 
originality, the curious combination of 
a mind tinged with western ideas and a 
heart completely Oriental. 

The poem owes its title to the fact 
that five-and-twenty years had passed 
away since, on the plains of the Southern 
Netherlands, the great battle had been 
fought which secured the liberties of 
Europe. After the reminiscence of 
Waterloo, and a bold parallel between 
Napoleon and Lutber, the poet rapidly 
surveys the events of the last five-and- 
twenty years. The prospect is decidedly 
gloomy, and as the poems hastens to a 


close, the darkness deepens, till un- 
expectedly the stately Alexandrine gives 
way to a wild lyrical outburst: “The 
Lord will come in the clouds of heaven 
to put an end to the night.” 

This poem created a great sensation, 
and was followed by others of a similar 
kind, such as, 1648 and 1848, or The 
Chaos and the Light. Pvems of an ex- 
clusively religious character, such as, 
God with us, Hagar, David, Elizabeth, 
flowed in rapid succession from his fer- 
tile pen. Besides these, he contributed 
a host of minor poems, called forth by 
domesti: and social events, some of 
which are characterized by great felicity 
and beauty. But io all his poems, 
whether political or religious, from his 
first great. production down to the last, 
The Battle of Nieuwpoort, he remained 
faithful to the key-note which he had 
struck in the beginning. Like a deep 
pedal-note the religious tone makes itself 
heard throughout. In the eyes of Da 
Costa there is but one great conflict— 
the struggle between intidelity and re- 
volution on the one hand, and conser- 
vatism and orthodox Christianity on the 
other hand. Before it every other war- 
fare seems insignificant, nay, rather, 
everything else is included in it. The 
question which underlies all others is 
that of sin and guilt. The solution 
for all is to be found in Christ and Ilis 

Bilderdijk and his poetry were, as we 
have seen, intensely unlike the ordi- 
nary type of Holland. Hence he was 
unpopular. Da Costa was even more 
so. The restless little man, with the 
high intellectual forebead, and dark 
eyes, burning like coals of fire, was 
always a stranger amidst the children 
of Japhet ; his impassioned oratory, his 
wild flights, his lofty ascents and start- 
ling descents, his grouping of ideas, his 
modes of expression—reminded you not 
of the marshes of Holland, but of the hills 
of Syria. And his poetry was not more 
Dutch than his person. He said on one 
occasion of Lamartine—“ Thou hast 
made an Eastern psalm resound on 
Western shores.” Unconsciously he de- 
scribed the character of his own poetry. 

The psalmists and the prophets of Israel 
were his models, Like them he ex- 
celled in lyrical poetry. As a lyrical 
poet he has had no rival in Holland. 
He took the harp from the willows and 
“sang the Lord’s song” in a strange 
land. The refrain was never varied— 
“Peace in the name of the Lord ; war 
against the ungodly.” But within the 
narrow circle in which he moved he 
was great. 

He tried hard to be a Dutchman. 
He merely succeeded in writing poems 
in the Dutch language. Place him and 
his poetry next to that of Tollens, the 
third and last of the great poets of 
Holland during the present century, 
and the truth of this assertion will 
become evident. 

In all Holland there is not a more 
popular or more beloved name than 
that of Tollens. Inferior in everything 
to Bilderdijk and Da Costa, he has 
obtained a power which they never 
had, which probably they will never 
have. For Tollens is a typical Dutch- 
man; he is the poet of the honest, 
good-natured Mynheer, who deems him- 
self in the seventh paradise, as he 
smokes his pipe and sips his coffee ; 
he is the expression of the neat house- 
wife who seems never to have done with 
her cleaning, and who is in despair 
when there is a spot on the tablecloth, 
or a wrinkle on the muslin curtains. 
The poetry of Tollens reflects the char- 
acter and the life of the people. It 
may seem to you somewhat dull and un- 
interesting ; it may savour tu you of 
the spirit of the Flemish painter, who 
spent twenty years in painting a broom; 
hut it is faithful to the reality. Those 
Dutch pictures of domestic life are 
indeed tame, but—here is the compen- 
sation—how innocent they are ! 

There is nothing remarkable about 
the life of Tollens. He was born at 
Rotterdam, and sent to a middle-class 
school, where he received a commercial 
education. He managed to combine 
devotion to business with devotion to 
poetry. The great political events 
through which his country passed gave 
him no trouble, except the composition 

The Literature of Holland during the Nineteenth Century. 

of a few poems. After having made 
enough money, he retired to a small 
country-house, where he died as peace. 
ably as he had lived. 

His poetry fills twelve volumes, At 
first it attracted little or no attention, 
But he was fortunate enough to 
obtain a prize for a lyrical poem on 
Egmond and Hoorn, and this success en- 
couraged him to write other poems of 
asimilarkind. His popularity, however, 
is said to date from a few lines, pub- 
lished under the title of Zo a Fallen 
Girl. It is a sensible production, re. 
plete with sound advice, and it stamped 
Tollens at once as the coming man, 
He had written some mild poetry be. 
fore ; he had also presented the public 
with translations from the French ; but 
henceforth he resolved to strike another 
key-note. He attempted to become a 
Dutch Claudius. 

Amongst his many poems there is a 
large number of romances. The sub- 
ject is generally taken from the period 
of the struggle between Spain and the 
Netherlands. These romances are writ- 
ten in a pleasant style, and it may be 
said in their favour that many a one 
who does not care to read a history 
of his country in prose, will doso when 
it is written in rhyme. Here the youth 
of Holland may sip at the pure fount 
of patriotism, unmixed with any party 

But the two most ambitious poems 
of Tollens are the Wien Néerlandsch 
bloed and the Wintering of the Hol- 
landers on Nova Zembla. The former 
one has been raised to the dignity of 
the national anthem. It is a poem of 
some merit, but its chief character- 
istic is the neutral tint which it wears 
throughout. Take from the first line 
of the first verse the word “ Dutch,” 
and the poem becomes at once so vague 
and general that there is not a single 
human being who could not make use of 
it. The Winteringon Nova Zembla, the 
account of the expedition undertaken 
by Heemskerk, in order to find a way 
through the north to the east, is un- 
doubtedly the best of Tollens’s poems. 
Its descriptions are vivid and varied; 

Our } 


its expressions of sentiment often pa- 
thetic and full of beauty. 

The domestic poetry of Tollens, how- 
ever, is the great source of his popular- 
ity. Here the delighted Dutchman 
finds the deification of common-sense, 
and a shrewd, practical vein running 
through the whole. Daily life and its 
routine have unquestionably as much 
right to a poet as the “ things in heaven 
and earth which are dreamt of in our 
philosophy.” But it requires the hand 
of a master to raise them from the region 
of the commonplace to the sphere of 
poetry. Tollens was a faithful copyist 
of Nature; but we wish to see Nature 
not as she stands forth in naked reality, 
but as reflected in the soul of the artist. 
Our poet, with all his talents, failed in 
this attempt, and hence, instead of being 
sublime, he is often ridiculous. 

Let us give as a specimen a few 
stanzas from the poem On My Child's 
first Tooth :-— 

‘Rejoice, rejoice my lyre, bestir thyself ; 
mother says the tooth is cut; let the walls 
resound! First, God gave breath and life to 
the child ; and now He gives it a tooth. 

** Keep it, my child, and use it well ; keep 
it clean for your own good, and to show your 
gratitude to God. If yourteeth and your soul 
are clean you will feel no gnawing pain. 

“Grow and flourish, become a great and 
good man ; gain in strength and courage, so 
so as to bear manfully fate with its ills ; if any 
one treats thee dishonourably, show thy teeth, 
my boy.” 

What mother would not welcome 
such a poem, especially the second 
verse ¢ 

But Holland had at the same time a 
prose-poet, whose novels and romances 
far surpassed the literary productions of 
so-called poets. Jacob van Lennep, 
who died in 1868, was born at the 
beginning of the century. His father 
was a distinguished professor at the 
Atheneum of Amsterdam, and his 
family belonged to that upper-middle 
class, which is more tenacious than any 
other in Holland, of traditionary princi- 
ples and practices. As proud and ex- 
clusive as any aristocracy, living in the 
recollection of a past, in which it 
played a great part, it amalgamates 

The Literature of Holland during the Nineteenth Century. 


slowly and very reluctantly with our 
modern democratic civilization. 

