Chapter IX
"She is bewitched, my lord," said her attendants to Magas, as he stood the next day by the bedside of Chione, and she knew him not. "She is bewitched. Chloe and two or three others heard the spell muttered just before she fell."
Magas looked incredulously, yet half-believing what they said. "Why, who can have bewitched her?"
"The Christians, my lord; there were many present, and they came on purpose. They failed the first time, but they did it the next."
Magas gazed at Chione, as she lay, for the most part insensible, yet at intervals uttering incoherent words which alarmed them all. He said softly, "Chione?"
She started up and gazed fiercely at him. "Begone!" she said, "you have lost me my soul for ever; begone!" And she struck him a violent blow.
"It is ever thus, my lord," said an attendant consolingly, "when people are thus attacked by the furies; they hate those most that they loved the best."
"What makes you think the Christians have bewitched her?"
"They are practising magic all over, and playing all kinds of tricks throughout the country."
"But why should they attack your mistress?"
"Why, my lord--" And the woman hesitated.
"Well, what?"
"Well, my lord, they do say she was once one of them; and when any one leaves them, they never forgive them--they torment them for ever."
"Pshaw! what nonsense is this?"
"I did not make the story, my lord; more than one says so."
"Let those in this house beware of ever saying it again then, unless they are fond of being scourged." And Magas turned away. He was but half satisfied, however. He remembered the meeting with the bishop, as he had afterward discovered him to be. He knew, too, that Lady Damaris was accounted a Christian, and that Chione always shrank from naming her. The Christians had a great name for magic: but Dionysius and the Lady Damaris were of the highest families. Magas paced for many hours the sacred grove to which he had wandered, then suddenly betook him to the bishop's residence.
He was admitted, courteously received; but it was some time before he returned the bishop's greeting. Dionysius waited his pleasure with the courtesy for which he was remarkable.
At length Magas said: "I cannot think you have done it."
"Done what, my son?"
"Bewitched Chione; made her mad."
"Is Chione ill?"
"She is very ill, she is raving and insensible by turns."
"Your words seemed just now to imply I was concerned in her illness."
"Her attendants think--think--tell me, noble Dionysius, is it true that Chione was ever a Christian?"
"Why do you ask?"
{257}
"Because it is important that the Christians should know that, if they have bewitched her in revenge for her leaving them, they must undo the spell at once, or brave my vengeance."
"This much, at least, I may tell you--the Christians have not bewitched her."
"Yet she fainted at some words uttered close to her, and that was the second interruption of the evening."
"My son, you must not make me responsible for the interruptions; I was not present at your meeting."
"No, but some Christians were; that has been ascertained."
"Even so; each one must answer for himself."
"You did not send them there?"
"I did not!"
"Now, will you tell me, was Chione ever a Christian?"
"I would rather that she answer for herself."
"She is not in a state to answer for herself, and your answer may prevent some suffering; if she was never a Christian, those slaves shall be scourged who affirm she was."
Magas had hit on the right method, as he intended; the bishop answered at once: "Spare the poor slaves, my son. I baptized Chione myself."
"Baptized?"
"Yes, admitted her within the pale of the church by washing away all sin; by that she became a Christian."
"How long ago?"
"About fifteen months before she was missing from Corinth."
When did she leave your society?"
"I suppose when she left Corinth; I have not spoken with her since."
"Is her present illness connected with her Christianity?"
"How can I possibly tell, my son? I have not seen her; mental agitation may have caused it, and her leaving her religion may have caused that; how can I tell?"
"But has magic been used upon her?"
"Not by Christians, decidedly; and I should think, not at all. Her brain is probably over-worked, and she has been suffering from over-excitement: these will frequently cause derangement."
"And you think religion has nothing to do with it?"
"I did not say that, my son; to profess one thing and believe another must occasion uneasiness, until the conscience is dead. I should say, from your account, that Chione is suffering from mental disturbance, brought on by her unfaithfulness to her own convictions. Once a Christian, she must still feel its influence; and unwilling to yield to its teachings, she writhes under its power."
"That is it, that is what her nurses say; she is under the power of the Christians--bewitched by them. Now, that spell must be undone."
"If it is in her own mind, caused by her own act, no one can undo it, as long as her will remains perverse."
"What does this mean?" said Magas.
"It means this, my friend: Christianity links the soul to the living God from which it sprang. To become a Christian is not a myth, not a mere intellectual conviction, not an adoption of philosophical tenets: it is an act, a solemn act of surrender; it is an acknowledgment that the world has been disturbed by influences foreign to the true God; it is a renunciation of those influences, a solemn reunion of the soul with the Eternal Soul, the Creator, the Upholder, the Redeemer; it is positive. {258} A soul so linked by her own free consent, placed under influences unknown to those outside, must, so long as conscience speaks at all, suffer from the conflict she is undergoing, in breaking loose from a personal intercourse with her Maker, as also from a revelation of truth, beauty, and goodness, to plunge anew into the darkness of human guesses."
"You speak in enigmas, my lord! I presume one must be initiated to understand you. Meantime, tell me, can you do anything for Chione?"
"I am somewhat of a physician, although no professor of magic. I will see your patient, if it will give you comfort."
Magas bethought him: the visit of a Christian bishop to his house would be too remarkable. What was he to do? Suddenly he said: "What could possess Chione to make herself a Christian?"
"I believe it was the love of truth and beauty. She sought a key to the mysteries of life, and Christianity offered her one."
"And yet she left it!"
"It is by no means clear that she has left it, otherwise than by act. She is an unfaithful member, but she still believes, or it would have no power over her."
"I wonder is it religion that is making her so ill? My Lord Dionysius, among her former companions, do you know one whose discretion you could trust to take care of her for a day or two, who would be competent to discover whether Christianity is disturbing her?"
"I know an amanuensis who might perhaps be willing to oblige you; we will see." They left the house by a side-door. The bishop led the way through a narrow path for some distance, till they came to a villa. Here he made a signal at the gate; it was opened by an old servitor, who bowed profoundly as he admitted him and his companion. Dionysius whispered a word in his ear, and the old man tottered on before to a side entrance, which he left open. They entered, and very shortly another door opened into a small library. A lady was writing there; they saluted her, and Magas recognized Lotis.
The bishop quickly made known the purport of his visit, and Lotis willingly offered her services. Magas, however, demurred. "Is it possible," said he; "are you really a Christian?"
"I have that happiness," replied Lotis.
"Why, how can it be? how is it that lofty minds like yours and Chione's can ally yourselves with such a drivelling set?"
Lotis smiled as she observed, "I think, Lord Magas, that the illustrious Dionysius, who stands beside you, will scarcely feel complimented."
Magas blushed and apologized. "Forgive me," he said; "I am so fairly confounded to-day, I do not know what I am saying."
Dionysius said smilingly, "You do not know what Christianity is, and therefore stand excused beforehand. Do you wish Lotis to accompany you to Chione?"
"The more, as I think she will scarcely be suspected of--" Magas hesitated. The bishop filled up the gap for him--"of belonging to such a drivelling set. No; and Chione even does not know it; so your secret will be doubly safe. You may confide in Lotis entirely."
Chapter X
Lotis took her place by the bedside of her friend, but she found her situation almost a sinecure. Though Chione did not recognize her, she was very uneasy in her presence. "Take those large black eyes away from me," she would say. {259} Finally Lotis found herself reduced to watching in the next room, as Magas still desired her to stay and direct proceedings; and to beguile the hours, she occupied herself in what had become almost a business with her, in transcribing the gospels and apostolic papers for the use of the different churches. Magas often visited her, and would have shared her watch, had she permitted it; but this she would not hear of; so he was obliged to be content with frequent visits to inquire after the progress of Chione, and by degrees to study the parchments on which Lotis was engaged.
Ashamed to manifest the interest he felt, he took them to his own apartment, and studied first, then secretly copied the writings with his own hand. Weeks went on; Chione's health improved, but her insanity did not pass away. Lotis proposed she should be removed to a dwelling in the neighborhood of Lady Damaris' abode, and be there tended.
"Two influences are about her here," she said, "counteracting each other. There all will be in unison." Magas assented. "I am no longer afraid of Christians," he said; "but how any one once believing what is here written," continued he, producing the gospel he had written out with his own hand--" how any one, once believing, can fall away, is a mystery. I would give all my possessions to have the faith, the confidence in God, herein described. Faith seems to mean the creature's power in God, derived from God. Could I once feel that God is my Father in the sense the gospel has it, I would bid adieu to philosophy for ever, and be at rest."
"Then you are not angry that Chione is a Christian?" said Lotis.
"I am angry that she has acted a lie, and imposed upon me," he said.
"It was love of you that constrained her. Forgive her, Magas."
"Love of me! Did she not know I love truth? I can never believe her again."
Lotis left the apartment and proceeded to superintend the removal of Chione.
Magas went to the bishop, to make arrangements for Chione's maintenance; he wished to settle revenues on her ere he departed.
"Depart! are you about to leave Athens, my son?"
"Yes, father; it has become hateful to me, since I no longer love Chione."
"You do not intend to desert her?"
"I leave her in good hands; what can I do more?"
"Her whole being is bound up in you; through you she sinned."
"That is the worst of it; I cannot look at her without feeling that; but yet, I knew not she was a Christian, nor did I know how sublime the Christian faith is. I cannot forgive her for abandoning her faith."
"But you are not a Christian, Magas?"
"No! I am waiting for the manifestation of God. I am going to the apostle who has heard and seen, who works miracles in the name of Jesus; I am going to ask of this Jesus the power of faith."
"What do you mean by the power of faith, Magas?"
"The power of becoming a son of God, of being free, with the freedom of old Merion, who is more free amid his chains than the young worldlings with their power and wealth. Free from my own passions, which master me and blind me; free from false knowledge, which misleads me; free from the power of habit, which enslaves me. {260} I want power to endure that crucifixion which dying to these objects will occasion me. I feel my own nature rebelling against my aspiration, and I want power to conquer it. The apostle says the gospel is power unto salvation, and that power is needed where life must be one combat, as mine must be for the time to come."
Dionysius, too modest to arrogate to himself the gifts which daily experience proved him to possess, of working miracles to attest the power of God, simply said, "The holy apostle Paul is even now at Corinth; you cannot do better than seek him there; I myself will shortly do the same."
Chapter XI
Two years have passed; such years! Magas has left Athens, has become a Christian--nay, a Christian preacher. His property has been more for others than himself; for he has renounced wealth, pomp, earthly power, to follow the footsteps of that wondrous convert who was brought to Christ by being struck down to earth by excess of light--blinded by glory--by seeing the heavenly vision with the unprepared eyes of earth. By St. Paul confirmed in the faith, Magas was, through the same apostle, set apart for the ministry through the laying on of hands. Magas has so completely changed his nature, his very features seem altered. The young Athenian noble, proud of a long line of ancestry, but seeks to devote his days to the one Master who shares his undivided heart.
Yet he returned to Athens, and his voice was heard by Chione.
All night she listened; in her short slumbers she dreamed of him; In the morning her wandering senses had returned. Lotis entered her room with her breakfast; and the wild light in Chione's eyes had subsided. She looked around; she inquired, "Where am I? Lotis, why are you here?"
"I am here to tend you, dear Chione; you have been ill."
"Ill!" said Chione, passing her hand over her brow; "Ill! I've, had a long, strange dream! Where's Magas?"
"I do not know," said Lotis.
"He was here last night," said Chione. "I heard his voice; all night I watched for him; why did he keep away?"
"I cannot tell you," answered Lotis.
"Cannot tell! Is not this his house? is he not at home?"
"No! this is not his house," said Lotis; "he has been away from Athens, and he left you here to be taken care of. Now you must ask no more questions, but take your breakfast. I will send to Magas to tell him you are better."
Lotis left the room and summoned another attendant, charging her to be careful of her speech, lest the newly returned reason should again fail, she herself sought the bishop to let him know of the change.
It required some care to break to Chione the tidings that she was in the house of the Lady Damaris; that for two years she had been a prey to a most cruel malady of the brain, during which time Lotis had taken every possible care of her; and that Magas had been, during that time, away. Reawakened reason almost tottered again on its throne. Chione's pride was evidently hurt.
"Two years! two years! was that the end of my triumph? Magas! a mad woman! What has Magas been doing?"
"He will tell you that best himself; he will be here shortly."
"Two years! two long years! O Magas!"
......
{261}
"They met! But is this Magas? is this Chione? The long, lank hair, eyes almost starting from their sockets; and that form, so shrunken, so bereft of its former beauty, can this be the Venus Urania? And Apollo! will you recognize him in that weather-beaten form, coarsely clad, and mien so humble, though an intellectual manliness still sat upon the brow?
"Is this Magas? the same, and yet so changed? Magas, speak to me."
"You are then recovering at last, Chione?"
"At last! yes! I knew not of my illness till I recovered. Strange thing, this mind is, Magas! I lived on you: you were absent--I died; your voice brought me back to life."
"Nay, you were ill before I left you, Chione. It was a higher voice speaking to you, to which you turned a deaf ear, that caused your illness."
"What mean you?"
"That the remorse you felt for your abandoned faith upset your mental energies. Venus Urania should not have been enacted by a Christian."
"You have discovered my secret then; but I am a Christian no longer."
"Oh! do not say that, Chione; say, rather, you will repent, do penance. Chione, you cannot at will cast away faith. The effect those words produced on you show that you still believe."
"The devils believe and tremble," muttered the unfortunate woman; "yet it is not faith they have."
"But you are not yet a reprobate--are not yet beyond recall. Chione, I, Magas, entreat you, do not lie to your God. You cannot deceive him, and for his power, does not your past illness make you tremble for the future?"
"What means this altered tone, Magas?" said Chione bitterly. "Are you turned against me? Ah! I see how it is! Two years of absence, two years of illness, have done their work. Man's constancy is of a summer day; the winter comes, he freezes with the cold; for the love within no longer glows, no longer sends the blood rushing through the veins with a warmth that defies exterior cold. Some other form fresher than this frame impaired by sickness hath replaced Chione in your heart. You come to bid me farewell. Farewell, Magas."
Deceived by her feigned calmness, Magas rose. "Again, Chione, I entreat you to return to the religion you have abandoned."
"And do penance at the church door in sackcloth and ashes? Is that your meaning? Will you be there to see me beg the prayers of the faithful as they pass in to the mysteries from which I am excluded?"
This was said with an inconceivable mixture of sarcasm and bitterness.
"Love could sweeten even such an act as that," said Magas; "surely, even that is better than apostasy."
"And who are you that dare to twit me with apostasy? False one, wearied of thy old love, seeking another," (here she seized the arm of Magas,) "tell me," she said fiercely, "what is the name of the fair one for whom you abandon me?"
"Why would you know?" asked Magas.
"That I might tear her limb from limb!" said the frenzied woman.
"That is beyond your power, Chione. Him I love sits enthroned in the heavens. I have no earthly love. Chione, farewell. Remember, Magas blesses you--blesses you as he leaves you. You will not see him soon again, for Magas is a Christian priest."
{262}
He left her.
No, the energies did not depart as she started to her feet on hearing the last words--"a Christian priest!" "Magas! Oh! had I known, could I have guessed! The love of Magas without losing my religion! Can I regain it? Yes; by penance, Chione, doing penance! Faugh! Chione standing in the cold, clothed in sackcloth, exposed to the derision of the faithful. 'Twould be easy to love, he said. Did he say so? Love must be boiling hot indeed to sweeten such an act as that; and my love, ah! ah! love for religion, such a religion as that, ah! ah! ah!"
The poor woman raved, but alas! there was too much method in her madness. Wilfully she shut out faith; wilfully she turned to hate all that heretofore she had held dear; but she acted for a while with an earthly prudence that deceived those around her.
She staid with the Lady Damaris until she had recovered health and strength, until she had made herself sure of the independence Magas had settled on her. Then she left, and opened a school of philosophy, which was soon filled. Her former reputation did her much service in that respect, and that she had escaped from the enchantments of the Christians, who had tried to destroy her, added to the interest she inspired. She soon recovered her former beauty, and she studied now, studied deeply, how to thwart the Christians, how to demonstrate that whatever was beautiful in their religion they had stolen from the muses; that whatever was mystical came to them from Hindostan, the seat of mysticism; that whatever was reasonable and ethical they had learned from philosophy. It was a splendid success in Athens, that philosophical school of Chione; for it flattered the passions while it shed the grace of eloquence and refinement over them. All beauty, taste, and melody were made to yield their utmost sweetness there. Her disciples were of the rich, the great, the noble. They could practise the elegant course of study alternating with ease that she prescribed: "To enjoy is the aim of existence, refinement, cultivation, a correct system of ethics makes perfect enjoyment. Science gives interest, lifts one above the vulgar. Art ennobles and civilizes, and Athens is still the central point of art, science, and philosophy." So said Chione.
Chapter XII
"Indeed, Lotis, you must give me more hope than that; you must not bid me despair."
The words were spoken somewhat louder than was intended. They were heard by one who was passing by. The speaker was Magas; the passer-by was Chione. Magas was lamenting over the account he had heard of Chione's continued resistance to grace. Chione applied to the words another meaning; she ascribed them to a passion felt for Lotis, and her heart burned with rage and jealousy.
"Magas was then returned to Athens. What was he doing?" She set spies on his steps. He was often at the bishop's house, often in the Christian assembly; but also often had interviews with Lotis. This fact, which might have been easily explained by the occupation of Lotis, who supplied copies of books, and kept various accounts for the church, was otherwise interpreted by the misled woman, and she resolved on the destruction of Lotis. {263} If she could not regain the love of Magas, at least she would not have a rival. She had influence in the city. Nero's persecution, though but little felt in the colonies, could be brought to bear. Lotis should not live to triumph over her by a Christian marriage. The idea was insupportable.
Up to this point, Chione had kept herself unfettered from human ties since Magas had departed. She had loved Magas, and though many had made her offers of marriage, she could not resolve to accept them. Magas was alike elegant and profound. Who was worthy to succeed him? Athenian after Athenian paid court to her; gay, witty, and attractive to all, Chione accepted none. This was a matter of great wonder in so licentious a city as Athens.
But a greater wonder still was to ensue. A new Roman praetor arrived. A rude barbarian he seemed to the fashionables of Athens: certainly he was not distinguished for refinement, for learning, or for elegance; but it was soon observed that Chione held him enthralled, and, what was more remarkable, that she seemed to favor him.
How it happened, people could hardly tell, but a different spirit seemed animating Athens. The Christians, from being despised were becoming feared, and at length hated. When Nero's edict had been first made known, it made little impression; but gradually a voice was found, to proclaim that there were Christians in Athens practising magic to the detriment of all good citizens.
A few poor slaves were seized and brought before the praetor; they were ruthlessly condemned on acknowledging themselves Christians. People were startled, but poor slaves have few friends, and the matter blew over. Suddenly the praetor grows more religious, decrees foreign to the usual spirit of Athenian government are enacted; a test is instituted, and several free citizens of Athens have to abide the scrutiny; executions follow, and Chione's reputation suffers, for it is currently reported that it is she who instigates the inquiry and persecutes the new sect.
The Roman praetor evidently takes counsel of her. But there comes one concerning whom even he hesitates; a young lady, daughter of a philosopher, one beloved for her private virtues, is brought before the judge. "Sacrifice to the genius of the emperor." "I cannot." "Why not?" "I am a Christian." How often have the words been repeated; they are so simple, yet so fraught with consequence; how many perished under that simple interrogatory! Lotis undergoes it; she is remanded; the praetor seeks to release her; he is sick of his office when it hits upon the young, the innocent, the lovely; the outside interests him, he cannot see the soul. Faith, ever young, has sustained many an aged slave, wrinkled with age; has adorned many a worker embrowned and toil-worn, bearing marks on his frame that his life has not been spent in uselessness; but these excited only a passing interest, if any--they were common people (would that the toiling saints were more common!) they went to their doom, by fire or by the headsman, unmarked by men and unpitied, though Heaven assumed their souls with hymns of joy, dressed them in white garments, crowned them with brilliants, endowed them with perpetual youth and with beauty that never will fade. But here comes a lady. The praetor understands that she has slaves to wait upon her, every luxury attends her; she may lead a life of indolence, if she pleases. These are the exterior signs, the signs that awaken commiseration. The praetor hesitates. {264} Chione does not hesitate. The prisoner is not only a Christian, she is a member of a conspiracy just laid open to Chione's apprehension. She has lived in the city longer than the praetor, she knows its dangers. This Lotis is a dangerous person, she is a personal enemy to Chione; she must die; nay, Chione names the manner of her death; she is to die by fire. The praetor, infatuated by his passion for the guilty woman who prescribes to him the sentence he is to pronounce, submits, gently hinting that he looks for his reward. "Reward!" says Chione to herself, "is not a smile from me reward enough for a barbarian like him?" And in her egotism, she really believes she is speaking the simple truth.
The sentence is pronounced; horror seizes the city; to-morrow the flames are to consume the conspirators, who are many in number; and Lotis is among them; there is no escape.
The ancient bishop contrives, however, to visit his condemned flock, bearing consolation, courage, and, above all, the blessed sacrament, with him. To each and all he addressed himself according to their needs; if he, too, staid a little longer with Lotis than with the others, it arose out of a previous conversation, and because he wished to promote a holy work.
"My daughter, do you know who has stirred up this accusation against you?"
"I rather guess than know it, father. What have I done to draw down Chione's hatred?"
"She is jealous of Magas in your regard. She cannot appreciate the depth of Christian devotedness; she can understand selfish aims alone."
"Poor Chione!"
"Do you, from your heart, forgive her?"
"I have not thought about forgiveness; I pity her too much."
"Do you remember the conversation we had years ago?"
"About laying down my life for her? Father, I do."
"Are you willing to do so now?"
"If I thought it would save her soul, I am more than willing."
"Pray for her, then, my daughter."
......
