Intense excitement on board, during which the pilot swears by Allah and

the Prophet that he will not stay on the boat after such an insult, and

goes off in high dudgeon. The howadjii, having locked up everything

portable below stairs, are seated on the quarter-deck enjoying the scene

in a mild manner, and waiting to see what will come next. The prospects

of being kept here for an indefinite time are delightful. The head sheik

is angry and the pilot has disappeared. But the silver lining of the

dark cloud soon shines out. The second sheik takes command, and Nogood’s

son comes aboard as pilot—very unlike his father, a hard worker and a

quiet sort of man. We are ready to start now, but where are the men to

pull us up? None can be seen. The river is here filled with broken and

disjointed rocks—small islets. A great fall was here once, no doubt;

hence the rapids now. The sheik throws two handfuls of sand in the air.

Immediately from all sides, like the warriors of Roderick Dhu, rise the

Shellallee. From behind every rock come forth a score or more. Three

long ropes are made fast to the boat. A hundred men take hold of two;

the third is turned two or three times around a rock, the end being held

by a dozen men. This rope is gradually tightened as the boat moves up,

to hold it in case the others should break. By the united help of the

wind and this struggling mass of naked humanity we move slowly up the

first gate, not ten yards long. In the same manner we pass the second

and third gates. Our friends the log-riders are useful to us now.

Plunging into the boiling, seething waters, that rush with such force it

seems impossible for man to struggle against them, they make ropes fast

to this rock; now they detach them, and, taking the end between their

teeth, swim to another and make fast again. Picture to yourself such a

scene, if you can. I cannot describe it satisfactorily to myself. Hear,

if you can, nearly two hundred men all shouting at the same time, giving

orders, suggesting means, no one listening, no one obeying, each acting

for himself—Old Nogood alone seated quietly on the deck smoking his

pipe; our boat possessed by four score of these black Shellallee,

half-naked, running to and fro, shouting and yelling, but doing nothing

to help us. Pandemonium itself could scarce furnish such a scene of

confusion. Babel was a tower of silence compared with this discord.

After passing the third gate we sailed into a quiet haven and moored

there for the night. It was only three P.M. But they are five-hour men

here, commencing work at ten and stopping at three. We were kept waiting

all the next day, as two other boats were ahead of us, and they took

them up first. On the third morning we left our moorings and sailed

under a fresh breeze about one hundred yards up the stream to the fourth

gate. The fourth and fifth are in reality but one continuous rapid; but

as a stoppage is made when half-way up to readjust the ropes, the

natives divide it into two gates. The water rushes here with great

rapidity—more so than in the other gates, as these are narrower. A stout

rope was made fast to the cross-beams of the deck on the starboard bow,

and the other end carried around a rock some distance off. Owing to some

mistake there was no rope on the port side. The men were pulling on a

rope carried directly ahead, when it suddenly parted; the boat swung

around to starboard and struck a rock with great force, knocking off

several planks six inches thick and seven feet long. They were picked up

by the felluka, which floated around promiscuously, manned by five small

boys. These planks were carved in scroll-work, and painted in bright

colors. Reis Mohammed had carefully bound straw around them before

starting, so that they might not even be scratched. He clenched his

teeth and swore like a trooper; the only words intelligible to us were

“Allah,” “Merkeb,” “Mohammed.” Reis Mohammed Hassan, Nogood’s successor,

was standing on the awning piled up on the front of the quarter-deck.

Every one else began to shout, gesticulate, and run around to no

purpose; but he, shouting while he undressed, threw off his gown and

turban, and, with his drawers on, jumped overboard, swam to a rock on

the port side, and made fast a rope. A Nubian, attired in a girdle, now

waded out into the rapid as far as he was able, and a rope was thrown

him from the rock against which the boat rested. After three attempts he

caught it and made it fast some distance ahead. A fourth rope was

carried ashore and seized hold of by sixty men. We were then pulled into

a narrow pass, through which the water dashed like a mill-race, and so

narrow that the boat grazed the rocks on either side. For a moment we

remained stationary; the next the strong wind and the efforts of the men

overcame the force of the current, and we moved slowly on. Shortly after

we reached the head of the rapids, the ropes were withdrawn, the Nubians

left us, and we sailed gallantly up to Philæ the beautiful.

We are now in Nubia, among a different race of people. We have passed

the cataract. Hear the concise account given by the father of travellers

concerning this ascent: “I went as far as Elephantine,” he says, “and

beyond that obtained information from hearsay. As one ascends the river

above the city of Elephantine the country is steep; here, therefore, it

is necessary to attach a rope on both sides of a boat as one does with

an ox in a plough, and so proceed; but if the rope should happen to

break, the boat is carried away by the force of the stream.” This land

of Cosh is very different in appearance from the one we have just left.

The hills are mostly of granite and sandstone, and they approach nearer

the river. In some parts the mere sloping bank, not more than ten feet,

can be cultivated in a perfectly straight line; on its top the golden

sands meet the growing crops. The river is filled with sunken rocks. Had

we struck here, it might have been serious, unlike running on the

sand-banks in the lower country. Reis Dab, our new pilot, knew the river

well and kept a sharp lookout; so on we sailed day after day without

stopping. There are no printed newspapers along the Nile, but the

natives have a cheap, primitive method of journalism. They need no

expensive press, no reporters to search far and wide for news. As soon

as another boat appears in sight all is excitement on board. When we

come within hailing distance the journals are exchanged as follows: Far

away over the waters comes a voice from the approaching boat: “How are

you all? Who are you? All well?”

“We are dahabeeáh _Sitta Mariam_, Father H—— and party on board. Who are

you?”

“How is Mohammed? Fatima has a sore foot. Ali has gone up the river on a

corn-boat.” And thus they go on telling all the news. “How many boats up

the river? What is going on further down?” The shouting is kept up until

the boat passes out of hearing. When we reached Syria, in April, our

dragoman there, who had never been in Egypt, knew all about our

movements on the Nile. They were communicated from one to another simply

by word of mouth, and finally reached his ears.

It is a bright, beautiful moonlight evening. The glittering

constellations are reflected deep down in the calm waters beneath us, so

distinctly that they seem to have fallen there. Not a ripple disturbs

the surface of the water, scarce a breath the stillness of the air. It

is a gala night. Ahmud has distributed candles and hasheesh to the crew.

They have illuminated the deck and are playing, singing, and dancing.