The works by which Van Lennep 
established his fame were his Dutch 
Legends and his Historical Novels. 
It would be interesting to draw a parallel 
between the Dutch writer and his great 
prototype Walter Scott. Van Lennep 
wrote under the influence of the great 
Scotsman ; nay, it would be more cor- 
rect to say that he took him as his 
model and followed him closely. In 
many respects he became as great as his 
master. There is a great charm of 
freshness about Van Lennep’s descrip- 
tions ; there is a pleasant absence of 
the artificial in his style, which flows 
on with the grace and ease of a majestic 
river. His portraits are life-like, and 
the frame in which they are inclosed, 
though of sufficient beauty to show 
them to advantage, does not throw them 
into the background through excess of 
ornament. He seems to take delight in 
his creations, and he paints them up to 
acertain point with great carefulness. 
The characters, of which he generally in- 
troduces a large number in his novels, are 
drawn with a bold hand, but no detail, 
however trifling, escapes him. Then 
suddenly one would think that he gets 
weary of his work. He throws the brush 
down with ill-concealed impatience and 
finishes his picture, with a few rapid 
strokes, often ill-advised and never very 

The series of historical novels—Our 
Forefathers—takes us back to the days 
before Christ, when the brave Batavians 
concluded an alliance with Julius Cesar. 
There is ample scope for the imagina- 
tion in the description of those semi- 
barbaric times ; in the account of that 
tribe of warriors, endowed with their 
natural virtues and vices, and strangers 
as yet to the splendid sins of a great 
civilization ; in the picture of their 
daring struggles and dearly-bought 
victories. It is a matter of intense 
difficulty to recall that past, to make 
it emerge from the mythical twilight 
in which it is veiled, and to clothe it 
once more with an air of reality. Van 
Lennep, as need scarcely be remarked, 


is not always successful ; the atmosphere 
in which his personages an! characters 
move is tinged tono small extent with 
modern notions and ideas. But, as his 
series progresses and he descends along 
the stream of history to more modern 
times, his sins in that respect are less 
obvious and the excellences, which we 
have pointed out, become more apparent. 

The two novels of Van Lennep which 
we look upon as his best are: 7'he Hose 
of Decama and Ferdinand Huyck. The 
story of the Frisian maiden is charming ; 
that of Ferdinand Huyck is a chef 
d’euvre. We are no longer in the days 
of the earls of Holland, the days of 
brave kniyhts and fair women, of wine 
and love and poetry ; we are transplanted 
to the times of the grave burghers and 
staid matrons, to the atmosphere of beer, 
sombre Calvinism, and prose. The story 
itself is interesting. It tells of the ad- 
ventures of an honest young Dutchman, 
who gets accidentally mixed up in affairs 
of a questionable character, and being un- 
willing to betray the confidence placed 
in him, almost falls a victim to the 
ambiguous position thus unfortunately 
thrust upon him. But the chief merit 
of the novel lies in isolated scenes 
and in the delineation of character. Such 
types are surely unique. Nocity in the 
world, except old-fashioned Amsterdam, 
could ever boast of a man like the father 
of Ferdinand Huyck, the worthy magis- 
trate, with his quaint learning and imper- 
turbable gravity ; nowhere, exceptin some 
remote part of the country of Old Mortal- 
ity, could we find a woman like Aunt 
Letje, who drags her Calvinistic theology 
into every-day life, and is a stranger 
to every dialect, save that of Canaan ; 
in no other country could there be a 
woman like the stout, good-natured, 
worldly Van Bempden. Yet they were 
once real, living persons, and we can 
still trace their resemblance in the 
burghers of to-day. 

The last work of Van Lennep, which 
he wrote at the end of his life, created a 
tremendous sensation. Klaasje Zevenster 
is the story of a foundling, who is taken 
care of alternately by seven students, 
The cruel machinations of a jealous 

The Literature of Holland dwring the Nineteenth Century. 

woman are the cause of her troubles, 
Without her knowledge she is brought 
to a house of ill-fame, and when, after a 
long illness, she emerges from her hated 
abode, as pure, of course, as when she 
entered, she is like a lily broken to 
pieces by the boisterous wind. Deaf 
to the solicitations of her friends and 
of her lover, who is convinced of her 
innocence, she resolves to spend the 
remainder of her days in loneliness 
and silence. 

The realism of the book through- 
out was intense, the events so graphic- 
ally described, aud the scenes on which 
it dwelt with almost painful minuténess, 
professed to be a representation of 
what was going on in the midst of 
Dutch society a.p 1866. Is it strange 
that Dutch society was exceedingly 
shocked, and that the mothers of Hol- 
land were indignant? Who of us 
likes to be roused from a_ pleasant 
dream, who of us is grateful to the 
prophet for his message: ‘There is no 
peace, saith my God”? And thus Van 
Lennep’s literary career drew to a close 
amidst shouts of condemnation. 

It still remains to call attention to 
some of the stars of second magnitude, 
which have illuminated the period under 
review with a more or less brilliant light 
Leaving out of sight the men, whose 
names, though they once enjoyed a 
certain reputation, are now well-nigh 
forgotten, we come at once to the son-in- 
law of Van der Palm, the famous 
preacher of Utrecht—Nicolaas Beets. 
He is known as the author of a humorous 
book, which, under the title of Camera 
Obscura, contains amusing sketches of 
Dutch society. But his claim to re- 
cognition is above all founded on his 
poetical works. His first great poems 
were written during what may be called 
the Byronic period of his life. They 
are characterised by fierce gloom, mor- 
bid views of life, and sentimental sad- 
ness, But the spirit which breathed in 
Jose and Guy the Fleming soon gave 
way to healthier influences. Was it 
the country air of Heemstede, a pretty 
village not far from Haarlem, which 
drove away the feverish spirit? Or 


and { 

for u 
Or to 
by a 
are al 
like » 
in a 
of the 
and p 
in the 
by his 
a book 
times ] 
the au 
his spe 
van P 
him, n 

was it the experience of life which 
taught him to fix his eye on reality, 
and to find the ideal in the midst of life, 
instead of in some imaginary realm? 
Beets himself attributed his poetical con- 
version to the study of Vondel. Enough 
for us that in his Korenbloemn (Corn- 
flowers) and in the volumes afterwards 
published we hear the voice of nature. 
Or to speak more accurately, nature as 
seen by an unclouded eye, listened to 
bya reverent heart, and received and felt 
by a simple manly heart, meets us on 
every page, in the charming garb of.a 
fascinating diction. 

Besides Beets there is only one other 
name which deserves to be specially 
mentioned ; it is that of the poet Jan 
Pieter Heye. His Poems for Children 
are among the best of the kind. Child- 
like without being childish, entering 
fully into the feelings of a child, and 
replete with sound lessons, delivered not 
in a pulpit style but in a tone of 
kindly earnest, they merit all the at- 
tention which they attracted at the time 
of their publication, 

The prose writers of celebrity are 
more numerous. Amongst historical 
and political writers Kemper, Thorbecke, 
Groen van Prinsterer, and Bosscha 
have obtained positions of undoubted 
eminence. Kemper played a great part 
in the liberation of his country, and his 
political writings are marked by a high 
moral tone. Bosscha, a Conservative 
politician, made himself specially known 
by his Biography of King William I7., 
a book which contains the fullest ac- 
count of the political history of that 
memorable reign. Thorbecke, several 
times Prime Minister, and one of the chief 
promoters of the revised constitution, is 
the author of /istorical Sketches and of 
several volumes of parliamentary speeches, 
Looked at from a literary point of view, 
his speeches are models of conciseness and 
clearness. His great antagonist, Groen 
van Prinsterer, who has spent the 
greater part of his life in combating the 
political and religious, or according to 
him, non-religious, views of his former 
friend, stands, in our opinion, foren.ost 
amongst this class of writers. His 
No. 195,—-voL. xxx. 

The Literature of Holland during the Nineteenth Century. 273 

History of the Fatherland, and specially 
his Archives de la Maison d Orange 
Nassau, are valuable contributions to 
Dutch history, and would have been 
more so but for the fact that his views 
are largely influenced by a set of narrow 
theological dogmas. A historian who 
starts from a dogma has ceased to be 
one. Heer Groen, fullowing the tra- 
dition of the Bilderdijk school, lives in 
the belief that the Dutch are the 
“chosen nation,” and that the affairs of 
Holland are particularly interesting to 
the Divinity. In all his parliamentary 
speeches and numberless pamphlets, 
bearing either on political questions or 
on ecclesiastical subjects, he has set 
forth and defended his theory, which 
consists in a mixture of religion and 
politics, in our eyes as fatal to the one 
as to the other. His style is singularly 
terse and bristles with epigrams. His 
sentences seem steadily to advance with 
military precision till they have struck 
down the adversary by the force of 
logic or of satire.! 

The rank of original novelists is very 
small. Translations of the best French 
and English novels are everywhere to 
be met with. But the native writers— 
on account of the love for everything 
foreign, by which the educated classes 
were long animated—found little or no 
encouragement. The Dutch ladies, who, 
until recent times, knew every language 
but their own, and who, even now, can 
scarcely say five words without intro- 
ducing three of foreign origin, had 
no taste for the national literature. <A 
few writers, however, made their mark, 
We have already noticed Hildebrand’s 
Camera Obscura, a humorous descrip- 
tion of Dutch life, written by Beets, in 
days when he was still “ young and gay.” 
A hearty reception was also accorded to 
the Betuwsche Novellen of Cremer. The 
quaint life of the peasantry, the sturdy 
farmers and their bluoming wives and 

1 Want of space compels me to omit the 
names of some scientific writers of more or 
less repute—Cobet, Kueuen, and others. I 
regret this omission the less, because their 
names belong after all more to science than to 



daughters with their old-fashioned no- 
tions and customs, and their pretty and 
curious costumes, now, alas, fast, becom- 
ing a thing of the past, found in him a 
painter full of humour and pathos. 

