McMillan's Magazine 1876-01: Vol 33 Iss 195

MACMILLAN’S MAGAZINE.

JANUARY, 1876.

MADCAP VIOLET.

CHAPTER I.
“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
foreigners.”

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-

ty)

194 Madcap Violet.

thing very like tears in his pale blue
eyes.

“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
it.”

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
out—

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

bee;

Ae Ss Ls eC!

PO o,.0 8B MH m

“ot |

os Orm oO

i]

ot

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
patience—”

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

195

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
Dixie’”?

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
noises.

“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

196

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.

CHAPTER II.
CARPE DIEM.

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
equanimity.

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
schoolroom.

“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

197

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

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
fright.

“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
her.

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
conduct.

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
said—

“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
not?”

“*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

199

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
Miller?”

“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

200

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
town.”

“ 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
know.”

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

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

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

why

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
himself.

“ 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
afternoon.”

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.

CHAPTER ITI.
A SUBURBAN PHILOSOPHER.

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

201

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

202

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
was.

“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
protest.

“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
time.”

“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

203

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
you?”

“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

204

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
shocked.

“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,
demurely.

“ 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
to-night.”

‘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

205

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,

206

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
tail.

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.

CHAPTER IV.

FLUTTERINGS NEAR THE FLAME.

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

207

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
says—

* Shall we walk no more in the wind and the

rain,
Till the sea gives up her dead ?’

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

“*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 © =

oa

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
on

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,

209

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

P

210

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
handsome.

“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,”

ay

rl,

« 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,
triumphantly.

“ 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
are’

“Yes,”

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
by-and-by.”

“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
yet.”

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-
tine.”

“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
sanction.”

“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
—but——.”

“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.”

213

“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
manner.

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

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

214

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
friends.”

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.

A CHAPTER OF CANADIAN HISTORY.

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-

216

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

217

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

220

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
operation.

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

221

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

222

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
occurring.

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
prerogative.

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

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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

g

296

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
Queen.

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.

ITALIAN ART AND LITERATURE BEFORE GIOTTO AND DANTE.

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.

I,

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.

229

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

230

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.

231

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

232

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.

233

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

234

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-

235

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

236

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
consideration.

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
time.

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

237

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

238

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
Europe.

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
Commedia.

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
Paradise.

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 ;

239

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

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
more.”

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.

240

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
result.

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.

GAMES AT CARDS PLAYED BY MACHINERY.

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
novelty.

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
crowd,

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-
osity.

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

R

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
shown.

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.

Clubs

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
asterisk—

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.

lad

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
honours.

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

244

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
action.

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-
mountable.

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
difficulty.

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
utilized.

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
managed,

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.

THE CURATE IN CHARGE.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE CURATE LEAVES BRENTBURN.

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

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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-
day?”

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
away.”

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
room.”

“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

251

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
burden.

“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
liked.”

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 ;

253

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.

CHAPTER XIX.
THE RECTOR’S BEGINNING.

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

254

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
reign.

“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
for.”

“And you have nothing—absolutely
nothing?”

“* 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
time——”

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
head.

“ 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
promotion—”

“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
least.”

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-
prise.

“ 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.”

CHAPTER XX.

THE PARISH SCHOOLMISTRESS.

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 @>

co

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
pain.

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-
fession.”

“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

There
. hear
» thus

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dens,
mean
itied.
9

denly

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as on
ders !
shody
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ng by
a |

soli- -

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1 not
any

r, in
stand
f the
swer,
| and
im to
hink.
t ask
Oh, I
tever
, go!

ill go
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me a

ife 2”
z and

hare
oked
Lnnie
thted
ough
n the
valls,
sould
| was,
able,
ight.
bread
mnie
lence

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
given.

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

266

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
red.

‘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
quivering.

“Unless it is you—nobody!” she
said.

THE END.

‘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.

TH.

Il,

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

THE LITERATURE OF HOLLAND DURING THE NINETEENTH
CENTURY.

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.

268

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
higher.

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

vern
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have a
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The
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twent:
gloom

scious
dmits
racter

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

269

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
redemption.

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
politics,

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 }

sublit

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.

271

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
happy.

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,

272

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

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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
literature.

T

274

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
real.

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
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the ini
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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
of

“ 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

MONTENEGRO.

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
r2

276

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

Montenegro.

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

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of his

very
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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
Ferocity.”

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

Montenegro.

277

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

278

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

Montenegro.

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
fortunate.

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

ong
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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,

282

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

Mo-:tenegro.

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
them.

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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Montenegro.

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

285

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

286

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

Montenegro.

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.