Long did Lord James gaze upon the child. As he gradually recognised the features of the son he had lost, his eyes became moist, and their expression affectionate. There came a moment when, forgetting his age, lapse of time, and past misfortune, he dreamed himself back to the happy day when he first pressed his infant son to his heart. "William, William!" he murmured. "My daughter!" added he, extending his hand to Eva Meredith.
My eyes filled with tears. Eva had a family, a protector, a fortune. I was happy; perhaps that was why I wept.
The child remained quiet upon his grandfather's knees, and showed neither pleasure nor fear.
"Will you love me?" said the old man.
The child raised its head, but did not answer.
"Do you hear? I will be your father."
"I will be your father," the child gently repeated.
"Excuse him," said his mother; "he has always been alone. He is very young; the presence of many persons intimidates him. By-and-by, my lord, he will better understand your kind words."
But I looked at the child; I examined him in silence; I recalled my former gloomy apprehensions. Alas! those apprehensions now became a certainty; the terrible shock experienced by Eva Meredith during her pregnancy had had fatal consequences for her child, and a mother only, in her youth, her love, and her inexperience, could have remained so long ignorant of her misfortune.
At the same time with myself Lady Mary looked at the child. I shall never forget the expression of her countenance. She stood erect, and the piercing gaze she fixed upon little William seemed to read his very soul. As she gazed, her eyes sparkled, her mouth was half-opened as by a smile—she breathed short and thick, like one oppressed by great and sudden joy. She looked, looked—hope, doubt, expectation, replaced each other on her face. At last her hatred was clear-sighted, an internal cry of triumph burst from her heart, but was checked ere it reached her lips. She drew herself up, let fall a disdainful glance upon Eva, her vanquished enemy, and resumed her usual calm.
Lord James, fatigued by the emotions of the day, dismissed us and remained alone all the evening.
Upon the morrow, after an agitated night, when I entered Lord James'sroom, all the family were already assembled around him, and Lady Mary had little William on her knees: it was the tiger clutching its prey.
"What a beautiful child!" she said. "See, my lord, these fair and silken locks! how brilliant they are in the sunshine! But, dear Eva, is your son always so silent? does he never exhibit the vivacity and gaiety of his age?"
"He is always sad," replied Mrs Meredith. "Alas! with me he could hardly learn to laugh."
"We will try to amuse and cheer him," said Lady Mary. "Come, my dear child, kiss your grandfather! hold out your arms, and tell him you love him."
William did not stir.
"Do you not know how? Harry, my love, kiss your uncle, and set your cousin a good example."
Harry jumped upon Lord James's knees, threw both arms round his neck, and said, "I love you, uncle!"
"Now it is your turn, my dear William," said Lady Mary.
William stirred not, and did not even look at his grandfather.
A tear coursed down Eva Meredith's cheek.
"'Tis my fault," she said. "I have brought up my child badly." And, taking William upon her lap, her tears fell upon his face: he felt them not, but slumbered upon his mother's heavy heart.
"Try to make William less shy," said Lord James to his daughter-in-law.
"I will try," replied Eva, in her submissive tones, like those of an obedient child. "I will try; and perhaps I shall succeed, if Lady Mary will kindly tell me how she rendered her son so happy and so gay." Then the disconsolate mother looked at Harry, who was at play near his uncle's chair, and her eyes reverted to her poor sleeping child. "He suffered even before his birth," she murmured; "we have both been very unhappy! but I will try to weep no more, that William may be cheerful like other children."
Two days elapsed, two painful days, full of secret trouble and ill-concealed uneasiness. Lord James's brow was care-laden; at times his look questioned me. I averted my eyes to avoid answering. On the morning of the third day, Lady Mary came into the room with a number of play-things for the children. Harry seized a sword, and ran about the room, shouting for joy. William remained motionless, holding in his little hand the toys that were given to him, but not attempting to use them; he did not even look at them.
"Here, my lord," said Lady Mary to her brother, "give this book to your grandson; perhaps his attention will be roused by the pictures it contains." And she led William to Lord James. The child was passive; he walked, stopped, and remained like a statue where he was placed. Lord James opened the book. All eyes turned towards the group formed by the old man and his grandson. Lord James was gloomy, silent, severe; he slowly turned several pages, stopping at every picture, and looking at William, whose vacant gaze was not directed to the book. Lord James turned a few more pages; then his hand ceased to move; the book fell from his knees to the ground, and an irksome silence reigned in the apartment. Lady Mary approached me, bent forward as if to whisper in my ear, and in a voice loud enough to be heard by all—
"The child is an idiot, doctor!" she said.
A shriek answered her. Eva started up as if she had received a blow; and seizing her son, whom she pressed convulsively to her breast—
"Idiot!" she exclaimed, her indignant glance flashing, for the first time, with a vivid brilliance; "idiot!" she repeated, "because he has been unhappy all his life, because he has seen but tears since his eyes first opened! because he knows not how to play like your son, who has always had joy around him! Ah! madam, you insult misfortune! Come, my child!" cried Eva, all in tears. "Come, let us leave these pitiless hearts, that find none but cruel words to console our misery!"
And the unhappy mother carried off her boy to her apartment. I followed. She set William down, and knelt before the little child. "My son! my son!" she cried.
William went close to her, andrested his head on his mother's shoulder.
"Doctor!" cried Eva, "he loves me—you see he does! He comes when I call him; he kisses me! His caresses have sufficed for my tranquillity—for my sad happiness! My God! was it not then enough? Speak to me, my son, reassure me! Find a consoling word, a single word for your despairing mother! Till now I have asked nothing of you but to remind me of your father, and leave me silence to weep. To-day, William, you must give me words! See you not my tears—my terror? Dear child, so beautiful, so like your father, speak, speak to me!"
Alas! alas! the child remained motionless, without sign of fear or intelligence; a smile only, a smile horrible to behold, flitted across his features. Eva hid her face in both hands, and remained kneeling upon the ground. For a long time no noise was heard save the sound of her sobs. Then I prayed heaven to inspire me with consoling thoughts, such as might give a ray of hope to this poor mother. I spoke of the future, of expected cure, of change possible—even probable. But hope is no friend to falsehood. Where she does not exist her phantom cannot penetrate. A terrible blow, a mortal one, had been struck, and Eva Meredith saw all the truth.