But far above all other Dutch novelists 
stands Madame Bosboom Toussaint, the 
wife of a well-known painter. Her 
long literary career opened with a volume 
of Verspreide Verhalen (scattered stories) 
which were remarkable, as disclosing 
@ vigorous individuality. Her claim 
to recognition rests on the series 
of historical novels which she subse- 
quently published. Zhe Duke of Devon- 
shire and The English at Rome are 
founded on incidents of foreign history. 
The subject of the former is an episode 
in the life of Mary Tudor, whilst the 
scene of the latter is laid at Rome in the 
days of Sixtus V. A great step in ad- 
vance was made by the gifted authoress 
in her House of Lauernesse. We are 
inclined to think that none of her later 
literary productions equalled this her 
first book, in which she planted herself 
on the shores of her native land. 

The Holland of the sixteenth century 

in its politico-religious and in its social 
crisis, rose at her command from the 
slumber of historical tradition to the 
vigour and fulness of wakeful life. En- 
dowed with a great power of imagina- 
tion and thoroughly enthusiastic about 
the great past of the Dutch republic, 
whose history she had studied down to 
the very minutest details, she gave the 
fruit of her researches to the public in 
a style at once quaint and vigorous. 
Her descriptions are somewhat weari- 
some, her characters are often vague, and 
the want of action makes itself fre- 
quently felt. But the charm of her 
stories lies in the subtilty of her analy- 
sis, the skill with which she lays bare 
the hidden springs of action, and the 
delicacy of her touch. After this, it 
is easy to forgive her for being more 
than a good story-teller ! 

In conclusion, one feels inclined to 
ask whether Holland has ever had a 
great national poet? In answer to our 
question a Dutchman would point to 

The Literature of Holland during the Nineteenth Century. 

Vondel, Cats, and 'Bilderdijk. Vondel 
and Bilderdijk are probably entitled 
to a high rank amongst poets; but, 
without entering into any classifica. 
tion, the fact remains that they were 
never national poets. With few excep. 
tions, such as Vondel’s Gysbrecht van 
Amstel, and some of Bilderdijk’s minor 
poems, their poetry was never popular 
in any sense of the word. Their readers 
are rari nantes in gurgite vasto. They 
are admired, but unknown and unloved, 
For they soared far above their country- 
men in regions whither the many could 
not and cared not to follow them. They 
placed themselves generally in heaven, 
and, if ever they made their descent, it 
was but to pause for a transient moment 
in mid-air, and then swiftly to return to 
serener heights. Cats, on the other 
hand, is very popular ; he was a typical 
Dutchman. This shrewd, practical, prosy, 
cautious citizen, given up to the idolatry 
of common-sense—voila la Hollande, 
The muse of Vondel and Bilderdijk, in 
one word, stands with wings outspread ; 
the muse of Cats crawls on all-fours, 
But has the excellent Cats a right to 
the name of “poet?” We doubt it. 

The truly great poet is he, who boldly 
stands forward in the midst of reality, 
with the gospel of the everlasting ideal 
in his hand. Listening to and interpre- 
ting the many voices of universal life, he 
proclaims to the world that the ideal is 
real, and to be looked for, not in some 
distant heaven of which we are totally 
ignorant, but in the midst of the world 
in which we live. His own great mis- 
sion is to make the reality more ideal, 
and therefore to render the ideal mor 

Has Holland ever had such a poet! 
At any rate she has none such at pre 
sent. In eager expectation her muse 
sits before an empty cradle, and the 
torch of criticism held up above her by 
a friendly sister, brings out the more 
vividly her dreariness and desolation. 
But the gods, ever more merciful than 
we have a right to expect, may give her 
some day what they have hitherto with- 
held from her. 

A. Sonwartz. 

a little 
to talk 
to be | 
the ini 
§0 mar: 

I REMEMBER, twenty or twenty-one 
years ago, when the madness of the 
Russian war was at its height, how an 
English paper gave out, in a boastful 
tone, that Russia had no ally but “the 
marauding Bishop of Montenegro.” 
This kind of talk aptly represented 
the kind of feeling which Englishmen 
had then brought themselves to enter- 
tain towards a state which, small as it 
is, may claim to share with Poland, 
Hungary, and Venice, the glorious name 

“ Europe’s bulwark ’gainst the Ottomite.” 

This kind of talk represented _ also 
the amount of knowledge which English- 
men then had of the state of South-East- 
em Europe, an amount of knowledge 
which most of us sturdily refused to in- 
crease. It had become a kind of point of 
honour not to know anything about the 
quarter of the world in which we had so 
strangely taken it into our heads to 
appear as belligerents. We had gone 
mad with the most amazing of passions, 
the love of Turks ; and we thought it a 
matter of duty to see everything, past 
and present, through the spectacles of 
our beloved. That a Christian state 
should have presumed to preserve its 
independence against Mahometan in- 
vaders seemed, in the frenzy of the 
moment, a high crime and misdemean- 
our. It became a piece of patriotism 
to hurl some bad name or other at such 
daring offenders. ‘‘Marauding” is an 
ugly name certainly, though perhaps it 
might be only human nature for one 
who is beset by marauders to maraud 
alittle back again in self-defence. Then 
to talk about a “marauding Bishop” 
seemed a hit of the first order. Of all 
people in the world, Bishops ought not 
to be marauders; how great must be 
the iniquity of the people who not only 
go marauding, but go marauding under 


the leadership of a Bishop. English 
Bishops perhaps felt thankful that they 
were not as this unbishoplike Monte- 
negrin. They would not go marauding 
even against a Russian ; it was enough 
to stay at home, and preach and pray 
against him with the full cursing power 
of an Irish saint. The picture of the 
marauding Bishop, the one ally of 
Russia, was indeed a climax of art in 
its own way. The only thing to 
be said against it was that it was all 
art, and answered to nothing to be 
found in nature. When the Russian 
war broke out, Montenegro was no 
longer governed bya Bishop. It might 
have been questioned whether the ma- 
rauding part of the picture could be 
justified at all; it was quite certain that 
the picture of the “ marauding Bishop” 
was purely imaginary. But to patriotic 
Englishmen of that day such a trifl- 
ing inaccuracy did not matter. We 
should have thought it strange if a 
Russian paper had spoken of England 
as governed by a Protector, or even by 
a King, marauding or otherwise. But 
about Montenegro or any other part of 
Eastern Christendom, it was safe for 
any man to say anything that he chose, 
provided only it took the form of abuse. 
We should have thought it an insult to 
ourselves and our illustrious confede- 
rates, if any one had said that England 
and France had no allies except the 
“ marauding Mufti at Constantinople.” 
In one sense the epithet would have 
been less applicable. No one can charge 
the Sultans of the present day with 
marauding, or doing anything else, in 
their own persons. But surely, at least 
when we are not at war with Russia, 
the efforts of the Turk to subdue an 
independent Christian state might be 
thought to come nearer to marauding 
than the efforts of the Christian state 
to maintain its freedom. But, as the 


Grand Turk is in some sort a sacred 
person, not a mere Sultan or Padishah, 
but the Caliph of the Prophet on 
earth, it would surely have been less 
inaccurate to give him a religious de- 
scription of some kind than it was to be- 
stow the title of Bishop on a potentate 
so purely secular as the Prince of Mon- 
tenegro was in 1854. 

I am tempted to ask whether most 
of us really know much more about 
these matters now. I have myself been 
asked, since the present war began, 
whether the Prince of Montenegro was a 
Christian, and whether the Montenegrins 
were on the side of the Turks or on that 
of the patriots, Certainly no great 
increase of knowledge or right feeling 
on such matters can come from the last 
book about that part of the world which 
chance has thrown in my way. This calls 
itself ‘Over the Borders of Christen- 
dom and Eslamiah,” by James Creagh. 
The writer describes himself as ‘author 
of A Scamper to Sebastopol and Jerusa- 
lem in 1867];’ and he professes to have 
been in Montenegro in the summer of 
1875. We know pretty well what to look 
for from people who write “ Scampers ” 
to Sebastopol or any other place. If they 
are simply flippant, ignorant, and con- 
ceited, there is no special ground for 
complaint ; they simply do after their 
kind. But the present Scamperer is 
something more; he is coarse, vulgar, 
and libellous. He professes to have 
been in Montenegro; but all that he 
can do is to give hard names to every- 
thing that he saw there. “ Maranding 
Bishop” would be a very small flower 
of speech in his vocabulary. He thinks 
it clever to call the whole people of 
Montenegro “ peasants,” as if “peasant” 
were a name of reproach. We hear of 
“an old peasant dignified with the name 
of Archbishop ;” we are told that “an 
armed peasant who, in his natural state, 
might be considered a very respectable 
person, is made extremely ridiculous 
when called the Minister of War, 
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs,” 
&e., &. These armed peasants 

happen to be cultivated gentlemen, 
speaking most of the languages of 


Europe in a way that might shame most 
of their English visitors. One of them, 
it seems, at least a Montenegrin gen- 
tleman of some kind, paid the Scam- 
perer a visit which he allows to have 
been “friendly.” This friendliness 
perhaps a little surprised a man who 
was so ignorant of the customs ct 
hospitable Montenegro that, when he 
saw a visitor coming, he behaved in a 
way which is best told in his own 
words :— 

“Thinking suddenly of stories which I 
had heard about the daring and ferocity of 
these lawless Highlanders, I qnietly, and 
without removing it from my pocket, cocked 
my pistol, and aiming at my visitor as well as 
I could. prepared to shoot him through the 
lining of my coat-tail in the event of his 
giving any evidence of hostility.” 