Reis Ahmud, with a sober face, beats the drum, his whole soul seemingly

concerned in his occupation. Abiad has the tamborine, a pretty one,

inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He has been smoking hasheesh—his favorite

pastime. His eyes are closed, his head sways backwards and forwards as

he sings; he seems to pour out his very life’s spirit in the song. The

rest of the crew group around, squatted on the deck, joining in the

chorus. Reis Mohammed sits apart; he is fishing. Ahmud, Ali, Ibrahim,

and the Nubian pilot look on. Now they become excited; the hasheesh is

working on them. Louder, still louder the singing. Abiad surely will not

live long; he must be in Paradise now. His soul is going out piece by

piece from his lips. The funny little old cook jumps up, puts a wooden

spoon in his belt for a pistol, some sugar-cane stalks for swords and

daggers. He is a Bedouin. More uproarious the shouting, intermingled

with catcalls. He dances the war-dance of the nomadic sons of the

desert. The howadjii have come out now; they are interested in this

strange, picturesque scene. The excitement is at its height. A lighted

candle is placed upon a small stick and put in the river; the current

carries it down still burning. There is not wind enough to blow out the

flame, and as it floats onward it looks like some will-o’-the-wisp or

fairy spirit of the waters reposing serenely on their bosom. The second

stage of the hasheesh now comes on; one by one they quiet down. Soon

Abiad falls asleep; some of the others follow; a strange stillness

succeeds this hilarious uproar. To-morrow will come the reaction, and

for a few days they will do but little work.

We have had great trouble to keep our birds. We have now preserved some

seventy specimens, from the small black chat to the large crane. The

rats will carry them off. So now we suspend them from the centre of the

ceiling. The same rat never carries away two birds. I cannot identify

each particular rat, and yet I am morally certain of the truth of the

above proposition. The skin, when taken off the bird, is covered on the

inside with a heavy coating of arsenical soap containing a large amount

of arsenic, enough to cut short the career of at least one rat. So if

they did carry off our birds, we had the satisfaction of knowing that

the birds carried them off in turn. We have been very anxious to kill a

crocodile; they are very scarce below the first cataract, but as soon as

we passed Philæ we promulgated the following general offer: To the first

man who points out a crocodile to any of the howadjii we will give a

half-sovereign. If the pilot, or any one in his stead, brings us within

reasonable shooting distance, we will present him with one pound; if we

kill and secure the crocodile, we will make presents all around. This

offer kept them on the alert. Every eye was strained to see the first

crocodile—and it takes a practised eye to discern one; for to the

uninitiated they appear to be logs of wood lying on the sand. Early on

the morning of January 15 the pilot came to us with eyes aglow and

pointed out a timsah (crocodile). We were tied up on the west bank, and

the reptile was lying on a sand-bank near the eastern shore. There was

considerable difference of opinion among the crew, many of them

insisting that it was not a timsah. “But,” asks the pilot, “what is it,

then? There are no rocks on the sand-banks; it can scarcely be a log,

for these are rarely met with in this part of the river.” A council of

war was held, and a plan of attack was determined on. Mr. S—— and I,

with Ali, the pilot, and four sailors, crossed the river to the

sand-bank about half a mile below the spot where slept the timsah in

blissful unconsciousness of the fate awaiting him. Bent almost to the

ground, we crawled cautiously along. When we had proceeded about a

quarter of a mile we found, to our disgust, that the bank upon which we

were was separated from the bank on which lay the timsah by twenty yards

of water of some depth. The pilot now asked us to fire, but the distance

was too great, and we began to be suspicious. The timsah did not move;

it was almost too quiet to be real. Mr. S—— and I placed ourselves in

the bow of the boat, covered the object with our double-barrelled guns,

and ordered the sailors to pull directly towards it. For a few moments

the excitement was intense. At the first movement of the timsah four

bullets would have shot forth on their death-errand. Nearer and nearer

we came. A moment more, and Abiad jumps from the boat, and with a loud

shout rushes up the bank and catches hold of the supposed timsah. “Come

here, O Reis Dab!” cried he, “and skin your timsah. Stop, I will do it

for you.” And he holds up to our astonished eyes a sheepskin. How

crestfallen was the pilot, and how the others joked him! It was a

chicken-coop covered with a sheepskin, containing three putrid chickens,

which had fallen from some dahabeeáh, and, carried by the current on the

bank, became embedded there, and was left high and dry when the waters

receded.

We have a number of pets on board: a live turtle, a soft-shelled fellow,

in color like the mud of its own Nile; a hawk who does not reciprocate

our friendship, and snaps at us when we go near him; six chameleons—what

strange creatures these are! We have had some twenty of them at

different times. As far as we could observe, they ate nothing, and yet

throve well as long as we were in their own latitudes. As we returned

towards the north they died one after the other. The chameleon is formed

somewhat like a lizard, about eight inches in length. Their feet look

like a mittened hand—that is to say, a large toe corresponds to the

thumb, and the rest of the foot, being solid, appears like the hand

enclosed in a mitten. They have very large heads compared with their

bodies, and eyes like a frog. They change their color, and, under my own

observation, made the changes from light green to yellow, black, brown,

blue, and dark green. We would tease them sometimes, and, when

irritated, yellow spots would appear over their bodies, and they would

try to bite us as we placed our fingers in their large mouths. Their

favorite pastime was to climb to the top of a palm branch fastened in

the deck; here the first one would remain. The second would hang from

the tail of the first, and the third support himself from the second in

the same manner. In this position they would remain for hours. If

another one wanted to reach the top of the branch, he would crawl

deliberately up the backs of the others, who regarded this conversion of

themselves into public highways with perfect indifference. Sometimes one

of them would roam away and be lost for a day or two, and then be

accidentally found in the centre of a basket of tomatoes or on the

summit of the main-yard.

On January 17 I strolled into a small village. The houses consisted of

four walls of sun-dried clay with a small opening for a doorway; some

few had palm branches stretched from wall to wall—apologies for roofs.

As I walked on I met a group of young girls; one was reclining on the

ground, while the others were dressing her hair. This operation is a

very tedious one, and is not repeated oftener than once a month. The

hair, which falls to the shoulders, is twisted into numerous braids, the

ends of which are fastened with small balls of mud; and to complete the

toilet oil is poured over the head. The hair being black and coarse, and

the oil giving it a glossy appearance, it presents the effect of braided

black tape. Although many of these girls had beautiful eyes and handsome

features, yet the howadjii never cared to approach too near them; for

the oil runs down in little streams from the crown of their heads to

their feet, and their faces appear as if polished with the best French

varnish. Our young Nubian cook left us here. This is his home, and he

will remain here until we return. He is only twenty years of age, and

has not seen his wife for three years. So he takes out of the hold some

bracelets, a dozen or two made of buffalo horn, all for his wife, and

she will wear them all at the same time, half on each arm. How her eyes

will brighten when she sees those bright tin pots and those robes,

green, yellow, blue! Surely Suleymán must love his dark-eyed, oily-faced

wife. From Assouan to Wady Sabooa, about one hundred miles, no Arabic is

spoken. Thence to Wady Halfa it is spoken in many towns. When we pass

through a town the whole population turn out _en masse_, preceded by a

leader, who carries on his shoulder the town gun, an old flint-lock

musket, generally marked Dublin Castle, carried, mayhap, at Yorktown or

Brandywine. A barrel of great length is secured to the stock by six or

seven brass bands. Powder is scarce, and the first demand—the gun being

put forward to show the need—is always the same: “Barood ta howadjii”

(Powder, O howadjii!) We used cartridges altogether, and sometimes, when

they were particularly green, we imposed upon them in this way:

Scene, the river-bank. Howadjii has just fired and brought down a bird.