From that day forwards, only one child was to be seen each morning in Lord James Kysington's room. Two women came thither, but only one of them seemed to live—the other was silent as the tomb. One said, "My son!" the other never spoke of her child; one carried her head high, the other bowed hers upon her breast, the better to hide her tears; one was blooming and brilliant, the other pale and a mourner. The struggle was at an end. Lady Mary triumphed. It was cruel how they let Harry play before Eva Meredith's eyes. Careless of her anguish, they brought him to repeat his lessons in his uncle's presence; they vaunted his progress. The ambitious mother calculated everything to consolidate her success; and, whilst abounding in honeyed words and feigned consolation, she tortured Eva Meredith's heart each moment in the day. Lord James, smitten in his dearest hopes, had resumed the cold impassibility which I now saw formed the foundation of his character. Strictly courteous to his daughter-in-law, he had no word of affection for her: only as the mother of his grandson, could the daughter of the American planter find a place in his heart. And he considered the child as no longer in existence. Lord James Kysington was more gloomy and taciturn than ever, regretting, perhaps, to have yielded to my importunities, and to have ruffled his old age by a painful and profitless emotion.
A year elapsed; then a sad day came, when Lord James sent for Eva Meredith, and signed to her to be seated beside his arm-chair.
"Listen to me, madam," he said, "listen with courage. I will act frankly with you, and conceal nothing. I am old and ill, and must arrange my affairs. The task is painful both for you and for me. I will not refer to my anger at my son's marriage; your misfortune disarmed me—I called you to my side, and I desired to behold and to love in your son William, the heir of my fortune, the pivot of my dreams of future ambition. Alas! madam, fate was cruel to us! My son's widow and orphan shall have all that can insure them an honourable existence; but, sole master of a fortune due to my own exertions, I adopt my nephew, and look upon him henceforward as my sole heir. I am about to return to London, whither my affairs call me. Come with me, madam—my house is yours—I shall be happy to see you there."
Eva (she afterwards told me so) felt, for the first time, her despondency replaced by courage. She had the strength that is given by a noble pride: she raised her head, and if her brow was less haughty than that of Lady Mary, on the other hand it had all the dignity of misfortune.
"Go, my lord," she answered, "go; I shall not accompany you. I will not witness the usurpation of my son's rights! You are in haste to condemn, my lord. Who can foresee the future! You are in haste to despair of the mercy of God!"
"The future," replied Lord James, "at my age, is bounded by the passingday. What I would be certain to do I must do at once and without delay."
"Act as you think proper," replied Eva. "I return to the dwelling where I was happy with my husband. I return thither with your grandson, William Kysington; of that name, his sole inheritance, you cannot deprive him; and though the world should know it but by reading it on his tomb, your name, my lord, is the name of my son!"
A week later, Eva Meredith descended the stairs of the hotel, holding her son by the hand, as she had done when she entered this fatal house. Lady Mary was a little behind her, a few steps higher up: the numerous servants, sad and silent, beheld with regret the departure of the gentle creature thus driven from the paternal roof. When she quitted this abode, Eva quitted the only beings she knew upon the earth, the only persons whose pity she had a right to claim—the world was before her, an immense wilderness. It was Hagar going forth into the desert.
"This is horrible, doctor!" cried Dr Barnaby's audience. "Is it possible there are persons so utterly unhappy? What! you witnessed all this yourself?"
"I have not yet told you all," replied the village doctor; "let me get to the end."
Shortly after Eva Meredith's departure, Lord James went to London. Once more my own master, I gave up all idea of further study; I had enough learning for my village, and in haste I returned thither. Once more I sat opposite to Eva in the little white house, as I had done two years before. But how greatly had intervening events increased her misfortune! We no longer dared talk of the future, that unknown moment of which we all have so great need, and without which our present joys appear too feeble, and our misfortunes too great.
Never did I witness grief nobler in its simplicity, calmer in its intensity, than that of Eva Meredith. She forgot not to pray to the God who chastened her. For her, God was the being in whose hands are the springs of hope, when earthly hopes are extinct. Her look of faith remained fixed upon her child's brow, as if awaiting the arrival of the soul her prayers invoked. I cannot describe the courageous patience of that mother speaking to her son, who listened without understanding. I cannot tell you all the treasures of love, of thought, of ingenious narrative she displayed before that torpid intelligence, which repeated, like an echo, the last of her gentle words. She explained to him heaven, God, the angels; she endeavoured to make him pray, and joined his hands, but she could not make him raise his eyes to heaven. In all possible shapes she tried to give him the first lessons of childhood; she read to him, spoke to him, placed pictures before his eyes—had recourse to music as a substitute for words. One day, making a terrible effort, she told William the story of his father's death; she hoped, expected a tear. The child fell asleep whilst yet she spoke: tears were shed, but they fell from the eyes of Eva Meredith.
Thus did she exhaust herself by vain efforts, by a persevering struggle. That she might not cease to hope, she continued to toil; but to William's eyes pictures were merely colours; to his ears words were but noise. The child, however, grew in stature and in beauty. One who had seen him but for an instant would have taken the immobility of his countenance for placidity. But that prolonged and continued calm, that absence of all grief, of all tears, had a strange and sad effect upon us. Suffering must indeed be inherent in our nature, since William's eternal smile made every one say, "The poor idiot!" Mothers know not the happiness concealed in the tears of their child. A tear is a regret, a desire, a fear; it is life, in short, which begins to be understood. Alas! William was content with everything. All day long he seemed to sleep with his eyes open; anger, weariness, impatience, were alike unknown to him. He had but one instinct: he knew his mother—he even loved her. He took pleasure in resting on her knees, on her shoulder; he kissed her. When I kept him long away from her, he manifested a sort of anxiety. I took him back to his mother; he showed no joy, but he was again tranquil. This tenderness, this faint glimmering of William's heart,was Eva's life. It gave her strength to strive, to hope, to wait. If her words were not understood, at least her kisses were! How often she took her son's head in her hands and kissed his forehead, as long and fervently as if she hoped her love would warm and vivify his frozen soul! How often did she dream a miracle whilst clasping her son in her arms, and pressing his still heart to her burning bosom! Often she lingered at night in the village church. (Eva Meredith was of a Roman Catholic family.) Kneeling upon the cold stone before the Virgin's altar, she invoked the marble statue of Mary, holding her child in her arms, "O virgin!" she said, "my boy is inanimate as that image of thy Son! Ask of God a soul for my child!"
She was charitable to all the poor children of the village, giving them bread and clothes, and saying to them, "Pray for him." She consoled afflicted mothers, in the secret hope that consolation would come at last to her. She dried the tears of others, to enjoy the belief that one day she also would cease to weep. In all the country round, she was loved, blessed, venerated. She knew it, and she offered up to Heaven, not with pride but with hope, the blessings of the unfortunate in exchange for the recovery of her son. She loved to watch William's sleep; then he was handsome and like other children. For an instant, for a second perhaps, she forgot; and whilst contemplating those regular features, those golden locks, those long lashes which threw their shadow on his rose-tinted cheek, she felt a mother's joy, almost a mother's pride. God has moments of mercy even for those he has condemned to suffer.