'Twas a wild shriek that rang through the streets that morning, as Magas arrived just in time to see the procession set forth, to recognize Lotis, to hear Chione's name as the one who had procured her condemnation. "Stop, stop!" he had cried to the Roman soldiery; "stop! It is all a mistake; stop! In a few minutes it will be rectified. Stop for a short time, in the name of all that is holy!" Had Magas donned his patrician's dress and scattered largess, as in times of yore, his words would have been heeded; a few minutes would have been granted. Even now, his air, his manner, his authoritative gestures occasioned a slight pause; but his weather-stained appearance caused him to be considered as a plebeian, and the pause was not long. He flew rather than ran to Chione's abode. "Come," said he, "it seems you are omnipotent in Athens; come and prevent a murder." He dragged her with him to the praetor's house, but the great man was absent. A bright flame lit up the sky! "My God, if we are too late!" he cried. Almost carrying Chione in his arms, Magas hurried through the streets, till they came to a place set apart for the execution. It was already commenced; singing hymns of glory to God, one soul after another departed homeward. Magas paused opposite to Lotis; she made a sign of recognition. Magas turned to Chione. "Are you a devil," he shrieked, "that you have dared to do this?" "Forgive her, Magas, as I forgive her," said the dying Lotis. "Farewell, Chione! Friends we were in youth, and we shall yet meet in heaven." Lotis was gone.
{265}
"Meet in heaven! meet in heaven! meet in heaven! I and Lotis meet in heaven! meet in heaven! Magas, tell me, Magas, can it be?"
The brain of Magas was on fire with excitement, and he held a murderess in his arms; but he was a Christian priest, and he answered solemnly:
"God is merciful; Christ died for sinners. Do penance; it may be yet."
Conclusion.
Very many years have passed away, and if the dignity of person is considered, a more solemn martyrdom than the last we have commemorated is to take place. The venerable bishop and his companions, some priests, some laymen, are to lay their heads upon the block--among them Magas. A woman veiled, bearing but few remains of beauty or of youth, was also there; but not a prisoner; she was there to kneel at the bishop's feet, to pray for his blessing. That morning, for the first time for long, long years, had that woman knelt within a Christian church--had received the adorable sacrament of the body and blood of our Lord, after years of penance heroically, lovingly performed at the entrance to the building. That morning she had been absolved, that morning communicated. Ere he went to his home in heaven, the venerable bishop, who had sustained the fainting and often faltering soul through so many years of expiation, had thought fit to pronounce her purified, to command that she should again take her place among the faithful. She came to thank him; to accompany him--him and Magas! Consoled, the procession moved along. Chione--such was the name of the penitent--knelt as the victims knelt. The bishop, ere he surrendered himself, gave his blessing to all the assembly. Magas preceded him to the block. When the axe fell, the woman fell also. Magas and Chione stood together before the judgment-seat of God.
-------
Translated From Le Correspondant.
Abyssinia And King Theodore.
By Antoine D'Abbadie.
A Spanish bull having accidentally strayed on a railroad, which spoiled the beauty of his beloved country, met a locomotive. The king of the pasture-lands, fired with anger at the violation of his right, and listening only to the voice of his courage, lowered his head and butted with his horns so accustomed to victory against the mail-clad invader of his verdant fields. This battle is an image of that which is going to take place between England and Theodore, King of the Kings of Ethiopia. It is plain that it is not Theodore who represents the locomotive.
{266}
Before explaining the true motives of the costly English expedition to Abyssinia, it may be well to look at the physical and moral condition of the country which is to be the scene of conflict, and where I passed more than ten years of my youth.
The whole extent of territory from Suez and Aquabah to the Strait of Mandeb, or affliction, along the shores of the Red Sea, is barren and desolate. The small, scattered towns in this region owe their existence to commercial travelling; and even in the most favored portions of the land it takes a two or three days' journey from the salt water into the interior, before meeting cultivated fields.
The only deep bay in the south of the Red Sea is that of Adulis, which the natives designate by the "Gulf of Velvet," perhaps on account of the smoothness of its waters, sheltered by the palisades which guard it on the eastern side. The English, who are fond of baptizing territories before conquering them, have called this part of the sea, "The bay of Annesley." This name is said to be that of the family of Lord Valentia, who, little versed in geography, imagined that he had discovered in 1809 those celebrated districts anciently frequented by Egyptian merchants in the time of the Ptolemies. The island of Desa, formed by a row of schistous hills, shelters the entrance to the bay of Adulis, which we call by this name in memory of that flourishing city of Adulis, which stood by its waves up to the sixth century of our era. The natives still show the site of that Grecian city, and inform the traveller that it was swallowed up by an earthquake. Of its past greatness, there remain but a small number of carved capitals in the lava of the environs, and some sculptured marbles which seem to display the Byzantine style. Near these ruins is the large village of Zullah, which contained, in 1840, two hundred and fourteen cabins, and a population of about one thousand souls. It is from Zullah that the shortest route lies to the plains and highlands of Ethiopia, or, as the English call it, Abyssinia.
Except during January and February, when the weather is still warm, Zullah suffers from the frightful heat which pervades the whole of that stretch of low land called Samhar, which lies along the sea. Wishing to take a bath during the summer, I could not, by reason of the seeming excessive coldness of the water. But placing a thermometer in it, I found the temperature 36 degrees, while in the shade the air was at 48 degrees. I found it at 65 degrees in the between-decks of a French steamer; and when evening brings a refreshing breeze to cool this burning atmosphere, one is tempted to say with a Frenchman after having escaped during the bloody "reign of terror:" "I have done a great deal, for I have managed to live."
Travellers at this season start at midnight, and traverse, on their way into Ethiopia, a plain as barren as desolation itself. Sometimes they encounter the Karif, an atmospheric column of a red brick color, which appears on the horizon like a living phantom. This column seems to increase in volume as it approaches, the air that drives it along roaring like a whirlwind. Man and beast are obliged to turn their backs to it, and it covers them with a dry, black cloud, as with a mantle of horror. In a few minutes the Karif passes away; and men are glad to be out of its hideous gloom, even though it be but to wander again through that intense but quiet heat which broods over the Samhar. Sometimes, also, the Harur, which the Arabs call the Simoom or paison, surprises the traveller. {267} This wind comes without any previous sign of warning, belching out burning death like a furnace. The patient camel then puts his head on the ground, rejoiced to find relief even in the relative freshness of the scorching earth; the strongest of the natives succumb; and such is the sudden and complete prostration of human strength during the simoom, that in the open country I have been unable to hold up a small thermometer, to learn at least the temperature of this strange wind, which science has as yet failed to explain. This Harur lasted five minutes. They say that men and beasts die if it lasts a quarter of an hour.
After crossing those desert plains, the traveller finds the country gradually assume an undulating character. A stream is met. Mountains rise up before him, and deep, verdant valleys extend among them.
I often visited those valleys with, the vain hope of seeing a phenomenon very rare in Europe. During the summer season caravans repose or march in perfect safety under a serene sky, when suddenly the practised ear of a native hears a strange noise in the distance, rapidly increasing in loudness. He cries out, "The torrent!" and climbs breathlessly up the nearest height. In less than half a minute after, the whole valley disappears under a broad and deep stream, which carries with it trees, pieces of rock, and even wild beasts. Rising in an instant, those torrents vanish in a day, and leave no trace of their passage, save ruins of all sorts, and pools of stagnant water in the indentations of the soil. The general nakedness of the mountains explains these strange phenomena. From the bottom of the funnel in which the traveller stands when he is in one of those valleys, he cannot see the small clouds which let fall their liquid burdens with an abundance unknown out of the tropical climates. There is very little loam, and still less of roots of trees to absorb this sudden rain; so that it rolls from rock to rock, as on a roof, rushes through every little valley, and mingles in one common river, as frightful as it is transitory. One day, as I arrived just too late to behold it in all its grandeur, I found a solitary individual, who, with a stupefied look, regarded the still humid earth. "God save you," said I, "what news have you? Where are your arms? Can a man like you remain without lance or buckler?" "May you live long and well!" he replied. "The torrent has carried away my lance, my buckler, my ass, my camel, and my whole substance, my wife and my children. Woe is me! Woe is me!" I then turned to my guide and asked him: "Does thy brother speak truly?" "Doubtless," answered he, "and if the torrent came at this moment, unless we were warned of its approach by the small noise of which I have spoken, it is not the most swift-footed, but the most lucky, who would be saved." Then turning toward the son of his tribe--"May God console thee, my brother!" We all repeated this pious wish, and continued our route, without being able to give anything to this wretched man, for we had neither victuals nor money; and from the summit of the neighboring hills we could hear him repeating for a long time, "Woe is me! Woe is me!"
For more than two centuries the civilization and native wealth of Ethiopia have been concentrated around Lake Tana. Just on its shores stands Quarata, the largest city of oriental Africa--proud of its sanctuary and its twelve thousand inhabitants. A little further on is Aringo, the Versailles of the dusky kings. {268} Near it is Dabra Tabor, the capital, or rather the camp of the last chiefs, as well as of the actual sovereign; and finally, on a spur of mountain which projects to the south, appears Gondar--the famous Gondar, which I have seen, still powerful, although reduced to eight thousand inhabitants, only a fourth of its former population. Of all the faults of King Theodore, that which the Ethiopians will be least ready to forgive is his having systematically burned the city of Gondar. Of seventeen churches, only two have escaped this cool and useless cruelty of the despot.
The Ethiopians are a people of very mixed origin. Languages, institutions, usages, and prejudices, even the shades of color and the formations of the human body, are placed in strange juxtaposition with one another. Except the Somal, who afford instances of tall stature, the Ethiopians are of medium height, have thick lips, white and well-formed teeth, and are of slender frame. Their hair is curly; but straight hair, though rare, is sometimes seen. The Semites have often the aquiline nose of the Europeans. As to the color of the skin, all degrees, from the copper color of the Neapolitan to the jet black of the negro, are found. This latter color is often allied to European features. There is an unconscious and natural grace in all the movements and actions of the Ethiopians. Our sculptors might study their gestures and drapery with profit.
On the coast, to the north of Zullah, live the Tigre, whose language, traditions, and customs entitle them to be considered among the descendants of Sem, like the Hebrews and Arabs. The same must be said of the Tigray, who inhabit the neighboring plateau, and speak a kindred idiom to that of the Tigre. The Amaras, more lively, more intelligent, and more civilized, live in the interior, and use a language of Semitic origin, yet modified by associations with the sons of Cham. This is the language used by most European travellers, for it is commonly employed by the merchant, by the learned, and in diplomacy. The Giiz, or Ethiopian, closely connected with the Tigre, is the dead language, the Latin of those distant countries. It is used in quotations, in philosophical and religious discussions, and sometimes to conceal the sense of a conversation from the vulgar. From Tujurrah to the environs of Zullah, a common language, entirely different from those which we have mentioned, unites all the fractions of the Afar nation, often called Dankalis, but improperly, for the Dankalas, the Adali, etc., are only tribes of the Afar. The Sahos, who are the most numerous among the inhabitants of Zullah, and extend along all the slopes of the neighboring plain, consider themselves as strangers to the Afar, and speak a distinct but affiliated dialect. Another idiom much more important by the number of the nations who use it, has also the same origin as the Afar tongue. We mean the Ylmorma used by the Oromos, whose name in war is Gallei or Galla, and who, by reason of their conquests, have extended their sway from the Afar country as far as to the still unknown regions of interior Africa. Called Gallas by all the Christians of Ethiopia, the Oromos threaten, by their proximity, the stronghold of Magdala, where the English prisoners have been awaiting for four years the arrival of their avenging countrymen.
A serious calculation of the population of any African nation has never been made. As to the centres of population, a fatigued and disgusted traveller, looking at them from a distance and but for a moment, might state the census of such or such a city to be ten thousand souls. {269} An optimist, on the contrary, might gravely affirm that at least thirty thousand should be admitted as the correct number. It is, in fact, almost impossible to form a proper estimate of the population of Ethiopia. Considering its extent of territory, I should say there are three or four millions in it, though if some other traveller were to maintain that it contains six or eight millions I could not refute his opinion, owing to the fact that I do not know the proportion between the inhabited and the desert portions of the country.
II.
The Jews were formerly numerous in Abyssinia. There are not eighty thousand of them left now, and they are gradually disappearing under the influence of the powerful civilization of the Amara.
The origin of the Ethiopian Jews probably dates from the time of the prophet Jeremias, when commerce was carried on between Alexandria and Aksum. At a later period, similar facilities brought to Ethiopia the first Christian missionaries. This happened in the beginning of the fourth century, when the inhabitants of Gaul, or France, were still plunged in the darkness of paganism. The truth, however, progressed slowly in Abyssinia; for the local Judaism, though notably separated from that of the Hebrews, preserved its political power during five or six hundred years, notwithstanding the wonderful efforts of native missionaries, whose feasts and martyrdoms are still celebrated in the country. Even up to the 14th century there were pagans in it; and there are, very probably, some there still.
After the Mussulman invasion of the fifteenth century, Islamism filtered through Egyptian society. The Christianity of the country became corrupt, and we can liken it to nothing better now than to those lepers who abound in this part of Africa, whose bodies are at first attacked in their extremities, and fall away piecemeal. In the same way, her Christianity perished on the frontiers of Ethiopia. Twenty years before our arrival among the Tigre, they were Christians, or rather they lived in the recollection of their faith; but without baptism or sacrifice, and guided in their prayers by the descendants of their last priests. They became Mussulmans under our eyes, with the exception of their principal chief, who said, with a touching and proud respect for ancient usages, that "a king ought to die in the faith of his fathers." One becomes irritated on reflecting that two or three fervent missionaries could have, at the beginning of this century, rolled back the tide of advancing Mohammedanism, by evangelizing or rather reviving that ancient Christianity whose history goes back as far as St. Athanasius, and which we have seen expire after ages of agony.
If we study Christianity in the centre of Ethiopia, we find a somewhat confused schism, but of all schisms the one least removed from Catholic orthodoxy. The only dogmatic points which we regret in this schism are the one procession of the Holy Ghost, which has been condemned among us only at a late period, and the belief in only one nature in Jesus Christ, which is publicly professed by the African schools. But the term in the Abyssinian vernacular which we translate by nature, has such a vague and obscure signification that, if the word could be destroyed, the schism would no longer exist. {270} It must be remembered that the Ethiopians do not understand the art of defining; and when I restricted this ambiguous term according to our method, they understood the dogma exactly as we, and congratulated themselves on being, without knowing it, attached to the same faith as Rome, that seat of St. Peter which always commands their respect.
What particularly distinguish their Christianity from ours, are vicious or irregular practices. Like many of the Eastern Christians, they allow the marriage of the clergy; but in the abbeys, where there are professors, they allow no priest to say Mass who is not a celibatarian by vow. "Among you," said an Ethiopian who had visited Europe, "the important practice is to go to church." "And among you," I answered, "the one thing necessary is to prolong your fastings." One is tempted to say that the active people of the West, and the slow and repose-loving nations of the East, have made the principal merit of a Christian to consist in those pious exercises which cost the least trouble.
It is impossible to leave this subject without saying a word about the Dabtara, or secular clerics. They were organized by a king who found himself, like many of his royal brethren in Europe, very much embarrassed by those mixed questions, in which the spiritual power seems to invade the domain of the temporal. To keep the balance, between them, he created an intermediary body, called the Dabtara. This order is filled from all classes of society; and it possesses the usufruct of all the churches. It alone takes charge of the temporal affairs of the church, and frequently its members act as parish priests, which is a purely temporal office in Abyssinia. The Dabtara hire by the month, rebuke or dismiss the priest who says Mass. Their essential function consists in singing in choir. This duty requires a certain education. In Europe the music of our church hymns may be changed, the words remaining unaltered. The contrary is the case among the Ethiopians. Their music is traditional and sacramental, and in every well-ordered church, the rhymed words of every hymn are specially composed for every festival. The twelve Dabtara of every church display their piety, wisdom, and especially their wit in these productions. They use hymns learnedly ambiguous, to criticise the bishop, to give a lesson to the head of the monks, and even political hints to the sovereign. By recalling an act of some personage of the Old Testament, they find occasion to criticise the government of the city, to praise some Maecenas who is expected to be present at the service, or even, if necessary, to satisfy a personal grudge. When a Dabtara advances into the choir to whisper into the ear of the principal chanter the hymn which has just been written by the Dabtara, and which the singer must know by heart, the other Dabtaras surround the composer, examine the sense of the rhyme, and no matter what may be the result of their investigation, they always congratulate the happy author. Sometimes it is discovered that the hymn has not been made by a member of the order, but by some young candidate in distress, who, for a measure of meal, often sells to the wealthy the fresh inspirations of his genius.
After the teacher of plain-chant, the most important professor is he who teaches grammar, the roots of the sacred language, its dictionary, and particularly the art of composing hymns. {271} After the lesson, the pupils spread over the lawn before the church, repeat the precepts just heard from their professor, and essay to make rhymes or compose hymns, which they afterward recite to him in order to obtain the benefit of his criticism. As in our middle ages, these scholars ask alms and live in misery; often they are the only servants of their preceptors. Lively and frolicsome, like our collegians, they play many tricks on their fellow-students, but never on their teacher, whom they love and almost worship. Having once chanced at Gondar to describe how my college-fellows in France had eaten the dinner of their professor, and left a sermon on fasting and patience on his plate, I was met with such a torrent of invective, that I never ventured on a repetition of the scandal.
In Abyssinia, education is essentially public and gratuitous. As all explanations must be made in the vernacular, which I spoke but poorly in the beginning, I was obliged to have recourse to a private tutor, and when I wished to recompense him for his trouble, I was answered that science should not be sold like any other vile merchandise, and that the honor of the teaching body required knowledge to be transmitted gratuitously, just as it had been acquired. The Ethiopian students are generally very diligent. If they play truant, their parents bring them into the church where the school is being held, and tie their feet together with an iron chain. Sometimes this disciplinary measure is ordered by the professor, and pupils are often seen who, distrusting themselves, ask for those chains, which are not considered symbols of dishonor. They are rarely worn by the higher scholars.
The university course of the Ethiopians is composed of four branches, which might be compared to the four faculties of our own. A fifth branch, devoted to astronomy and replete with traditional ideas, has not been cultivated for some time past. I knew the last professor of this science, who had only one pupil. The other classes are occupied with the study of the New Testament, the fathers of the church, civil and canon law, and the Old Testament. This last requires an effort of memory of which few Europeans are capable; for I have never heard but of one man in the West who knew the whole Bible by heart. No one can be a teacher in Ethiopia without knowing by heart the text of the book he is to explain, the variations of four or five manuscripts, and especially the ingenious commentary, sometimes even learned, but always traditional and purely oral, on the text. The degree of bachelor is unknown in that country; that of doctor is given to the student who is chosen by his professor as capable of explaining in the evening to his comrades the lessons given in class in the morning. In the case of a doubt of his capacity, the teacher is consulted, and his affirmation is considered a sufficient diploma. Great attention and much perseverance are required to make this system of unmethodical education profitable. An aged professor informed me that he had learned to read in three years. He spent two years afterward in learning the liturgical chant, and five years in studying grammar and in composing hymns. He learned how to comment on the New Testament in seven years; and spent fifteen years on the Old Testament, for the strain on his memory was very great.
I have dwelt somewhat on the Ethiopian colleges because M. Blanc, one of the English prisoners of Magdala, says expressly in his narration: "The Abyssinians have no literature; their Christianity is only a name; their conversational power is very limited." {272} To this testimony, altogether negative, I oppose the statement first made, and which I could prove and extend farther. I will merely add that in Gojjam, as well as at Gondar and elsewhere, I have held disputes with native. Christians, on religious, philosophical, and other scientific subjects, and found them as well informed as if they had been brought up in Paris or at London.
With rare exceptions, the regular clergy alone has preserved its virtues and its prestige. The secular priests have lost a great part of their importance by the singular institution of the Dabtara. Yet the Ethiopians, jealous of their political independence, and capable of preserving it by the natural influence of their traditional customs, wish to keep religious authority powerful and undivided. To avoid schisms, and as several bishops can consecrate others, they recognize only one, who must be of white race and a stranger to the country. He has always been consecrated by the schismatical patriarch of Alexandria; but, since the last consecration, I was assured that the Abyssinians would make application elsewhere for the future. The title of their bishop is abun. The last abun or aboona was Salama, who having only a semi-canonical appointment, and besides being addicted to all kinds of vice, had very little influence over the inferior clergy or the people. Suspected by the professors and hated by the Dabtara, he planted more thorns than blessings in the hearts of his subjects. A Copt by birth, he at first frequented the English Protestant school at Cairo, and carried afterward to the convent where he made his vows such doctrines of disobedience and incredulous opinions, that the Patriarch of Alexandria thought it would be wise to exile him to Ethiopia as abun, though he was under the canonical age. In fact, the abun was more anxious for money than for the faith. He received the 36,000 francs, which are usually given as a present at the investiture of the Abyssinian bishop; and the patriarch thus delivered up distant Ethiopia, too much despised by the Copts, to the vices and vague doctrines of Salama. This ornament of the episcopacy had no sooner arrived in his diocese, than he devoted himself to commerce, especially to the traffic in slaves, which is most profitable. His vices were such that our pen cannot describe them. He told me himself that by mistake he had ordained priest a boy only ten years old, and laughed heartily at the trick played on him in his case. Having learned from Monseigneur de Jacobis the cases which annul an ordination, I told them to the professors of canon law. They kept silence in public; and when I pushed them with questions, they all gave me this answer: "Your objections are true; only, in the name of God, do not scatter them among the Dabtara. Except the Masses said by old priests ordained by the preceding abun, there are none valid, and there is no holy sacrifice in Ethiopia; but the ignorance and strong faith of the faithful will suffice before God for their salvation." Abun Salama, busied with intrigues, in which he thought himself very skilful, was nevertheless, only the tool of the princes, who attached him to them in order to help their political combinations. It was he who consecrated King Theodore, who, after frequently insulting his consecrator, finally cast him into prison, where he lately died.
{273}
III.
No matter what the English prisoners may say to the contrary, the Ethiopian soldiers are very brave, and fight fiercely if they are well commanded. As in Europe during the middle ages, the flower of their army is composed of cavalry. The battle is begun by the fusiliers, who shoot well; but their importance had not yet been comprehended by the native chiefs in my time. Soon the charge is sounded, the cavalry rushes to the conflict, the victory is quickly won, and the infantry, badly furnished with blunt sabres, lances, and bucklers, hardly does anything but make prisoners. Every soldier keeps all the spoils of those he may vanquish, except the guns and blood-horses, which by right belong to the general. During this latter phase of the victory, the commander-in-chief, deserted by his eager soldiers, is left almost unattended. In speaking with Ethiopian officers, I often mentioned to them, but always in vain, how important it is to have a body-guard for the commander. The first victory of Kasa, now King Theodore, attracted attention to this necessity afterward. Let us say a word here about the mother of this chief, since she is involuntarily one of the remote causes of the English expedition. This good old woman once did me a great service, and in 1848, notwithstanding the recent elevation of her son to royalty, she was still so polite as to rise at my approach. She was then courted as a power behind the throne. But a short time previously, she was the despised mother of Kasa, an obscure rebel, living in misery, and reprobated by all. His poor mother, in her old age, joined a religious order, and put on the little white bonnet which is its distinctive sign. But she was penniless. The convents had been robbed, and every one shunned the mother of a rebel. She was finally compelled to turn vendor of koso, a drug which the Ethiopians take six times a year, to kill the tape-worm, with which most of the inhabitants are afflicted.