After this, it is perhaps not very 
wonderful that the Scamperer found out 
that, though no evidence of hostility 
was shown, yet the Montenegrin gen- 
tleman “did not like him.” It is 
perhaps on the ground of this very 
natural dislike that the Scamperer goes 
on to sneer at the Montenegrin officers 
for having, like their Prince, the good 
sense to keep to the national dress ; 
and perhaps the feeling of having mis- 
judged and slandered a race may have 
led Mr. James Creagh to write a sentence 
of such atrocious libel as this :— 

** Except in the richness of their costumes 
or of their arms, a stranger discovers no differ- 
ence in the appearance of separate classes. 
The former and the latter are equally coarse ; 
that dignified and proper deportment so often 
found among people not altogether civilized is 
rarely seen in Montenegro; and their evil 
countenances, or low and cunning aspects, 
made me little anxious for their society.” 

Who the “ former” and the “ latter” 
may be the Scamperer does not explain; 
so I do not feel clear whether those 
inhabitants of Montenegro whom I and 
my companions came across came under 
the head of “former” or “ latter.” It 
is merely a guess that the Prince and 
his chief officers may come under the 
head of ‘‘ former.” But, whether former 
or latter, the whole picture is a base 
slander. Yet it is pesbaps nothing 

> most 
1 gen- 
. have 
l who 
ms ot 
en he 
+ own 

hich I 
city of 
y, and 
well as 
gh the 
of his 

1d out 

more than the ingrained habit of a 
man who, while he cannot help seeing 
and recording the efforts which the pre- 
sent Prince is making for the improve- 
ment of his country, while he really has 
nothing to say of him except what is to 
his bonour, still thinks it decent to speak 
of him through page after page as “ His 

But enough of such trash as this. 
It is just possible that the libellous 
vulgarity of the book may pass for 
“ liveliness ” in quarters where, perhaps 
Lady Strangford, certainly Sir Gardner 
Wilkinson, would be voted “dry.” Suill 
the general feeling of decent Englishmen 
is disgusted by mere brutal coarseness. 
Those who can be set against Monte- 
negro and its Prince by such a book as 
* Over the Borders of Christendom and 
Eslamiah,” must be already so far gone 
in the way of bad taste and bad feeling 
that it can hardly be worth while to 
waste many words upon them. For 
others, who are simply led away by the 
cry of the moment, the present may not 
be a bad time for calling attention to 
one of the most interesting corners of 
the earth. Since the Turk so happily 
left off paying his debts, that strange 
love of Turks which was in full force 
twenty years ago seems to have some- 
what abated. It may therefore not be 
sv offensive now as it was then to dwell 
on the fact that, in one mountainous 
corner, among surrounding lands which 
have been brought under the yoke of 
the Infidel, one small people have, 
through long ages of battle, at once 
stuck to their faith and kept their 
freedom with their own swords. Did 
we hear or read of such a people in any 
other age, or in any other part of the 
world, their name would have passed 
into a proverb. We do not give the 
name of marauders to the men who 
fought at Marathon, or to the men 
who fought at Morgarten. Put the 
whole life of the people of Montenegro 
was, for long years and centuries, simply 
one prolonged fight of Marathon or of 
Morgarten. It was one long unbroken 
strugyle against the assaults of the most 
cruel and faithless of enemies, against 



the common foe of the religion and 
civilization of Europe. But simply 
because the strife which they waged 
was waged in the noblest of all causes, 
while the names of men who have done 
the like in other lands have passed into 
household words, the men who have 
kept on the strife for faith and freedom 
on the heights of Cernagora have been 
doomed, half to obscurity and half to 
slander. They are rebels; they are 
marauders ; they cut off the heads of 
their enemies ; and, blacker crime than 
all, they are pensioners of Russia, 
The word “rebel” is a convenient one. 
It is easily applied by an invader 
who is also a conqueror to those who 
withstand his invasion ; in this case it 
is somewhat more daringly applied to 
those who have withstood an invader 
who has not proved to be a conqueror. 
The Montenegrins have been marauders, 
if that is the right name for men who, 
while their own land is unceasingly 
attacked by a barbarian enemy, have 
sometimes made reprisals upon the land 
of the barbarian. Nor is it very won- 
derful or very blameworthy, if warfare 
between Montenegrins and Turks has 
not always been carried on with the 
same delicacy and courtesy which may 
be observed by the commanders of 
Western armies. It is one thing when 
men fighting fur their hearths and altars 
and all that man holds most dear carry 
on an endless warfare with a foe who 
never knew what faith or mercy meant, 
It is another thing when paid and pro- 
fessional soldiers, who have no personal 
quarre), who have hardly any national 
quarrel, against those with whom they 
are set to fight, march forth to settle 
some paltry point of honour, or to de- 
cide some intricate question of genea- 
logy. It is true that, five-and-twenty 
years back, the heads of foreign enemies 
were set up on the tower of Cettinje. It 
may be as well to remember that, not 
much more than a hundred years back, 
the heads of dumestic rebels were set up 
on Temple-Bar. It is hard to touch 

pitch, and not to be defiled ; men who 
through so many generations have had 
to deal with the Turk may be pardoned 


if, in some of their doings, they have 
become a little Turkish themselves. 
And as for being the pensioners of 
Russia, where is the crime? Oneand- 
twenty years ago we chose to make an 
enemy of a people who had done us no 
wrong. Ever since that time it has been 
thought a point of patriotism to see 
some frightful danger to the human 
race in every act of that people and of 
all other people who can be suspected of 
any friendly dealings with them. The 
Russian bugbear is one purely of our 
own setting up. But, since it has been 
set up, to call any man or any nation a 
friend of Russia has been much the 
same as giving a dog a bad name and 
hanging him. I heartily wish that the 
Montenegrins were not pensioners of 
‘Russia, That is, I wish that they were 
strong enough to dispense with the 
help of Russia, or of any other power. 
But, standing as they have so long done, 
a handful of men defending their free- 
dom against a vast empire, forsaken and 
despised by every other power, it is not 
likely that they should cast back the 
sympathy, or even the money, of the one 
great power, a power of their own race 
and creed, which has looked on them 
with an eye of friendship. We too 
have had our ancient ally ; we have 
more than once thought it our duty, 
and made it our business, to support 
Portugal against Spain and against 
France. The relation between Portugal 
and England most likely seemed then 
in the eyes of Frenchmen and Spaniards 
as wicked a thing as the relations be- 
tween Russia and Montenegro seem in 
the eyes of Turks and of Turk-loving 
Englishmen. It is only in human nature, 
and it is not a bad part of human 
nature, that people who are left to them- 
selves to wage the most deadly of strug- 
gles should feel some attachment to the 
only friends whom they can find. If 
we had made curselves the friends, and 
not the enemies, of the Christian nations 
of South-Eastern Europe, they might 
now look to England instead of to 
Russia. As it is, as we have chosen to 
throw in our lot with their oppressors, 
-it isnot wonderful if they look instead 


to the one power which professes to be 
their friend. 

Granting-then that Montenegro has 
a feeling towards Russia which is very 
different from ours, the fact is not won- 
derful, neither is it blameworthy. But it 
is the existence of Montenegro which, 
above all things, gives the best hope 
that something better may be in store 
for the subject nations of South-Eastern 
Europe thansimply to be transferred from 
one despotism to another. Doubtless there 
is a difference between a despotism which 
at least does justice between manand man 
and a despotism whose rule is one of pure 
brigandage. Doubtless there is a differ- 
ence, in the eyes of those nations if 
not in ours, between a despot alien in 
blood and faith and a despot who would 
be hailed by all as a brother in the faith, 
by most as a brother in blood and 
speech. But the existence of Monte- 
negro may perhaps show us a more ex- 
cellent way than either. In the little 
state on the Black Mountain we see 
what the Eastern Christian can do. 
We see that he is able to defend its 
freedom for ages by his own right hand ; 
and we see that, under rulers of his own 
blood, he is capable of making advances 
in civilization and good order with a 
speed and thoroughness which strike 
the beholder with wonder. If we read 
of Montenegro, as described by Sir 
Gardner Wilkinson twenty-seven years 
ago, and then go and look at Monte- 
negro now, we shall at once see that there 
is no part of the world in which im- 
provement of every kind has gone on 
with swifter steps than in this exposed 
out-post of Christendom. At the time 
of Sir Gardner Wilkinson’s visit, the 
word “ marauders” might perhaps not 
have been wholly out of place. No rea- 
sonable person would blame them for 
marauding back again, when their whole 
national life was resistance to a maraud- 
ing expedition which had gone on ever 
since the Turk found his way into the 
Slavonic lands. But the fact of the 

marauding cannot be denied, any more 
than it can be denied that in Sir Gardner 
Wilkinson’s time the tower of Cettinje 
was entwined with a garland of Turkish 