Thus passed the first years of William's childhood. He attained the age of eight years. Then a sad change, which could not escape my attentive observation, occurred in Eva Meredith. Either that her son's growth made his want of intelligence more striking, or that she was like a workman who has laboured all day, and sinks at eve beneath the load of toil, Eva ceased to hope; her soul seemed to abandon the task undertaken, and to recoil with weariness upon itself, asking only resignation. She laid aside the books, the engravings, the music, all the means, in short, that she had called to her aid; she grew silent and desponding; only, if that were possible, she was more affectionate than ever to her son. As she lost hope in his cure, she felt the more strongly that her child had but her in the world; and she asked a miracle of her heart—an increase of the love she bore him. She became her son's servant—his slave; her whole thoughts were concentrated in his wellbeing. If she felt cold, she sought a warmer covering for William; was she hungry, it was for William she gathered the fruits of her garden; did she suffer from fatigue, for him she selected the easiest chair and the softest cushions; she attended to her own sensations only to guess those of her son. She still displayed activity, though she no longer harboured hope.
When William was eleven years old, the last phase of Eva Meredith's existence began. Remarkably tall and strong for his age, he ceased to need that hourly care required by early childhood: he was no longer the infant sleeping on his mother's knees; he walked alone in the garden; he rode on horseback with me, and accompanied me in my distant visits; in short the bird, although wingless, left the nest. His misfortune was in no way shocking or painful to behold. He was of exceeding beauty, silent, unnaturally calm—his eyes expressing nothing but repose, his mouth ignorant of a smile: he was not awkward, or disagreeable, or importunate: it was a mind sleeping beside yours, asking no question, making no reply. The incessant maternal care which had served to occupy Mrs Meredith, and to divert her mind from dwelling on her sorrows, became unnecessary, and she resumed her seat at the window, whence she beheld the village and the church-steeple—at that same window where she had so long wept her husband. Hope and occupation successively failed her, and nothing was left her but to wait and watch, by day and by night, like the lamp that ever burns beneath cathedral vaults.
But her forces were exhausted. In the midst of this grief which had returned to its starting-point, tosilence and immobility, after having in vain essayed exertion, courage, hope, Eva Meredith fell into a decline. In spite of all the resources of my art, I beheld her grow weak and thin. How apply a remedy, when the sickness is of the soul?
The poor foreigner! she needed her native sun and a little happiness to warm her; but the ray of sun and the ray of joy were alike wanting. It was long before she perceived her danger, because she thought not of herself; but when at last she was unable to leave her arm-chair, she was compelled to understand. I will not describe to you all her anguish at the thought of leaving William without a guide, without friend or protector—of leaving him alone in the midst of strangers, he who needed to be cherished and led by the hand like a child. Oh, how she struggled for life! with what avidity she swallowed the potions I prepared! how many times she tried to believe in a cure, whilst all the time the disease progressed! Then she kept William more at home,—she could no longer bear to lose sight of him.
"Remain with me," she said; and William, always content near his mother, seated himself at her feet. She looked at him long, until a flood of tears prevented her distinguishing his gentle countenance; then she drew him still nearer to her, and pressed him to her heart. "Oh!" she exclaimed, in a kind of delirium, "if my soul, on leaving my body, might become the soul of my child, how happy should I be to die!" No amount of suffering could make her wholly despair of divine mercy, and when all human possibility disappeared, this loving heart had gentle dreams out of which it reconstructed hopes. But how sad it was, alas! to see the poor mother slowly perishing before the eyes of her son, of a son who understood not death, and who smiled when she embraced him.
"He will not regret me," she said: "he will not weep: he will not remember." And she remained motionless, in mute contemplation of her child. Her hand then sometimes sought mine: "You love him, dear doctor?" she murmured.
"I will never quit him," replied I, "so long as he has no better friends than myself." God in heaven, and the poor village doctor upon earth, were the two guardians to whom she confided her son.
Faith is a great thing! This woman, widowed, disinherited, dying, an idiot child at her side, was yet saved from that utter despair which brings blasphemy to the lips of death. An invisible friend was near her, on whom she seemed to rest, listening sometimes to holy words, which she alone could hear.
One morning she sent for me early. She had been unable to get up. With her wan, transparent hand she showed me a sheet of paper on which a few lines were written.
"Doctor," she said, in her gentlest tones, "I have not strength to continue; finish this letter!"
I read as follows:—
"My Lord,—I write to you for the last time. Whilst health is restored to your old age, I suffer and am about to die. I leave your grandson, William Kysington, without a protector. My Lord, this last letter is to recall him to your memory; I ask for him a place in your heart rather than a share of your fortune. Of all the things of this world, he has understood but one—his mother's love; and now she must leave him for ever! Love him, my Lord,—love is the only sentiment he can comprehend."
She could write no more. I added:—
"Mrs William Kysington has but few days to live. What are Lord James Kysington's orders with respect to the child who bears his name?
"The Doctor Barnaby."
This letter was sent to London, and we waited. Eva kept her bed. William, seated near her, held her hand in his: his mother smiled sadly upon him, whilst I, at the other side of the bed, prepared potions to assuage her pains. Again she began to talk to her son, as if no longer despairing that, after her death, some of her words might recur to his memory. She gave the child all the advice, all the instructions she would have given to an intelligent being. Then she turned to me—"Who knows, doctor," she said, "one day, perhaps, he will find my words at the bottom of his heart!"
Three more weeks elapsed. Deathapproached, and submissive as was the Christian soul of Eva, she yet felt the anguish of separation and the solemn awe of the future. The village priest came to see her, and when he left her I met him and took his hand.
"You will pray for her," I said.
"I have entreatedherto pray forme!" was his reply.
It was Eva Meredith's last day. The sun had set: the window, near which she so long had sat, was open: she could see from her bed the landscape she had loved. She held her son in her arms and kissed his face and hair, weeping sadly. "Poor child! what will become of you? Oh!" she said, with tender earnestness, "listen to me, William:—I am dying! Your father is dead also; you are alone; you must pray to the Lord. I bequeath you to Him who watches over the sparrow upon the house-top; He will shield the orphan. Dear child, look at me! listen to me! Try to understand that I die, that one day you may remember me!" And the poor mother, unable to speak longer, still found strength to embrace her child.
At that moment an unaccustomed noise reached my ears. The wheels of a carriage grated upon the gravel of the garden drive. I ran to the door. Lord James Kysington and Lady Mary entered the house.
"I got your letter," said Lord James. "I was setting out for Italy, and it was not much off my road to come myself and settle the future destiny of William Meredith: so here I am. Mrs William?——"
"Mrs William Kysington still lives, my lord," I replied.