Kasa, the rebel of Quara, grew more powerful day by day, and the proud Manan grew angry. Manan was the mother of Ali, the most powerful prince of Central Ethiopia, and the real mayoress of the palace of that fainékant king who ruled at Gondar, only within the precincts of his dwelling. Manan, desiring to be called ytege, or queen, an exclusive title in that country, caused the nominal king to be dethroned by her son, and placed her husband, Yohannis, or John, in his stead. This prince was an estimable man, and honored me with his friendship.
In 1847, war was waged against the rebel Kasa. The soldiers of Manan insulted their adversary. One gasconading cavalier exclaimed, at a review: "Manan, my great queen, depend on my valor, for I shall lead before you in chains this fellow; this son of a vendor of koso!" But Kasa won the battle, and chained the boaster in a hut, where, after a fast of twenty-four hours, he received the following message from Kasa, delivered verbally by a waggish page: "How hast thou passed the night, my brother? How hast thou passed the day? May God deliver thee from thy chains! May the Lord grant thee a little patience! Be sad with me, for yesterday mamma remained at market all day, and could not sell a single dose of koso. I have therefore no money to buy bread for thee or for me. May God grant thee patience, my brother! May God break thy chains! It is Kasa who sends thee this message." The next day the officer received the same message. On the third day the irony of the conqueror was slightly changed. {274} After the usual salutations, the page joyfully informed the captive that "Mamma had succeeded in selling a dose of koso, and bought a loaf, which Kasa sends him."
A few days after, I heard these details at Gondar. The news-mongers praised the mockery; but they only half-smiled, for the flower of society had fallen into misfortune. Then they regretted the good king Yohannis, and suspected the still undeveloped wickedness of the character of Kasa, the adventurous rebel of Quara. I saw Kasa, or Theodore, frequently at Gondar in 1848. He was dressed as a simple soldier, and had nothing, either in his features or language, which presaged his high destiny. He loved to speak of fire-arms. He was about twenty-eight years old; his face rather black than red; his figure slim; and his agility seemed to arise less from his muscular power than from that of his will. His forehead is high and almost convex; his nose slightly aquiline, a frequent characteristic of the pure-blooded Amaras. His beard, like theirs, is sparse, and his thin lips betray rather an Arabian than an Ethiopian origin. Kasa conquered all his competitors, became King of Ethiopia, and was consecrated by the abun, taking the name of Theodore, to verify an old prophecy current among the Jews and Christians, that a king of this name should rule over the ancient empire of Aksum. But the Ethiopians, like all people of mountainous regions, tenacious of their independence, and accustomed to liberty, did not yield at once to an upstart usurper, who owed his success less to ability and valor than to good luck.
In the beginning of his reign he acted with much clemency, owing, it is said, to the happy influence exercised over him by his first wife. When she died, he caused her body to be embalmed, according to the custom of the Ethiopian princes of the race of Solomon. Her coffin was carried after Theodore everywhere he marched. A special tent was erected in the camp for her remains, and the conqueror of Ethiopia was often seen entering it to meditate on his past happiness, and ask of God, as it was said, prudence and wisdom for the future. It is at this time that he had real thoughts, though always eccentric, of a good government. Civil divorce, and the consequent confusion of marriage, are the plague-spot of Abyssinian society. They uproot the foundations of the family, and are opposed to all ideas of order and stability. Without understanding that a radical change in society cannot be effected by a mere proclamation, Theodore decreed the obligation of regular marriages, and the abolition of divorce. An able statesman would have sought to destroy gradually, abuses of such long standing. Another of his decrees did him equal honor, and might have succeeded better, for he revived the old law of the Ethiopians against the slave-trade.
But the heart of man is fickle. Prince Wibe, falling into the hands of the conqueror, recommended his daughter to the Dabtara and monks of Darasge, his favorite abbey, where he had his family burial vault. One day the faithful guardians of the spot saw a band of soldiers rushing toward them. They thought it was Tissu, a recent rebel. They immediately concealed the sacred vessels, and for safety shut up the daughter of Wibe in the vault. Their surprise was great when they found it was Theodore himself, who was, according to custom, marching over his kingdom in quest of insurgents. {275} He wanted to see everything; and when they refused to open the cavern for him, maintaining that a tomb prepared for Wibe, who was still a chained captive, could have no interest for his conqueror, Theodore suspected some plot, and caused the stone of the sepulchre to be removed. His surprise was great when, instead of a coffin, he beheld a beautiful girl, bathed in tears, and in the attitude of prayer. Theodore forgot his first love. He set Wibe at liberty, and married his daughter. This union was not happy. The ytege, or queen, having interceded to save the life of a rebel whom she had known at the court of her father, Theodore refused at first her request, and becoming angry, finally struck her. In order to humiliate her the more, he made a common camp follower his concubine. From this moment his decree on Christian marriage became a dead letter, and the slave-trade was renewed. Men must have stronger virtue than that of King Theodore, that their good thoughts may bear full fruit.
IV.
Let us here give some account of the English missions in Ethiopia; for they have helped to bring about and inflame the war now pending. M. Gobat, a Swiss Protestant, went as far as Gondar about forty years ago, and acquired a knowledge of the language of the country. After his return to Europe, he published a book of such seeming good faith, that it deceived me at first, as it must have deceived the English projectors of the missions. Charity obliges me to write that M. Gobat, in giving an account of his sermons to the people, has rather described what he desired to say and the answers he would like to hear, than what he actually said or heard. Without citing other witnesses of this fact, that of an educated Dabtara will suffice, who was ignorant of the existence of the Protestant missions. "Samuel Gobat," said he, "was a prepossessing person, who deceived one at first. I, who followed him, can affirm that he was really an unbeliever, or that he pretended to be so. He proposed frightful doubts and objections in matters affecting the Christian religion, but under the form of hypotheses. He always began his strange assertions by an if. Could he express them boldly? If he had, you know that in Gondar, at least, he would not have been allowed to continue, and he would have been denied a residence in our city."
The missionary societies in England did not know this condition of the Ethiopian mind, and influenced by the specious arguments of M. Gobat, they sent him a re-enforcement of three ministers, whom he left to return to Europe. They preached much more honestly and openly than he in Adwa and Tigray, where they were established. They were expelled in 1838, fifteen days before my arrival in the country. Two of them then went to Suria, from which they were also driven. With a perseverance worthy of a better cause, they returned again to Tigray, and again to Suria. Always exiled, they had at last the prudence, in 1855, to make no further attempt at evangelizing the country.
Seventeen years before this last date I met at Cairo a young Lazarist priest, whom I persuaded to accompany me into Ethiopia, to found a Catholic mission. He preceded me, went to Adwa about eight days before the first expulsion of the Protestant missionaries; and as my project seemed to him sensible, requiring only time and patience to realize it, I brought letters from him to Europe in 1838. {276} His holiness, Gregory XVI., favored our attempt, and sent two missionaries to Ethiopia under the charge of Monseigneur de Jacobis, who soon became known all through that region by the name of Abuna Ya'igob. In spite of some imprudence, inevitable, perhaps, in a country where there are such strange contrasts, he succeeded beyond my most sanguine hopes, and when I left the country in 1849, there were twelve thousand Catholics in it, and many of the priests were natives. Last year an English account gives the number as sixty thousand; for the influence of true doctrines could not fail to be extended among a people so intelligent as are the Abyssinians. Monseigneur de Jacobis helped much to obtain this result, by his unchangeable mildness, and by that personal influence which is always exercised by a priest devoted to incessant prayer.
The fate of the Protestant missions was different. The ministers, instead of attributing their want of success to themselves, have blamed the Catholics as the movers of their expulsion from Ethiopia. Even the English Consul Plowden in his official report says that Theodore, after perusing the history of the Jesuits in Abyssinia, decided to allow no Catholic priest to teach in his states. The English are fond of decrying the memory of the Jesuits who taught in Ethiopia up to 1630. It is, however, very singular that I never heard of this history, and that the most learned anti-Catholic professors at Gondar never mentioned it to me in our controversies. On the contrary, they spoke of Peter Paez and his co-laborers with admiration mingled with regret, and quoted touching legends concerning them. A little further on in his account, Plowden, who seems ignorant of the fact that sermons are unknown in Ethiopia, adds that Theodore prohibited all preaching contrary to the Copt Church. We cannot expect that an English soldier, more or less Protestant, should comprehend fully religious questions; but although he was a mere soldier, he ought to have known that Theodore was attached to one of the three national sects, and had forbidden all other creeds, and condemned Catholics as well as Protestants.
It was in consequence of this decree that Monseigneur de Jacobis was compelled to leave Gondar in 1855. This pious bishop went to Musawwa, and there continued to govern his mission, which has been left almost undisturbed by the natives for almost thirty years. The chief proselytes of Gondar retired also to the shores of the Red Sea, and the Protestant ministers, always on the watch, imagined they had at length found a good opportunity to teach in the capital. They went thither under the guidance of M. Krapf, who, in default of other qualities, has at least uncommon activity and persistence, but which have been so far sterile of results. At their first expulsion in 1838, the four Protestant missionaries left but one proselyte in the whole of Ethiopia. This was a quondam pilgrim. He was going to Jerusalem with an Ethiopian priest, who, falling short of money, sold his companion into bondage. M. Gobat having ransomed him, had no difficulty in inspiring him with hatred of the priests, and of all their doctrines. We can only regard this single convert as an apostate induced to desert his faith by resentment and a spirit of revenge. Another young and intelligent Ethiopian, after studying for years in the Protestant schools of Europe, when asked, answered me frankly that the numerous dissensions in religion witnessed by him among Protestants, had destroyed all religious belief in his mind. {277} Religious England always believing, though erroneously, ought to be startled by the consideration that her missionaries, real mercenaries as they are, only succeed in propagating doubt and incredulity instead of spreading the gospel.
M. Gobat, who was somewhat of a diplomatist, in writing to King Theodore, did not state his object to be the foundation of a Protestant mission. He merely announced that skilful mechanics, desiring to improve the physical condition of the country, wished to settle in it. King Theodore, who was desirous of obtaining blacksmiths, gunners, and engineers, to make cannon and mortars, and build bridges and roads, gave his consent. M. Gobat hinted that the workmen wanted the free exercise of their religion. Theodore referred the matter to the abun, who, knowing the tricks of his old teachers, bluntly told Mr. Sterne, one of the missionaries, who spoke of his intention to convert the Talasa, or native Jews, as the sole object of his coming to Gondar, "This mission to the Jews is only a pretext to plot against the faith of the Christians." Pretending not to take the hint, Mr. Sterne repeated his assertion, and the king consented to receive the English mechanics, who were to be the instruments in the hands of the pious missionaries in "evangelizing" the barbarous Ethiopians. But on the testimony of Mr. Sterne himself, and that of other Protestants, the scheme was a complete failure. Many of the "mechanics," or "pious laymen," became as immoral as any of the natives. Besides, in violation of their solemn promise made to the abun, the missionaries distributed, as Plowden informs us, "hundreds of Bibles, and taught the great truths of salvation to many pagans and Christians." We extract these facts from the work of the Rev. Mr. Badger, considered a most trustworthy witness in official circles in England. [Footnote 54] After a short stay at Gondar, Mr. Sterne went to London, was made bishop, and published a wordy volume containing but one fact worth noticing, namely, the intrinsic proof that the author was ignorant of the most ordinary customs of Ethiopia. By an imprudence which has cost him dear, Mr. Sterne related the story of the vender of koso in his book. A former student of the English missionaries informed Theodore of the fact, and the Protestants had reason to feel bitterly that a man's friends often prove to be his greatest enemies.
[Footnote 54: The Story of the British Captives in Abyssinia, 1863, 1864. By the Rev. George Percy Badger.]
V.
The English government was indignant that its agent Plowden, as it is known, should have been massacred on the highway near Gondar. Theodore avenged his death, however, by the barbarous slaughter of its authors and their associates. But the party of the "saints" in England was not satisfied with this reparation. Theodore was weak, and no match for England. It was safe, therefore, to insult him. Had he been as powerful as the United States, England would have been as loath to touch him as she is afraid to refuse satisfaction to America for the ravages of the Alabama on the high seas. She, however, suppressed the consulship of Gondar, and sent Captain Cameron as her consul to Massowah, under the protection of the Turkish flag. Captain Cameron was a brave officer who had served in the Crimea, but he was no diplomatist. {278} We all know that, as much from lack of this quality as from the semi-barbarous habits of King Theodore, who thinks himself all-powerful because he has been so successful in conquering rebels in his own kingdom, Cameron and five other English subjects, among them M. Rassam--another unskilful English agent--and two Germans, were imprisoned at Magdala on the 8th of July, 1866.
Magdala, where the prisoners still remain, is a stronghold in the Abyssinian highlands, 3,000 feet above the level of the sea, and the climate there is less warm than in most parts of the torrid zone. There are a church, a treasury, a prison, and huts in the place, and a population of about three or four thousand persons, of whom four hundred are prisoners of every description; a garrison of six hundred sharpshooters and as many common soldiers armed with lance and shield. Although this fortress is considered strong by the natives, one of the prisoners writes that a single shell would suffice to blow up a place which the Ethiopians have looked upon as impregnable for three centuries.
Besides the European prisoners at Magdala, Theodore keeps fourteen others, mostly German mechanics, near his own quarters. These artisans, exported at the expense of a Protestant missionary society as "pious laymen" began their evangelical labors as messengers of peace in a very extraordinary fashion, by fabricating mortars and other engines of war. As for the spiritual welfare of the Christians of Ethiopia, they looked well to it by distilling bad brandy; and as for the temporal, they drove the profitable trade of slave-mongers. This is what M. Rassam, an Arabian, who turned Protestant to get employment from the English government, tells us. He was nine years at Aden as lieutenant-governor, and is considered one of the ablest English agents in the East, if we are to believe the parliamentary eulogium passed on him in a recent debate in the House of Commons. The last account heard from this unfortunate ambassador does not warrant the belief in his ability. The abun, Salama, having died, M. Rassam advises the English to choose another abun in Egypt, and put him at the head of the invading army as a kind of palladium! This advice, if put into execution, would be as absurd as if, on the death of Pius IX., Premier Disraeli, imitating the policy of Pitt, and wishing to restore the Marches to the Holy See, should send an army against the Sardinians, with a pope at its head elected at Canterbury or elsewhere, Jansenist or Catholic, no matter which, and should expect all the Italians to respect him as sovereign pontiff.
VI.
England has undertaken the Abyssinian expedition to preserve her prestige in the East, and she is determined to gain her point. The dusky King Theodore, pretended descendant of Solomon, cannot complain that he has not received diplomatic notice. When the German who brought him the British ultimatum, told him that if he did not deliver up the prisoners he would have both the armies of England and France against him--"Let them come," said Theodore, "and call me a woman if I do not give them battle." We know not if there be more of folly or of intrepid valor in this proud answer. In fact, notwithstanding the narrations of some travellers, naturally suspected of exaggeration, the Ethiopians have no idea of the military power of the Western nations, and their king may believe that he is a match for them.
{279}
The Bay of Adulis, usually so silent, is now swarming with ships. There were in it, a short time ago, seventy vessels, without counting those of the Arabians and East-Indians. The English have built two quays to assist the debarkation of troops. The English have the Snider gun, which they pretend to be superior to the Chassepot rifle. They have even forty elephants to frighten Theodore. One of them, an elephant of good sense if ever there was one, behaved himself so badly at the debarkation of the troops, that he was sent back to Hindostan.
England is determined to succeed. Instead of borrowing, she has levied a tax of ten millions of dollars. She will need at least six times that amount before the end of the war. Every English prisoner to be freed will cost at least ten millions. But her object is not merely the freeing of the prisoners, though she asserts that it is. She has to provide water for sixty-five thousand men and many beasts on the plains of Zullah, where, in default of natural fresh water, the troops drink a distillation of sea water. They need every day one hundred and eighty thousand quarts to drink; and this quantity has been provided at the enormous cost of twenty thousand dollars for every twenty-four hours. To transport the munitions of war, mules were bought and brought to Zullah from Egypt, Turkey, Spain, and France. The English soldiers, not knowing at first how to manage them, tied them with hay ropes. Many of the mules ate the ropes, escaped into the desert, and were lost. A railroad has been built, running from the sea to Sanafe, the first border station of Ethiopia, a distance of almost one hundred miles.
The line of march has been well chosen. The English could have crossed the plains of Tigray, which are level and oppose no obstacle; and then crossed through Wasaya without meeting any noteworthy difficulty except the river Takkaze, and Mount Lamalmo. Farther on, at Dabra Tabor, where Theodore usually resides, they might have chosen either the plains of the Lanige, or the cool and verdant hills of the Waynadaga territory as the sites of their encampment. But this route is not the shortest. Besides, the Wasaya begins to be unhealthy in the month of May, and there is no forage as far as Wagara.
The shorter route, which the English have taken, is by Agame and Wag. On those elevated plateaux they may keep all their energy, and they will find a territory less ravaged by civil war, and good pastures. The distance from Zullah to Magdala is about the same as from Paris to Lyons. But artillery is with difficulty transported over many of the gullies on the route; and perhaps for the elephants it will be found impracticable. But the leader of the expedition, Sir Robert Napier, will not balk at these details. He will push rapidly on to Delanta before the rainy season, which begins about the 10th of July. According to the prisoners, if he should invest Magdala at the beginning of May, the want of water would soon force the garrison to surrender. If the first rains have fallen before his arrival, the English will occupy Tanta among the Wara Haymano, and from that point open fire on Magdala. Soldiers living in huts, without casemates or caverns, could not stand a day against the English guns. In, any case, Magdala, the great Ethiopian fortress, will be taken, and it will remain to be seen whether the troops will march to Dabra Tabor to burn the camp of King Theodore, and kill him, or make him prisoner. {280} Nevertheless, the use of diplomacy will not be despised. When Theodore put M. Rassam in prison, with great protestations of friendship, he promised him his liberty on the arrival of certain machines and expert workers. England sent both to Massowah, but required first the liberation of the prisoners without having used any of those forms which render a contract binding in the eyes of the Abyssinians. On his side, Theodore did not understand the value of a simple signature. Besides, he had been deceived by Plowden, who denied his character of consul, and cheated by the denials of the Protestant missionaries as to their attempts to proselytize the native Christians. He did not, therefore, believe the protestations of the English. The want of a sensible agent caused the failure of this negotiation, which might have succeeded if more skilfully conducted. Moreover, the English army, on entering the Tigray, issued a proclamation, of which the Times published a literal copy, as ridiculous in Amariñña dialect as in English. Besides, the language used is almost unknown in Agama, where this document has been published. The English officers do not seem to have known that a proclamation is never published in Ethiopia in a written form. But what will King Theodore, the pretended descendant of Solomon, do? It is difficult to answer this question. The natives report that Theodore is often out of his senses when he drinks brandy, which the "pious laymen" of the Protestant mission zealously manufacture for his spiritual comfort. From the very beginning of his reign, Plowden informs us that he manifested symptoms of insanity. The English prisoners tell us more explicitly that Theodore himself informed them that his father was insane, and that he believed himself attacked with the same disorder. Several traits in his conduct toward the prisoners, and the massacre of one hundred of his own soldiers in his camp, on mere suspicion, give gravity to the assertions. If this be true, England has declared war against an adversary unworthy of her dignity. In case of defeat, the only refuge for Theodore is to retreat to his native province of Quara, on the border of a terrible desert, breathing pestilence on all the region around. Woe to the English soldiers if they attempt to follow him thither!
Of all the ancient empire of Yasu the Great, that Ethiopian Louis XIV., Theodore has only Quara, that he can call his own. His governors of the Tigra have been expelled by rebels, or have made themselves independent of his authority. Gojjan has proclaimed its independence; Wag also has risen in arms; Suria is free, and gives asylum to all refugees. Yet these are regions but recently subjected to the conquering arms of Theodore. Tissu Gobaze rules the lower Tigray, Wasaya, Walguayt, Simen, Wazara, and as far as Dambya, where Gondar stood before Theodore destroyed it.
What then is left to this unfortunate tyrant, resisted at home by numberless insurgents, and threatened by foreign force with destruction? The Awamas, whose rights he has respected because they know how to defend themselves, but who will seize the first opportunity to rebel; Tagusa, Acafar, Alafa, and Meca stretching along the Tana, but which he has made solitudes by his systematic pillage; and finally Bagemdir, that beautiful portion of the country, which obeys him with regret. {281} A disease, a slight cheek, or a courageous peasant, would be sufficient to destroy Theodore, that royal meteor, which, after shining for a few years, will soon be extinguished in the night of oblivion. Considering the greatness of the English preparations, we are led to suspect that she has the intention of holding Northern Ethiopia after conquering it. Appearances seems to favor this conjecture, and no matter what the English journals may say, the idea is not of French origin. Plowden urged its realization in his official letters thirteen years ago; Cameron is in favor of it; and General Coghlan timidly hints its practicability in his military monograph on Ethiopian affairs. The English have been masters of Aden for the last thirty years, and they wish to make the Red Sea an English lake. They desire Ethiopia; for from it they could invade Egypt, where "King Cotton" would rule in all his glory. They allege the case of Algiers annexed to France in justification of their project. But let it be observed that Charles X., who ransomed at his own expense, the Greek slaves sold in the markets of Constantinople and in Egypt, could not allow the Dey of Algiers alone to keep French, Spanish, and English Christians in bonds; while the English have never done anything to prevent the slave-trade in Abyssinia. Many Christian slaves are annually bought within gunshot of the British ships on the Red Sea, to be brutalized in Mussulman harems. England has never made an effort to stop the traffic there. Can we blame King Theodore then, who, according to his degree of intelligence and power, wished to put an end to this inhuman commerce, for saying with at least as much modesty as her majesty's government has at command, "Which of us two is the greater barbarian?"