Large numbers of Nubians surround him. Gunman comes forward: “Barood ta

howadjii.” “Mafish barood ta Wallud” (I have no powder, O boy!) “See

these green boxes” (showing cartridges). Wallud looks attentively at

them. “Inside each is an afreet [spirit or devil]; we put this in the

end of the gun, point it at the bird, 'Imshee y afreet’ (Go, O spirit!),

then off he flies and kills the bird.” This ruse was successful two or

three times; they looked with awe upon the green boxes, and made no

further demands. Often, however, a shout of derision followed this

recital. They knew what cartridges were as well as we did. Reis Ahmud

pointed out the first real timsah, and received the promised

half-sovereign.

On January 19, 1874, at three P.M., we made fast beneath the ever-open

eyes of the giant guardians of rock-hewn Ipsamboul. To my mind

Ipsamboul, or Aboo-Simbel, is the most interesting temple on the Nile,

not even excepting majestic Karnak; for most of the other temples are

built in the same manner in which the edifices of the world have been

constructed from the earliest ages down to the present time, by stones

cut and squared, placed one upon another and held together by clamps,

cement, or other means. True, the style and shape in which these stones

are cut and arranged differ very much in Egypt and in Greece, in ancient

and in modern times; but the taking of numbers of small pieces, and, by

joining them together, forming a whole, is common to them all.

Aboo-Simbel is not constructed in this way. The side of the mountain

facing the river was cut to form a right angle with the surface of the

plain, and made smooth and even as a wall, save some projections

purposely left at regular distances, and which afterwards were shaped

into gigantic figures of victorious Rameses; a small hole was pierced

into this surface a few feet above the ground; it was made larger, and

carried in further and further full two hundred feet, its roof seemingly

upheld by Osiride columns. A similar gallery was cut on either side of

this main one. Transverse galleries crossed these, leading to rooms ten

in number, and all this cut out of the solid rock, no cement, no clamps,

not a joint anywhere—a huge monolithic temple. The inside of the roof is

perfectly regular in its lines, with a smooth, even surface; the outside

is the rugged mountain top. Surely this was the way to build for

immortality.

This style of building, although rare, is not confined to Egypt alone,

but was most probably copied from it. I have since seen it in the

Brahmin caves of Elephanta in Bombay harbor, and on a small scale in the

tombs of the Valley of Josaphat. The temple faces the river and stands

close to the bank. As we approach we are struck by the magnitude of the

four colossal figures of Rameses II. They are seated on thrones, and the

faces that remain are quite expressive. The height without the pedestal

is sixty-six feet; the forefinger is three feet in length. Father H——,

Madam, and I seated ourselves comfortably on the big toe, and, as I

looked upwards into that gigantic face, I thought of the myriads of

events, marking epochs of time, that had happened in the great world

outside since first the sculptor’s hand had changed the rugged mountain

side into these semblances of their warrior-king. The overturner of his

dynasty, the illustrious Sesac, had led the victorious Egyptians into

the very heart of the Holy City, and carried off from the Temple the

golden shields which Solomon had there hung up. Cambyses had marched

with thundering tread, laying waste on every hand with fire and sword

from Pelusium to Thebes, making this once mighty kingdom a province of

far-off Persia. Greece rose from a handful of half-savage shepherds to

be the focus of intellect, art, and science, around which clustered the

shining lights of the world. Alexander overran the whole of Western

Asia, and established in the Delta his mighty race of Macedonian

emperors. Rome was founded, sat on her seven hills the proud mistress of

the world, fell, and was swallowed up in the rush of succeeding

generations. Christianity, starting from its humble Judean home, spread

from sea to sea, from the peasant’s hut to the royal palace,

revolutionized the world, civilized nations, and, encircling the globe,

led back its proselytes to unfold its sacred truths to the descendants

of its apostles. Mohammedanism carried its bloody and relentless arms

over the vast plains of Asia, through the fruitful valley of the Nile,

to the centre of Continental Europe, and was driven back, tottering and

gradually receding, to its Eastern cradle. The great republics of the

middle ages lived their short span of power, and were lost in the mighty

empires that absorbed them. A new world was discovered, and new

governments founded therein. And during all this, unshaken by war or

tempest, unmoved by change or revolution, these giant figures gazed with

never-closing eye upon the swift-flowing river at their feet. Those who

give themselves the trouble to inform the world that a perfectly unknown

person has visited a monument, and that that unknown person has

mutilated it by inscribing his name thereon—a reprehensible practice

unfortunately so common in Egypt—may study here the earliest known

inscription of this kind. On the leg of one of the figures is cut in

rude characters the following inscription in Greek: “King Psamatichus

having come to Elephantine, those that were with Psamatichus, the son of

Theocles, wrote this. They sailed and came to above Kerkis, to where the

river rises ... the Egyptian Amasis. The writer was Damearchon, the son

of Amoebichus, and Pelephus, the son of Udamus.” This was written at

least six hundred and fifty years before Christ, and the scribblers,

desirous of cheap notoriety, are as unknown as their numerous followers

who now disfigure the monuments of the world.