It was with a painful sensation that I saw this calm, cold, austere man approach Eva's chamber, followed by the haughty woman who came to witness what for her was a happy event—the death of her former rival! They entered the modest little room, so different from the sumptuous apartments of their Montpellier hotel. They drew near the bed, beneath whose white curtains Eva, pale but still beautiful, held her son upon her heart. They stood, one on the right, the other on the left of that couch of suffering, without finding a word of affection to console the poor woman who looked up at them. They barely gave utterance to a few formal and unmeaning phrases. Averting their eyes from the painful spectacle of death, and persuading themselves that Eva Meredith neither saw nor heard, they passively awaited her spirit's departure—their countenances not even feigning an expression of condolence or regret. Eva fixed her dying gaze upon them, and sudden terror seized the heart which had almost ceased to throb. She comprehended, for the first time, the secret sentiments of Lady Mary, the profound indifference and egotism of Lord James; she understood at last that they were enemies rather than protectors of her son. Despair and terror portrayed themselves on her pallid face. She made no attempt to soften those soulless beings. By a convulsive movement she drew William still closer to her heart, and, collecting her last strength—
"My child, my poor child!" she cried, "you have no support upon earth; but God above is good. My God! succour my child!"
With this cry of love, with this supreme prayer, she breathed out her life: her arms opened, her lips were motionless on William's cheek. Since she no longer embraced her son, there could be no doubt she was dead—dead before the eyes of those who to the very last had refused to comfort her affliction—dead without giving Lady Mary the uneasiness of hearing her plead the cause of her son—dead, leaving her a complete and decided victory.
There was a moment of solemn silence: none moved or spoke. Death makes an impression upon the haughtiest. Lady Mary and Lord James Kysington kneeled beside their victim's bed. In a few minutes Lord James arose. "Take the child from his mother's room," he said, "and come with me, doctor; I will explain to you my intentions respecting him."
For two hours William had been resting on the shoulder of Eva Meredith, his heart against her heart, his lips pressed to hers, receiving her kisses and her tears. I approached him, and, without expending uselesswords, I endeavoured to raise and lead him from the room; but he resisted, and his arms clasped his mother more closely. This resistance, the first the poor child had ever offered to living creature, touched my very soul. On my renewing the attempt, however, William yielded; he made a movement and turned towards me, and I saw his beautiful countenance suffused with tears. Until that day, William had never wept. I was greatly startled and moved, and I let the child throw himself again upon his mother's corpse.
"Take him away," said Lord James.
"My lord," I exclaimed, "he weeps! Ah, check not his tears!"
I bent over the child, and heard him sob.
"William! dear William!" I cried, anxiously taking his hand, "why do you weep, William?"
For the second time he turned his head towards me; then, with a gentle look, full of sorrow, "My mother is dead," he replied.
I have not words to tell you what I felt. William's eyes were now intelligent: his tears were sad and significant; and his voice was broken as when the heart suffers. I uttered a cry; I almost knelt down beside Eva's bed.
"Ah! you were right, Eva!" I exclaimed, "not to despair of the mercy of God!"
Lord James himself had started. Lady Mary was as pale as Eva.
"Mother! mother!" cried William, in tones that filled my heart with joy; and then, repeating the words of Eva Meredith—those words which she had so truly said he would find at the bottom of his heart—the child exclaimed aloud,
"I am dying, my son. Your father is dead; you are alone upon the earth; you must pray to the Lord!"
I pressed gently with my hand upon William's shoulder; he obeyed the impulse, knelt down, joined his trembling hands—this time it was of his own accord—and, raising to heaven a look full of life and feeling: "My God! have pity on me!" he murmured.
I took Eva's cold hand. "Oh mother! mother of many sorrows!" I exclaimed, "can you hear your child? do you behold him from above? Be happy! your son is saved!"
Dead at Lady Mary's feet, Eva made her rival tremble; for it was not I who led William from the room, it was Lord James Kysington who carried out his grandson in his arms.
I have little to add, ladies. William recovered his reason and departed with Lord James. Reinstated in his rights, he was subsequently his grandfather's sole heir. Science has recorded a few rare instances of intelligence revived by a violent moral shock. Thus does the fact I have related find a natural explanation. But the good women of the village, who had attended Eva Meredith during her illness, and had heard her fervent prayers, were convinced that, even as she had asked of Heaven, the soul of the mother had passed into the body of the child.
"She was so good," said they, "that God could refuse her nothing." This artless belief took firm root in the country. No one mourned Mrs Meredith as dead.
"She still lives," said the people of the hamlet: "speak to her son, and she will answer you."
And when Lord William Kysington, in possession of his grandfather's property, sent each year abundant alms to the village that had witnessed his birth and his mother's death, the poor folks exclaimed—"There is Mrs Meredith's kind soul thinking of us still! Ah, when she goes to heaven, it will be great pity for poor people!"
We do not strew flowers upon her tomb, but upon the steps of the altar of the Virgin, where she so often prayed to Mary to send a soul to her son. When taking thither their wreaths of wild blossoms, the villagers say to each other—"When she prayed so fervently, the good Virgin answered her softly: 'I will give thy soul to thy child!'"
Thecuréhas suffered our peasants to retain this touching superstition; and I myself, when Lord William came to see me, when he fixed upon me his eyes, so like his mother's—when his voice, which had a well-known accent, said, as Mrs Meredith was wont to say—"Dear Doctor, Ithank you!" Then,—smile, ladies, if you will—I wept, and I believed, like all the village, that Eva Meredith was before me.
She, whose existence was but a long series of sorrows, has left behind her a sweet, consoling memory, which has nothing painful for those who loved her.
In thinking of her we think of the mercy of God, and those who have hope in their hearts, hope with the greater confidence.
But it is very late, ladies—your carriages have long been at the door. Pardon this long story: at my age it is difficult to be concise in speaking of the events of one's youth. Forgive the old man for having made you smile when he arrived, and weep before he departed."
These last words were spoken in the kindest and most paternal tone, whilst a half-smile glided across Dr Barnaby's lips. All his auditors now crowded round him, eager to express their thanks. But Dr Barnaby got up, made straight for his riding-coat of puce-coloured taffety, which hung across a chair back, and, whilst one of the young men helped him to put it on—"Farewell, gentlemen; farewell, ladies," said the village doctor. "My chaise is ready; it is dark, the road is bad; good-night: I must be gone."
When Dr Barnaby was installed in his cabriolet of green wicker-work, and the little gray cob, tickled by the whip, was about to set off, Madame de Moncar stepped quickly forward, and leaning towards the doctor, whilst she placed one foot on the step of his vehicle, she said, in quite a low voice—
"Doctor, I make you a present of the white cottage, and I will have it fitted up as it was when you loved Eva Meredith!"
