THE SCHOOL OF HUMANITY.
For those that fly may fight again,
Which he can never do that’s slain;
Hence timely running’s no mean part
Of conduct in the martial art.—_Butler._
The Divine origin of Christianity is manifested in nothing more
powerfully than by the progress it rapidly made among the Latin races.
Tho soft, voluptuous climates of Southern Europe would have bred, one
would have thought, nations whose chief characteristics would have been
gentleness and tenderness. But it is not so, and the cruelty that was
deeply ingrained in the Roman nature lives on in Christian Italy and
Spain, uninfluenced by some sixteen centuries of Christianity, so far
as regards the treatment of the lower animals. To have softened towards
their neighbours and dependents, the cruel patricians of Nero’s reign
needed the greatest miracle of the Christian religion. The actual
reception of the code of Christ by the men of old Rome is evidence
enough that there was no mere human agency at work. We may estimate the
magnitude of the task Christianity had to accomplish by marking the
condition of the shores which its tide has failed to overflow. Up to
the present it would seem, in Spain and Italy at least, the high-water
mark of mercy stops short of the animals which serve us. “To them
Christianity has no duties,” they say. The women and children of Italy
do not think for a moment that they are not justified in torturing the
trapped wolves and foxes the shepherds have taken, just as our sailors
used to torment sharks. “What rights have such naughty beasts?” say
they.
The long, stern contention of the men of the North against the rigour
of the elements, or some other profound cause, has produced in the
Teutonic races a tenderness of heart, and a sympathy with every phase
of wrong, which have made the Anglo-Saxon race the pioneers of mercy
throughout the whole world.
The progress of Christianity was assured when the men of the North were
converted; and if they owe to warmer climates the message of the Friend
of man, they have in their turn blessed the birth lands of the Gospel
with the broader humanity which has help for everything that lives and
suffers.
Elsworth was amazed to find how the bull-fight cultus had permeated and
moulded every Spanish mind. That it was a pastime, he knew; that it was
a religion, he did not imagine till he had lived in Spain. The very
landscapes were cruel; the mountains and rocks had no softness, they
were all angles, with stern, hard outlines that seemed reflected in the
Spanish nature. Man, modified by his surroundings, often formed the
subject of his meditations. Here, if anywhere, cruelty would be
apotheosized! The railway journey to Madrid, and the landscape of the
Escorial threw a light on many chapters of Spanish history which had
often seemed hard to understand.
Having reached Madrid in due course he made some necessary purchases.
First of all he bought a bicycle from Singer’s agents in the Puerta del
Sol, also some good road maps and all the necessary tools and materials
for repairing any accident that might happen to his machine. Then a
good medicine chest and some well-selected medical appliances to enable
him to be useful to any sick folk he might fall in with. A few books,
dictionaries, grammars, and guides were added to his slender baggage
and sent forward to Granada to the Hotel Washington Irving, where he
determined to remain till he should decide his future course of life.
He knew the cholera was raging at this city, and without rashness, yet
with confidence in God and the wisdom of sanitary precautions which he
should adopt, he decided to do what he could to help the dreadful
misery that hung over the unfortunate city. His work at St. Bernard’s
had familiarized him with the terrible disease on its last visitation
of London, and he trusted to the measures which had been followed there
to keep him from danger in Spain. At Madrid he wrote to his father,
telling him the exact state of affairs, and assuring him that he had
fled from temptation that could not be safely parreyed with, but was
better conquered by flight.
A few months later he received a reply from the Major, who so far from
being annoyed at his son’s conduct, praised him for it.
“You have done what the Lord Gautama Buddha felt compelled to do. When
he left his royal home, and in the night passing through the dimly
lighted pavilions where the sleeping Nātch girls lay, conceived an
overpowering loathing for worldly pleasure, and was assailed in vain at
the outset of his great renunciation by the voice of the tempter Māra
urging him to cling to all the good things he was giving up, he set an
example which I rejoice to know my son has followed. You are seeking
the Nirvana. Do not think yourself singular in this step; one cannot be
saved without a renunciation.”
Elsworth thought of a higher example and a nobler Prince, who left His
throne to teach us the way of salvation; but was glad he had the
approbation of his father. No one else except his lawyers, knew of his
whereabouts; and he asked his father and agents not to give the curious
inquirer any clue to his place of retreat.
Ever since as a boy he had read “Washington Irving” and Mr. Prescott’s
“Conquest of Granada,” he had longed to see that celebrated city of
which one Spanish proverb declares, “He is loved of God who lives in
Granada,” and another, that “He who has not seen Granada has seen
nothing.”
George Borrow’s books on the Spanish gipsies, their customs, and their
curious language had fascinated him, and made him anxious some day to
see these strange people for whom he had acquired a singular liking.
The Spanish character has in it something strangely akin to the Puritan
severity, honesty, and fibre of the English race, and no true
Englishman can read the history of the conquests of Peru and Mexico
without feeling his heart go forth towards those brave followers of
Pizarro and Cortez, who seemed possessed of a character so much like
our own in their invincible courage, daring, and hardihood in dealing
with difficulties.
Elsworth had Puritan blood in him, inherited from his mother, more than
one of whose ancestors had fought for England’s liberties under the
great Protector. Good blood has the peculiarity of helping its
possessor at a critical turn in life; and at this juncture in
Elsworth’s history it served to stimulate him with something of the
nerve force that enabled his forefathers to cast off the trammels of a
licentious and drunken age, and go forth to a purer atmosphere for
their souls’ salvation. He knew from many an old book treasured at
home, the story of the Pilgrim Fathers, and what they had done for what
the world called a mere idea. His favourite book, the “Pilgrim’s
Progress,” came to his aid. Was he not, like Christian, setting forth
from the City of Destruction? And so one bright autumn day he found
himself in the famous city, the Queen of Cities, as Ibn-Batuta calls it.
The Arab writers used to say it was a fragment of heaven that had
fallen to the earth. Elsworth had not gone forth into a waste, howling
wilderness; he did not see there was any use in making himself
wretched. He wanted, if possible, to do some good; and as he knew the
language of the Gitanos, he thought if he could devote himself to their
interests for a while in a missionary way, he would be the happier for
being useful in his retirement. For he had great faith in the eternal
freshness of the New Testament, and he concluded that its doctrines
were as potent, as life-giving now as when they first shed their beams
on a benighted world; he was determined that now religious liberty was
permitted in Spain he would circulate the Caló New Testament amongst
the gipsies, and do what he could to bring them to its teaching.
He took a couple of charmingly situated rooms in a venerable house on
the banks of the Darro, looking down upon an old bridge which spanned
the golden stream that comes down from the Sierra Nevada. The Alhambra
Hill was close by, and the old city, rich with historic memories, in
the plain below. He had little difficulty in ingratiating himself with
the Gitanos. Knowing their language so well, they insisted that he must
be of their race; and his dark complexion, fine eyes, and jet-black
hair made it almost useless for him to deny that he was of gipsy stock.
They argued that he must have their blood in his veins, even though he
might not know it.
He soon became very popular, and having no prejudice, but being of a
thoroughly cosmopolitan mind, it was not long before he was looked upon
as one of themselves. His hospital life helped him, and he soon became
at home in the Sacro Monte.
The gipsy quarter of Granada is one of the great sights of the place,
and is the most romantic spot one can imagine. The pencil of a Doré and
the pen of a Théophile Gautier have made it familiar enough to students
of Spain and its people.