Over the entrance is a statue of the god Ra (Sun), to whom Rameses

offers a figure of truth. We enter a grand hall supported by eight

Osiride pillars, pass through it to a second of four square pillars

which leads to the _adytum_. A number of small chambers are found on

both sides of the main hall, and the interior of the walls is covered

with intaglio figures and hieroglyphics. At the end of the _adytum_ are

four figures in high relief. There is but one opening to the temple—the

entrance door—through which alone light can enter. As the first rays of

the morning sun were peeping over the Arabian hills, we climbed the

steep bank and entered the temple. A flood of golden light poured in,

searching every corner, lighting up the figures at the end of the

_adytum_ full two hundred feet from the entrance. It seemed as though

mighty Ra, as each morn he rose to shower his beneficence upon the

world, looked first with soul-melting tenderness upon the home where he

would love to linger; slowly he moves on, and with a last fond, longing

look he leaves it in darkness till he return next morn. Bats swarm now

in its gloomy chambers, and dispute the right of entrance with the

howadjii. Alongside the large temple is a smaller one of the same

description. A night or two after this we had an altercation on board

wherein Reis Mohammed met his match. It was about nine o’clock on a

beautiful moonlight night. We were sailing before a light breeze, when

suddenly the boat struck a rock. Reis Mohammed winced as though it were

himself grating on the rock, and, rushing up to the Nubian pilot who was

at the helm, swore by Allah that he would beat him with a stick. The

pilot was not at all intimidated. He said in a quiet way that he was

sorry, but reminded the irate captain that he was now in his—the

pilot’s—country, and that if he struck him he would call out to his

people on the bank, who would come aboard and kill the captain. This

ended the affair. On January 22 Ahmud brought a beautiful little gazelle

on board, for Madam to play with, as he said. She named it Saiida, and

it soon became a great favorite with us all. At four P.M. of the same

day we reached our destination and tied up at Wady Halfa, a

long-stretched-out line of mud-built houses on the east bank. We had

travelled seven hundred and ninety-eight miles in forty-one days,

including stoppages. A two hours’ donkey-ride over the sands of the

desert, and we reached the Ultima Thule of Nile travellers—the rock of

Abooseer, overlooking the second cataract. This is much more wild,

rapid, and turbulent than the first, and, excepting when the Nile is at

its greatest height, is impassable. Almost every traveller who has been

here has left his mark upon this rock—a custom which is to be approved

here; for no beauty is defaced, but a register of travellers is kept

which possesses interest to their friends who may subsequently visit

this place. There were six dahabeeáhs there on our arrival, four of them

flying the United States flag. We made our presents to the men. They

brought us in safety up the Nile; will they do the same going down? So

we gave Reis Mohammed one pound, Reis Ahmud ten shillings, one pound

each to Ali, Ibrahim, and the cook; and two pounds and ten shillings to

be divided among the crew. While we were lying at Wady Halfa the crew

prepared the boat for the downward voyage. They took down the trinkeet

or large yard from the foremast, and placed in its stead the smaller one

from the stern. There are three modes of progression in descending. If

there be no wind at all, the men row, five oars on each side; but when

the surface of the stream is ruffled by the slightest breath of wind,

the men immediately stop rowing, and the boat drifts down with the

current. If the wind blow from the south—which is very unusual during

the winter—we sail, using, however, only the small balakoom, swung, as I

have said, from the mainmast. Some of the planks of the deck are taken

up, and an inclined plane made by resting one end of a plank against the

cross-beams on a level with the floor of the deck, and the other

touching the bottom of the hold. In rowing the men start from the top of

this inclined plane, and, walking backwards down it, make five distinct

movements in each stroke. As their feet touch the hold they sit down and

pull out the stroke.

On January 25, at one in the morning, we left Wady Halfa on the homeward

voyage. Ahmud requested us to permit him to bring a slave on the boat.

He told us that he had no children, and that he had seen a very fine

little boy of nine years whom he could purchase for seventy dollars. His

request was refused. We spent an hour or more one beautiful moonlight

night seated on the sand beneath the colossi of Aboo-Simbel. We engaged

a celebrated hunter to assist us in crocodile-hunting—Abd-el-Kerim,

slave of the god, a Nubian with a huge flat nose. The dress of this man

of prowess was not elaborate, consisting of a skull-cap and a pair of

drawers. He carried the flint-lock musket which I have before described.

The lock was carefully bound up in a piece of cloth. We moored the

dahabeeáh on the west bank about four miles below Aboo-Simbel. We then

rowed about a mile up the river in the small boat, and landed on a

sand-bank. Abd-el-Kerim constructed a crocodile of sand—head, tail,

legs, and all. We had laid a systematic plan of attack. At sunrise the

next morning we were to conceal ourselves behind the sand timsah and

wait the coming of the natural ones, thinking that they would take our

sand-constructed reptile for one of the family, and go quietly asleep

alongside of it. I rose before the sun the next morning, but Kerim did

not make his appearance until eight o’clock—he called it sunrise—when

the sun was pretty well up in the heavens, and the day began to grow

warm. As I stood on the forecastle waiting for him, two Polish

dahabeeáhs hove in sight. I knew the party on board; they were

distinguished naturalists who were collecting specimens for the museum

at Warsaw. They hunted in the most thoroughly systematic manner. The

young count, who was not as deeply engaged in the study of natural

history as the others, spent an evening with us a week or two afterward,

and told us a very amusing story about the rest of the party. They were

anxious to secure a certain species of bird. After consulting their

books and putting together the general knowledge they possessed

concerning the habits of this bird, they established as a positive fact

that the said bird would appear on the banks of the Nile at ten o’clock

to perform his morning ablutions. So at half-past nine they went out to

meet him, but, to their intense astonishment, he did not appear until

half-past eleven—overslept himself, no doubt, not being aware of the

distinguished company awaiting him. They have been in a great state of

excitement ever since, said our young friend, endeavoring to study out

the cause of this strange proceeding, as they termed it, of the bird

being one hour and a half behind time. As I watched the boats came on,

and our sand timsah caught the eye of their dragoman. He rushed

down-stairs, woke up the howadjii, who soon appeared on deck. Telescopes

were levelled, and, having satisfied themselves that it was a crocodile,

they jumped into the small boat and made straight for it. Two of them

were in the bow with their rifles cocked covering the timsah. The

greatest care and caution were observed. Only a small portion of the

heads of the men were visible above the gunwale, and occasionally I

could see the dragoman wave his hand as a signal of caution. Finally

they stepped on the bank, cautiously approached, saw the deception, and

in quick haste retired in evident disgust. I enjoyed this scene all the

more as it partially recompensed me for the failure of my first attempt

at shooting a crocodile.

About half-past eight Kerim and I concealed ourselves behind the sand

timsah, lying flat on our backs. Besides his old flint-lock, which would

do good service, we had two double-barrelled guns loaded with heavy

balls, and a six-barrelled revolver. I lay in this position for two

hours, not even daring to indulge in a cough, which I was sorely tried

to repress, and even breathing as quietly as possible. Kerim touched me

and told me to peep over the back of the timsah; I did so, and saw ten

crocodiles, some swimming in the water and others on the banks, but none

near enough to shoot at. I then turned on my face and lay down again.

Almost immediately an enormous crocodile stepped out of the water on the

bank where we were, within ten feet of us, but seemed to be frightened

at something and immediately plunged in again. About two o’clock Kerim

turned over, and in so doing spied a flask protruding from my pocket. He

took it out, offered it to me, and said, “Take a drink!”—a delicate hint

that he wanted some himself. He did not refuse when I offered it, but,

filling the cup with twice as much as an ordinary drink, he swallowed it

down, rolled his eyes, and ejaculated, “Taib” (good). We found it would

be of no avail to wait longer here, so we called the felluka and rowed

very quietly a short distance down the stream to a bank upon which two

timsahs were lying asleep; at the other end were some rocks. We crept

over the rocks until we reached the one nearest the reptiles. At least

one hundred yards still separated us from them. Resting my gun on a

rock, I took careful aim, fired, and saw the ball strike the side of one

of the crocodiles; but its only effect was to hurry him into the river,

otherwise he paid no attention to it. We concluded to give up

crocodile-hunting now, so we sailed on. At one point a little below this

I counted thirty-eight sawagi in sight at one time. These sawagi

(singular sagéar) are to Nubia what the shawadeefs are to Egypt. They

are of Persian origin, and consist of an endless chain, to which are

attached buckets made of burnt clay. The chain passes over a wheel at

the top, which is made to revolve by another wheel driven around by

buffaloes. These wheels are of wood and never greased. Their creaking

and straining are music to the owner’s ears, who in some instances will

travel many thousand miles riding the buffaloes round the well-worn

circle of their own loved sagéar.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

JULY 28, 1869.