Then she ran back into the house. The carriages and the green chaise departed in different directions.
The subject of the Parochial School System of Scotland claims some attention at the present moment. Following up certain ominous proceedings of other parties high in authority, Lord Melgund, M. P. for Greenock, has given notice of a motion for the appointment of a select committee of the House of Commons to consider the expediency of a fundamental revision of that system. The question here involved is one of national importance; and the family and other ties by which Lord Melgund is connected with the Government, are likely, we fear, to secure for his proposed innovations on that institution which has been hitherto, perhaps, the pre-eminent glory of Scotland, a certain degree of favour.
It may be of some use to preface the few observations we have to offer on the Scottish system, and the proposed alterations of it, by a brief recapitulation of some of the more prominent methods and statistics of popular education in other countries, taken chiefly from a very carefully prepared and important Appendix to the Privy Council committee'sMinutesfor 1847-8. The information was obtained through the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, from the Governments of the principal states of Europe and America.
Thecostof public instruction is defrayed by different means in different countries—means varying, however, more in detail than in principle. In Prussia, a regular school-rate, varying from 3d. to 6d. per month, according to circumstances, is levied upon all who have children; but this is supplemented by a grant from the state budget which, for elementary schools alone, amounted in 1845 to £37,000. A similar practice prevails not only in the other countries of Central Europe, but in Pennsylvania, where it was introduced by the German emigrants, and, of late years, also in some other parts of the United States. The income of schools in the Austrian Empire is derived from a variety of sources, of which school-money constitutes little more thanone-third; the remainder, as far as we can understand the technical phraseology of the report, being partly derived from old endowments, partly from provincial revenues, and partly from the imperial treasury. In Holland, the governments of the towns and provinces are charged with the cost of maintaining their own schools, aided by grants from the state. On the first year that separate accounts were kept for the northern provinces, after their separation from Belgium, the sum raised in this way amounted (in a population of 2,450,000) to no less than £76,317. In Belgium, where the funds are derived from old foundations and local endowments, aided by the government, two-fifths of the scholars received, in 1840, their education gratuitously; but the provision seems to be not very complete, for in that year, out of 2510 communes, 163 were without any school.
As tomanagement, there appears to be no country in Europe in which public instruction is not directed by a department of the government. No regular system of superintendence, however, has yet been established in the United States. In Prussia, there is a minister of public instruction, who is also at the head of church affairs, and under whom are local consistories and school inspectors, one of the latter being always the superintendent or bishop of the district. In Würtemberg, each school is inspected by the clergyman of the confession to which the schoolmaster belongs, and is subject to the control of the presbytery. In the Grand-duchy of Baden, the minister of the interior has charge of the department of education. The local school authority is commonly a parochial committee, consisting of clergy and laymen combined. The parish clergyman is the regular school inspector, but where there are different confessions, each clergyman inspects the school of his own church. Certain functionaries, called "Visitors" and "County Authorities," are also intrusted with special powers. In Lombardy, the direction is committed to a chief inspector, with a number of subordinates, and the parish clergy. (Byclergy, of course, throughout these details, must usually be understood Roman Catholic priests.) In Holland, every province was in 1814 divided into educational districts, with a school inspector for each district, and provincial school commissions chosen from the leading inhabitants, to which were afterwards added provincial "juries." In Russia, public instruction is superintended by the government.
The details regardingreligious instructionare not so full as we should have wished. The great difficulty as regards this appears, however, in most of the European states to be met by the establishment of separate schools for the different sects. In Würtemberg, "if, in a community of different religious confessions, the minority comprises sixty families, they may claim the establishment and support of a school of their own confession, at the expense of the whole community." The ecclesiastical authorities of the various sects are not, however, independent of, but merely associated with, the state functionaries, whose sanction is indispensable for the catechisms and school-books in use in every school. Such, at least, is said to be the case in Würtemberg; and, as far as we can judge from the not very precise statements made on this subject, the rule appears to be universal. Roman Catholic, Protestant, Greek Church, and Jewish schools are, in the Austrian empire, alike established by law, according to the necessities of each province and district. But in the state of New York (and we believe a like practice prevails in other parts of the Union) the sectarian difficulty is overcome in a different way. By a recent act of the legislature, it is provided that "no school shall be entitled to a portion of the school-moneys, in which the religious sectarian doctrine or tenet of any particular Christians, or other religious sect, shall be taught, inculcated, or practised."
The only other particulars we shall notice relate to school attendance. It must be premised that, in the countries of central Europe, the attendance of every child at the elementary schools is compulsory—the only alternative being private instruction.Fines and imprisonment are employed to enforce this regulation.Free education is also provided, at the generalexpense, for those unable to pay the school fees.
In Prussia, the proportion of those enjoying school education was to the population, in 1846, as 1 to 6.
In Bavaria, in 1844, nearly as 1 to 4.
In the Austrian empire, as 1 to 9 for boys, and as 1 to 12 for girls; but in Upper and Lower Austria, as 1 to 6 for boys, and as 1 to 7 for girls.
In Holland, 1 in 8 received, in 1846, public instruction.
In Sweden, in 1843, the proportion was no more than as 1 to 165 of the population.
In Belgium, in 1840, it was as 1 to 9.
In Russia, the number attending schools of all kinds, including the universities, amounted, in 1846, to 195,819, which, in a population of 60,000,000, gives a proportion of less than 1 to 300 of the inhabitants.
In Pennsylvania, in 1840, 1 in 5 of the population had the advantage of instruction in common schools; in New York, on the first of January 1847, nearly 1 in 16; in Massachusetts, about 1 in 6-1/2 of the population.
It is impossible to read these details without two reflections especially being immediately suggested to the mind. One of these is the necessary connexion between the success of any system of national education and the special circumstances of each individual state to which it may be applied. To introduce the Prussian system into Scotland, with any prospect of its working here as well as it does there, one would require to change the whole character of the government, and the whole habits, nay, the very nature of the people, to make Scotchmen Prussians and Scotland Prussia.
But there is a still more important reflection forced upon us. How little mere secular education, apart from that which we hold to be an indispensable accompaniment to it—sound religious education—avails for the elevation of the people, let these statistics, read in the light of recent events, tell! The murderers of Count Latour were all well-educated persons, after that fashion which it has been proposed to introduce into this country as the national system. They had all been at schools—at schools from which religious instruction, however, was either excluded, or worse than excluded.
But, to come to National Education in Scotland. On this subject there are two questions wholly distinct from each other, which at present occupy some attention. The one relates to the long-tried and approved parochial system, the other to the plans, professedly of a supplementary character, recently introduced by a committee of the Privy Council, which constitutes a government board for the application of the parliamentary grant, now voted annually for some years, for educational purposes. In a pamphlet[11]lately published by Lord Melgund, which is of some importance now, as indicating the views with which his motion in parliament is introduced, these two questions have, we think, been unfairly confounded: with the former we have particular concern at present.