skulls. Few things are more interesting, 
few more creditable in different degrees 
to all concerned, than the attempt of 
Sir Gardner Wilkinson to put a stop to 
this practice, and his correspond- 
ence on the subject with the reigning 
Viadika and with the neighbouring 
Turkish governor. It shows, just like 
the history of Kallikratidas enlarged on 
by Mr. Grote, how hard a thing it is, 
when two people have long been en- 
gaged in internecine warfare, and in the 
savage habits which such warfare en- 
genders, for either side to take the first 
step in the direction of more humane 
practices. Atany rate the practice is 
stopped now. There are no longer any 
heads on the half-ruined tower. The 
practice of exposing the heads came to 
an end under the late Prince, and in 
truth, since Montenegro has held a more 
assured position, since her freedom was 
secured at Grahovo in 1858, there has 
been little or noroom for the petty border 
warfare by which the heads were once 
supplied. But in Sir Gardner Wilkin- 
son’s day there was a far worse charge 
brought against the Montenegrins than 
anything they could possibly do to their 
Turkish enemies. They were then 
charged with playing the marauder on 
the other side, with coming down to 
commit various kinds of robberies in the 
neighbouring town of Cattaro within 
the friendly territory of Austria. Such 
a thing is now unheard of. Robbery of 
every kind is utterly come to an end ; 
there is no part of the world where 
property is safer, or where the traveller 
may go with less risk of danger, than 
within the bounds of Montenegro. Here 
then is a simple fact in the teeth of 
the gainsayer. Here is a portion of 
Eastern Christendom, a Slavonic and 
Orthodox state, which has made ad- 
vances which thirty years ago would 
have seemed hopeless. No doubt 
Montenegro has stood in a special 
position and has enjoyed special ad- 
vantages. But surely, when one branch 
of a race, when one community pro- 
fessing a creed, has done for itself what 
Montenegro has done, we cannot surely 
wholly despair of their brethren of the 

Montenegro. 279 

same race and creed who are as yet less 

There surely can hardly be, in any 
quarter of the world, a land of higher 
interest than this small spot of earth 
which has so long maintained its faith 
and freedom against the most fearfal 
odds—this home of a handful of men 
who have for ages withstood all the 
assaults of a mighty empire, and who 
have shown that, under wise training, 
they are no less ready to make ad- 
vances in the arts of peace than to wield 
their weapons in the holiest and most 
righteous of causes. We hear much 
from various parts of the world about 
universal education, about universal 
military service. Montenegro is the 
paradise of both doctrines. There were 
times when it was doubted whether a 
man who could both fight and read was 
most properly called “ miles litteratus ” 
or “clericus militaris.” In Montenegro 
every man is, or soon will be, at once 
clerk and soldier, That every man in 
Montenegro can fight their enemies 
have learned in countless battles ; and, 
as the older generation dies out and the 
new generation comes up, every man 
and woman in Montenegro will be also 
able to read and write. In many eyes 
it must be an ideal land where mili- 
tary service is absolutely universal, 
where primary education is also abso- 
lutely universal—I may add where the 
ownership of land is universal also. In 
Montenegro, as in pre-historic Greece, 
every man goes armed; every man, 
dressed in the picturesque costume of 
his tribe, carries his pistol and yataghan 
in his girdle. But if he can wield pistol 
and yataghan, he can also turn either to 
his spade or to his pen. Here, and 
perhaps here only, in the modern world, 
we can see the very model of a warrior 
tribe, a nation of a quarter of a million, 
who have known how to maintain their 
independence with their own right 
hands, and who at the same time are 
making rapid strides to a higher place 
among civilized nations than some of 
the great powers of the world. They 
have of course been enabled to do what 
they have done by the nature of their 

280 Zontenegro. 

country. It is because Montenegro is 
Montenegro that Montenegro has re- 
mained free. Their mountains have been 
to them what other mountains have been 
to Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwalden, 
what dykes and sluices have been to 
the no less stout-hearted men of Holland 
and Zealand. The men doubtless could 
have done but little without the land, 
but the land could have done still less 
without the men. Away from their 
mountain fortress, the handful of men 
who have preserved the freedom of 
Montenegro must have sunk into the 
common mass of Turkish subjects. But 
without these men of stout heart and 
str ng arm who so long have guarded 
it, the heights which watch round 
Cettinje might have fenced in nothing 
better than the prison-house or the hunt- 
ing ground of a barbarian conquervr. 

Among all the many moments of a 
Dalmatian coasting voyage which at 
once kindle the fancy and elevate the 
heart, there is hardly any which comes 
home to us with a more living power 
than when we first come in sight of the 
mountain rampart of the unconquered 
land. We enter the Gulf of Cattaro, 
the lovely Bocche, with their smooth 
waters, with their fertile shores fringing 
the bases of the bleak mountains which 
rise above them. It is hard to believe 
that we are on the waters of the Hadri- 
atic; we seem rather to be sailing on 
some Swiss lake, where every landing- 
place awakes some memory of the old 
days when freedom had yet to be striven 
fur. And around these shores too still 
dwell the memories of ancient common- 
wealths ; but they are commonwealths 
which suggest only the darker side of the 
history of the Alpine Confederation. The 
winged lion marks the rule of a Serene 
Republic ; but it isa Republic whose rule 
was that of oligarchy within her own 
lagunes, and of despotism among the 
shores and islands of Dalmatia. Even 
Ragusa, deeply as we honour her long de- 
fence of her independence, deeply as we 
feel for her overthrow at the base caprice 
of an upstart tyrant, was still, after all, 
@ commonwealth of the few and not of 

the many. And one result of the long 
rivalry between the two maritime olig- 
archies still casts a dark shade over one 
corner of that loveliest of inland seas, 
The jealousy of Venice and Ragusa could 
not endure that the land of one com- 
monwealth should march upun the land 
of the other. And so, to keep the 
dominions of two Christian cities away 
from each other, at two points on the 
Dalmatian shore, the common enemy of 
Christendom was allowed to extend his 
wasting occupation down to the water's 
edge. The commonwealths are gone ; 
but, even on the shores of the Bocche, a 
smal] strip of Turkish territory is still 
allowed to interrupt the continuity of 
Christian rule along the shores of the 
Dalmatian kingdom. Here at Suto- 
rina, as at the other end of the old 
Ragusan lands at Klek, the Apostolic 
King still endures to have one part of 
his dominions cut off from another 
by the intrusion of a strip of land which 
is still, in name at least, under the yoke 
of the Turk. Yet, as I write, the men 
who are waging the strife for right 
against their tyrants may, by some gal- 
lant deed done in a holy cause, have made 
that dark corner of the lovely shore as 
glorious in future ages as Marathon or 
Morgarten. We pass on along the wind- 
ings of the gulf, and at last, almost in 
its inmost recess, we come to the little 
city whose name it bears. Cattaro 
nestles on its narrow ledge of inhabit- 
able land between the smooth sea and 
the rugged mountains. The peaks soar 
abuve us; the walls of the city seem to 
climb up their steep sides, till they 
reach the castle of Cattaro, perched 
like an eagle’s-nest, among the rocks. 
Higher still we see the ziy-zag road, the 
ladder of Cattaro, rising on and on, step 
by step, till it seems to lose itself in the 
tops of the rocks and the clefts of the 
ragged rocks. That is the road to the 
land which nature and man have com- 
bined to keep as a holy ground, the 
abiding fortress of right against wrong, 
of freedom against bondage, of Europe 
against Asia, of Christendom against 
Islam. It leads to the home of men 

whose history has been one long struggle 

y of 
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t of 
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. the 
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Montenegro. 281 

against the eternal enemy, whose whole 
life has been one continued fight of 
Thermopy le or of Sempach, waged, not 
fur hours or days, but fur generations 
and for centuries. That steep and wind- 
ing path is as yet the one way which 
leads from the haven of Cattaro to Mon- 
tenegro, the smallest of European prin- 
cipalities, and to Cettinje, the smallest 
ot European capitals. There, as we look 
up at the mountain rampart of that un- 
conqnered race, we learn, if anywhere, 
to cast away that shallow philosophy 
which measures objects, not by their 
moral greatness but by their physical 
bigness, the philosophy which keeps on 
its parrot-like sneer at petty states, 
though it sometimes finds that the moral 
strength of a petty state can outweigh 
the brute force of tyrannies of a hun- 
dred times its physical size, There, 
among those rocks, are a few square 
miles on the map, a few thousand souls 
in the census-book, who count alongside 
of kingdoms and empires as one of the 
elements in European politics, At the 
present hour, when right and wrong so 
nearly balance one another in the scaks, 
we ask what course will be taken by those 
who sway the destinies of the vast lands, 
the endless millions, of the Russian and 
Austrian monarchies, But we ask, too, 
as a question of hardly less importance, 
what course will be taken by the chief 
of a state whose whole population would 
be outnumbered by any one of half-a- 
dozen cities and boroughs in Great Bri- 
tain. It may be that, even amid the 
scientific perfection of modern warfare, 
men have not been so wholly turned 
iuto machines, but that twenty thousand 
born warriors, every man trained, not 
only to wield his weapon, but to know 
why he wields it—every man of whom 
goes forth with a heart like that of God- 
frey’s Crusaders or of Cromwell’s lron- 
sides—may even now count for more in 
the day of battle than many times their 
number, dragged to the field, fighting 
they know not wherefore, in obedience to 
no higher call than that of professional 
routine or so-called professional honour. 