Lord William is in England, and baby Emmanuel in vain asks for “papa.”

What a beautiful child he is! My Guy is very handsome also, and I am

proud of him. Johanna yields up to me all her prerogatives, and, were it

not that he resembles Paul, I could persuade myself that he is quite my

own, my dear godson.

Berthe intends to go to Lourdes, to obtain from Mary Immaculate the cure

of her daughter. Poor mother! she deceives herself; the child cannot

remain in this world, and the day approaches when we shall say,

Yesterday the bird was in the cage, but is now flown hence! This morning

Anna and the sick girl were leaning over my balcony, looking at the blue

sky, over which light clouds were flying. “How beautiful the sky is!”

said Anna. “Very sweet, very beautiful, very good,” answered Picciola,

joining her hands. “The beauties of nature are admirable, but—” “Kiss

me, dear, and don’t look up to heaven in that way; one would think you

were going there!” “The truth is that I shall go soon; dear Anna, pray

God to comfort my mother!” Anna flew into the room: “Madame, O madame!

is this true that Madeleine is telling me?” And she was sobbing.

Picciola covered her with kisses, saying: “Why will no one listen when I

speak of my happiness?” When Anna was more calm I sent her to her

mother, and said to my darling: “Then let us talk about heaven

together.” “But, aunt, it grieves you also. Yet I, although the pain of

those I love goes to my heart—I feel in myself an indescribable

gladness. Oh! if you knew how I thirst for heaven.” “And who tells you

that you are going to leave us, dear child? Our Lady of Lourdes will

cure you.” “If you love me, do not ask me this; I must not be cured,”

she murmured, with a sort of prayerful expression. What do you think

about this child, dear Kate?

Our thoughts are much taken up, as you may imagine, with the Council and

with Ireland. Adrien has read to us from a goodly folio, come from the

Thebaid of our _saint_, the most sinister predictions with reference to

the present time.

Good-by for a little while; I slip this note into Margaret’s envelope.

AUGUST 1, 1869.

St. Francis of Sales used to say: “People ask for secrets that they may

advance in perfection; for my own part, I know of only one: to love God

above all things, and my neighbor as myself.” And Bossuet, that other

great master of the spiritual life, said: “Give all to God, search to

the very depths, empty your heart for God; he will know very well how to

employ and to fill it.” This is what Gertrude has done, who just now

quoted these two thoughts to console me. Alas! yes, I cannot resign

myself to see her depart, this enchanting soul, so worthy of love.

“Remember,” Gertrude said to me, “that God undertakes to give back

everything to those who have given him all. I perceive many sacrifices

for you, dear Georgina; be worthy of God’s favors, for suffering is one

of these.” And she quitted me. She lives so near to God that every word

she utters seems to me an oracle, and now I am afraid. O poor soul!—a

reed bending to every wind.

“Turn thee to Him who comforts and who heals.” Help me, dear Kate! René,

Margaret, and Marcella agree in diverting my attention, but the blow has

been given! O my God! If a whole family might but enter heaven all at

the same time! if there were no tears of departure! I communicated this

morning, and promised our adorable Jesus in the Blessed Eucharist to

sacrifice my heart to him.

Berthe, Raoul, and Picciola set out to-morrow for Lourdes; we have not

ventured to dissuade the poor mother from this idea. I had a foolish

longing to follow them, but I saw in this a first sacrifice, and offered

it to obtain courage. If, however, Mary would be pleased to cure her!

They will make a novena there, and not return until the 16th. What a

long time without seeing her!

Our country neighbor has installed himself, and yesterday paid us his

first visit. My mother gave him a more than amiable reception. We all

thanked him for the care with which he had attended Anna, who threw her

arms round his neck with the greatest simplicity. Marcella replied

gracefully to the civilities of the good doctor, who accepted an

invitation to dinner. My mother finds him very well bred. He is fifty

years of age, very tall, with an open and expressive countenance, most

extensive learning, skill, wit, fortune, and above all _faith_; he is

thus in every way worthy of my friend. René has explained this to me,

and has ended by requesting me to favor this marriage.

Margaret, on leaving me this evening, whispered in my ear: “Dear, will

our fair Roman be insensible? The aspirant belongs _to the very first

quality of nature’s noblemen_.”

Good-by, dear Kate; pray much!

AUGUST 6, 1869.

Picciola is at this moment at the miraculous Grotto. Impossible to turn

my thoughts away from this child; I see her everywhere. Nevertheless, I

cannot complain of any want of distractions; we are out continually.

Three days ago M. de Verlhiac (the doctor) gave us a princely reception

in his _divor_. What life! what gayety! Marcella is very pensive and

seeks to be alone. Margaret raves about the doctor, and will have him at

all our parties; Anna can no longer do without him, my mother likes his

conversation, the gentlemen seize upon the slightest pretext for going

to the _Blue Nest_—the name given by Margaret to the dismantled manor of

M. de V. You see, dear Kate, all is for the best. Your advice is not,

however, useless to me. Oh! how well you have realized what Marcella is

to me. But I am not so selfish as to place my affection in the way of

her happiness, and I shall know how to make the sacrifice. M. de V.

requested an interview with me yesterday. I had remained alone with my

mother, who feared to take so long a drive, and it was in her presence

that I received our new neighbor. He appeared greatly embarrassed—he,

who is so fearless! At last, after a great deal of circumlocution, he

related how he had become acquainted with our dear Italians; how much he

felt interested in the pretty invalid, whom he had attended with truly

paternal solicitude; how the desire had arisen in his heart to become

the father of this attractive young creature; and how we had unknowingly

destroyed the fragile edifice of his dreams by carrying away from him

Mme. de Clissey and her daughter. Their sojourn of last winter had

convinced him that without this union he could not be happy. Marcella

had answered his proposal by a refusal, which he does not know how to

explain.

My mother looked at me, and M. de V. continued: “I know not, madame,

whether I am mistaken, but I am persuaded that you have some influence

on this determination which crushes my life. Madame de C. does not wish

to separate from you.” I was much moved by this confidence, and so much

the more because my mother, who had formerly been acquainted with the

mother of the good doctor, had told me that morning that she looked

forward to this union with pleasure. I promised to do _my duty_. This

conversation lasted three hours. M. de V. is really a remarkable man,

and I cannot understand Marcella’s singular behavior. Margaret advises

me to speak to her about it; but I think it more prudent to wait. The

pretty little Anna unconsciously enlightened me somewhat. This morning,

in my room, she was caressing her mother and saying: “Why, then, are you

so cold to this good doctor, who likes you so much and who is so like

papa? If you knew how affectionately he kisses me!” Marcella blushed and

spoke of something else.