We agree, however, with Lord Melgund in condemning utterly the procedure of the Privy Council in regard to those schools which are at this moment rising up in almost every parish in Scotland, not for the purpose, even ostensibly, of supplying destitute localities with the means of education, but as parts of an ecclesiastical system, whose avowed object is to supersede in all its departments the Established Church. These schools receive much the greater part (in fact nearly two-thirds) of the whole sum voted for education in Scotland; that is to say, about two-thirds of the parliamentary grant, intended to promote general education in this part of the kingdom, is by the Privy Council diverted altogether from its proper object, and applied to purposes exclusively and avowedly sectarian.
This is an abuse which cannot be too severely reprobated. Lord Melgund, in his pamphlet, with some justice calls attention to the strictly exclusive character of the Free Church—an exclusiveness to which the EstablishedChurch affords no parallel—to the fact that it is an irresponsible body, with whose affairs no man not a member has any more right to interfere, than he has with those of a railway company to which he does not belong. It is not, however, on this ground alone, or chiefly, that the Privy Council's proceedings in regard to the Free Church schools are objectionable.
Out of the sum of £5463 granted, according to the committee's minutes last issued, to Scotland in 1847, no less than £3485 was apportioned to Free Church schools. Let us inquire on what conditions, in what circumstances, so large a proportion of the fund at the disposal of the committee has been thus expended. If this sum had been appropriatedbonâ fidefor educational purposes, to aid in building schools in localities previously unprovided with them, perhaps no very serious exception could have been taken to the, in that case, comparatively trivial circumstance, that the persons by whom the money was to be applied happened to be dissenters from the Established Church,—dissenters whose doctrinal standards are the same as those recognised by law. In this case, it might with some reason have been said by defenders of the Privy Council, "Why should these localities remain without schools of any kind, merely because the Free Churchmen have been the only parties zealous enough to obtain for them this boon?"
But what are the facts? Even on the face of the minutes of council themselves, it appears that at least the greater part of the large grant in question has been givento aid in erecting schools where there was no pretence at all of destitution—in localities already amply supplied with the means of education, including both parochial and non-parochial schools; and has been given, therefore, not for the purpose of supplementing, but for the purpose ofSUPPLANTINGexisting institutions; not for the advancement of education, but for the advancement of Free Churchism.
An assertion of so serious a nature as this requires proof, and proof is easily given.
In the return in the minutes of council for 1847-8, of the grants for education in Scotland, sixteen of the schools aided are marked F. C. S., (Free Church of Scotland;) and there is, in the case of most of these, a return as to the existing school accommodation of the district, an inquiry on this subject being always and very properly made—oftener, as appears, however, made than attended to. The following are some of the returns, taken almost at random:—
Brigton in Polmont.—Population of school district, 3584: existing schools—"The parish school, Establishment, (attended by 150 scholars;) Redding Muir, Establishment, (100;) Redding village, Establishment and Free Church, (80;) Redding Muir, Methodist, (40.)"[12]Grant to Free Church, £143.
Dalkeith.—Population, 6000: existing school accommodation—"The parochial or grammar school, andother schools, partially supported by the Duke of Buccleuch." No further particulars. Grant to Free Church, £248.—In the following instance, a notable attempt is made to manufacture a case of crying destitution:—
Ellon.—Population, 3000: existing schools—"The parochial school is situate about a quarter of a mile distant, at the eastern extremity of the old town; the new school will be at the western extremity of the new town!" In consideration, however, of the "one-fourth mile," coupled with the interesting topographical information that this is the exact distance between the eastern extremity of the old and the western extremity [or "west-end"] of the new town of Ellon, and, doubtless, for other grave reasons not expressed, £162 is subscribed to the funds of the Free Church.
These are average examples of all the cases. Everybody, indeed, knows what the practice of the Free Secession has been in choosing sites, alike for their churches and for theirschools. Their endeavour has been to plant both as near as possible to the parish church and the parish school,—a most natural, and, for their purposes, wise arrangement; but an arrangement, one would imagine, which ought not to have been countenanced by the Privy Council. That body might have been expected to reply to such an application as that from Polmont parish—"The funds at our disposal are intended to supply deficiencies in the means of education. We cannot recognise your case as one of destitution. As a public body, administering public money, it is not permitted to us to agree with you in setting aside the parochial schools, and the other schools in the district as of no account, merely because they are not under your sectarian control. You are applying for our aid, not to supplement, but to supersede existing educational institutions; and this is an object to which we could not contribute without a gross misappropriation of the national funds." In having, instead of returning this answer to the promoters of the proposed new school in Polmont, sent them £143, the Privy Council's committee have, be it noticed, established a precedent which is not likely to be left unimproved: indeed the Free Church are said to have about 500 similar applications ready.[13]
The practical evils of such a course are obvious. "Suppose," (say the parish schoolmasters, in their memorial to Lord John Russell,)—"suppose the people of the parishes where these schools shall be established wished to be divided betwixt the parochial schools and those of the Free Church, instead of resorting exclusively to the former,are they likely to be better educated in consequence of the change? Is it not rather to be feared that, instead of one efficient, two comparatively inefficient schools will in consequence be established in a great number of parishes?... At all events, the loss resulting from the injury done to the old and tried system is certain; the advantages of the new system are problematical; and the sacrifice of the former to the latter, therefore, seems to us to be inexpedient and unwise."[14]
That "old and tried system" is, however, exposed to other perils. Lord Melgund not only finds fault with the above and other abuses of the Privy Council's scheme of education, but with the original parochial system; and not only suggests that that recent scheme should be re-organised, but that the whole system of national education in Scotland should undergo a thorough revisal. Let us come at once to that reform which it appears to be the chief aim of his pamphlet to recommend, and of his motion to effect; which is of a very sweeping and fundamental character, and which, in a word, consists in the severance of the subsisting connexion between the parochial schools and the Established Church.
It is not necessary at present to go back to the origin of the ecclesiasticalinstitutions Of Scotland. The question is, not what the lawis, but what the law ought to be; and we shall here assume that, whatever may be the vested interests of the Church in the parish schools, it is competent for parliament to consider the propriety, in existing circumstances, of introducing a new national system of education, irrespective altogether of historical considerations. By thus arguing the question on its merits, to the exclusion of historical associations, we deprive ourselves of many pleas against a change which appear relevant and cogent to friends of the Church whose judgment is entitled to the highest respect. But we take the ground which, if the matter be discussed at all, will doubtless be taken by most of those who engage in the controversy, and on which, doubtless, the result will be made ultimately to depend.