But I must not be so far led away by 
the thoughts which rise at the mere 

mention—how much more then at 
the actual sight? of this little land of 
heroes as to furget to give some short 
sketch of the land itself and its people, 
and of the circumstances, past and 
present, which have given the land and 
its people a place, and so important 
and distinctive a place, among the ex- 
isting states of Europe. 

The land which its own people called 
Cernagora, but which is better known 
by the Venetian translation of its name,! 
was an ou'lying fragment of the great 
Servian kingdom, ruled by a prince 
who seems to have been the man of 
the Servian king. The history of Servia, 
till its revival in the nineteenth century, 
may be said to begin and end in the 
fourteenth. For a moment, under 
Stephen Dushan, who not unreason- 
ably, took the Imperial title, the greater 
part of what is now European Turkey 
formed part of the Servian dominions. 
It might not be too much to say that, 
at this moment, the strength and fame 
and greatness of the New Rome proved 
her own destruction and the destruc- 
tion of Eastern Christendom. As 
it was with the Russian in the 
ninth century, as it was with the 
Bulgarian at the end. of the tenth, 
so it was with the Servian in the 
middle of the fourteenth. At each of 
those times, things looked as if a Sla 
vonic power—for the Bulgarians may 
practically count as a Slavonic power— 
was about to be enthroned in the seat 
vf the Eastern Cesars, to play, after so 
many ages, nearly the same part which 
the Frank had played in the elder 
Rome. Servia was a nation without a 
capital; the Byzantine Empire had 
become a capital without a nation. 
Had the two been joined together, had 
a Servian dynasty taken the place of 
the Palaiologoi, Eastern Christendom 
might, at the moment when the Turk 
first threatened Europe, have presented 
such a front to him as might have 
checked his further progress for ever. 
Mahomet the Conqueror himself could 

1 | noticed that in Dalmatia the name was 
more commonly sounded after the manner of 
book Italian, Montencro. In the Slavonic 
name the c should have the sound of és, 


hardly have overthrown a power which 
united the national strength of Servia 
and the traditional majesty of Constan- 
tinople. But that traditional majesty 
could not so far stoop as to let the 
New Rome become Servian. As then 
Constantinople could not become Servian, 
as Servia could not become Byzantine, 
Servia and Constantinople had both to 
become Turkish. The nation and thecity 
together might have withstood the in- 
vader. Neither the nation without the 
city, nor the city without the nation, 
could withstand him. Both were swal- 
lowed up, and the nation was swallowed 
up before the city. Before the end of 
the century which had beheld the mo- 
mentary greatness of Servia, the Turk 
held Servia as part of his own dominion, 
and hemmed in Constantinople, as the 
Servian had done only a few years 
before. But, while kingdom and empire 
fell, the little vassal state among the 
mountains still held out. The barbarian 
ruled alike at Belgrade and at Constan- 
tinople; but Cernmagora, under a dy- 
nasty which represented the Servian 
kings by the spindle-side, maintained 
its own independence against all at- 
tacks, and sent forth warriors to fight 
side by side with Skanderbeg. From 
that day to this the mountain Jand has 
been ceaselessly attacked. Its frontiers 
have sometimes been cut short; its 
capital has shifted its place ; the Turks 
have aflected to deem the land con- 
quered, to include it within the bounds 
of a Turkish province, and to speak 
of its defenders as rebels. The Turks 
have more than once made their way 
to Cettinje and laid the capital of 
the little state in ruins. Once, early 
in the last century, the reigning 
Viadika had to flee to Cattaro, while 
the country was for a moment occu- 
pied by the invaders. But such oc- 
cupations have always been only 
momentary. After every reverse the 
national spirit has risen again, and 
the Montenegrin, sometimes  single- 
handed, sometimes the ally of 
Venice or Russia, has been able to 
hold his own and to show himself a 
dangerous enemy to the invaders whom 


his whole life has been spent in with- 
standing. Montenegro, in short, while 
its name was hardly known in Western 
Europe, while its territory was left 
unmarked in many Western maps, was 
still keeping on the old warfare of 
Constantine and Huniades. And, while 
Greece and Bulgaria and Servia and 
Bosnia had fallen under the yoke, 
Cernagora still maintained her inde- 
pendence against the attacks of every 
invader from Bajazet the Thunderbolt 
to Abd-ul-aziz. Such is, in short, 
the external history of Montenegro. 
In its internal history the strangest fact 
is that a warlike tribe, which had to 
fight almost daily for its national exis- 
tence, should have chosen a form of 
government in which the chief power, 
civil and military, was placed in the 
hands of a priest. In the beginning of 
the sixteenth century the then Prince 
George withdrew to Venice, having, 
with the consent of his subjects, trans- 
ferred the supreme power to the Bishop 
and his successors. Hence came the 
line of Vladikas of Montenegro ; hence 
the reality of a fighting Bishop; hence 
too the confused tradition of a maraud- 
ing Bishop, which outlived the day 
when Montenegro again passed under 
the rule of a lay prince. 

Of the details of this long warfare, 
many examples will be found in the 
work of Sir Gardner Wilkinson. His 
readers have every opportunity of learn- 
ing the ceaseless and stubborn nature of 
the struggle and the character of the 
enemy with whom Montenegro had to 
deal, the incurable cruelty and treachery 
which have been in every age the charac- 
teristics of the Ottoman. The Turk 
proposes conditions of peace ; he seizes 
the commissioners who are sent to 
arrange terms ; he then enters and lays 
waste the land of those whose suspicions 
he bas thus lulled to sleep, and pursues 
aud murders women and children even 
on neutral ground. The Christian, on 
the other hand, carries off his hundred 
and fifty-seven prisoners, whose hardest 
fate is that, by a grim pleasantry worthy 
of William the Great, they are presently 
exchanged for an equal number of pigs. 

. » ee ee ee 

The whole story is one long record of 
victories won at the most frightful odds, 
of battles in which the episcopal princes 
seem ever to have been foremost. Such 
in the great fight of 1791, when the 
Viadika Peter, without Venetian or 
Russian help, overthrew the invaders in 
a battle of three days and three nights, 
and bore off the head of the Pasha of 
Albania to adorn the tower of Cettinje. 
This valiant Bishop is now a canonized 
saint ; and, as Saint Carlo Borromeo may 
still be seen—though lifeless, yet in 
the flesh—beneath the altar at Milan, so 
Saint Peter Petrovich may still be seen 
in the like case in the humbler monastery 
church of Cettinje. These warlike 
prelates, who knew equally well how to 
wield the musket and the pastoral 
staff, formed a strange kind of pontifical 
dynasty. For some generations, the 
bishoprick, and therewith the civil and 
military command, became as nearly 
hereditary as an Orthodox bishoprick 
can be. That is to say, on a vacancy in 
the see—the use of ecclesiastical words 
seems almost grotesque in such a case— 
the next of the Petrovich family who 
was canonically eligible was chosen and 
consecrated Bishop, and as_ such, 
assumed the command of the armies of 
Montenegro. A prince-bishop in Mon- 
tenegro had somewhat different duties 
from his brethren either at Mainz or at 
Durham. The last of this singular epi- 
scopal succession, the Vladika Peter the 
Second, nephew and successor of the 
canonized conqueror of the Pasha, stands 
out in his description and his portrait in 
the pages of Sir Gardner Wilkinson. 
Since his death, the temporal and spirit- 
ual powers have been separated, and 
Montenegro has been ruled by two lay 
Princes of the old episcopal family. 
As the last Vladika figures in the work 
of Sir Gardner Wilkinson, his two lay 
successors will be met face to fece by 
the readers of Mr. J. M. Neale and of 
Lady Strangford. And I myself, who 
have never found my way to the court 
of any other sovereign, set it down as 
not the smallest privilege of a journey to 
the land of Spalato and Ragusa, to have 
seen and spoken with the present 

Montenegro. 283 

vigorous ruler of this little nation of 
heroes, in his own home at Cettinje. 