Dear Kate, my heart is full; M. de V. has only one dream after that of

marrying my friend, which is to settle at Naples. It would then be a

permanent separation! “You are in your spring-time, my daughter,” my

mother said to me; “beware of the autumn! The lightest breath then

carries away by degrees our happiness and our hopes.”

God guard you, dearest!

AUGUST 9, 1869.

The doctor has become our habitual companion. He loves poetry, “this

choice language, dear to youth and to those whose hearts have remained

young”—another connecting link with Marcella. “But they are made for

each other,” says Margaret. This southerner shivers at the most delicate

breeze of the north. “Good friend, what will you do in winter?” exclaims

Anna on seeing him hermetically enfolded in a mantle lined with fur when

he arrives of an evening. “Dear, I shall do as the swallows do.” “Bah!

you will not go to Athens.” “And why not, if you will go with me?” “Oh!

I do not travel without my mother.”

This fragment of conversation shows you that M. de V. is always driving

at the same point. Every one rivals the other in extolling the loyalty,

the learning, the distinction of the doctor. He must be immensely rich,

for he throws gold with open hands among our poor, builds up cottages,

gives work to all. Gertrude says: “There is in this man an apostle and a

Sister of Charity.” Marcella never utters a word about our dear

neighbor, but appears to suffer when others speak of him. Yesterday

Margaret wanted to get my mother to promise that we should spend the

summer of 1870 in England. “Will you not come also, monsieur?” The

handsome countenance of the doctor darkened, and he answered briefly:

“Who can promise?” “Oh! _do_ promise, good friend,” exclaimed Anna; “you

told me you wished not to leave me!” “Anna, will you water my verbenas?”

tranquilly asked Marcella. The child bounded into the garden.

Berthe writes to me every day. The horizon is dark there; the poor

mother perceives the full truth.

_A Dieu_, Kate; may he alone be all to us!

AUGUST 16, 1869.

René has written to you, dear sister; thus you know how my time has been

occupied. Oh! what a beautiful procession. What singing! What

decorations! A corner of Italy in Brittany, to believe the good doctor,

who has valiantly paid with his person.

Picciola is here. I have just been to kiss her under her curtains. This

pilgrimage has produced a double benefit: it gave the poor parents a few

days of hope, and the Immaculate Virgin has caused them to understand

all. “She belongs to God before she belongs to us.” Are not these truly

Christian words the acceptance of the sacrifice? And Picciola: “How

sweet it would have been to die there, dear aunt! But I am very happy to

see you again.” O my God!

Margaret is expecting Lord William. Can you picture to yourself the

aspect of our colony—our numbers, the noise and movement, the joyous

voices calling and answering each other, the animation, the eagerness,

of this human hive? Our Bretons say they wish we were here always.

Edith writes often. Lizzy is somewhat silent; the saintly Isa is too

much detached from earth to think of us in any way except in her

prayers. My letters to Betsy have produced an unexpected effect, thanks

to your prayers; this good and charming friend assures me that going to

holy Mass and visiting the poor help her marvellously, and that now the

days appear too short.

Yesterday we were talking on the terrace—talking about all sorts of

things. The word _ideal_ was pronounced. “Who, then, can attain his

ideal?” exclaimed M. de Verlhiac. “Life almost always passes away in its

pursuit; an intangible phantom, it escapes us precisely at the moment

when it seems within our grasp.” “It is, perhaps, because the ideal does

not in reality exist on earth,” said Gertrude. “The Christian’s ideal is

in heaven!” Whereupon the meditative Anna cried out: “Oh! if only the

good God would make haste to put us into his beautiful heaven all

together, the _south_ and the _north_! You would not feel cold up there,

good friend!” “Then will the angels place us thus by families?” asked

Alix timidly. “Hem! hem! the house is large,” said the doctor; “and, for

my part, I see no inconvenience that this 'corner of Italy in Brittany’

would suffer by arranging itself commodiously there on high.”

At this moment Adrien took up a newspaper and read us a fulmination in

verse against the centenary of Napoleon, by a writer whose independent

pen “is unequalled in freedom and boldness,” according to the ideas of

some. M. de V. disapproves strongly: “Cannot a man be of one party

without throwing mud at the other? May not the sufferings on St. Helena,

the torture more terrible than that of the Prometheus of antiquity, have

been accepted by God as an expiation? How far preferable would a little

Christian moderation be to all this gall so uselessly poured out into

the public prints! And what do they attain, republicans or royalists,

after so many words and so much trouble? Great social revolutions arrive

only at the hour marked by Providence.” “At all events,” said Johanna,

“it is this much-boasted printing which enables us to read so much that

is good and so much that is hurtful.” “O madame! Writing, printing! What

favors granted to man! What feasts for the understanding and the heart!

The genius of evil has known how to draw from these admirable sources

the means of perdition; what is it that man has not turned against God?

But the divine mercy is greater than our offences, and the Christian’s

life ought to be a perpetual _Te Deum_. Providence pours out in floods

before us joys, favors, enjoyments without number, as he scatters

flowers in the meadows, birds in the air, angels in space; he has given

us poetry, this eternal charm of the earth:

“'Langue qui vient du Ciel, toute limpide et belle,

Et que le monde entend, mais qu’il ne parle pas.’”[11]

Footnote 11:

Language which comes from heaven, limpid and beautiful, And which the

world understands, but does not speak.

You perceive, dear Kate, that I want to make you acquainted with the

doctor. But good-night.

AUGUST 22, 1869.

Well, dearest, the marriage is arranged. Let me, however, first speak to

you about Picciola. She is an angel! She invariably forgets herself, and

thinks only of the happiness of others. It is she who organizes our

festivities. Dear, delicious child! Thérèse and Anna know not how to

show her tenderness enough. I forget what day it was that Marcella said

to me: “I think that now I need not be any longer uneasy about my

child’s health; there has been no change since that beneficial winter.”

Picciola was by me. I looked at her; her eyes shone with a singular

brightness, and she said almost involuntarily, and so low that I alone

heard her: “Oh! she will be no longer ill.“ Marianne was right: there is

a mystery in this, and I want to know what it is. I shall question Mad;

she will not resist me. I have entreated the doctor to cure her, and his

answer was: “Who can arrest the flight of the bird?“ Thus all is in

vain; and yet, in spite of myself, I have moments of wild hope. What a

large place this child has taken possession of in my heart!

M. de V. had placed his interests in my hands; it was therefore your

Georgina herself who renewed his _proposal_. At the first word Marcella,

much moved, formally refused, begging me to speak to her of something

else. Then we had a long explanation. This dear and excellent friend did

not want to separate herself from us, out of gratitude! And she was

sacrificing her heart; for the devotedness and high character of M. de

V. inspire her with as much sympathy as respect. It needed all my

eloquence to convince her. In accepting she secures her daughter a

protector; the increase of her fortune will allow her still more

latitude for the exercise of her benevolence. I know that she loves

Italy, and dreams of seeing it again, which would be impossible were she

to remain with us; by refusing she crushes out the life of M. de V.,

etc., etc.