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New Publications.
St. Columba, Apostle of Caledonia. By the Count de Montalembert, of the French Academy, New York: Catholic Publication House, 126 Nassau street. 1868.
Irish ecclesiastical history is something unique in the world, and presents to us the spirit of Christianity run into an entirely new and original mould. The Celtic race, whose most perfect and completely actualized type exists in the people of Ireland, is a singular specimen of humanity, as it used to be in the primitive ages just after, and perhaps long before the flood, preserved, continued, and apparently incapable of being destroyed or changed, in the midst of other races of totally opposite character. The sudden and entire conversion of this people to Christianity, and the invincible tenacity with which it has clung to its first faith, together with the marked individuality of the expression which it has given to the Christian idea, form a phenomenon in history which cannot be too much studied or admired. It was a happy moment for Ireland when that Chevalier Bayard of Catholic literature, the Count de Montalembert, felt his chivalrous soul moved by the story of her ancient princely monks and dauntless, adventurous apostles, and set himself to the task of writing a work which unites all the romantic, poetic charm of the lyric strains of her bards, with the accuracy and minuteness of her monastic chronicles. {282} His narrative, partly owing to the nature of his subject, and partly to his own genius, is like the Scottish Chiefs and the Waverley Novels. The most striking, original, and grand of all the characters depicted by him in that part of the Monks of the West which is devoted to Ireland, is St. Columba or Columbkill. This great man, who was by birth heir to the dignity of Ard-righ, or chief king of Ireland, the founder of Iona, and the apostle of Scotland, is the favorite saint of the Irish people after St. Patrick. He is a more thoroughly Irish saint than the great apostle of Ireland, who was the father and founder of the Irish people as a Christian nation, but was himself, probably, by birth and extraction a Gallo-Roman. A warrior, a poet, a chieftain, a monk, a statesman, an apostle, and, it is supposed, a prophet; the most intensely devoted and patriotic lover of his native island, perhaps, that ever lived; and yet sentenced by his stern old hermit confessor to perpetual banishment from it; the life of Columba overflows with all the materials of the most romantic and heroic interest.
The Life of Columba, whose title is placed at the head of this notice, is, as we have implied already, a monograph extracted from the great work on the Monks of the West, by Montalembert. It is a small book of only 170 duo-decimo pages, and therefore readable by almost everybody who ever reads anything better than newspapers and dime novels. It is, above all others, a book for every one, young or old, who has Celtic-Catholic blood in his veins. It is time now to use that English language which was forced by the haughty conqueror upon the Irish people, from a cruel motive which God has overruled for their glory and his own, as the means of diffusing the treasures hidden hitherto, so to speak, under a cromlech. Those who put this unwilling people into a compulsory course of English, little thought what a keen-edged weapon they were placing in their hands, and training them to use. They could not foresee what use would be made of it by Curran, O'Connell, Thomas Moore, Bishop Doyle, and Father Meehan. The possession of the English language places the Irish people in communication with the whole civilized world, without depriving them of their rich patrimony of traditional lore, legend, and song. It is incumbent on all who love the faith, and sympathize with the wrongs and hardships, of the Irish people, to strain every nerve to increase the number and diffuse the circulation of books, in which this religious and patriotic tradition may be perpetuated. Wherever the Irish people are, in Ireland, England, America, Australia, they are deriving their intellectual nutriment more and more from English books; and thus, in proportion as they become readers, are coming under the influence of writers who write in the English language. It is most important, therefore, for those who are charged with the responsibility of watching over their religious, moral, and intellectual culture, to see to it that their minds are not flooded with an excess of purely secular literature, which has in it no mixture of the Catholic tradition. The greatest danger and misfortune of our rising generation of Catholics in America is the lack of this tradition in historical, poetic, and romantic literature. Even those who are the descendants of parents and progenitors of the old Catholic stock, must necessarily lose by degrees all vivid sentiment of any other nationality than the American, and be more influenced by the genius loci than by any other genius, whether Celtic or Teutonic. The danger to be guarded against is a peril of becoming so much Americanized as to be reduced to a caput mortuum in the process. An American citizen, without faith and religion, even though he may be born and live in Boston, is involved in the consequences of original sin as well as others. It is no gain to transform a poor, simple, believing, fervent Catholic immigrant, in the second or third generation, into an intelligent, well fed, healthy animal, with a comfortable farm and the elective franchise, but with no more soul than the man with the muck-rake in the Pilgrim's Progress, or those dirty heathen in the suburbs of the holy city of New York, who spend their Sundays in weeding cabbages. {283} This deleterious change must be prevented, not only, by purely spiritual means, but also by preserving and fostering as much as possible the natural bonds which connect our youth of Catholic origin with the traditions of their ancestry. Hence, we are in favor of multiplying and circulating as much as possible those books which relate the history of the Catholic Church of Ireland, of her saints and prelates, her gallant chieftains and noble martyrs, her sufferings and persecutions. The English Catholic tradition, and the Scottish, are unfortunately broken. A dreary gap of three centuries intervenes between the present and the Catholic past; but in Ireland the continuity is perfect from the fifth century to the present moment. This is the great artery of life to the Catholic Church of the British empire and its colonies, and it must not be severed. There is an intense sympathy between the people of the United States and the people of Ireland. This is chiefly a sympathy with their oppressed condition as a people, and with their just demands for expiation and redress for the wrongs they have suffered from the hands of the British government. It would be prudent for the gentlemen of the English parliament to take note of this, and to be wise in time, by conceding all those rights and privileges at once with a good grace, which Ireland is sure to obtain sooner or later, whether parliament is willing or unwilling. This merely political sympathy will, we trust, prepare the way for a higher and holier sympathy with the faith, the constancy, the invincible fortitude of the Irish people as a Catholic nation, the Spartans of a sacred Thermopylae, who have immolated themselves to save the faith. It is time that the American public should learn what is the Irish Version of the History of the Reformation. This presupposes a previous knowledge of the first planting and cultivation of Christianity. When it is seen that the Irish fought and died for the very same religion which was planted among them by their first apostles, it will be easy to judge of the claims which the religion of Elizabeth and Cromwell had upon their submission. The labors of Montalembert are therefore invaluable, as bringing to light the hidden treasures of Irish ecclesiastical history, and in all his great work there is no chapter to be found more charming than the biography of the great patriarch of Iona. We conclude with the eulogium which Fintan, a contemporary monk, pronounced upon St. Columba in an assembly of wise and learned men, and which is justified by the history of his life. "Columba is not to be compared with philosophers and learned men, but with patriarchs, prophets, and apostles. The Holy Spirit reigns in him; he has been chosen by God for the good of all; he is a sage among all sages, a king among kings, an anchorite with anchorites, a monk of monks; and in order to bring himself to the level even of laymen, he knows how to be poor of heart among the poor; thanks to the apostolic charity which inspires him, he can rejoice with the joyful, and weep with the unfortunate. And amid all the gifts which God's generosity has lavished on him, the true humility of Christ is so royally rooted in his soul that it seems to have been born with him."
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Ecce Homo. By the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone. Strahan & Co., London. G. Routledge & Sons, 416 Broome street, New York. 1868.
On the day of writing this notice, Mr. Gladstone is introducing his motion for overthrowing that monstrous iniquity, the Irish Establishment. We feel, consequently, especially well-disposed toward him. Nevertheless, with all our respect for his talents and character, we cannot help being reminded of his illustrious countryman, that great ornament of the sea-faring profession. Captain Bunsby. Our English brethren, when they take up solid topics, appear to think laborious dulness and tedious obscurity the evidence of deep learning and sound judgment. Their essays are like those of collegians, who affect to write on political or philosophical subjects in an extremely old-mannish, old-cabinet-minister-like style. {284} This is remarkably the case with the venerable university dons who advocate rationalistic opinions. The style of arguing adopted by these worthy and dignified gentlemen bears a striking resemblance to the movements of one who is carefully wending his way among eggs. As an instance, we may cite the Essays and Reviews, perhaps the dullest book ever written, unless the Treatises on Sacred Arithmetic and Mensuration, by Dr. Colenso, may be thought worthy to compete for the prize. The Ecce Homo is not to be placed in precisely the same category. It is, nevertheless, in our humble opinion, a very vague, wearisome, and unsatisfactory book. We cannot account for its popularity in any other way than by ascribing it to the restless, sceptical, misty state of the English mind on religious subjects; the uneasy desire to find out something more than it knows about Christianity and its author. After eighteen centuries have rolled by, the question. Who is Jesus Christ? still remains a puzzle to all those who will not submit to learn from the teacher commissioned by himself. The author of Ecce Homo has endeavored to throw himself back to the time and into the period of the disciples of Christ, to examine with their eyes his words and actions, and from these to abstract a mental conception of his true character. What that conception is, remains as much a puzzle as the gospels themselves are to a rationalist, or the Exodus to Dr. Colenso. The language of Ecce Homo is certainly irreconcilable with the definitions of the Catholic Church respecting the divine personality of Christ. Some of its statements respecting the nature of the work accomplished by him on the earth, and the evidence thereby furnished of his divine mission, are forcible and valuable, and perhaps to rationalists, Unitarians, and doubters, the work may be useful. No one, however, who understands Catholic theology, and believes in the true doctrine of the Incarnation, can read it without a strong sentiment of repugnance and dissatisfaction. Mr. Gladstone, nevertheless, although professing to accept the Catholic doctrine of the Incarnation, undertakes the defence of the book, and even apologises for its most offensive passages. By doing this he shows that he himself does not grasp the full meaning of the formulas to which he gives his assent; and although he is not a rationalist, yet, from perpetual contact with them, and the influence of that halting, inconsequent state of mind produced by Anglicanism, he has acquired something of that dark-lantern style of which we have spoken above. There are gleams of light and passages of beauty here and there, especially on those pages where the author treats of the Greek Mythology as an imperfect effort to realize the idea of Deity incarnate in human form. As a whole, the essay, which is a mere review of another book, was well enough for a magazine article, but not of sufficient importance to warrant its publication in book form. Every person who acknowledges the true divinity of Jesus Christ while rejecting the authority of the Catholic Church, stands in a position logically absurd, and is therefore incapable of adequately advocating the cause of Christ and Christianity against the infidelity of the age. No one but a Catholic, endowed with genius, and fully imbued with the spirit of Catholic theology, can ever write in a satisfactory manner upon the Life of Christ, so as to meet that demand which causes the abortive efforts of unbelievers and half-Christians to find such an extensive circulation.
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On the Heights. A Novel. By Berthold Auerbach. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1868.
This volume, professing to be a translation from the German, is most thoroughly permeated with German mysticism; one can hardly give it the dignified name of theology. It carries one back in its bewildering metaphysics to the days of The Dial, when every girl of eighteen belonging to a certain clique, was devouring Bettina's correspondence with Goethe, and listening with rapt soul to lectures on "Human Life," from the oracular lips of a favorite seer; discourses utterly beyond the comprehension of the maiden's papa, but which she understood perfectly.
{285}
We are led to wonder, in our republican ignorance, if people in court life converse and act in the stilted, theatrical manner in which they are here represented; every person being what in these days would be called "highly organized." In this particular, and in the tedium and repetition of court detail, we were forcibly reminded of the voluminous works of Miss Mühlbach, with this difference, that On the Heights makes no historical claim.
There are, however, very many sweet touches of nature in the book, gems of thought; and now and then a rare pearl of good counsel, near which, in reading, one involuntarily draws a pencil-line, that they may be found again. Maternal love is beautifully portrayed, both in high and low life, in the queen, and in the foster-mother of the prince.
The author evidently, knows but little of the Catholic faith, and less of its results, since the life of the religieuse is continually referred to (with a slight sneer) as "a life in which nothing happens."
We close this volume with a sensation of weary sadness; there seems to run through its pages "the cry of that deep-rooted pain, under which, thoughtful men are languishing," like the distant tones of an AEolian harp wafted on the night breezes. There is a reaching forth in these mystic yearnings for the good, the true, and the enduring, which the priceless gift of faith alone brings to the weary and heavy-laden, in submission to God's appointed teacher, the church.
The mechanical execution of the work is excellent, the type clear, and the double-columed pages furnish a vast amount of reading in a small compass.
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Chemical Change in the Eucharist. From the French of Jacques Abbadie. By John W. Hamersley, A.M.
Jacques Abbadie was born in Switzerland, in 1654; "studied at Saumur," writes Mr. Hamersley in his preface, "was doctorated at Sedan, and installed pastor of the French (Huguenot) Church of Berlin, at the instance of Count d'Espence."
He left his pastorate, became chaplain to Marshal Schomberg, and came to England with William of Orange in 1688. After Schomberg's death, in the battle of the Boyne, Abbadie was presented to the deanery of Killaloo, in Ireland, where he died in 1727.
His book against transubstantiation in the Eucharist, is such as might be expected from the literary leisure, taste, learning, and piety of one of Schomberg's exemplary camp-followers. We read the book with the hope of finding some objection in it worth a refutation; but we have found nothing but the stale, oft-refuted arguments of Protestants against the real presence. Led by the title of the work, Chemical Change in the Eucharist, we expected to meet some profound chemical discoveries that should at least seem to contradict Catholic belief. But there is not one. There is not even an allusion which would show the author to be conversant with chemistry or any of the natural sciences. Abbadie argues against the Catholic exegesis of the sixth chapter of St. John, and against the words of consecration, "This is my body," in the usual Protestant way. He insists that Christ's words are to be taken figuratively; while Catholics claim that they are to be taken literally.
One general answer will do for all heterodox interpretations of Scripture on this and on other points. If Protestants urge that private reason is the supreme judge of Scripture, how can they deny to Catholics the right to use it? And if the private judgment of Catholics finds that Christ spoke of a real presence in the Holy Eucharist, and that his words are to be taken in their plain, literal signification, why should Protestants object? In point of fact, Catholics do admit private judgment, properly understood, in the interpretation of Scripture. They affirm that the interpretation of the church or of the fathers is identical with the rational exegesis. {286} The interpretation of Protestants is not a rational interpretation, and does not give the true sense of Scripture. They misinterpret the Scriptures by an abuse of private judgment. They gratuitously assume that Catholic interpretation is contrary to the rational sense of the Bible; while Catholics hold that their interpretation alone is rational. As a prudent, sensible man, when he meets with a difficult passage in Homer or Sophocles, consults the best commentators to aid him in discovering the true sense; so, for a much greater reason, should a Christian seek an authoritative explanation of those hard passages of Holy Writ "which the unstable and unlearned wrest to their own destruction." One who denies that there are difficult texts in Scripture can never have read it. From the first text of Genesis to the last in the Apocalypse, the Scripture is replete with difficulties, which even the most learned commentators do not always succeed in explaining.
All Abbadie's scriptural arguments against the real presence may be, therefore, met with one remark. He explains certain texts in a figurative sense. Catholics, however, interpret them to mean what they plainly and literally express. Catholics do not need in this case to appeal to the authority of the church or to the fathers. Christ says, "This is my body;" Catholics believe him. Christ says, "My flesh is meat indeed;" Catholics believe his words. Abbadie and his sect admit that Christ says, "This is my body;" that he affirms his flesh to be meat indeed; yet they will not believe him. Who authorizes them to contradict the express words of Christ? We ask impartial reason to judge between Catholic and Protestant in this controversy.
But where Abbadie shows his complete ignorance of the first elements of the higher sciences is in "Letter Fourth" of his book, p. 98. We quote from Mr. Hamersley's translation. "All our ideas of faith rely solely on sense; and their value to us is measured by its certainty; and to faith, which is a conviction of divine truth, there are four essentials: God exists; he is truthful; he has revealed himself; each mystery of our faith appears in such revelation. Sir--it is noteworthy--that the senses are the sole channels of all those truths, and their SOLE vouchers." Again, "Thus the senses are the media of all evidence." (P. 99.) The materialism of d'Holbach, Cabanis, Helvetius, and Condillac is identical with this doctrine of the doughty dean of Killaloo. If the senses "are the sole channels of truth," instead of being the mere occasions of reflection, then the whole order of intelligible ideas, the ideas of God, spirit, and cause, are illusions. The senses can only tell us the sensible or phenomenal. Now, as the ideas of God, cause, spirit, truth, justice, goodness, substance, etc., are all supersensible, they cannot come from the senses. If the senses "are the media of all evidence," the only things we can know are modes or phenomena, colors, forms, sounds, etc. The senses tell us nothing more. We must, therefore, deny the existence of God, of truth, of goodness, cause, substance, etc.; and turn atheists, pantheists, sceptics, or materialists, as all who logically follow out Abbadie's or Locke's metaphysics really become. The philosophy of the warlike chaplain of Schomberg's army is thus shown to be essentially immoral.
Did Mr. Hamersley know this when he translated the book? We think not, for he is evidently too innocent of logic and too ignorant of truth to be able to understand fully even the arguments of the superficial dean of Killaloo.
We shall make good our assertion by quoting a few of Mr. Hamersley's own references: "In 1845, the pope made the Immaculate Conception a part of the Roman creed and a condition of salvation." (P. 113.) The gentleman probably was thinking of the pope's decree of 1852.
"A.D. 597, Gregory I. instructs St. Augustine to accommodate the ceremonies of the church to heathen rites." (P. 125.).
"The Maronites, originally Monothelites, protected by the Emperor Heraclius, are now incorporated in the church of Rome." (P. 126.)
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"A.D. 1295, Boniface VIII. confines ex-pope Celestine V. in a cell about the size of his body, lest he may elect to resume the pontificate he has resigned--guards him night and day with 6 knights and 30 soldiers. Celestine dies of cruelty." (P. 129.)
"Gregory VII. threatens to anathematize all France, unless King Philip abandons simony. (P. 135.) This was one of Gregory's crimes in the judgment of Mr. Hamersley.
"Alexander VI. (Borgia) is elected pope--his Holiness is forthwith adored by the cardinals:" (P. 143.) What idolatry!
"Penance--a sacrament by which venial sins, committed after baptism, are forgiven." (P. 146.)
"The Nestorians were excommunicated A.D. 431, for holding, among other views, two natures of Christ."
"The Council of Chalcedon, A.D. 451, confirmed the doctrine of the two natures of Christ, which the church had repudiated." (P. 148.)
As instances of schisms in the church, the learned translator cites the following: "Dominicans and Franciscans--on immaculate conception." "Thomists and Scotists--efficacy of grace and immaculate conception." "Jesuits and Jansenists--on the doctrine of grace." (P. 150.)
"Dec. 17, 1866, the _leading Romanists of the Council of Baltimore_ invite the pope by letter to visit the United States." (P. 157.)
"Jesuit pestilence." (P. 159.) "Plague-spots--Roman Catholic churches and institutions." (P. 160.) This is a good instance of Mr. Hamersley's rhetoric.
"The Papal Church in the United States has recently adopted the title of Roman Catholic." Evidence: "It appears in large iron gilt letters over the gate of the asylum in Fifth avenue, New York--Roman Catholic Male Orphan Asylum." (P. 160.) This is one of the plague-spots!
These are but a few of the literary beauties to be found in Mr. Hamersley's additions to Abbadie. A Catholic could afford to smile at both the original and his translator, if, unfortunately, there were not found many persons so credulous as to believe their falsehoods. The original work of Abbadie is tolerable. He attempts to argue; and we have no doubt his military logic was satisfactory enough to the square-headed soldiers of Schomberg's army. Besides, when Abbadie wrote, civilization had not arrived at such a degree of progress as it has now attained. But Mr. Hamersley writes his falsehoods now. His ignorance and fanaticism, of which we have culled but a few of the many instances in his book, are of our own day. We cannot understand why he should repeat them, since there is hardly any moderately educated Protestant who does not know that most of his allegations are false. If there be any so dull or fanatical as to believe them, we feel for them more of pity than contempt.
In conclusion, we regret that the translator does not show as much good sense or taste in choosing the subject as the publishers manifest in the binding and printing of the work. We are sorry to see such fine print wasted on a bad, worthless book. Mr. Hamersley could have found nobler themes in foreign literature, even though they might be the productions of Protestants, to exercise those talents as a translator which he has failed to show as a lover of truth, a logician, or a man of good sense.
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Life in the West; or, Stories of the Mississippi Valley. By N. C. Meeker, Agricultural Editor of the New York Tribune. New York: Samuel R. Wells.
"A long residence in the Mississippi Valley, frequent journeys through its whole extent, and years of service as the Illinois correspondent of the New York Tribune, have furnished the materials for the following stories." Hence, it is almost unnecessary to state that their claim to our careful consideration rests upon something more substantial than the fact of their being pleasingly told, varied in incident, and unobjectionable in tone. Their real worth, and it is not slight, arises from this, that they are made the agreeable medium of conveying much valuable information concerning "life in the West;" no less the hardships unavoidably to be endured by the emigrant, the difficulties to be overcome, and the dangers to be encountered, than his almost assured ultimate triumph.
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Of general interest, but designed especially for those intending to emigrate, is the appendix, containing a brief description of the soil, climate, products, area, and population of each State and territory lying in the great Valley of the Mississippi; and also the locations of the several land-offices where application must be made and all needful information can be obtained.
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Mozart: A Biographical Romance. From the German of Heribert Rau. By E. R. Sill. New York: Leypoldt & Holt. 1868.
A poor translation of a frothy production. On the first page, the child, Mozart, is called a "three-years-old son." Mr. Sill evidently does not know that a three-year-old is English for colts and heifers. Mozart's sister is also denominated a "seven-years-old." The writer, if Mr. Sill has translated him correctly, is exceedingly ignorant, or worse. On page 54 we read: "They sought the pope's chair," (that is, the worshippers crowding to St. Peter's for the services on Maundy-Thursday,) "partly because it was the fashion, partly because they wanted to be on hand to see everybody else do it, and partly because, to an Italian, a hundred days' absolution in advance is always a pleasant and convenient thing to have." The recitation of the Tenebrae, in the evening, is called, on page 58, "the performance of Mass." Would it not be well for our enterprising publishers in this enlightened country, to employ a proof-reader who has received a passable education?
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The Great Day; or, Motives and Means of Perseverance after First Communion. Translated from the French by Mrs. J. Sadlier. New York, 1868.