The parish-school system of Scotland may be described in a few words. In every parish, at the present day, there is (except in the case of some of the large towns) at least one school,[15]which, with the teacher's house, has been erected, and is kept up by the heritors, or landed proprietors, of each parish; by whom also a salary is provided for the schoolmaster, which, exclusive of house and garden, at present varies, according to circumstances, from £25 the minimum, to £34 the maximum allowance. This certainly most inadequate remuneration is supplemented partly by school fees—which, however, are fixed at a low rate, and always dispensed with in cases of necessity—partly by the schoolmaster being allowed to hold, in conjunction with his school, the offices of heritors' and session clerk, which yield, on an average, to each about £14 more, (Remarks, p. 15;) and partly, though in comparatively few parishes, by local foundations. In 1834, the number of parochial schools was 1,047; and the emoluments of the teachers amounted for the whole (excluding the augmentations from the Dick Bequest) to £55,339: of this sum £29,642 being salaries, £20,717 school fees, and £4,979 other emoluments.[16]
With regard to management: the election of the teacher is vested in the heritors (the sole rate-payers) and minister of the parish. Before admission to his office, however, the schoolmaster-elect must pass a strict examination before the presbytery of the bounds, as to his qualifications to teach the elementary branches of education, and such of the higher branches as either the heritors on the one hand, or the presbytery[17]on the other hand, may think necessary in every case; and must profess his adherence to the Established Church by signing the Confession of Faith and formula. The parish minister acts as the regular school-inspector: and every presbytery is bound to hold an annual examination of all the schools within its jurisdiction, usually conducted in the presence of the leading inhabitants, and to make returns to the supreme ecclesiastical court of the attendance, the branches taught, the progress of the scholars, and the efficiency of the teachers. It must be here added that, although thus placed under the superintendence of the national church, and although based on the principles of the national faith, the parish schools are acknowledged to be free from anything which, in Scotland at least, could be called asectariancharacter. Lord Melgund frankly admits that "the teachers and presbyteries appear to have dealt liberally by all classes of Dissenters in religious matters, and certainly cannot be reproached with having given offence by dogmatical teaching, or by attempts to proselytise"—(Remarks, p. 24;) and adduces some proofs in support of this view, with which weshall content ourselves, though they might easily be multiplied. About twelve years ago, a series of queries was sent to all the parish schools, containing, among many others, the following,—"Do children attend the school without reference to the religious persuasion of their parents?" and, as quoted by Lord Melgund, out of 924 answers, 915 were in the affirmative.—(Remarks, p. 27.) "It is but justice to the present teachers," said the Rev. Dr Taylor of the Secession Church to the House of Lords' Committee, in 1848, (Remarks, p. 34,) "to say that, as far as my knowledge goes, they do not generally attempt to proselytise or interfere with the religious opinions of the children." Mr John Gibson, the Government inspector, states, that not only the children of orthodox Dissenters, but even Roman Catholic children, find these schools non-sectarian. "Roman Catholic children (he says) have been wont to attend the schools of the Church of Scotland in the Highlands and Islands. This they seem to have done in consequence of the manner in which these schools have been conducted in reference to the Roman Catholic population."—(Remarks, p. 32.) With respect, indeed, to the great body of dissenters from the Established Church, there can be no difficulty. The Catechism taught in the parish schools, and, with the exception of the Bible, the only textbook insisted upon by the church, is a religious standard acknowledged by them all, and is taught almost as generally in the non-parochial as in the parochial schools.
Our answer to Lord Melgund's principal reason for a fundamental revisal of this the present parochial school system of Scotland is, that that reason is founded on a great delusion. The reason may be thus stated, that while the parish schools, however useful as far as they go, are confessedly inadequate to the increased population, their present constitution stands in the way of the introduction into Scotland of a general system of national education.—(SeeRemarks, p. 35 andpassim.)
It may be here noticed, in passing, that rather more than enough is perhaps sometimes said as to the inadequacy of the provision for education made in the parish schools. The population has certainly enormously increased since 1696; but so has the wealth of the country, and so also, along with the power, has the desire increased, of compensating, by voluntary efforts, for the growing disproportion between the legal provision and the actual wants of the people in regard to education. In a great measure, the parish schools continue to serve efficiently some of the main purposes contemplated in their institution. In a great measure, they still afford a legal provision for education,as far as legal provision is absolutely necessary.[18]
That a strictly national system of education is on many accounts desirable, no one will doubt, any more than that the connexion between the parish schools and the National Church is, in the present state of opinion in the country, an insuperable obstacle to any such material extension of the present machinery, as would constitute a strictly national educational system. But whether the necessity or proprietyof an alteration of the present system be an inference from these premises is a different question. Our answer to Lord Melgund here is, that to remove the parish schools from the superintendence of the Church would not have the smallest effect in facilitating arrangements for the purpose which Lord Melgund and others profess—doubtless, sincerely—to have so much at heart, and that, upon the whole, a national system of education for Scotland, of a more general description than the one already in operation, is, at least in present circumstances,wholly impracticableon any conditions or terms, after any fashion, or mode, or plan whatsoever. It is right that this should be distinctly understood. If Lord Melgund believes that the only or even the principal difficulty in the way of his utopian scheme of a strictly national system for this country, which shall unite all sects and parties, is the connexion between the parish school and the parish church, he must be extremely ignorant of the state of public opinion in Scotland, where, in fact, any such scheme is, on every account, notoriously out of the question.
Whether, with all its defects, the present system is not better than no system at all, is therefore a question deserving the serious consideration even of those who are most inimical to it. We would venture here to suggest, that if the existing system is to be interfered with, that interference should not at least be attempted until astrictly national substitutefor it has been actually agreed upon. But it is vain to talk thus. The education system of 1696, already established, to which the people have long been habituated, and whose value they have had the best means of appreciating, is the only approximation to a national system which would now be tolerated for a moment, and, if it were set aside, could not be replaced by any other.
In the first place, the Church herself would not consent to any scheme which deprived her of her present securities for the "godly upbringing" of the children of her own communion. Abolish in the parish schools the tests and rights of supervision which she now possesses, and she must seek, in schools raised by voluntary contribution, the means of carrying out her principles on the subject of education.
It is equally well known, that neither would the dissenters agree among themselves as to a national system of education. Of these members of the community, a large proportion would object to any system which excluded the Bible and the Shorter Catechism from the schools; and another large proportion—all who are voluntaries—would be equally bound, on their own principles, to oppose any plan which didNOTexclude the Bible and the Shorter Catechism—the latter class holding that the state cannot, without sin, interfere in any way in the religious instruction of the people, as strongly as the former class holds such interference to be the duty of the state. But this is not all. Thus, for instance, the Free seceders have shown, in the most unequivocal manner, that their objection is not only to the parish schools, as at present organised, but to all schools not under their own special superintendence.