By way of conclusion I drew her into my mother’s room, where we also

found René and Edouard, and all four of us together succeeded in

obtaining her _consent_. All, then, is well as regards this matter. Anna

is in a state of incomparable joy, as the old books say. We are all

happy at the turn affairs have taken, but each in our different degrees.

And you, dear Kate? Ah! news of Ireland and again of Edith: Mary is not

well. Poor Edith! Good-by, dearest; René calls me, and I must send to

the post.

AUGUST 25, 1869.

Yesterday’s _fête_ was admirable, according to the doctor, who is a good

judge. How impatient he is to carry off Marcella from us! The wedding is

fixed for the 20th of September, and the same day the happy couple are

to start for Italy. Thus I have not even a month in which to enjoy the

society of this delightful friend, so truly the sister of my soul, whom

God gave me almost on the grave of Ellen. I busy myself with her about

the preparations. Gertrude, the austere Gertrude, sets out to-morrow for

Paris with Adrien and M. de V., whom she will direct in the choice of

the _corbeille_. Don’t you admire that? Marcella is calm, serious, but

also, she owns to me, profoundly happy.

There will be no more meeting again, I foresee plainly; they will _cast

anchor_ down there, but our spirits will be always united before God.

Margaret greatly rejoices in the happiness of our dear Roman. Lord

William arrived yesterday, and joyous parties are going on. The _little_

angel of the good God is always on the point of taking her flight.

_Ah! mon âme voudrait se suspendre à ses ailes

Et la garder encore!_[12]

Footnote 12:

Ah! my soul would fain cling to her wings, and keep her still!

René procures me the most agreeable surprises. There has never yet been

the least shadow of a cloud between us. You say well, dearest, that with

him I shall have happiness everywhere; why, then, should I have

hesitated to procure a like happiness for Marcella? I did not tell you

that about a year ago this dear friend lost nearly the whole of her

fortune, which was in the hands of a banker? Happily, we were the first

to hear of it, and have concealed the disaster. Gertrude desired to join

us in this hidden good work, and I have with all my heart paid the half

of the amount. I am still more glad now to have done so. Hitherto the

interest has been sufficient, but, lest the secret should be discovered,

Gertrude undertook to arrange the matter with her banker. As it is a

considerable sum, we are selling our carriages and one of René’s farms,

lest it should make too much difference to our poor; my mother is

surprised, but asks no questions. We shall try to live without

carriages—so many people live happily, and yet always go on foot! I am

certain that you will approve of this, dear Kate. Marcella is too proud

to consent to marry M. de V. without any fortune of her own. René is

delighted with this arrangement; I believe that he also is in love with

the poverty of St. Francis. Oh! how good God is to us! All my kisses to

you.

AUGUST 28, 1869.

Read yesterday some pretty things on Montaigne. The author of the

_Essays_ loved “with a particular affection” poetry, “in which it is not

allowable to play the simpleton.” Marcella presented me with a charming

poem on Friendship. Oh! I know very well that her warm affection is

mine. Listen to this passage taken from a dramatic story which has come

into Brittany: “There are redeeming souls, born for salvation. In the

path of the divine Crucified One walk silent groups whose mission is to

suffer for those who enjoy all the good things of life, to weep for

those who sing at feasts, to pray for those who never open their lips in

prayer. A large number of these mysterious flowers which perfume the

King’s House are even unconscious of their destiny. They follow it,

without asking what end is answered by their solitude, and to what

purpose are their tears.”

You write to me too deliciously, dear Kate! It is very kind of you to

ask after the two _adopted_ little girls. They have been claimed by a

relation, and left us after having remained a week. This fresh eclogue

could not have had a better ending. The dear children write to Picciola.

They are happy; their relative gave us a most favorable impression.

Yesterday a long walk with Margaret, who loves our heaths, our fields of

broom, our reedy places, our customs, and who is always ready when there

is a good work to be done. My mother is not well—“The effect of old

age,” she says. Would that I could keep away all pain from that dear

head! Mme. Swetchine says: “All the joys of earth would not assuage our

thirst for happiness, and one single sorrow suffices to fold life in a

sombre veil, to strike it throughout with nothingness.” How true this

is!

St. Augustine is one of René’s patrons; you may imagine whether we have

not prayed to him very much. Gertrude writes to me: “Here are some lines

which I commend to your meditations: 'All passes, all vanishes away, all

is carried away by the river of Eternity. The most sacred and sweet

affections we see broken, some by absence—that sleep of the heart—others

by a culpable inconstancy; many, alas! by death. The days of our

childhood, the years of our youth, the friendships begun in the cradle,

the more serious attachments of riper age, the affections of home, the

bonds formed at the altar—all are touched, withered, annihilated by the

inexorable hand of time.’ Dear Georgina,” continues Gertrude, “all lives

again, all arises from its tomb, all becomes again resplendent with God!

Hope, then! _Excelsior._”

Lord William has brought us a most interesting book—_Our Life in the

Highlands_, by Queen Victoria. What soul! What heart! Why is she not a

Catholic? My poor Ireland, when wilt thou recover thy freedom? O

Ireland! _patria mia!_

Thérèse regrets Anna’s approaching departure, but she is courageous. The

_babies_ do not take it in the same way, and Marguérite told Anna

plainly: “All that you may say to me is of no use. I know Italian,

mademoiselle: _Chi sta bene, non si muove._”[13] I had to preach for an

hour before I could persuade Marguérite to consent to apologize to the

dear little Italian, who cried so much at being accused of inconstancy.

These little people!

Footnote 13:

“He who is well off stays where he is.”

Good-by, dear Kate; Picciola sends you a kiss.

AUGUST 30, 1869.

I have just been telling the children the beautiful story of St. Felix

and St. Adauctus, as the charming imagination of Margaret had arranged

it at the convent. How they listened to me. On turning round I was taken

by surprise: René was there! You know that I like to be alone when

fulfilling the functions of _professor_—a title which I usurp from the

good _abbé_, whose charity frequently takes him from home. “Are you

displeased?” asked _my brother_. _Displeased!_ But he and I are

altogether one—one and the same soul. Picciola makes profound

observations thereupon. Margaret tells me that she said to her: “The

soul ought in this world to be with God as Uncle René is with Aunt

Georgina, and as you and Lord William.” Margaret was delighted with this

comparison.

Letter from the saintly Isa; one might call it a song of heaven. “O

charming felicities which I find in this paradise of intelligence and

friendship, incomparable joys of the religious affections, delights of

the sensible presence of Him who is my all, how dear are you to me!”

Picciola is sleeping in an easy-chair two steps from me. She seems to

have scarcely a breath of life left. I questioned her as discreetly as

possible; she understood immediately: “Later, aunt, I will tell you.”