A question naturally arises out of 
the history of this small state, namely, 
what is to be its position, whenever the 
day comes of which we trust that this 
year has shown us the dawning, the day 
when the brutal rule of the Turk will 
cease for ever in all Slavonic and in all 
Christian lands? In mapping out afresh 
the provinces which form the present 
seat of war, there is at least one comfort, 
that any change must be for the better. 
Make those lands Austrian, Servian, or 
Montenegrin, in any case they will be 
better off than ifthey remained Turkish. 
In any readjustment of this kind, the en- 
largement of the Montenegrin princi- 
pality naturally presents itself as one 
obvious means of providing for their 
future. The people of Herzegovina and 
the people of Montenegro are absolutely 
the same people. There is no difference 
between them, except that the accidents 
of their history have given freedom to 
one branch of the nation and denied 
it to another. Between the free and 
the enslaved parts of the nation there 
still are the very closest ties. Monte- 
negrins and Herzegovinese have fought 
side by side in every struggle. At this 
moment, as Montenegro is the natural 
shelter of the homelessrefugee, sothe peo- 
ple of the enslaved districts still look to 
the Montenegrins as their natural breth- 
ren and to the Prince of Montenegro as 
their naturalchief. Montenegrois, bothin 
its past history and in its present bearing, 
a truer representative of the old days of 
Slavonic independence than the larger 
principality of Servia. Again, when a 
Montenegrin looks down from his hills 
upon the Bocche beneath them, it must 
be very like a feeling of imprisonment 
when he thinks that not an inch of his 
own land reaches down to the edge of 
those waters. He must feel cut off 
from his natural communication with 
the rest of the world; he must feel de- 
barred fiom a means of improvement 
and enrichment which nature seems 
to have placed actually in his grasp. 
There was a short time when Monte- 
negro had a sea-board. Towards the 

284 Montenegro, 

end of the great war, when we did not 
disdain either Russians or Montenegrins 
as allies against the common enemy, Cat- 
taro was actually fora little while a Mon- 
tenegrin pessession,and the Vladikaruled 
on tne coast as well as on the mountains. 
Cattaro is the least Italian, the most 
Slavonic, of the cities of the Dalmatian 
coast, It is the natural haven of the little 
principality above it. There is said to be 
at this moment a movement for the an- 
nexation of Bosnia to Austria. Bosnia, 
with its large Mahometan minority, would 
probably fare better as a member of the 
great cosmopolitan monarchy than if it 
were joined to either of the Orthodox 
principalities. In such a case, while 
Herzegovina would welcome annexation 
to Montenegro as the crown of its 
hopes, Austria might surely give up 
Cattaro to be the ‘Irieste or Fiume of 
the enlarged state. Oa the other hand, 
a serious question presents itself whether 
an enlarged Montenegro would remain 
Montenegro, whether the problem of 
civilizing a small independent tribe 
without destroying its distinctive cha- 
racter could be so successfully carried on 
with a territory so greatly enlarged, 
above all, if it possessed a maritime 
city, however small. A prince who 
possessed Cattaro would hardly go on 
reigning at Cettinje; a prince who 
possessed all Herzegovina might rule 
as well and justly as a prince ot Monte- 
negro only; but he could hardly con- 
tinue to be the same personal shepherd 
of his people which he can be in lis 
present narrower range. Here is a hard 
question, one where there certainly are 
weighty arguments on both sides. I do 
not take upon myself to decide between 

But, leaving the question what 
Montenegro may become, let us see 
what the land has been, and what it 
is. The progress which Montenegro 
has made since the visit of Sir Gardner 
Wilkinson is wonderful. That the 
Montenegrins, in their long struggle 
with a barbarous enemy, should have 
themselves picked up some of the 
habits of barbarians, is doubtless 
abstractedly blameworthy, but it is 

certainly not wonderful. The Viadika 
Peter had already done much to civilize 
his people; his lay successor Daniel 
and the present Prince Nicolas have 
done yet more. The government of 
the principality is now what may be 
called a popular autocracy. The will 
of the Prince has the force of law, but 
then the will of the Prince is also the 
will of the people. I confess that I 
was somewhat disappointed in finding 
that there was nothing in Montenegro 
answering to the old Teutonic assem- 
blies of the whole people which still 
survive in the old democratic cantons of 
Switzerland. I had pictured to myself 
the possibility of seeing in Montenegro 
such gatherings as Tacitus described of 
old, such as I have myself seen in 
Uri and in Appenzell. Ia Montenegro 
indeed our thoughts might wander back 
to lands of yet earlier fame. We have 
drawn near enough to the old Mace- 
donian land to think of those armed 
assemblies of the Macedonian people 
before whom Alexander appeared as 
an accuser, and did not always carry 
the verdict of the assembly with him. 
In Montenegro there is certainly less 
than one would have looked for of the 
outward forms of popular freedom, The 
Prince has his senate; but it is a 
senate of officials of his own choosing. 
He consults representatives of each dis- 
trict of his principality ; but they too 
are representatives of his own sum- 
moning. The sound of all this is, I 
freely confess, disappointing. Still, in 
a land of such small extent, where the 
ruler knows, and is known by, all his 
people, where every man is at once a 
soldier and a landowner, full practical 
freedom may very well go on with 
forms which would come near to 
tyranny in a larger kingdom, where 
the king is necessarily out of sight of 
the mass of his subjects, and above all, 
where he has a special military class at 
his command. Sismwondi remarks with 
great wisdom that, when every count 
and baron acted as an independent 
prince, and claimed the right of 
private war, among the endless evils 
of such a state of things, there was 


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Co PF co’ Qs oe ee Ope 

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one countervailing good. The lord 
could not venture greatly to oppress 
the men whom he expected to 
follow him to battle. When days of 
greater peace and order came, the hand 
of the lord who was no longer a captain 
came down far more heavily on subjects 
who were no longer his soldiers. The 
Prince of Montenegro is the chief of an 
armed nation; and, among an armed 
nation, the Prince may, without damage 
to real freedom, wield an amount of 
formal power which among an unarmed 
people would be simple tyranny. A wise 
and popular Prince, though he himself 
chooses his own advisers, may choose 
men who are as truly representatives of 
the nation as if they had been chosen 
by ballot and universal suffrage. The 
representative of each district is not 
delegated by the district, but summoned 
by the Prince; but, if it appears that 
a representative has lost the confidence 
of his district, the Prince - presently 
supplies his place by another. Such 
a kind of government as this can indeed 
only work well under a wise and popu- 
lar Prince, and among a people at once 
small and armed. Given these condi- 
tions, it certainly seems to answer. It 
has been made a matter of complaint by 
the idolators of Turkish oppression that 
Montenegrin volunteers have joined the 
ranks of the insurgents in Herzegovina. 
Small blame indeed to them who have 
ever kept their freedom for going to 
help men of their own blood and speech 
and faith who are striving to be as 
they are. Small blame to them for thus 
requiting the help which volunteers 
from Herzegovina gave to Montenegro 
when her sons gave the barbarian his 
last lesson at Grahovo. Small blame to 
them, if the letter of treaties and the 
conveniences of diplomacy seem to them 
as dust in the balance beside the bid- 
dings of eternal right. But it marks 
the power which the Prince has over 
his people that he can keep a single 
man with his weapons idle at such a 
moment. The wonder is, not that 
some Montenegrin volunteers have 
joined the insurgent ranks, but rather 
that a single man in Montenegro 


can keep himself an inactive spectator 
of what we may hope is the beginning 
of the last act of the long defensive 
crusade of five hundred years, 

Of this land, so deeply interesting, 
alike from its past, its present, and its 
future, I have myself seen only a small 
part. A mountain district is always 
large in proportion to its population; 
small as Cernagora looks on the map, 
it takes several days to cross it in the 
only fashion in which it is as yet to be 
crossed. I have only made the journey 
from Cattaro to Cettinje, and Cettinje 
is almost in a corner of the land of 
which it is the capital. Among the 
other improvements which are going 
on, a carriage road is making from 
Cattaro to Cettinje. When that road 
is made, I hope to see Cettinje again. 
As it is, the journey is a little frightful 
to those who are not members of the 
Alpine Club. The zig-zag road out of 
Cattaro gradually changes into a rough 
mountain-path, which however the 
hardy horses of the country go up and 
down, seemingly without any special 
effort or fatigue. The no less hardy 
men seem to take the six hours’ scramble 
as an easy morning’s walk. The rugged 
up and down path is however relieved 
here and there by more level oases and 
even by pieces of the unfinished car- 
riage road. One question is sure 
to present itself to the traveller. How 
does a land of limestone rocks, which 
therefore has an appearance of whiteness 
rather than blackness, come by the name 
of the Black Mountain? The name 
has been given to the land from. the 
part of it which lies beyond Cetti:j», 
the part which I did not see, but which 
I am told is largely covered with deep 
forests. The name thus answers to that 
of Black Korkyra or Curzoa, the isle 
which stands out in such a marked way, 
with its thick covering of wood, among 
the usually bleak and bare hills of 
the Dalmatian coasts and islands. The 

-road leads through more than one large 

basin among the rocks, in one of which, 
a mountain plain fenced in by a rampart 
of hills, stands Cettinje itself. But 


before we reach the capital, we have 
opportunities of seeing something, if 
only in a passing glimpse, of the life of 
Montenegro. Among those mountains 
nature has been chary of fertile spots, 
but such as there are have been clearly 
made the most of. We pass by the 
large village of Nilgush, by a few 
scattered houses, by an occasional simple 
church, not, as in the neighbouring land, 
with the minarets of mosques overtop- 
ping it. We feel the contrast between the 
land which has preserved its faith by its 
sword, and the land where the church 
stands only by payment of tribute to an 
infidel conqueror. Here and there we 
meet men in the picturesque costume of 
the land, men among the best formed 
and most vigorous of mankind. Each 
man has his weapons in his girdle, but 
they are weapons which none but the 
barbarian enemy has any need to dread. 
At different points of the journey, splen- 
did views open in various directions. 
At one point we may look back on the 
Bocche, on the slip of land which 
parts them from the main sea, on the 
Hadriatic itself, carrying our thoughts 
on to the opposite Italian shore. At 
another point, as we look forwards, the 
Albanian land bursts on our sight ; the 
lake of Skodra lies beneath us, fenced 
in on its further side by loftier and 
wilder peaks than are to be seen in the 
range which fences in the Dalmatian 
shore. The eye of thought passes on 
beyond them to the land of Pyrrhos and 
of Skanderbeg, to Souli and her heroes, to 
the further lake where the nameof Hellas 
was first heard among the sacred oaks 
of Zeus. The last descent, the most 
rugged of all, brings us into the road 
which leads straight to the village capi- 
tal. The libellous jester whom I spoke 
of at the beginning of: this article tells 
us that he burst out laughing at the 
humble look of Cettinje. To a vulgar 
mind it may perhaps be matter for 
mockery that so small a collection of 
houses should form the capital of an 
independent state. Others may per- 
haps rather look with admiration on the 
people which has done so great things 
with such small means, and on the Prince 


who, familiar with the cultivation of 
Western Europe, looks with an honest 
pride on his own simple people and his 
own lowly capital. 