What the views of the present rate-payers would be remains to be seen. The endowment of the parish schools cannot be called national. It comes exclusively out of the pockets of the landed gentry and other heritors of the country, who, as far as we are aware, have never as a class expressed any dissatisfaction with its present application, or any wish to interfere at all with the general ecclesiastical system with which it is connected. How far their concurrence to a radical alteration in the appropriation of funds, for which they originally consented to assess themselves on specified conditions, could be secured, we do not know; but we have strong suspicions that not the least of the difficulties would arise from this quarter, which is not usually taken into account. In short, let the question be put to the test. Propose a substitute for the enactment of 1696. Draw up a bill in which the details of a workable national system of education are intelligibly set forth, and let that system be what it will, liberal or illiberal, exclusive or catholic—a system in which all sects are endowed, as in many of the German states, or from which all religious instruction isexcluded, as in America—let it be the wisest, most comprehensive, most flexible scheme ever devised—and see the result: see whether the true difficulty in setting in motion a more extended and more strictly national system of education than at present exists, lies in the connexion between the parish schools and the Established Church, which an act of parliament might remedy any day, or in causes which no strong-handed measure of the legislature can reach—in the irremediable differences of opinion on the subject of education, and on the subject of religion, and on the subject of national endowments, prevalent at this day in Scotland, to a degree, and with complications, perhaps, nowhere else to be found in the world.
We consider it unnecessary to say anything as to the only other reason alleged by Lord Melgund for an interference with the present management of the parish schools—namely, the practical injustice suffered by dissenters from the Established Church, by the exclusive character of that management. We almost hope we misinterpret his lordship's statement, in attributing to him an objection which is nowhere announced in explicit terms, but which seems to us to be not the less obviously suggested. The objection, however, is a common one. Thus, as quoted by Lord Melgund himself, the Rev. Dr Taylor stated before the Lords' Committee, that the "Dissenters desired the reform of the parish schools less on account of the education of the children, than to open a field of employment for persons who wish to be schoolmasters, and are members of congregations not belonging to the Established Church;" and that "Dissenters consider it a grievance, or badge of inferiority, and an act of injustice, that they should be excluded from holding office in schools which are national institutions."
We think it needless to enter upon this topic, for if the reason here alleged be valid as against the parish schools, it is also valid as against the parish churches—against, in a word, the whole system of the national religious Establishment; and we trust that the time is not yet come when the propriety of overthrowing that institution, and—for all must stand or fall together—those of the sister kingdoms, admits of serious discussion. It is worthy of notice, however, in passing, not only that such is at bottom the true state of the question, but that, with almost the whole of the advocates of a change, it is acknowledged to be so; and that that change, like the similar proposed innovations in the universities, and like the Lord Advocate's Marriage and Registration Bills, is mainly desired, when desired at all, as an important step towards the gradual accomplishment of an ulterior object, which it is not yet expedient to seek by open and straightforward means.
Before concluding this protest against the sweeping measures proposed by Lord Melgund and the party which he represents, it is right to take some notice of another question. Is the school system of Scotland incapable of any alteration whatever for the better? Granting that its fundamental principles ought to remain intact, may it not, and should it not, be rendered more efficient in the details of its administration, by the aid of the legislature?
One matter of detail which has been often pointed out as calling for legislative interference, is the difficulty, under the present law, of relieving parishes from the burden of incompetent schoolmasters, and particularly of schoolmasters who have become unfit for their duties by age or infirmity. Unhappily there are no retiring allowances provided in the parochial school system of Scotland. The consequence is, that it depends upon the mere liberality of the heritors—who however, to their honour, are seldom found wanting in such cases—whether a man who has outlived his usefulness shall continue to exercise his functions. For this evil it is very desirable that the obvious remedy should be furnished; and we think that there are no insurmountable practical difficulties to arrangements on the subject being carried into effect. It might also be proper to give greater facilities to presbyteries in dismissing teachers for wilful neglect of duty—a contingency which it is right to mention is both of very rare occurrence, and is best provided against by care in the selection, onthe part of the heritors, and in the rigorous exercise by presbyteries of their large powers of examination and rejection, when the appointments are originally made.
With regard to the existing salaries, their inadequacy has been already insisted upon. Nor, for many reasons, can we accept the recently propounded—if it can be said to be propounded, for its terms are not a little ambiguous—plan of the Privy Council's Committee for their augmentation as any remedy whatever. That plan—not to speak of more serious objections to it—includes certain conditions which are so framed, as practically to exclude from participation in the grant all parishes except the wealthiest and most liberal, which, of course, least need it. It is enough to mention here, that one of the conditions on which this grant, in every case, depends, is thevoluntaryconcurrence of the heritors themselves in the payment of a considerable proportion of any addition to the present salary. We, of course, wish, that eventually some truly practicable means may be adopted to secure for the parish schoolmasters, throughout the country, allowances more in proportion than their present pittances to the importance—which can hardly be overrated—of their duties, and, we may add, to their merits.
These matters of detail admit, we repeat, of improvement. It is desirable that something should be done in the case of both. Better, however, a hundredfold, that things should remain altogether as they are, than that the principles lying at the foundation of the system should be shaken. It is to be hoped that the Church will be true to herself in regard to the question of pecuniary aid either from government, or by government legislation; refusing for its sake to compromise in the least degree her sacred rights—or let us rather call them her sacred duties—of superintendence; Better to be poor than not pure.
One word more. Alarming as is the proposal of the member for Greenock, we have to state, with great regret, that it does no more than confirm apprehensions for the safety of a system hitherto found to work well, which have been awakened by actual proceedings already adopted. It is impossible that any one can have watched the gradual development of the plan, in regard particularly, though not exclusively, to Scotland, of that anomalous board, the Privy Council's Committee on Education, without being persuaded that they are, we do not say intended, but, at least, most nicely adapted to the eventual attainment of the very same object which Lord Melgund would accomplishper saltum. The every-day increasing claims of the Board to a right of interference with the internal management of all schools, its assumption of apparently unlimited legislative powers, and its continual indications of special hostility to the parochial school system, constitute an ominous combination of unfavourable circumstances. Even in the act of ostensibly aiding, it is secretly undermining that system. It is not only weakening its efficiency by the encouragement of rival schools—rivalin the strictest sense of the term—but, by its grants to the parish schools themselves, on the conditions now exacted, it is purchasing the power, and preparing the way, for an eventual absorption of these schools in a comprehensive system to be under its own exclusive control, and to be regulated by principles at direct variance with those under the influence of which, in the schools of Scotland, have been for nearly two centuries brought up a people—we may say it with some pride—not behind any other in intelligence, or in moral and religious worth.