A pretty and good little volume, intended for a gift to children, as a memento of the happy day of their first communion. We have only one criticism to make, which is, that its tone of thought is too foreign. We wish that the accomplished translator had made use of the original French only, as matter from which to compile a delightful little book under this title, (a task which she could so admirably perform,) suitable, in the freshness of its thought, to the minds of American children. In lieu, however, of the wished-for better book of Mrs. Sadlier's, we heartily recommend this present volume to the attention of all pastors, parents, and superintendents of Sunday-schools, who will find in it, we are sure, just what very many of them have long desired to procure as a worthy memento for "The Great Day."
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Tales from the Diary of a Sister of Mercy. By C. M. Brame. New York: Catholic Publication Society. 1868.
We all remember Passages from the Diary of a Late Physician, by Dr. Warren, and the intense interest everybody felt in these sketches of the tragic scenes with which the persons whose profession leads them among the sick, the suffering, and the dying are familiar. This book is on a similar plan, and is composed of graphic descriptions of what a Sister of Mercy may be supposed to see and observe in her charitable ministrations. The light of the Catholic religion thrown in among these painful, tragic scenes, relieves their shadows, and leaves a more healthful impression on the mind; in short, becoming their pathetic effect. Those who love sensation stories will find their taste gratified in this volume, and, at the same time, may be able to derive from it some good moral and religious lessons.
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We regret that a notice of The First Report of the Catholic Sunday-School Union was crowded out of the columns of this number. It will appear in our next.--Ed. C. W.
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The Catholic World.
Vol. VII., No. 39.--June, 1868.
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Edmund Campion.
In the spring of 1580, Elizabeth being then queen of Great Britain, and England being in the midst of the turmoil which accompanied the final establishment of Protestantism as the religion of the realm, two expeditions set out from Rome, to restore the faith in the British isles. One consisted of two thousand armed soldiers, enlisted as a sort of crusaders, and animated by the papal blessing and the promise of indulgences, not to speak of the visions of worldly glory and profit which even soldiers who fight under consecrated banners are apt to find alluring. The other was composed of less than a score of missionaries, Jesuits, secular priests, and others, whose most enticing prospect was one of martyrdom. The soldiers were to land in Ireland and help the rebellion of the Geraldines. The missionaries were to penetrate in disguise into England, and exercise the ministry of the proscribed and persecuted faith in the secrecy of private houses and hidden chambers.
Looking at the history of those times in the light of subsequent experience, it seems hard to account for the policy which could imperil not only the lives of the missionaries, but the cause of the church, by complicating the peaceful embassy of the priests with the mission of war and insurrection. For it was no secret that the troops came from Rome, and that large subsidies from the Roman treasury were sent with them. Associated with them, too, went an eminent ecclesiastic. Dr. Saunders, with the functions of a legate. We must remember, however, that the accession of Elizabeth had never been popularly acquiesced in. Her legitimacy had never been generally acknowledged. Her reign thus far had been a series of rebellions. The party which opposed her had a fair title to the character of belligerents, and the continental powers which espoused their cause were only doing what, by the customs of the age, they had a perfect right to do. The pope had issued a bull, excommunicating the queen, absolving her subjects from their oath of allegiance, and even forbidding them to obey her; and although he had afterward so far modified the bull as to permit the English people to recognize her authority, rebus sic stantibus, "while things remained as they were," he had never ceased, in conjunction with other European powers, to promote attempts in Ireland and elsewhere to overthrow her and place the Queen of Scots upon the throne. {290} At this distance of time, with a line of successors to ratify Elizabeth's title to the crown, and the fact of their failure arguing against the insurgents, it is easy to condemn the papal policy; but we must remember that affairs bore a different aspect then; that Elizabeth's right to the throne was open to question; and that the Catholic faith which she was striving to suppress was still the faith of a large majority of the English people.
We have little to do, however, with this Irish expedition. It was a miserable failure, and its only effect was, to aggravate the sufferings of the Catholics and expose the missionaries to increased danger. Our purpose in this article is rather to trace the history of the more peaceful and strictly religious embassy, so far as it bore upon the life of the illustrious martyr from whom it derives its chief renown.
Edmund Campion, [Footnote 55] the son of a London bookseller, was born on the 25th of January, 1539, (O. S.,) the year which witnessed the commencement of the English persecution, of which he was destined to be a victim, and the solemn approval of the Society of Jesus, of which he was to be the first English martyr. At St. John's College, Oxford, where he was educated and obtained a fellowship, he was so much admired for his gift of speech and grace of eloquence, that young men imitated not only his phrases but his gait, and revered him as a second Cicero. It was the year after he obtained his fellowship that Queen Mary died and Elizabeth succeeded to the throne. The new sovereign allowed but a few weeks to pass before she manifested her preference for the Protestant doctrines; yet there was no attempt at first to force the heresy upon the university of Oxford, her Majesty wisely trusting to the insidious influences of time, persuasion, and high example to bring the students and professors over to her views. It is no great wonder, perhaps, that Campion, intoxicated by the incense of adulation and enervated by the worldly comfort of his position, shut his eyes to the dreadful gulf of heresy into which the English Church was drifting, and seemed hardly to realize the necessity which was being forced upon him of choosing between God and the queen. He was not required for some years to take any oath at variance with his fidelity to the church. So he gave up the study of theology, to which he had hitherto devoted himself, and applied his mind to secular learning. He was a layman, and controversy might be left to the priests. When he took his degree in 1564, he was induced to subscribe to the oath against the pope's supremacy, and by the statutes of his college he was also compelled to resume the study of divinity; yet he still managed to stave off important questions and to confine his reading to the old settled dogmas which had no direct bearing upon the questions of the day.
[Footnote 55: Edmund Campion: A Biography. By Richard Simpson. 8vo, pp. 387. London: Williams & Norgate. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.]
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The time came, at last, when the theological neutral ground had been thoroughly explored, and Campion turned to the Fathers. In their venerable company he seemed to grow more thoughtful and conscientious. The problem of his life now was not how he could postpone serious considerations, and shake off religious responsibility, but how he could reconcile true principles with false practice; how he could remain in the Established Church of England, and yet hold to all the old Catholic doctrines which the Establishment denied. His position, in fact, was almost identical with that of the modern Tractarians, and his college at Oxford was the home of a party which entertained nearly the same opinions. There was one of the Elizabethan bishops, Cheney of Gloucester, who, having retained a good deal of the orthodox faith, sympathized heartily with Campion's aspirations and perplexities. He was the actual founder of the school represented in later times by Newman and Pusey, and he had fixed upon Campion to continue and perfect the work after he himself had passed away. The bishop persuaded our young scholar to take deacons' orders, so that he might preach and obtain preferment. But the effect of this step upon Campion was such as Cheney little anticipated. Almost immediately troubles beset his mind. He found his new dignity odious and abominable. The idea of preferment became hateful to him. He wished rather to live as a simple layman, and in 1569 he resigned his appointments at the university and went to Dublin, where it seemed that a more agreeable career awaited him. A project was then afoot for restoring the old Dublin university founded by Pope John XXI., but for some years extinct. The principal mover in the matter was the Recorder of Dublin and Speaker of the House of Commons, James Stanihurst, a zealous Catholic, and the father of one of Campion's pupils. In his house Campion received a generous welcome, and there he remained for a while, leading a kind of monastic life, and waiting for the opening of the new seminary, in which he hoped to find congenial employment. The scheme fell through, however, and the chief cause of its failure was the secret hostility of the government to Stanihurst, and the Lord-Deputy, Sir Henry Sidney, who were most actively concerned in it, and to Campion, who was to have the principal share in its direction. Campion was not yet reconciled to the church, but he was already distrusted as a papist, and only saved from arrest by the protection of Sidney. Such protection, however, could not avail him long. The rebellion of some of the English Catholic nobles, the publication of the pope's bull against Elizabeth which Felton had posted on the Bishop of London's gates, and the designs of the king of Spain upon Ireland, had roused a persecution, and Campion was one of those especially designated to be arrested. The Lord-Deputy found means to warn him a few hours before the officers arrived, and he saved himself by flight. For two or three months he dodged the pursuivants about Ireland, lurking in the houses of his friends, and working, in the intervals of the pursuit, at a History of Ireland, which he had begun while lodging with Stanihurst. At last, seeing that he must soon be captured if he remained on the island, and fearing to compromise the friends who gave him shelter, he resolved to return to England, and accordingly, in the disguise of a lackey, took ship at the little port of Tredagh, near Dublin. The officers came on board to search for him, and questioned everybody on the vessel except the fugitive himself. They seized the manuscripts of his history, and then went away, cursing "the seditious villain Campion." He reached England in time to witness the trial of Dr. Storey, who was executed for the faith in June, 1571. {292} We are told nothing of the progress of his conversion after he left Oxford, but by this time it was complete, and he had resolved to repair to the English college at Douai, there to fit himself for more effective labors in the Catholic cause. In mid-channel the ship in which he had taken passage was overhauled by an English frigate, and Campion, having no passport, and being, moreover, suspected and denounced by his fellow-passengers as a papist, was taken off and carried back to Dover. The captain appropriated all his prisoner's money, and then set out to conduct him to London. It was soon evident, however, that the officer cared more for the purse than the captive; and without a word being said on either side, Campion understood that he might run away provided he said nothing about the money. This was enough. He escaped in one direction while his guard pretended to pursue him in another; and having obtained a fresh supply of money from some of his friends, succeeded at last in making his escape over to France.
He staid long enough at Douai to complete his course of scholastic theology and to be ordained sub-deacon. After the lapse of a little more than a year, he resolved to go to Rome with the purpose of becoming a Jesuit. His biographers generally attribute this determination to the remorse which he still felt on account of his Anglican deaconship; but Mr. Simpson is inclined to lay rather more stress upon a disagreement between Campion and Dr. Allen, the president of Douai College, upon political questions. The friendly and even affectionate relations of these two eminent men were never interrupted; but Dr. Allen had many opinions which his disciple could not share. Campion, devoted as he was to the church and the Holy See, was always loyally obedient to the civil powers of his native country, save when the laws were in conflict with his conscience. Allen, who had been many years in exile, was a devoted servant of Philip of Spain, and was thick in the plots for the overthrow of Elizabeth and the various schemes for foreign invasion. It is not impossible that a divergence of sentiment on some such point as this may have influenced Campion's decision, if not wholly, at least in part. However it was, the two friends bade each other an affectionate farewell, and the future martyr, in the guise of a poor pilgrim, set out afoot for Rome. In shabby garments, dusty and footsore, he entered the holy city in the autumn of 1572, only a few days before the death of St. Francis Borgia, third general of the Society of Jesus. A successor to the saint was not chosen until April, 1573, and meanwhile Campion had to wait. He was the first postulant admitted by the new general. Father Mercurianus, and soon afterward he was sent to Brünn in Moravia to pass his novitiate. In a letter which he wrote to his brethren there, after he had taken his vows, we find a pleasing picture of the humble and happy life which he spent in that retreat. "O dear walls!" he exclaims, "that once shut me up in your company! Pleasant recreation-room, where we talked so holily! Glorious kitchen, where the best friends--John and Charles, the two Stephens, Sallitzi, Finnit and George, Tobias and Gaspar--fight for the saucepans in holy humility and charity unfeigned! How often do I picture to myself one returning with his load from the farm, another from the market; one sweating stalwartly and merrily under a sack of rubbish, another under some other toil! ... {293} I have been about a year in religion, in the world thirty-five; what a happy change if I could say I had been a year in the world, in religion thirty-five!" There is something very touching and instructive in the record of his first years in the Society of Jesus; and the chroniclers of his order, who reckon it among the chief glories of the brotherhood in Bohemia that the English martyr received his religious training among them, and taught them at the same time by his illustrious example, have set down that record with careful and affectionate minuteness. How the man whom Oxford had revered as a guide was content in a moment to become the humblest of pupils; how he by whom the young nobility of England had set the fashion of their thought, their reading, their elocution, their very walk and manner, was happy in the privilege of being allowed to put on a dirty apron, roll up his sleeves, and scour saucepans in the scullery--these are the chief points in the story of his life at Brünn, and afterward at Prague, whither he was sent to teach rhetoric. It is a strange life to read about, yet it probably differed little from the ordinary life of his brethren in religion, and hundreds of Jesuit houses to-day exhibit no doubt the same model of industry, devotedness, and humility. For a certain number of hours daily he was in the class-room; when his pupils went to play, he went to wash dishes in the kitchen. He was called upon for poems, orations, and sacred dramas, to celebrate the college festivals; for funeral discourses on the death of great persons. He taught catechism to the children; he visited the hospitals and prisons; he preached; he heard confessions; he spent incredible pains in preparing the young Jesuits for the work of disputing successfully with heretics when they should be sent out to their various fields of duty. His brethren were amazed that any one man should have strength to carry so many burdens. He seems, however, to have borne up well under them. "About myself," he writes to Father Parsons, "I would only have you know that from the day I arrived here I have been extremely well--in a perpetual bloom of health, and that I was never at any age less upset by literary work than now, when I work hardest. We know the reason. But, indeed, I have no time to be sick, if any illness wanted to take me." It was while Campion was thus occupied at Prague, that Sir Philip Sidney, who had known him at Oxford, came over from England as ambassador. The young nobleman had many an interview with his old friend, and seems to have awakened in Campion a strong hope of his conversion--a prospect to which his friends and political associates were by no means blind; for they watched him so closely that the interviews between the ambassador and the Jesuit were not managed without a great deal of difficulty. Campion writes to one John Bavand, commending "this young man, so wonderfully beloved and admired by his countrymen," to the earnest prayers of all good Catholics. He saw what an effect upon the faith in England the conversion of a nobleman of Sidney's brilliant parts and distinguished position must have, and the re-establishment of the faith in his native island was something which he had especially at heart. His letters are full of anxiety on this score. He speaks of catching and subduing his recreant countrymen "by the prayers and tears at which they laugh;" but we find no political allusions, and it is plain enough that, in the various schemes for Catholic insurrections and for foreign invasions, he had neither share nor heart. {294} He had been between five and six years at Prague when he was summoned to Rome to take part in the mission about to be sent forth for the conversion of England. The little band of heroes comprised Dr. Goldwell, Bishop of St. Asaph, who had long been residing on the continent, several English secular priests, old men who had been in exile, and young men fresh from their studies, a few zealous laymen, and three Jesuits, Campion, Parsons, and a lay brother named Ralph Emerson. To assist them in their labors, collect alms for them, and find safe hiding-places, a Catholic Association had just been organized in England by George Gilbert, a young man of property, whom Father Parsons had converted in Rome the preceding year. The Jesuits were furnished with a paper of instructions for their guidance.
Father Parsons was a younger man than Campion, and had been a shorter time than he in the Society; yet there were good reasons why he should be appointed the superior in the mission. He was not only zealous and devout, but he had a good knowledge of men and affairs, he was well versed in the ways of cities; he was adroit, versatile, and prudent; and he was somewhat familiar with the schemes of the pope and other Catholic powers against the government of Elizabeth. A knowledge of these secret designs would have been but a sorry safeguard had he fallen into the hands of the authorities of the crown, and the consciousness must have heightened his sense of the danger incurred in the expedition; but Parsons had all the courage of a martyr, though he did not win a martyr's crown. The party left Rome on the 18th of April, 1580, and were not more than fairly started on their journey when the English Secretary, Walsingham received from his spies a full description of them and a list of their names.
Passing through Geneva, they resolved to have an interview with Theodore Beza; and the account of it gives a curious picture of the state of society in those times, and of the manner in which theological controversy mingled with the ordinary affairs of life. The travellers made no secret of their religion, though they disguised their persons and calling. Campion dressed himself as an Irish servant, waiting on Mr. John Pascal, a lay gentleman of their party, and the only one who failed in the final day of trial. Sherwin, one of the secular priests, used to relate with uncontrollable merriment how naturally Campion played his part. Beza, under one pretext or another, got rid of them as politely as possible, and promised to send to their inn an English scholar of his, the son of Sir George Hastings. Instead of young Hastings, there came his governor, Mr. Brown, and a young Englishman named Powell, and we have a strange account of the priests disputing hotly in the streets of Geneva with the two Protestants until almost midnight, and challenging Beza to a public controversy, with the proviso that he who was justly convicted in the opinion of indifferent judges should be burned alive in the market-place! Powell had known Campion at Oxford, so the soi-disant servant kept out of his sight, and when the former gentleman offered to accompany the missionaries a little way on their road next morning, Campion was sent forward in advance. But meeting on the road a minister studying his sermon, the temptation was too strong for the enthusiastic Jesuit, and he buckled with him at once. {295} The rest of the party came up while they were still at it, hammer and tongs, and Powell recognized Campion, and saluted him with great affection. After that, the missionaries made a pilgrimage of eight or nine miles over difficult paths to St. Clodovens in France, by way of penance for their curiosity.
We have said that Parsons was privy to some of the political expeditions against England; but he had no knowledge of the one which set out about the same time that he did, and the news, which he learned on his arrival at Rheims, filled him with dismay. The queen had issued a proclamation which plainly indicated a purpose to proceed against the Catholics with increased severity, and the peril of the undertaking had become greater than ever. It does not appear, however, that one of the company faltered. Dr. Goldwell had been obliged to turn back and defer his voyage--which, indeed, he never made at all; but others joined the mission, and among them was a fourth Jesuit, Father Thomas Cottam. At Rheims, the party broke up to find their way across to England by different routes. Campion, Parsons, and Brother Ralph Emerson were to go by way of St. Omer, Calais, and Dover. Parsons crossed first, disguised as a soldier returning from the Low Countries, and in his captain's uniform passed inspection so easily and was so well treated by the searcher at Dover that he bespoke that officer's courtesy for his friend, "Mr. Edmunds, a diamond-merchant," who was shortly to follow him. He reached London without trouble; but his dress was outlandish, and people were unusually fearful and suspicious, so he was turned away from the inns. He knew of a Catholic gentleman, however, who was held in the Marshalsea prison for his faith, and he applied to see him. Through him he was brought into communication with George Gilbert and the Catholic Association, who had apartments in the house of the chief pursuivant, where up to this time, thanks in part to the connivance of influential friends, they had managed to have a daily celebration of Mass.
Father Parsons had induced the friendly searcher at Dover to send over a letter for him to "Mr. Edmunds," at St. Omer, bidding him make haste to London with his diamonds, and Campion, as soon as he received it, set out with Brother Ralph. But, in the mean time, the English officers had grown more strict; the searcher had been reprimanded for letting certain persons pass who were supposed to be priests; and there was a report, moreover, that a brother of Dr. Allen was coming over, and his description agreed pretty well with Campion's appearance. The two Jesuits were accordingly arrested and taken before the mayor; but they were dismissed after a short detention, and the next day were welcomed by the association in London.
This pious club was such an admirable illustration of the truth that the salvation of souls is not the exclusive duty or privilege of the priesthood that we may spare a moment from our survey of Campion's life to glance at its history and character. The missionary career is open to all. Members of religious orders, secular priests, men of the world, soldiers, lawyers, shop-keepers, doctors, laborers, farmers, the beggars on the street, the fashionable lady in her carriage--we can all do something for the advancement of the great cause; and if we only knew how to systematize our efforts, how to economize our zeal, the Catholic Association of Campion's day is an evidence of the enormous service we might render to the church. {296} The founder of the association, George Gilbert, had been anxious, immediately after his conversion, to expend his first fervor in a pilgrimage to Jerusalem; but Father Parsons persuaded him rather to return to England and spend his money there in advancing the Catholic cause. He drew together a number of young men of his own rank in life and with somewhat of his own spirit. They hired rooms together; they bribed officers whose vigilance they could not elude; they gave shelter to priests; they furnished places for the celebration of Mass; they kept the Catholics in communication with each other; they supplied the missionaries with money; and they organized the tours which the priests made through the country. The Catholics were beset with spies, and the government held out strong inducements to weak brethren to betray their pastors. It was necessary, therefore, that the priests should be extremely cautious to whom they trusted themselves; and since they could not carry credentials, it was necessary, too, that the gentlemen who harbored them should be quite sure whom they were receiving. This perfect intelligence could only be obtained by a thorough organization of the Catholic gentry; and it was not the least part of the duty of the association to see that, whenever a priest travelled, some one should be with him as at once an endorser and a guide. It was their part, likewise, to undertake the preliminary work of converting heretics. In those fearful times a doubting Protestant could not be admitted to see a priest until he had given some evidence of the sincerity of his search after truth. The members of the club took him in hand first, and brought him to the priest when they felt it to be safe.
When Campion reached the asylum of their rooms in London, Parsons had already gone on a tour in the country, leaving word for his companion to await his return. There was a great desire among the Catholics who had learned of the arrival of the missionaries to hear the famous preacher with whose eloquence years ago Oxford had resounded, but it was no easy matter to find a place where he might speak in safety. At last, arrangements were made for a sermon in the servants' hall of a private house, and there, while trusty gentlemen watched all the avenues of approach, Campion delivered a discourse with which all the Catholic circles of London were soon ringing. The faithful and the wavering rushed to him in crowds. The government got wind of what was going on, and redoubled their exertions to entrap him. Several priests were captured, and many Catholics were thrown into prison. The danger of remaining in London soon became too pressing to be disregarded. So, after a council had been held, several questions of discipline settled, and each man's special work assigned, the priests all went away to different parts of the kingdom.
The pursuit was much hotter after Campion than after any of his brethren, and it was intensified by the imprudence of a Catholic layman who had allowed a document entrusted to his care by the missionary, to be made public. This was a paper drawn up by Campion on the eve of the separation of their little company, setting forth the reasons of their coming to England, and inviting the Protestants to a public conference. It was intended to be used only in case he should be arrested; but Thomas Pounde, to whom, for greater surety, he had given a copy, thought it too good to be kept entirely secret, and thus it soon came to the hands of the government. {297} This, of course, increased their anxiety to capture a man whom, by his personal influence, his eloquence, and his still brilliant reputation at Oxford, they felt to be especially dangerous. Proclamation followed proclamation; the pursuivants were unceasing in activity; spies were sent into every quarter of the kingdom; some of the Catholics themselves were corrupted; watchers were set about the houses of the principal Catholic gentlemen. Many a time was the Mass or the sermon interrupted by the coming of the officers and the priest compelled to take refuge in the woods. Once, when the pursuivants came upon him suddenly at the house of a private gentleman, a maid-servant, to make them think he was merely one of the retainers, affected to be angry with him and pushed him into a pond. The disguise was effectual, and the good father escaped.