It must certainly be allowed that the 
capital of Montenegro has no claim to 
rank among the great cities of the earth. 
Its general look, consisting mainly, as it 
does, of one wide street, rather reminded 
me of some of those small towns or 
large villages which lie on the old road 
from Oxford to London. Not expecting 
to find a new Babylon or Palmyra in one 
of the oases of the Black Mountain, I 
saw nothing that looked specially mean 
or squalid or tumble-down. I certainly 
know of municipal and parliamentary 
boroughs in more parts than one of the 
British Islands, which certainly would 
have to hold down their heads in a com- 
parison with the Montenegrin capital. 
I was struck with the good sense of 
the Prince who, reigning over a simple 
people of his own blood, is satisfied 
with a palace which does not even pre- 
tend to the privacy of a squire’s man- 
sion, but simply stands as the great 
house of an open village. This is the 
new palace; the old palace, in which 
strangers are lodged, the work of the 
last Vladika, is a different building. 
The Vladika, at once bishop and 
general, built a house which would 
serve better either for a monastery or for 
a barrack than for anything which in 
the West, would be understood by a 
palace, or even a private house. But 
there is nothing to be said against 
the quarters in it. Cettinje supplies 
everything but the tub, and a wise 
traveller carries that with him. Not 
far from the old palace, on the slope 
of a high peaked hill, stands the monas- 
tery, with its small church, containing 
the body of the sainted Peter. The 
arrangements of the monastery are 
puzzling to one familiar only with the 
monasteries of the West; but two 
ranges of arches, one over the other, 
stand out conspicuously. It might be 
dangerous to guess at their date ; to judge 
from a new church on the other side 
of the town, architectural style would 
seem to have hardly changed in these 

fecrs 8 @D 

CO mr 


464 5 

Montenegro. 287 

parts for seven or eight hundred years. 
Above the monastery stands the tower 
where Turks’ heads are no longer to be 
seen. But the signs of the growing 
civilization of Montenegro are chiefly 
gathered in another part of the town, at 
the end of the one main street. There 
is the future hotel ; there is the post- 
office—Montenegro was a member of 
the Postal Union some months before 
France—and there is one institution to 
which the Prince sends his visitors with 
a special pride. This is the model girls’ 
school, where those who are curious in 
“‘time-tables,” and take a mysterious 
pleasure in drawing them up, may have 
the privilege of studying them in the 
Slavonic tongue. 

Those who may still fancy that the 
Prince of Montenegro is a marauding 
Bishop, or a marauding anything, those 
who think it funny to call him “ His 
Ferocity,” may be surprised to hear that 
the thing in his dominions to which he 
calls the special attention of strangers 
should be nothing either ecclesiastical 
or military, but a school according to 
the most advanced pattern. But this is 
only in character with all that is going 
on in Montenegro. The land stands 
ready for war; but the main difference 
between the Montenegro of to-day 
and the Montenegro of past times 
is the steady advance in peaceful civil- 
ization. In this particular department 
of female education, Cettinje is a mis- 
sionary centre. Girls come up from the 
shores of the Bocche for the better in- 
struction which is to be had on the 
Black Mountain. But at this moment 
Montenegro stands forth in a nobler 
character thanall. It is the land where 
the homeless fugitive from the seat of 
war finds shelter and welcome, shelter 
and welcome the cost of which is taxing 
the people of the hospitable little state 
to a degree which their scanty means 
can hardly bear. And, as theirs is a 
hospitality which is given without 
stint, so it is a hospitality which is 
given without distinction of race or 
creed. While the barbarous Turk drives 
the women and children of Christian 
villages before him with fire and sword, 

the women and children of his own 
race, when the hour of retaliation comes 
on their homes, find shelter and help in 
the Christian land. Ou those moun- 
tains all are alike welcome, both the 
Christian flying from the sword of 
oppression, and the Turk flying from 
the sword of vengeance. I have before 
me the official statement that, in 
October last, twenty thousand Christian 
fugitives were sheltered in Montenegro, 
quartered in the houses of the inhabi- 
tants, and receiving help both public 
and private. But the same statement 
adds the fact that, at the same moment, 
three Turks of distinction appeared 
before the Prince of Montenegro to re- 
turn thanks for the shelter that had 
been given to their families also. Fifty- 
two Turkish women and children were 
then refugees on Montenegrin ground, 
and it was unanimously agreed that 
exactly the same help should be given 
to them that was given to Christians in 
the like case. 

Thus have the men of the Black 
Mountain done of their poverty, and 
to all Europe and to all Christendom 
the voice may go forth to go and do 
likewise. I can let no opportunity pass of 
setting forth to all who have hearts to 
feel the claims of the helpless fugitives 
who, in numbers whith are reckoned 
by many thousands, have sought shelter 
within the Austrian and Montenegrin 
borders from the horrors of a deso- 
lating war. To many I hope it will 
be an additional claim on behalf of the 
homeless women and children who have 
fled from Herzegovina, that their hus- 
bands and fathers and brothers are 
pouring out their blood in the highest 
and holiest of causes, the cause of 
right, the cause of freedom, the cause 
of Christendom. But even with those 
whose minds are so strangely blinded 
as to take the side of the oppressor, 
surely these victims cannot plead in 
vain. The integrity and independence 
of the Ottoman Empire is hardly 
threatened by giving food and shelter 
fo the homeless and starving multi- 
tudes who are pressing over every 
point of the friendly frontier. To the 

88 Montenegro. 

men of Montenegro their neighooars, 
their brethren, are nearer, and naturally 
dearer, than they can be to us. But, 
on the other hand, they have to give of 
their poverty, while we can give of our 
abundance. The claims on -English 
bounty at home and abroad are indeed 
many; but surely there is none that ought 
to speak more strongly to our hearts than 
this. During the great war between 
Germany and France, English bounty 
did much for the sufferers of both 
nations. But the present war, infinitely 
smaller as is its scale with regard to the 
numbers actually engaged, is a war 
which carries with it infinitely more 
of suffering within its range. The one 
was a war between two civilized nations, 
carried on under the restraint of those 
tules which humanity imposes on the 
armies of civilized nations. It was a 
war waged for a great and righteous 
object ; but it was not a war of life 
and death on either side, except to 
the actual combatants. Bat this is 
a war of life and death for all, a war 
between barbarians and men whom the 
yoke of the barbarian has done some- 
thing to crush down to his own level. 
Help was then asked for the sick and 
wounded soldier, for the farmer who 
had lost the hope of his next crop, 
here and there for men whose homes 
had been destroyed by some excep- 
tional operation of war. But here the 
exception is the rvle; the sick or 
wounded soldier is doubtless to be 

found a'so ; but he is hardly to be 
seen amid the thousands of helpless 
sufferers who have fled from the edge of 
the sword, but who have newer drawn it 
themselves. We read in our own ancient 
chroniclesofthe harrying of Northumber- 
land, and how men bowed themselves 
for need in the evil day. Men then 
sold themselves into bondage for a mor- 
sel of bread ; now those who have fled 
from the house of bondage crave for a 
morsel of bread to keep them alive in 
their cities of refuge. While we real 
the tale of their misery, we read, at the 
same moment, of the vast sums which 
are lavished, year by year and day by 
day, on the follies and vices of the 
despot from whose yoke they are flying. 
The contrast between the barbarous 
luxury of the Sultan and the sufferings 
of his victims who are perishing of cold 
and hunger must strike every one who 
sees the two pictures side by side. To 
the despot himself such acontrast would 
be meaningless ; to us it should not be 
so. The cry of the refugees is one which 
ought to go to the hearts of all Chris- 
tendom and of all the world. But it 
ought specially to go to the hearts of 
those who have helped to prop up the 
fabric of wrong of which these helpless 
sufferers are the guiltless victims, and 
who may now see before their eyes the 
true nature of the yoke which they have 
helped to press upon the necks of un- 
willing nations. 

Epwarp A. Freeman.