All this while he was engaged in writing his famous book against the Protestants, known as the Decem Rationes. It was finished about Easter, 1581, and sent to London for the approval of Parsons, who had a private printing-press in a hidden place, whereat he had already published certain writings of his own. By great efforts a number of copies were got ready for the commencement at Oxford in June; and when the audience assembled at the exercises, they found the benches strewed with the books, to the reading of which they gave far more attention than to the performances of the students. The title-page bore the imprint of Douai, but the government was not long in ascertaining by the examination of experts that the work had been done in England.
Campion had gone to London while his book was passing through the press, to superintend the correction of the sheets; but the danger was now so imminent that Parsons ordered him away into Norfolk, in company with Brother Ralph Emerson. The two fathers rode out of the city together at daylight on the 12th of July, and, after an affectionate farewell, parted company, the one going to the north, the other back into the town.
The Judas who was to betray him, however, was on the alert. This was one George Eliot, formerly steward to Mr. Roper in Kent, and latterly a servant of the widow of Sir William Petre. He was a Catholic, but a man of bad character, and had been for some time a paid informer to the Earl of Leicester. How he knew of Campion's visit to Lyford is not certain; but he had been looking for him at several Catholic houses in the neighborhood, and on the 16th, armed with a warrant and attended by a pursuivant in disguise, he presented himself at the gate just as Mass was about to begin, and applied for admission. One of the servants knew him for a Catholic, but little suspected his real character; so with much ado he got leave to pass in, having first sent off the pursuivant to a magistrate for a posse comitatus. He heard the Mass, he heard Campion's sermon; but he was afraid to make the arrest until the magistrate arrived. As soon as the service was over, he hurried off. The company--comprising some sixty persons besides the members of the household--were at dinner when word was brought that the place was surrounded by armed men. After a long search, Campion and three other priests were found concealed in a closet, and taken prisoners.
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The prisoners were carried up to London and committed to the Tower, making their entrance into the city through the midst of a hooting mob, Campion leading the procession with his elbows tied behind him, his hands tied in front, his feet fastened under his horse's belly, and a placard on his hat, inscribed "Campion, the seditious Jesuit." The governor, Sir Owen Hopton, at first placed Campion in the narrow dungeon known as "Little-ease," in which one could neither stand nor lie at length. He remained there until the fourth day, when, with great secrecy, he was conducted to Leicester's house, and courteously received by the earl and several other persons of mark, and shortly found himself in the presence of the queen. He gave a truthful account of his motives in coming to England; he satisfied Elizabeth, as it would appear, of his loyalty; and could he have accepted the conditions proposed to him, he might have been dismissed with honors and riches. As it was, Hopton received orders to treat him more leniently. It was now the purpose of the government to coax him into compliance.
Failing to shake his constancy, the next thing was to destroy his reputation. It was given out that he was on the point of recanting; that he had betrayed his friends; that he had divulged the names of the gentlemen who harbored him. To give color to these charges, a great many Catholics were arrested, in consequence, it was said, of Campion's confession. For a while these infamous charges, fortified with plausible confirmation, were generally believed; but it was soon ascertained that the betrayal had been wrung from some of Campion's companions on the rack. To render the missionary contemptible, it was thought necessary to answer his challenge for a public disputation in some way or another, and a large number of the most eminent Anglican divines were appointed to meet him in a public hall and discuss the chief points of controversy. They had all the time they wanted to prepare, free access to libraries, and every possible favor. Campion was not informed of the arrangement until two hours before the assembly opened. Then, with his limbs still smarting from the torment of the rack, he was placed in the middle of the room, without books, without even a table to lean upon, with no assistance whatever, except the assistance of heaven. The dispute continued several days. It was distinguished, as might have been supposed, by gross unfairness and bad language on the part of the Protestants, while Campion conciliated all honest-minded listeners, not only by the acuteness of his answers, but by his mild and affectionate spirit. Though he had been educated to a familiarity with dialectics, and lived in a day when controversy was an almost universal passion, he was far from being a disputatious man, and the odium theologicum had no place in his warm and tender heart. With all the advantage given to the Protestant side, it was evident that the Catholics were profiting by the conferences, and the government abruptly closed them. But it was too late. Campion's fame was restored; the slanders against him had been refuted; and the popular enthusiasm broke forth in ballads, of which Mr. Simpson gives a sample.
Nothing remained now but to try him for treason. It was first proposed to indict him for having on a certain day in Oxfordshire traitorously pretended to have power to absolve her majesty's subjects from their allegiance, and endeavored to attach them to the obedience of the pope and the faith of the Roman church; but this was too plainly a religious prosecution. {299} A plot was therefore forged, which it was pretended that Campion, Allen, Morton, Parsons, and fourteen priests and others then in custody, had concerted at Rome and Rheims to dethrone the queen and raise a civil war. On this charge Campion, Sherwin, Cottam, and five others, were arraigned at Westminster Hall on the 14th of November. When Campion was called upon, according to custom, to hold up his hands in pleading, his arms were so cruelly wounded by the rack that he could not lift them without assistance. The trial took place on the 20th. The principal witnesses for the crown were George Eliot and three hired wretches named Munday, Sledd, and Caddy, who pretended to have observed the meetings of the conspirators at Rome; but their testimony was so weak, and the answers of Campion so admirable, that when the jury retired it was generally believed in court that the verdict must be one of acquittal. Court and jury, however, had been bought beforehand. The prisoners were all found guilty, and sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered. Then Campion broke forth in a loud hymn of praise, "Te Deum laudamus" and Sherwin and others took up the song, until the multitude were visibly affected.
After he had been remanded to the Tower, the traitor Eliot came to his cell, and Campion received him so sweetly, forgiving his offence, and offering to provide for him an asylum with a Catholic noble in Germany, whither he might escape from the odium and danger which haunted him at home, that the keeper, who witnessed the interview was induced by it to become a Catholic. The few days which intervened between conviction and death were passed by the holy man in fasting and other mortifications. The execution was appointed for the 29th of November. Campion, Sherwin, and Briant were to suffer together. At the execution Campion was interrupted by a long dialogue respecting his alleged treason, and subjected to a great deal of questioning. Somebody asked him to pray for the queen. While he was doing so, the cart was drawn away, amid the tears and groans of the multitude, and his body left dangling in the air.
So ended the good fight. Sherwin and Briant met their fate with like joy and constancy, and many another good priest and devoted layman trod afterward in the same awful but glorious path. And as it has been since the days of St. Stephen, the blood of the martyrs proved the seed of the church. Henry Walpole estimated that no fewer than ten thousand persons were converted by the spectacle of Champion's death. That is probably an exaggeration; but it is certain that the execution had a marked effect upon the progress of the faith in England, and covered the Anglican clergy with an odium from which they were long in recovering.
Of the life by Mr. Simpson, upon which we have so freely drawn for the materials of this hasty sketch, we must not close without a word of praise. Written originally for a monthly periodical, and long interrupted by the failure of that publication, it lacks the neat finish and compactness which the author would probably have given it, had it been composed under more favorable circumstances. But it has evidently been prepared with great industry; it is written in a good style; and with a little judicious pruning and rearrangement, it will make one of the most interesting of modern religious biographies.
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The Catholic Sunday-School Union. [Footnote 56]
[Footnote 56: First Report of the Catholic Sunday-School Union, of the city of New York. January 1, 1868.]
Few of the evidences of the zealous spirit which is stirred up in these latter days, have given us more unfeigned pleasure than the information which this report conveys. The Sunday-School Union began as all Catholic works begin, has prospered thus far as they prosper, and will share in their triumph. A few earnest souls, observing how much more good could be accomplished in the catechism-classes if the exercises and methods of teaching were made more systematic and co-operative, met together, on the evening of July 9th, 1866, debated the subject, formed resolutions, went to work, and now the catechetical education of the 20,237 children reported from eighteen Sunday-schools of this city, (about one half of the whole number,) is practically under the control of this admirable association. The good fruits of their labors are already noticeable in the more regular attendance of the children, the conferences of teachers for mutual instruction and encouragement, the better regulated programme of exercises, and the increased interest manifested in the schools by all who are in any way connected with them.
The competent knowledge which our people, as a mass, have of their religion, of the dogmas of faith--knowledge which they are bound to have under pain of sin--and that other "knowledge unto salvation" which is shown in the faithful performance of their Christian duties, depends, as all know, upon the catechetical instruction they receive in youth. Priests may preach sermon after sermon, and each and every such discourse may be well calculated to enlighten the mind and move the heart; but as a rule, all sermons nowadays suppose the hearers to be already in possession of Christian principles, and disciplined to the practices of a Christian life. Sound and thorough catechetical instruction is, then, one of the primary duties of a pastor of souls. That each pastor should assume the whole of this labor to himself is simply impossible. Those of the laity who by their character and education are fitted to be his coadjutors in this pastoral duty, must therefore be called upon to aid him in it. The time when it is feasible to assemble children together for religious instruction is on Sunday. Hence the Sunday-school and its corps of lay teachers; both of necessity, as experience has shown, for every parish, if the people are to have, as they ought to have, a befitting knowledge of their religion--if they are to be indoctrinated with its spirit, and receive its ministrations by a devout, conscientious attendance upon its worship, and a due appreciation of, and worthy preparation for, the holy sacraments.
The first thought which naturally presents itself in reference to these lay coadjutors of the clergy, is that of their competence and fitness to teach. We do not care to send our children to be educated by any and every schoolmaster. We not only ask, Is he capable? but we ask, Who is he, and what is he? If these questions may be very properly put concerning a teacher of geography and arithmetic, we may be pardoned for asking them concerning one who professes to teach Christian doctrine and morality. {301} Is he well versed in the truths of faith himself, and, if you please, what is his own moral character?
The Sunday-school is an excellent institution, a necessary institution in our times; but if it is to be of any value, teachers, who are in the first place competent for the task, and who in the second place are practical Christians, must be secured. In small parishes, the pastor may possibly find a sufficient number who possess all the requisite qualifications, (although, so far, our experience has been to the contrary,) but in large and populous parishes, such as are found in all our cities, it is plain that a sufficient number are not easily obtained for the purpose, nor will those who are in all respects fitted for the work and are ready to answer the call of the pastor, be able to control and reduce the heterogeneous elements of a city Sunday-school to any order or regular observance of rules laid down by the pastor, or devised by themselves, without mutual co-operation, counsel, and a systematic organization. Besides, into a corps of such teachers, who are not themselves subjected to some organized form of association, persons wholly incompetent or deficient in moral standing will intrude, and prove either a hinderance to others, or do positive harm.
When chance-comers offer their services as teachers in his Sunday-school, it is difficult if not impossible for the pastor to examine them in order to test their knowledge before accepting them, and it may be equally difficult for him to find out what may be their moral worth. Their daily lives are, as a rule, better known to the members of his congregation than they are to him. In the ill-regulated voluntary system which has hitherto been so common amongst us, many evils have resulted from this which were unavoidable. Teachers of religion ought to be themselves good exemplars of it. Children learn at the Sunday-school a good deal more than the verbal answer to as many questions as are printed in the catechism. Those who occupy the office of teacher exert a moral influence over the children. Example is the master-teacher, and bad example will teach (we are sorry to say) quite as well as good example. You cannot gather grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles. During the time that a man or woman is engaged in conversation with children, much of his or her own character is infused into the minds of their youthful companions by words, gestures, looks, and manner. Shall I permit my children to be thus placed one whole hour every week, under the influence of an ignorant man, a non-practical Catholic, and possibly a person of vicious habits and of vulgar demeanor--a person whom I could not allow my children to converse with at all, in the street or elsewhere, outside of the Sunday-school room? Certainly not. I must have some guarantee that my children shall have such associations as I can approve of, as well in the Sunday-school as in any other place where they may happen to be.
One who might make such reflections as the foregoing need occupy no higher position in society than that of being a good Christian, watchful over the souls of his little ones, and anxious to guard them from contamination with persons ignorant of the faith in which he wishes them to be educated, or such as by their personal want of piety are certain to damage the growth of it in the souls of the children he presumes to instruct.
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If we mistake not, these considerations were in part those which animated the zealous and worthy founders of the Sunday-School Union, whose first report lies before us. This appears to us in the pages of the report, especially under the head of "objects." We quote:
"The objects of the Sunday-school Union are of a religious, educational, and social character. The fundamental object is, of course, the benefit and improvement of the Sunday-schools; the secondary end is the association of the Catholic young men of the city, in a manner sanctioned by religion, for purposes of mutual acquaintance and improvement, and the creation of a common tie of sympathy and interest, such as should exist between them as members of the same, One, Holy, and Universal Church. By the comparisons of systems, and experience, and through the increased opportunities of receiving advice and counsel from the clergy, improvements have been introduced in many of the schools, and the teachers have been led to take greater interest in their duties."
We need only quote to ourselves the trite old proverb, that "Birds of a feather," etc., to feel assured that the "Union" will remove in great part the dangers arising from incompetence and unfitness on the part of teachers, to which we have alluded. The leading spirits of an association of this kind will impress their own character upon the whole body, and we have the utmost confidence that such persons will be of the right stamp, young men of solid piety, of sufficient knowledge, and animated by the highest and purest motives. They will draw to them other young men of like character and dispositions with themselves. Association will stimulate exertion, promote harmony, and be productive of the best and happiest results; not only for the children, but, what is of no little moment to us, for the young men themselves.
Under their intelligent direction the Sunday-school will assume a higher standard of religious education. It has too long been deemed sufficient to teach the children the catechism as one teaches parrots, getting them to repeat a certain answer to a given question, without stopping to consider if the scholars have any intelligent apprehension of the meaning of either question or answer. We remember being present in a Sunday-school when the following instruction was overheard by us:
Sunday-School Teacher. "Are we bound to obey the commandments of the church?"
Boy. "A--a, because--a--" (gives it up.)
Teacher, (speaking as rapidly as a clerk of the Senate, and looking everywhere but at the pupil.) "Yes, because Christ has said to the pastors of his church, he that hears you hears me, and he that despises you despises me." (Then with a savage look at the child,) "Now, sir!"
Boy,(whining.) "Yes, sir--because--here's you and here's me. He despises you and he despises me."
Boy's ears cuffed with the catechism.
Yet it must be confessed that the recitation of the answer by the teacher was pretty faithfully imitated by the child, who aimed at catching a certain number of sounds and repeating them, without thinking of their meaning.
It is very well that the children should learn to recite portions of the catechism which they have learned by rote; but this will not suffice to give them an intelligent comprehension of the truths of religion. There is hardly a question and response in the catechism which does not need some additional explanation and illustration suited to their capacities. {303} This is no easy task, and one that might well engage the highest cultivated minds. Teachers must therefore themselves be taught. No one can impart that which he does not possess. We are glad, therefore, to see that one of the objects of our Sunday-School Union is of an "educational" character.
The object which is denominated "religious" is also of primary importance. The Sunday-school teacher is a teacher of religion in more senses than in imparting a mere verbal knowledge of the doctrines of religion. It comes properly within his sphere to edify his pupils by holy words, good counsel, and good example. If he does not so edify them, he will infallibly do the contrary. Our experience leads us to assert that there is no middle term here between edification and disedification. He who has no words of holiness and sweet Christian counsel in his mouth, is pretty sure of having words and counsel which smack of the world and its ungodly principles. Let no one imagine that he can assume for the time and occasion the tone, speech, and manner of a good, pious Christian, if he be not one in reality. Children have the keenest scent for hypocrisy. They instinctively mark and loathe a Pecksniff or a Chadband. The lessons of piety, the words of kindly warning or encouragement, the appeals to their Christian sentiment, falling from the lips of men who have no solid piety, and whose ordinary daily life is little better than that of a respectable heathen, if as good, will have no other effect than to excite the sceptical sneers of youths who are not to be deceived by sham appearances.
Our Sunday-schools, therefore, urgently demand the aid of "religious" teachers; we mean teachers who are practical Christians themselves, and carry out in their lives the lessons they are desirous of teaching others. They need teachers who are more than Catholics by profession. In a Sunday-school which is fortunate enough to possess teachers of religion who are men of living faith, devout, prayerful, scrupulous, and exact in the performances of their religious duties, exhibiting in their manner a deep reverence for holy things, modesty, patience, benignity, earnestness, and zeal for the glory of God, there will the children also be found exact types of their spiritual instructors.
The Sunday-School Union will form a corps of just such men. It will find itself composed of members who are moved by the Holy Spirit of God to take some part in this important work, and who will engage in it as a labor of love, in the spirit of sacrifice and apostolic zeal. They will, for the most part, bring hearts well prepared for it; but the Union will itself do much toward sustaining and advancing the spiritual good of its members. The most noble spectacle to be presented in this world of temptation and sin, is a band of young men, strong in the faith and loyal to the holy traditions of religion emulating each other in the practice of virtue and works of Christian charity. Such is the spectacle which this association is striving to present to our eyes, and our prayers should not be wanting that God may strengthen them and enlarge the sphere of their holy labors.
The third object spoken of is the "social" character which the Union proposes. We think we understand this, and have already hinted at it. They aim at making the tone of their association high and select. And this is a point worthy of our reflection. Children naturally imitate the manners of their elders, particularly of those with whom they are associated in the capacity of pupils. {304} Let the teacher be rough, boorish, and uncouth in his deportment, negligent in his personal appearance, unceremonious and irreverent in the church, unguarded in his language, of an ungoverned temper, tardy in his attendance, and distracted in his instructions, you will find that the class of which he has unfortunately the charge will very soon be an exact copy of himself. We commiserate the Sunday-school where even one such teacher is to be found. He and his ill-regulated and worse-behaved class are a positive hinderance to the good order of the whole school, and the sooner he is got rid of the better. The Union, by its power of associating like to like, will eliminate this worthless class of individuals, and substitute in their stead punctual, earnest, courteous, self-denying, and reverent-minded teachers, whose very presence in the Sunday-school will be an example of deportment becoming the Christian and the gentleman, commanding respect, obedience, and attention on the part of all the scholars, and the esteem of his fellow-teachers. What affection, too, the children instinctively bestow upon such!
The love for these young souls, of which their heart is full, is abundantly reciprocated, and the influence for good which such teachers have is beyond measure. They are regarded by these little ones of Christ in their true light, as coadjutors of the pastor, and their admonitions are received with humble and loving obedience. "O ma!" says a little child to its parent on returning from Sunday-school, "we have the nicest teacher in the world, so good, and he knows so much, and he is such a gentleman!" Yes; children are quick of observation--none quicker; and when they have found one who presents all the qualities which should distinguish a worthy teacher, they from that moment begin to count the hours which will intervene until they shall have the happiness of meeting him again. If we aim at having first-class Sunday-schools, which will not only teach the children their catechism, and encourage them in the practice of virtue, but also elevate and refine their manners, and educate them in that, for which, after all, Catholic children are remarkable, namely, Christian politeness, we must secure teachers who, like the teacher of the little child mentioned above, are so good, know so much, and are such gentlemen! We have every confidence that the Sunday-School Union, by its "social" character, will bring this about.
We are making no invidious reflections, and would feel pained to think we should be thus adjudged. We presume to speak from experience. We know something of Sunday-schools, and of their working in small and large parishes, in the city and in the country. We have had to feel the many difficulties which a pastor has to surmount in this matter. We aim at encouraging and bidding God speed to an enterprise which we know is needed, and which we are certain cannot fail of producing incalculable good.
Among other works which the Union proposes, is that of establishing Sunday-schools for colored children. That zealous and apostolic priest, the Rev. Father Duranquet, of the Society of Jesus, did not shrink from adding this to his many other labors when it presented itself to him in the course of his ministry. But just such a power was needed as the Sunday-School Union affords to reach these much-neglected children, and bring them under the influence of the Catholic religion, to care for those of that class who are of her household, to insure a lively, personal, loving interest being taken in them, and thus to show that our holy church is the church of all the people, of white and black, of bond and free. {305} We bless God for this effort of theirs. It is very near and dear to our own heart. The world sneers and scoffs at them, but there is no caste in the Catholic Church, and they are, as well as we, souls for whom Christ died.
The Catholic priest and the Catholic Sunday-school teacher can do more for them, we know, than all the so-called philanthropists from Dan to Beersheba. God forbid that we should turn aside from this labor and leave these precious souls to perish!
The Sunday-School Union is formed exclusively of men. "The female teachers," says the report, "are invited to all the public lectures and discourses, and to participate in as many of the undertakings of the Union as possible." This is all very proper. We know, however, that the ladies have hitherto taken rather the, shall we say, lion's share in the hardest of the undertakings to which the young men of the Sunday-School Union can possibly devote their energies, which is, the work of teaching. In most parishes they have far outnumbered the male teachers. We refrain from making any comparison of their efficiency. For ourselves, we say we do not know how we could possibly have got along without them, nor do we see how their aid can be dispensed with in the future. We are not aware that the Sunday-School Union has any such intention. The ladies do a good by their presence which we of the stronger, rougher sex may not hope to accomplish, besides being the fittest persons to teach the female classes. We are sure that they will cheerfully abide by any rules and regulations laid down by the Union, and do their utmost to carry out any suggestions made to them for the better conducting of their classes. We are not afraid of their resisting the powers that be. But why may they not also meet together for mutual encouragement, instruction, and edification? We shall look for some movement of this kind before long.
As for the Union itself, we look upon it not as a simple local expedient to meet a local want. It has a national interest, and sooner or later must find imitation in all our large cities and towns. We hope soon to hear that such has been the case in many other places, and then the influence of such associations will be increased in the ratio of the union of their separate and distinct bodies, at least, such an union as we trust and pray will soon be exhibited in all great Catholic works in this country--the assembly of their members for mutual acquaintance, cooperation, and debate, in a National Catholic Congress. The good that is done, the power that is elicited from assemblies of this kind, is well known to all our readers who have perused our articles on the Catholic Congress of Malines, in former numbers of The Catholic World. The Sunday-School Union would do well to consider this matter in the light of their own interest. In their union they have found strength. Let them seek to extend their efforts by encouraging, in so far as they are able, any such associations as may be started, or are in operation, in other places, inviting a correspondence and offering all their aid, looking forward, at the same time, to a union with them on a larger and general basis, and to the discussion of their mutual interests in a grand congressional assembly.
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We trust that our remarks will be received in the spirit in which they are meant. They have been prompted by the deep, heart-felt interest which we feel in the subject, and the entire sympathy which we have for the noble, holy, Christian work to which our friends have devoted their energies. They have not begun too soon. Every year thousands of our children, in this city of New York alone, leave school to engage in various occupations, where they are thrown into the society of youths of all religions and of no religion. Protestantism has practically no influence over children, and generally leaves them to shift for themselves, and pick up what scraps of religion they may.
Unfortunately, the mass of them, being totally ignorant of the blessings and comfort of the Catholic faith, and not having had any very cheerful experience of religion as it has been presented to them by the bald, repulsive, unchild-like nature of Protestantism, break away from its restraints, and run wildly into the deserts of rationalism or infidelity. Poor children! our hearts bleed for them. But, while we pity them, let us not forget that they are to be the daily associates of our own lambs of the flock. How necessary, then, that we should strive by every effort to prepare ours for the dangers to which they will be exposed by giving them, while we may, a thorough knowledge of their holy faith, and send them forth guarded by a panoply of virtue, accustomed to a regular attendance upon the divine offices of the church, and to a frequent reception of the Holy Sacraments. Let it be our aim to dismiss each and every child from our Sunday-schools a loyal, devout, intelligent Catholic, whose faith is firm as a rock, and whose soul is bright and pure with the indwelling grace of God. Our blessed Lord, the lover of little children, will not fail to remember our care of those of whom He said: "Of such is the kingdom of heaven."
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Sonnet On "Le Recit D'une Soeur," By Mrs. Augustus Craven.
Whence is the music? Minstrel see we none; Yet, soft as waves that, surge succeeding surge, Roll forward--now subside--anon emerge-- Upheaved in glory o'er a setting sun, Those beatific harmonies sweep on: O'er earth they sweep from utmost verge to verge, Triumphant Hymeneal, Hymn, and Dirge, Blending in everlasting unison. Whence is the music? Stranger! These were they That, great in love, by love unvanquished proved: These were true lovers, for in God they loved: With God these spirits rest in endless day. Yet still, for love's behoof, on wings outspread Float on o'er earth betwixt the angels and the dead.
Aubrey de Vere.
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Nellie Netterville; or, One Of The Transplanted.
Chapter VI
The party from the tower came on meantime at a rapid rate; and, peeping cautiously from behind her hiding-place, Nellie saw that they had already reached the foot of the hill where she and her grandfather stood awaiting their approach. The lady--even at that distance Nellie fancied she could see that she was young and pretty, and, though clad in the saddest and strictest of Puritanic attire, anything but a Puritan in her looks and bearing--rode in front, with the military-looking personage, described already, upon one side, and a younger cavalier, with the air likewise of a soldier, on the other, while a couple of followers brought up the rear. At first the three foremost of the party rode abreast, but, as the up-hill path began to narrow, the lady pushed her horse ahead so as to lead the way, and Nellie could hear one of her companions shouting to her to ride cautiously until she had turned the sharp corner of rock behind which Nellie herself was at that moment standing. The warning came, as warnings often do come, too late by a single second. It could have scarcely reached the lady's ears ere she had dashed round the corner, and her horse, wild and unmanageable enough already, plunged violently at the unexpected apparition of Nellie and her grandfather on the other side. If the path had not widened considerably at that spot, the struggle must have ended fatally, and even as it was, Nellie expected every moment to see both horse and rider roll over the edge of the precipice to which the heels of the former were in such fearful proximity.
The lady, however, sat him to perfection, and after a short, sharp struggle for the mastery, she succeeded in forcing him to rush at a wild gallop straight down the path leading to the valley, the only safe course of action she could possibly have adopted.
Her companions had by this time reached the spot where Nellie had watched the contest, and the younger of the two was about to spur his horse on to the rescue, when his older and wiser companion shouted to him to forbear.
"Let her be, Ormiston! Let her be!" he cried. "She knows well enough what she is about, my Ruth. And you will but infuriate her horse by following at his heels."
Thus adjured, the young man, addressed as "Ormiston," had no choice but to remain quiet. He drew in bridle, therefore, beside his chief, and watched as patiently as he could the down-hill gallop of the lady. The result fortunately justified the confidence of the elder horseman. No sooner had she reached the wide bottom of the glen below, than she checked her horse suddenly, and turning him almost before he had time to suspect her intentions, galloped him up the hill again with such right good-will that he was glad enough to stop and breathe of his own accord by the time she had rejoined her companions.
Relieved from all anxiety on her account, the old Cromwellian officer, for such his scarf and embroidered shoulder-belt announced him, turned the vials of his wrath, as even the best men will upon such occasions, upon those who, however unwittingly, had been the cause of the disaster. {308} In the present case Nellie and her grandfather were only too evidently the offenders, and the storm was accordingly sent full upon their heads. They were still standing in the recess formed by the shoulder of the retreating bank, and as Nellie, by an unconscious movement of girlish timidity, had retired behind Lord Netterville, he formed for a moment the chief figure in the group. Thoroughly roused and wakened up at thus finding himself unexpectedly face to face with his arch enemies, the old man stood out upon the foreground like a picture, his eyes sparkling, his white hair falling on his shoulders, and a grave and noble pride in his very attitude which belied alike the meanness of his apparent station and the disfigurement of his stained and travel-worn attire. The latter indeed consisting entirely of the so-called "Irish weeds," the Cromwellian officer naturally enough concluded him to be a native, and addressed him, accordingly, in such terms of contemptuous abuse as it was too often the Saxon fashion of those unhappy times to bestow upon the Celt.
"How now, thou 'Irish dogg'? How hast thou dared, thou and thy wench, to cross our path, and so put the life of the Lord's elect in danger? Give place at once and let us pass, if thou wouldst not that I should do unto thee as I did at Tredagh, where my sword, from the rising even to the setting of the sun, wrought the vengeance of the Lord on an idolatrous and misguided people."
Lord Netterville, during this agreeable harangue, had stepped right into the centre of the path, so that the other could hardly have passed him without a struggle, and he barely awaited its conclusion ere, with eyes flashing fire, he violently retorted:
"'Irish dogg!' sayest thou? Learn, thou unmannerly Saxon churl, that my blood is as English perhaps more so than thine own; and certainly from a nobler fountain! I am of the English pale," he continued, drawing himself up to his full height, and gaining in dignity what he lost in passion, "and one of no mean standing in it either--a Netterville of the old Norman race, since the days of the first Plantagenet."
"Lord Netterville--father!" said the young Amazon in a low voice, pushing her horse forward and touching the officer's shoulder with her riding-whip in order to attract his attention. "It must be the Lord Netterville of whom there was some question, I remember, when you were in negotiation for these lands."
"Ha, wench! thou also to blaspheme!" he cried, turning furiously upon her. "Knowest thou not that there is but one Lord, and that the pride of them that assume his titles stinks in his nostrils like the burning pitch of Tophet? And thou," he added, addressing himself to Lord Netterville, "in vain dost thou boast of thy race or lineage; for whatever they once were, they have, I doubt not, been so often renewed in the blood of the Irish as to have little or naught left of English honesty or honor to bestow upon their owner."
"Little or much!" cried the old lord furiously, "if thou, black dog of Cromwell as thou art, will but dismount and bid one of thy lackeys put a sword into my hands, I will show thee that, in spite of my seventy years and odd, I have still enough of English manhood left to chastise impertinence, wherever or in whomsoever I may chance to find it."
"Sir," cried Nellie, terrified at the turn affairs were taking, and placing herself between the disputants, "there is no need for all these taunting words and bandying of harsh challenges. {309} In peace have we come hither, and we do but seek to possess our own in peace--their honors, the commissioners at Loughrea, having assigned to us our residence amidst these mountains."
"Residence!" cried the officer, roused at once into a far more bitter and personal feeling than the sort of proud contempt, which was all that he had hitherto deigned to bestow upon the strangers. "Residence among these mountains, dost thou say? Nay, then, young maiden, thou hast mistaken thy mark, and that most widely, since all these lands, as far as the eye can see--even this land of Murrisk, which we English call the 'Owles,' with its upper and its lower barony as well--have been made over to me already, as mine own inheritance, the land which the Lord hath given (for the laborer is worthy of his hire) as the fruit of long service in the battle-field."
"This is my grandfather. Lord Netterville, and we are, as he has rightly told you, of the old English of the pale," said Nellie, making one step nearer in order to present her certificate. "At first, in common with the other inhabitants of Meath, we were to have been sent into the more eastern baronies of Connaught; but the numbers set down for transplantation to those parts having been found greater than could be accommodated on the land, we were assigned at last our portion in the same barony of Murrisk."
The officer looked at first as if greatly inclined to refuse the paper which she held up for his acceptance; but suddenly changing his intention, he snatched it rudely from her hand, and ran his eye over the contents.
"Humph! ha!" he continued to mutter as he read; and then turning to Nellie, he said in a voice in which, toned down as it was to an affectation of cold indifference, her quick ear detected, nevertheless, a lurking tone of triumph.
"This certificate bears a date, as I see, of some three months earlier in the year. How, then, is it, maiden, that it was not presented sooner?"
"It is five months to-day since we left our home--our pleasant home in Meath," said Nellie sadly; "and "much of that time was spent perforce at Loughrea. At first we were kept there in sore suspense as to the settlement of our just claim for land, and after that we were detained by sickness. Our servant fell ill and died of the plague; my grandfather suffered also much from the same malady, and he has in some measure recovered from it; it has, alas! reduced him from a hale and hearty old age, to the wreck--mind and body--that you see before you. In this way our scanty stock of money was soon exhausted, and when at last he was fit to travel, we had to sell our horses and the best part of our wearing apparel, in order to satisfy the debts incurred during his illness; after which there was nothing for it but to finish the journey as best we could on foot."
"How marvellous are the mercies of the Lord--the mercies which he has laid up for them that fear him," cried the officer, turning triumphantly toward his companions, and yet shrinking, in spite of himself, beneath the angry glances shot at him from the blue eyes of his daughter. "Surely his hand and his wisdom are visible in this matter," he added, in a less openly exultant manner; "for look ye, maiden, had you and the man you call Lord Netterville come hither at the time when, according to the date of your certificate, you should have done, you might, peradventure, have found no one to dispute possession with ye. {310} But behold! instead of that, the Lord hath vexed and troubled ye; he hath forced ye to tarry, even as he forced his rebellious people to tarry in the wilderness; he hath afflicted ye with sickness; he hath even visited ye with death, in order that I, his servant and soldier on the battle-field, might go up and take peaceable possession of that land which ye vainly fancied to be all your own."
"But are not these the very lands--a portion of the barony of Murrisk--which are set down in our certificate?" said Nellie, not even yet comprehending thoroughly the greatness of the impending blow. "How, then, noble sir, do you speak of them as yours?"
"Yea, and indeed," replied the officer, "these are of a certainty those very lands. Nevertheless, maiden, thou hast yet to learn that, if thou hast a certificate, I also am provided with a debenture, signed and delivered to me two months ago. Consequently, my order on the estate being of a later date, doth override and make void thine own, which, moreover, on looking closer, I do perceive to be merely a de bene esse, a poor make-shift for the time being, until something more permanent could be assigned thee."
"God help us, then!" cried Nellie; utterly overwhelmed by this last announcement. "God help us, then, and pardon those who have trifled so cruelly with our fortunes! Strangers we are, and without a place whereon to lay our heads; what then is to become of us in these deserted mountains?"
"Thou shouldst have looked to all that ere coming hither," he answered harshly; "as matters are at present, I would counsel thee to return to Loughrea at thy quickest speed, and to seek some other grant of land from their honors the commissioners, ere all that which is left in their hands has been absolutely disposed of."
"We cannot," said Nellie in a tone of hopeless sorrow, which, save that of the old fanatic himself, touched the hearts of all who heard her. "Look!" she added, turning, and with a sudden wave of the arm indicating Lord Netterville, who, utterly exhausted by his late excitement, was leaning against the bank in a half state of stupor. "Look at that old man, and tell me how is he to retrace his footsteps? Hope, indeed, aided him on his journey hither, but what hope is left to give him courage to go back?"
"As I have already said, thou shouldst have looked to all that ere undertaking such a journey," he answered shortly, and preparing to ride forward; for he saw that in his daughter's face which made him feel sure that she would not remain much longer silent. "And now get you both hence at once, I counsel ye; for my choler is apt to rise in the presence of the enemies of the Lord, and I may not much longer be able to restrain my hand from striking--"
"Strike, if you will, but hear me!" cried Nellie, springing forward so suddenly that she had caught hold of his bridle-rein ere he was even aware of her intention. "If yonder tower is indeed your home, give him a night's shelter in it--only one night--a single night--that he may rest from his weary travels."
"Nay, by the sword of Gideon, not even for an hour!" he cried furiously. "Let go, maiden, let go! or I will strike thee as if thou wert a mad dog in my path."
But Nellie was by this time driven to desperation, and she would not let go. She clung to the bridle-rein, crying out, "Only one night--one little night. {311} God is my witness that if there was but so much as a peasant's hut within reach, I would die sooner than ask such a favor at your hands."
Nearly as frantic with passion as she was with despair, he forced his horse to rear again and again, in order to compel her to let go; but finding, at last, that he could not shake her off, he raised his riding-whip, and it would have fallen heavily on her shoulders if, by a similar and almost simultaneous movement, Ormiston and his daughter had not hastily interfered.
"Major Hewitson!" cried the former in a warning voice--and, "Father, you shall not! you dare not!" cried the girl, spurring her horse eagerly forward, and utterly regardless of the fact that its heels were actually grazing the edge of the precipice as she tried to wrest his whip from her father's grasp.
All the tenderness of the man's heart was wrapt up in his daughter, and even in the midst of that moment of mad passion he saw her danger, and cried out:
"Have a care, child, have a care! or you and your horse will be over the precipice ere you know what you are doing."
"Throw away your whip then, or I will back him over it with my own hands," she cried passionately; "for I would sooner perish at once than see my own father strike a helpless girl like myself."
"Send the Irish beggar hence at once then, will you?" he answered furiously, flinging away his whip as he spoke, and, tearing his rein by main force from Nellie's grasp, he galloped rapidly down the hill.
Instead of following him, the girl backed her horse further into the recess in order to make room, and then waved her hand with the gesture of an empress to the others to pass on. With the exception of Ormiston they all obeyed, and no sooner had they got to a little distance than she flung herself off her horse, and, tossing the reins to her companion, threw herself into the arms of the astonished Nellie, exclaiming:
"O my God, my God! and these are the deeds that we do in thy name! When wilt thou arise and come to judgment?"
"Nay, grieve not thus, dear lady," said Nellie, generously forgetting her own great wrongs at the sight of such voluntary humiliation. "You at any rate have no cause to grieve, for willingly you have done no wrong."
"Call me not lady; I am but a girl, a woman like yourself; only"--she added with a touch of pride so like humility that it was almost as beautiful--"only, probably, of meaner nature, and certainly of less lofty lineage. What can I do for you? Alas! alas! why do I ask, for what can I do? Shelter, except in my father's house, I have none to offer; and in that, after what he has said just now, I could not even ensure your lives."
Here the young officer, who had by this time dismounted and approached the girl, endeavored to insinuate his purse into her hands; but she shook her head impatiently, and said, "Money! money! of what use can money be in such wilds as these?"
Nevertheless, on second thoughts, she took the purse, and would, perhaps, in a hesitating, shame-faced sort of way, have offered it to Nellie, if the latter had not said decidedly:
"As you say, dear lady, it would be worse than useless. Neither are we beggars. We did but seek what we thought to be our own. And now," she added sadly, "we ask still less--even that which the very beggars are thought to have a right to claim--but a shelter for a single night."
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"And even that I cannot give you," said the girl disconsolately; "but at least," she added suddenly, in a brighter tone, "I think I can tell you where to find that." She pointed with her whip to a narrow path branching off a little lower down the hill, and leading apparently in the direction of the sea. "Follow that path--it is neither long nor difficult--and it will lead you to the waters of the creek below. At the very foot of the hill, where the path ends, you will find a hut; if empty, it will at least give you shelter; if otherwise, its owner will, I doubt not, make you welcome. He ought at least," she added quickly, "for he also has lost something. Trust me, you are not the only ones whom we have robbed for the achievement of our own greatness. Farewell! and if ever you pray for your enemies, put us among the worst and foremost."
She turned to her horse as she finished speaking. Her companion would fain have aided her to mount; but putting him pettishly on one side, she leaped into the saddle without assistance, and galloped back by the road which she had come. The officer, thus repulsed, bowed respectfully to Nellie, and then, remounting his own horse, followed in the same direction. She cantered on, however, as if unconscious of his existence, merely urging her horse to a quicker speed, in order to escape him--a manoeuvre which he took care, by imitating, to render useless. Finding, at last, that he would not be shaken off, she pulled up suddenly, and said angrily, and without even deigning to look round:
"Why do you follow me? Why do you dog my footsteps? Ride back to my father, will you? He is of your own creed and calling, and will better appreciate your society that I can."
"Nay, Ruth," he was beginning, but she interrupted him almost fiercely--
"Call me by my own name if you wish that I should answer you. To you at least, and to the world, I will still be Henrietta, though at my father's hands I am compelled to submit to this mummery of a change of name."
"Well, then, Henrietta," he answered quietly, but very gravely, "believe me, I did not mean to anger you. I said 'Ruth,' because that name is so often on your father's lips that it has begun to come almost naturally to mine. I would not willingly anger you at any time, and least of all, just now, when, in spite of what I must call your unkind waywardness toward myself, I love and worship you, as I never did before, for that nobleness of nature which recoils, at any cost, from all that savors of injustice."
"Carry your love and worship elsewhere, then, for I will have none of it," she said, evidently in nowise mollified by his apology. "What should I care for your good opinion? Do you not feel in your heart of hearts, or must I tell you, that we are divided, as far as the north pole from the south, in our most intimate convictions, and that what you and my father call religion I consider as fanaticism--or that something which is worse than fanaticism, or almost than crime--hypocrisy."
"You cannot believe what you are saying," he answered, now indignant in his turn; "you know how well and truly I have loved you, and you cannot believe that I am a hypocrite; you cannot--you could not--you would not so dishonor me in your thoughts--you who have promised to be my wife!"
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"I retract that promise, then," she answered passionately, "wholly and entirely I retract it. Never, so help me God, will I become the mother of a race of fanatics, who will find, for such deeds as we have seen done today, their pretext in religion."
"Henrietta!" he cried, the blood rushing to his temples, "you cannot be in earnest!"
"See if I am not!" she answered coldly. "Ride back to my father now, and let me go my ways alone to the tower."
"I will go to him, Henrietta; but it will only be to tell him that I am about to return to my appointment in Dublin--unless, indeed," he added, with a lingering hope of reconciliation--"unless, Henrietta, you retract."
"I never retract," she answered shortly.
"Then, farewell!" he said, with a half movement, as if he would have taken her hand."
"Farewell!" she answered, affecting not to see his offered hand, and shaking the reins loose on her horse's neck.
Ormiston turned his horse's head in the opposite direction, and went forward a few paces; then he stopped and looked after his late companion. She was moving on, but slowly, and like one lost in thought. Stirred by a sudden honest impulse of regret, he turned and followed her. Henrietta heard him, and instantly checked her horse, as if determined not to suffer him to ride any longer at her side.
"Henrietta!" he said.
"What would you?" she asked sullenly.
"Only unsay that one word, 'hypocrisy,' and let things be as they were before."
"I never unsay what I have said," she answered coldly.
"Neither do I," he retorted, now angry in earnest; "and I swear to you that I will see you no more until under your own hand and seal you retract, of your own accord, what you have said to-day, and tell me to return."
"Farewell, then, for ever," she replied, with rather a bad assumption of indifference--"for ever, if so it must be."
"Farewell," he answered, without, however, as even in that moment Henrietta noticed, adding the ominous "for ever." "Farewell, and God forgive you for so trifling with the honest heart that loves you, and has loved you from your childhood. Some day--too late, perhaps--you will do me justice."
And so they parted.
Chapter VII
Left to herself, Nellie Netterville sat down to collect her scattered senses. The situation in which she found herself needed, in truth, a calm sense and courage, not often the heritage of petted girlhood, in order to bear up successfully against its difficulties. Happily for herself, the brave Irish girl was possessed of both in no common degree, and the trials and troubles of the last few months had ripened these faculties into almost unnatural maturity. The tale she had just told to Major Hewitson was free of the smallest attempt at exaggeration, being, in fact, rather under than over the measure of the truth. Lord Netterville, in common with many another unfortunate gentleman of the English Pale, had been kept dancing attendance on the commissioners at Loughrea until both hope and money failed him. {314} The absence of home comforts told heavily upon a frame already weakened by age and sorrow; and just at the moment when he could least bear up against it, he was attacked by the plague, or some disease analogous to the plague, which at that very time was making most impartial havoc among the native Irish and their foes. Thanks to an iron constitution, he recovered, but he rose from his sickbed, if not absolutely a child in mind, yet as utterly incapable of aiding Nellie by advice, or of steering his own way unassisted through the troubled waters on which his ill fate had cast him, as if he had been in very deed an infant. His servant was already dead, therefore the whole responsibility of their future movements devolved upon his granddaughter. She proved herself, fortunately, not altogether unequal to the occasion, never losing sight for a moment of the purpose which had brought her to Loughrea, and tormenting the commissioners until, less moved by her youth and helplessness than by a desire to rid themselves of her troublesome importunities, they gave her the certificate which she had shown to Major Hewitson, and which, as he had instantly perceived, was rendered worse than useless to its possessor by the fact of its being merely a temporary arrangement. Ignorant alike of Latin and law language, Nellie had, naturally enough, supposed it to be a permanent appointment; and, selling their horses and every article of value in her possession, in order to pay the debts contracted at Loughrea, she had made the rest of the journey on foot, leading, soothing, and encouraging the old man as if he had been a child, and buoying up his courage and her own by fanciful descriptions of that home in the far west, where she trusted his last days might be passed in peace. She had tried to deceive him; she never attempted to deceive herself as to the nature of their future prospects; yet unpleasant as her anticipations had been, they were so much more agreeable than the terrible realities upon which she had just stumbled, that she felt for a few moments, as she sat there alone among the hills, as if the very gates of an earthly Paradise had been closed against her. But it was no moment for the indulgence of such natural regrets. She looked at her grandfather, and felt that his life was in her hands. She remembered, too, her promise to her mother to be son as well as daughter to his age; and sternly and tearlessly, for tears were too weak an expression for such desolation as she was feeling then, she set herself to consider what her next move ought to be. Food and shelter for the old man--(and it needed not another glance at his pale face to tell her how much both were needed) food and shelter--these must be her first object. It would be time enough after they had been secured to decide as to the feasibility of a return journey to Loughrea. She rose, and drawing her hood, which, in her struggle with Major Hewitson, had fallen back upon her shoulders, once more over her head, she took her grandfather by the hand, and led him quietly and silently down the path pointed out to her by Henrietta. It had originally been a sheep-path, and proved far less difficult than she had expected, winding gradually round the hills until it reached a sort of creek or estuary formed by the inrushing, for a couple of miles, of the waters from the bay beyond. It was a lonely, but a lovely spot, and Nellie's heart beat more calmly as she paused to listen to the soft rocking of the waters in their inland bed, and to feel the fresh breeze which they brought from the ocean playing on her heated brow. {315} There were no visible signs near her of that human habitation of which Major Hewitson's daughter had so confidently spoken; but at last, after having searched the landscape steadily in all directions, she thought she saw something like a blue curl of smoke rising out of a sort of mound, which, at first sight, seemed neither more nor less than a cairn of unusually large dimensions, nearly hidden by clumps of gorse and heather at least six feet high, and bushy and luxuriant in proportion. On nearer inspection, however, it proved to be a hut, such a hut as even to this day may be sometimes seen in the wildest parts of the wild west, rounded at the gables, built of rough stones, rudely yet solidly put together, and with a roof laid on of fern and shingle, carefully secured from the violence of the western winds by bands of twisted straw. A hole in this roof stood proxy both for window and for chimney, and the doorway was literally doorless. A sort of grass mat hung across it from the inside, being evidently considered by the inhabitants as ample protection against cold and wet, the only foes which extreme poverty has got to boast of.
For five seconds, at the very least, Nellie stood gazing on this frail barrier with a feeling as if it would require more than human courage to announce her presence to the human beings (she knew not whether they were friends or enemies) who might be stowed away behind it. At last, with a shaking hand, she drew back a small corner of the matting, and, without daring to look in, saluted the possible inmates, as the natives of the country salute each other to this day in Irish, "God save all here!" There was no answer, and, lifting the curtain a little higher, she looked in.
The hut was empty, though a few embers burning on the floor gave sufficient evidence of its having been recently inhabited. Of furniture, save a single wooden settle, Nellie could discover none; but a gun was standing upright against the opposite wall, and near it hung a very Spanish-seeming mantle, looking as much out of place in that miserable abode as its owner would probably have done if he had been there to claim it. The solitude, and the sight of that gun and mantle, made her feel far more nervous than she would have felt if a dozen of the natives of the soil had been congregated within. It seemed to imply some mystery, and, to the helpless, mystery always has a touch of fear about it. Moreover, it made her suddenly conscious that she was an intruder, an idea which would never have come into her head if her possible hosts had been of that frank-hearted race to whom the virtue of hospitality comes so easily that it does not even occur to them to call it "virtue." On the other hand, her grandfather's pale face and sunken features seemed to plead with her against all unseasonable timidity. Hastily, therefore, and as though she were about to commit a theft, she put aside the matting, drew the old man inside, and then replaced the screen as carefully as if she hoped in this manner to hide her audacious proceedings from the owner of the hut--or rather, if the truth must be told, from the owner of the mysterious mantle. This first step fairly taken, Nellie suddenly grew brave, and resolving to make the most of their impromptu habitation, she drew the settle nearer to the fire, and made Lord Netterville sit down upon it.
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The sight of the embers seemed to revive the latter, less perhaps from any need he felt of its warmth on that bright sunny day than from the home-like associations which it awakened in his mind. He smiled a wintry smile, with more of old age than of gladness in it, and stretched forth his withered hands to warm them in the blaze. Then, as if suddenly waking up for the first time to a perception of his being foodless, he asked Nellie if supper would soon be ready, for that in truth he was well-nigh starving. Starving he must have been, that poor Nellie knew well enough already; for they had exhausted their scanty stock of food that very day, and he had tasted nothing since the early dawn. She soothed him, however, and besought him to have yet a little patience, and then, with a desperate resolution to appropriate to his use whatever of food the hut might happen to contain, she commenced a careful examination of its hidden nooks. There were, of course, neither shelves nor cupboards, or anything, indeed, which even suggested the idea of provisions having been ever kept there; but at last, when she had almost begun to give up the search in despair, she espied something like the handle of a basket peeping out from beneath a bundle of firewood which lay heaped in one corner of the hut upon the floor. Pouncing upon this at once, she discovered that it contained a couple of sea-trout, upon which the owner of the mansion had probably intended making an early dinner, for they were already prepared for broiling. With renewed energy Nellie took a handful of dried brushwood, and threw it upon the half-extinguished fire, after which she proceeded, in her new character of cook, to lay, in a very leisurely and scientific manner, the fish upon the embers. So engrossed was she in this occupation, that she never perceived that the mat curtain over the doorway had been once more lifted up, and that some one was watching her proceedings from the outside. This some one was a man, apparently about twenty-five or thirty years of age, with a figure rather above than below the middle height, and a face which, full of energy and expression as it was, was by no means regularly handsome, though the large, Murillo-looking eyes by which it was lighted up deceived casual beholders into a conviction that it was.
He was clad in a garb which might have belonged to the native fishermen of the coast, yet no one could have mistaken him for other than a gentleman and soldier, as he stood there, holding back the screen of matting, and gazing, with a look curiously compounded of amusement and annoyance, at the scene presented by the interior of the cottage. The latter feeling, however, was evidently in the ascendant--so much so, indeed, that he had actually made a half-movement, as if to retreat and leave the hut to its uninvited occupants, when something--was it a glimpse of Nellie's delicate profile, as she stooped over the glowing embers?--induced him to change his mind, and stepping quietly over the threshold, he dropped the screen behind him with an energy and good-will which seemed to indicate that, instead of his premeditated flight, he had made up his mind to accept with a good grace, and perhaps even to enjoy, this unexpected addition to his society. The sound of the falling mat warned Nellie of the advent of a stranger, and, crimson with shame and fear, she stood up to receive him. He gazed upon her steadily, the half-feeling of annoyance, still visible on his clouded brow, yielding gradually to a look of intense but reverent admiration, and removing his fisherman's cap from his head, he bowed courteously, and said in English:
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"God save all here, and a hundred thousand welcomes also, if, as I apprehend, you are fugitives like myself from tyranny and injustice."
There was an indescribable tact and courtesy in the way in which he combined this announcement of his being the master of the hut with a frank and ready welcome to his unknown visitants, which made Nellie feel at once that she had to do, not only with a man of gentle birth but of high and polished breeding also. Yet this fact seemed for the moment rather to add to her difficulty than to decrease it, and secretly wishing that the fish could be made, by some magical process, to disappear from the embers upon which it was comfortably broiling, she placed herself as much as she could between it and the stranger as she stammered out her apology for intrusion. Did he see the fish? and did he guess at the petty larceny she had just committed? Nellie fancied she saw something like an amused look in his eye, which made her feel hot and cold by turns with the consciousness of discovered guilt, but the rest of his features wore no smile, nothing but an expression of kind and courteous sympathy as he eagerly interrupted her excuses--
"Say no more, dear lady, say no more, trust me I have not now to learn for the first time to what dire straits the sad necessity of these days of woe may bring us. And, therefore, to all who come to this poor hut, but more especially to those who, for honor and for conscience sake, have laid down wealth and power elsewhere, I have but one word--one greeting, and that is the old Irish one, of a hundred thousand welcomes."
"A hundred thousand welcomes!" repeated a feeble, quivering voice close to the stranger's elbow. He turned and looked for the first time steadily at Lord Netterville, of whose presence up to that moment he had been barely conscious. The old man had risen from his seat, and stood smiling and bowing courteously, evidently thinking he was doing the honors of a home, of which--however humble--he was yet the undoubted master.
"Our house is poor, sir," he went on, "once, indeed, we boasted of a better; but let that pass. Such as it is--such as our enemies have made it--you may reckon assuredly upon meeting an Irish welcome in it."
"Sir," whispered Nellie through her tears, fearing lest the stranger might break in too rudely on the old man's delusion. "He is old--he has been ill--he fancies he has reached his home; you must excuse him."
The unknown turned his eyes upon the girl with a look so full of reverent sympathy, that it went straight to her heart, never afterward to be effaced from thence. She felt that her grandfather would be safe in such kindly hands, and was turning quietly away when Lord Netterville, still enacting his fancied character of host, threw a handful of dry wood upon the fire, and the blaze that instantly ensued fell full upon his features, which had hitherto been barely visible in the gloom. The stranger started violently.
"Good God!" he cried, in a tone of irrepressible astonishment. "Is it possible that I see Lord Netterville, and in such a plight?"
"You know my grandfather, then?" cried Nellie joyously, feeling as if the stranger must have been sent by Providence especially to help her in the hour of her utmost need. "You know my grandfather?"
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"I ought, at any rate," he answered, with a sad smile, as he took Lord Netterville's proffered hand. "For we fought together and were beaten at Kilrush; my first battle, and, as I suppose, his last."
"Ha!" cried the old man, "Kilrush! Kilrush! who speaks to me of Kilrush? Were you there, sir? Time must have played sad tricks upon my memory then, for, truth to say, I do not recognize you."
"Nay, my good lord," said the stranger soothingly, "it would be stranger still if you had done so, for I was but a beardless boy in those days. Nevertheless, I remember you, Lord Netterville, and surely you cannot have altogether forgotten the cheer we gave when you, a tried and veteran soldier, rode up to serve with us as a volunteer in the regiment of your gallant son."
"I remember! I remember!" cried the old man eagerly. "It was a bright and glorious morning, and we charged them gallantly--a bright and glorious morning, but with a sad and bloody ending. Alas! alas!" he added, his voice falling suddenly from its trumpet-like tone of exultation to an old man's wail of sorrow. "Alas! alas! how many of the best and bravest that we had among us lay dead and trampled in the dust, as we withdrew from that fatal field."
He bowed his head upon his breast, and remained for a little while absorbed in thought, and Nellie took advantage of the pause to say:
"You knew my father, sir? You must have known him if you were near Lord Netterville at Kilrush; for father and son charged side by side, and were seldom, as I have since been told, ten minutes out of each other's sight during the whole of that bloody battle."
"Knew your father? Yes, dear lady--if your father was, as I suppose, Colonel Netterville--I knew him well. He was the bosom friend of my uncle and namesake, Roger Moore of Leix, who placed me in his regiment when I joined the Irish army."
"Roger Moore of Leix," cried Nellie, a flash of enthusiasm lighting up her face; "Roger Moore--the brave--the gifted--the first leader in a noble cause, whose very name was a battle-cry, and whose followers rushed into fight, shouting for 'God--our Lady--and Roger Moore!' Yes, yes; he was my father's friend. I remember even when I was a child how he used to talk about him. And you," she added, with a sudden change of voice and manner, and placing both her hands in his, "you, then, are that Roger Moore, the younger, in whose arms my poor father died."
"At the battle of Benburb," said Moore, in a low voice; "a glorious battle--well fought, and well won, and yet for ever to be regretted, for the loss of one of Ireland's bravest and most faithful soldiers."
"Grandfather," cried Nellie, suddenly withdrawing her hands from Roger, and blushing scarlet at the inadvertence of her own action which had placed them in his, "this is Captain Moore, who bore my wounded father out of the press of battle, and to whom we are indebted for that last and loving farewell which he sent to us in dying."
But instead of replying with an eagerness corresponding to her own, Lord Netterville gazed vacantly upon the stranger, evidently without the slightest recollection of his name or person, and repeated, in a low mechanical voice, his previously-muttered welcome.
"He does not remember!" said Roger. "Alas! alas! for that bright intellect, once cloudless as a summer's noon!"
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"Hush, hush!" whispered Nellie. "Recollection is beginning to return." And Lord Netterville did, in fact, seem to be making a languid effort at gathering up his scattered thoughts, for he looked at Roger, and said feebly:
"You knew my son, sir?--you knew my son?--then, indeed, you are very welcome. He was a brave boy, and fought for his king and country--fought and fell--on the field of--the field of--the name--which I thought never to forget--has almost escaped me."
"Benburb," Roger ventured to interpose.
"Benburb! Ay, that was the very name--Benburb!--my memory does not fail me, sir; but I have been much tried of late--or we rode too far this morning--for I feel very faint."
He tried to draw back from the fire as he spoke, but he tottered, and would have fallen if Roger had not caught him by the arm, and made him sit down upon the settle.
"He is faint for want of food," said Nellie hastily; "we have been wandering all day among the hills, and he has not broken his fast since morning."
Roger did not answer, but signing to her to support Lord Netterville, he went straight to some invisible cranny in the walls of the hut, and drew thence a bottle of strong cordial. Pouring a little of this into a broken mug, he made the old man swallow it, and then stood beside him, anxiously watching the result. Happily it was favorable--in a few minutes Lord Netterville revived, the color returned to his wan cheek, and turning to Nellie, he asked her, in a half-whisper, "if supper would soon be ready?" Shyly, and blushing scarlet, Nellie nodded an affirmative, and forgetting all her previous shame in anxiety for her grandfather, she was about to resume her office as cook, when, with a half-smile on his face, Roger Moore put her quietly aside.
"Nay, Mistress Netterville, remember that I am master here, and that I forbid you to lay hands upon that fish? I have always been cook in my own proper person to the establishment, and I cannot allow you to supersede me in the office."
"Forgive me!" said Nellie, tears starting to her eyes, and half fancying in her confusion that he was angry in earnest. "I could not help it, for he was starving."
"Do not misunderstand me, I entreat you," said Roger, in a voice of deep and real feeling; "I should be a brute if I objected to anything you have or could have done; I only meant that I objected to your continuing in that office; for so long as the daughter of my old colonel is under my roof, (even though it be but a poor mud sheeling,) she shall do no work, with my good-will, unfit for the hands of a princess." He busied himself while speaking in drawing forth, from that same recess in which he had found the cordial, some thin oaten cakes, a few wooden platters, and one or two knives and spoons of such massive silver, that Nellie could not help thinking they were as much out of keeping with the rest of the furniture as Roger himself appeared to be with the hut, of which he was doing the honors in such simple and yet such courtly fashion. He would not even let her hold the platter upon which he placed the fish as he took it from the embers, and he himself then brought it to Lord Netterville, and pressed him, as tenderly as if he had been a child, to partake of this impromptu supper.
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The old man yielded, nothing loath, and so, indeed, did his grandchild; for, though very fair to look at, no goddess was poor Nellie, but a young and growing girl with the healthy appetite of sixteen. She accepted, therefore, Roger's invitation without the smallest affectation of reluctance, and sitting down on the floor beside her grandfather, shared the contents of his platter with innocent and undisguised enjoyment. With all her sense and courage, she was as yet in many things a perfect child, yielding as easily as a child might do to the first ray of sunshine that brightened on her path, and accepting the happiness of the present moment as unrestrainedly as if never even suspecting the shadows that were lurking in her future. Now, therefore, that she felt her grandfather was in safe and helpful keeping, she threw off the sense of responsibility which had weighed her down for months, and became almost gay. Color rose to her wasted cheek, light sparkled in her eyes, and she responded to Roger's efforts to make her feel comfortable and at home, with such innocent and unbounded faith in his wish and power to befriend them, that he vowed an inward vow never to forsake her, but to guard her, as if she had been in very deed his sister, through the trials and dangers of her unprotected exile. When their meal was over, and while her grandfather slumbered in the quiet warmth of the peat-fire, she told Roger Moore her story, simply and briefly as she might have told it to a brother, beginning at her departure from her ancestral home, and ending with her encounter with the English strangers among the mountains.
"It is Major Hewitson," said Roger, "in whose favor I have been despoiled of my old home. Major Hewitson and his pretty daughter 'Ruth,' as he chooses to call her, in order to blot out the fact that her name is Henrietta, and that she had a popish queen for her godmother. She forgets it not herself, however," he added, with a smile; "for her mother was of noble race, and they say that she is a true cavalier at heart, and pines like a caged bird in the network of demure fanaticism which her father has twined around her."
"She has a lovely face and a kind and honest heart, for certain," said Nellie. "She knows you also, now I think of it; for she it was who directed me to this hut, with a hint that I should here find a friend."
"Did she?" said Roger, with genuine fervour. "Nay, then, for that one good deed I needs must pardon her, that she, or her father for her, have robbed me of my inheritance. And now I think of it," he added, with a touch of sly malice in his smile, "you also, if you came hither to seek land, must have been bound on the same errand; for both these baronies, 'Umhall uaghtragh' and 'Umhall ioghtragh,' is the country of the O'Mailly's, and, in right of my grandmother, my own."
Nellie blushed scarlet. "Alas!" she said, "I knew not whither or to whom they sent us; but sure am I, at all events, that we never would have accepted of any home at the expense of its rightful owners."
"Nay," said Roger, "I did but jest. Would indeed that it was to you I had been compelled to yield it! In spite of that fact you should have had, I promise you, a right royal welcome. And now I must needs explain. This sheeling, you must know, is not really my home. It is but a temporary refuge, of which I have two or three along the coast; for I have fought battles enough against England's new-fangled government to have deserved the honors of outlawry at her hands. {321} My life consequently has been none too safe at any time these six months past, and now that yonder gray-haired fanatic, who would ask nothing better than to seal his title in my blood, has got possession of these lands, it is of course less secure than ever. My most permanent home, however, is on an island, facing the bay on this side, and washed by the waters of the Atlantic on the other. It is poor enough, God knows, yet capable of giving better accommodation than such a hut as this is. Will you and your grandfather be content to share it with me?"
Tears rushed into the dark eyes of Nellie.
"Providence is good," she answered simply--"Providence is very good, and gives us friends when we least expect them."
"Well, then, it is a bargain," cried Roger gayly; "and now. Mistress Netterville, come and see the craft in which you will have to make the voyage."
He pulled down the "mysterious mantle" as he spoke, and Nellie saw that, instead of covering the bare wall as she had imagined, it merely concealed an opening into an inner and smaller portion of the hut, built right over the creek, and made to answer the purpose of a boat-house. Into this the water rushed, so as to form a basin deep enough for the floating of a boat, and one accordingly lay safe within it, concealed by the overhanging roof from observation on the outside.
It was not flat-bottomed like the native craft, but had been evidently built both for strength and speed by one who understood his business, and its chief cargo at this particular moment seemed to be a quantity of luxuriant heather.
To this Roger pointed with a smile. "If I were a Highlander," he said, "you might suspect me of second-sight; for I have gathered, without thinking of it, double the usual quantity of heather, that which we outlaws perforce use for bedding. I hope you will not mind roughing it a little."
"I have roughed it a good deal within the last few months," said Nellie, "and I do not think you will find me difficult to please. Is the boat quite safe? I have never been out on the real sea before."
"Safe!" said the young man, with a little pardonable pride in his dark eyes. "I built her myself, and she has weathered more than one bad storm since the first day that I sailed her. I call her the 'Grana Uaille,' after the stout old chieftainess whose island kingdom I inhabit, and which, with the other lands of which Major Hewitson has robbed me, I inherit from my grandmother. But the sun is getting low. Do you not think we had better start at once, and get the voyage over before night-fall?"
To this Nellie gladly assented, and between them they conducted Lord Netterville to the boat. Roger arranged the heather so as to form a sort of couch, and, with the mantle thrown over him to protect him from the damp, the old man found himself so comfortable that he settled himself quietly for slumber. Then Roger put up his sail, and with a fresh and favorable wind they glided down the creek.
Nellie would not lie down, but she sat back in the boat with a lazy kind of gladness in her heart, which, rightly interpreted, would probably have been found to mean perfect rest of body and mind. Such rest as she had not felt for months! The waters widened as they approached the bay, and Nellie marked each new feature in the scene with an interest all the keener and more enjoyable, that everything she saw was so unlike anything she had ever seen before. {322} Accustomed as she had been to the tamer cultivation of her native country, the savage grandeur of that wild west, with its poverty in human life, its wealth in that which was merely animal, took her completely by surprise, and she gazed with unwearied interest, now on the undulating ranges of blue mountains which crossed and recrossed each other like network against the sky, then on the broad, black tracts of peat and bog land which covered the country at their feet like a pall; listened now to the bittern and plover as they answered each other from the marshes, then to the shrill screams of the curlews as they rose before the boat, darkening the air with their uncounted numbers; or she watched a heron sweeping slowly homeward from its distant fishing-ground--or a grand old eagle soaring solemnly upward, as if bent on a visit to the departing sun; and her delight and astonishment at last reached their climax in the apparition of a seal, which, just as they cleared the creek, popped its head up above the waves, leaving her, in spite of Roger's laughing assurances to the contrary, well-nigh persuaded that she had seen a mermaid. The wind continuing steady, Roger shook out his last remaining reef, and, responding gayly to the fresh impulse, the boat sprang forward at a racing pace. They were in Clew Bay at last, and Nellie uttered a cry of joy--never had she seen anything so beautiful before. Masses of clouds, with tints just caught from the presence of the sun, soft greens and lilacs, and pale primrose and delicate pearly white, so clear and filmy that the evening star could be seen glancing through them, hung right overhead, shedding a thousand hues, each more beautiful than the other, upon the bay beneath, until it flowed like a liquid opal round its multitude of tribute isles. Opposite, right in the very mouth of the harbor, stood Clare Island, all alight and glowing, as if it were in very deed the pavilion of the setting sun, which, as it sank into the waves beyond it, wrapped tower, and church, and slanting cliff, and winding shoreline, in such a glory of gold and purple as made the old kingdom of Grana Uaille look for the moment like a palace of the fairies. Nellie was still straining her eyes for a glimpse of the Atlantic on the other side, when the deep baying of a hound came like sad, sweet music over the waters, and Roger slightly touched her shoulder. They were close to the island; in another moment he had run his boat cleverly into the little harbor and laid her alongside the pier. A huge wolf-dog, of the old Irish breed, instantly bounded in, nearly oversetting Nellie in his eagerness to greet his master.
Roger laid one restraining hand on the dog's massive head, and removing his cap with the other, said, smiling courteously:
"You must not be afraid of Maida, Mistress Netterville, she is as gentle as she is strong, and has only come to add her voice to her master's, and to bid you welcome to the outlaw's home."