What! have I not told you about my six children? The eldest has been

taken as _femme de chambre_ by Margaret, the second occupies the same

post for Anna, and Thérèse claims the third. The youngest go to school.

Johanna wished to take charge of them, but I said, “No, thank you”; she

has a family and I am free. René wants to talk business to you. I give

up my sheet of paper to him. May God be with us!

SEPTEMBER 5.

Only a fortnight more to enjoy the presence of Marcella! The

_travellers_ are home again. The _corbeille_ is splendid; but the pious

projects of M. de V. are still more so. Did I tell you that he had been

connected with M. de Clissey, in a journey the latter took to Naples? M.

de C. loved Marcella then, and spoke only of her. He was on the eve of a

dangerous expedition. “Promise me,” he said to M. de V., “that in case

of my death you will marry her!” M. de V. promised. This is like the

tales of knight-errantry. M. de Verlhiac was unable to be present at his

friend’s marriage, and, as he was at that time of an adventurous turn of

mind, he went away to New York and had no news of the De Clisseys. It

was only on Marcella’s account that he settled temporarily at Hyères.

You see, this is altogether a romance, but in the best taste possible.

M. de V. told us all this after his proposal had been accepted.

All France is interested in the Council; we are praying for this

intention. What times we live in, dear Kate! The church is on the eve of

terrible trials, say the _seers_.

Picciola wishes to write to you; but will her poor little hand have the

strength to do so? Oh! how touching she is in her serenity. She

communicates with great fervor twice a week.

Lizzy, the happy Lizzy! has a son! _Gaudete et lætare!_ I rejoice in her

joy! Edith is ill; Mistress Annah says seriously so. Always a shadow!

Farewell, dearest. I have quantities of things to attend to. A thousand

kisses.

SEPTEMBER 10, 1869.

M. de Verlhiac overwhelms us with presents—no means of refusing them.

Marcella appears very happy, although as the time of departure

approaches there is an occasional shade upon her brow. The health of M.

de V. cannot accommodate itself to Brittany, and the _Blue Nest_ was

only a pretext. My mother is purchasing this well-named habitation, to

sell it when an opportunity offers. Since we have launched out so

strongly in good works, no one allows superfluities.

Gertrude saw Karl, who sighs for the day when he shall offer up at the

altar the true and spotless Victim. I love what you tell me of your

thoughts on seeing our sister. Ah! dearest, all that God does he does

well; great sacrifices suit great souls.

My mother gives _fêtes_—to us, you understand. But what _fêtes_! What a

large share is left for the poor! What a still larger part given to God!

Lucy, the amiable Lucy, gives herself unheard-of trouble for our

pleasures. Gertrude gracefully lends herself to our passing follies, to

which her dark toilet makes a contrast. I asked her two days ago if she

did not sometimes regret the luxuries to which she was accustomed.

“Regret, Georgina! Listen to Ludolph the Chartreux: 'The Christian is

happy, for, whatever may be his poverty, he has always in himself

wherewith to buy the pearl and the treasure; no other price is asked but

himself.'”

Sarah is in Spain, whence she sends me magnificent descriptions of the

Pyrenees. “When will you come and gather roses on the banks of the

Mancanares?” asks my lively friend.

Picciola is asking for me. You would be uneasy. May God have you in his

keeping!

SEPTEMBER 18, 1869.

René has replaced me in my assiduous correspondence—I have so much to

do! Will these words make you smile? Nothing, however, is more true; in

our hive every bee has its share of work. M. de V. can no longer keep

himself quiet; Marcella weeps at the thought of going away for ever.

René mentions the possibility of our again visiting Hyères, and I want

to persuade the future couple to give their solemn promise to go

thither. It seems as if a part of my heart were going to leave me.

The Bishop of —— will bless the marriage. Oh! would that I could put off

this date. It is so sweet to have them here, these dear friends and the

charming little Anna! Good-by, Homer! Good-by, our studious hours, our

intimate conversations, our so perfect friendship! _Her_ room will

remain furnished just as it now is; I shall make it a museum of

souvenirs. You know that I have taken the portraits of all three. They

wished for copies; so you see why I was too busy to write to you. Only

two days more—two days: what is that?

My mother is very thoughtful on my account. For my sake she dreads this

departure, this great void; but René is at hand, so ingeniously good and

devoted, so attentive, so fraternal! Dearest, pray that _they_ may be

happy!

SEPTEMBER 21, 1869.

_She_ is gone! These two days have passed away like a dream. I cannot

bring myself to realize this idea. Oh! what difference there is between

the apprehension and the reality, from the expectation of sorrow to

sorrow itself! But _she_ will be happy! How beautiful she was; Anna so

graceful, and all three so affectionate! I am now counting the hours

until I receive a letter. I am going to occupy myself—study with René,

pray with Picciola, meditate with Gertrude. And Margaret—oh! I must make

up to her all the time given to Marcella, whom she regrets almost as

much as I do.

Picciola occupies me, and very much. She has felt this separation

exceedingly, being very fond of Anna. Good-by till to-morrow, dear Kate;

I feel myself incapable of writing.

22d.—A word from Mme. de Verlhiac—a greeting written yesterday morning

in the carriage. They go farther and farther away. How could I flatter

myself that I should be able to keep for myself alone these two Italian

flowers? Gertrude has asked me to aid her in a singular operation: the

accounts of all her farmers have to be clearly arranged. Adrien does not

like these commonplace details. He found yesterday in the woods a little

fellow of six years old, roguish as an elf, his hair a tangled bush, his

face, hands, and feet alarmingly dirty. “Will you take charge of this

child for an hour?” René asked me, as he had letters to write to his

brother. What trouble I had to make the little savage clean! Margaret

acted as currier; I was quite alone, dreaming of the past. This awoke

me, I can assure you. When he was _white_, I went to find Johanna, who

gave me a whole suit of clothes. This little wilding was the torment of

his mother; we are going to tame him. As a beginning I have put him to

school. He is enchanted to see himself so _fine_, and looks at himself

as if he were a relic. At the same time he is greedy, untruthful,

obstinate, lazy—all vices in miniature.

We are going to-morrow to the town; this always amuses the _babies_.

Happy age, when every little change is a festivity! If you knew what a

strange sensation I experienced this morning on entering the

drawing-room and not finding the two dear faces so long visible there! I

thought I should have wept or cried out—it would have done me good—but

Gertrude began to converse with me, and the feeling passed away.

I never talk to you now either about my godson or the beautiful

Emmanuel; it is very remiss. Both are charming and do not make much

noise. Dear little beings! And the day will come when they will be our

protectors, these two little nestlings whose warblings are so charming a

harmony to our ears. I wish you could hear Margaret say, “My son!” This

word has in her mouth such a penetrating sweetness!

Dear Kate, may God be with us!

SEPTEMBER 28, 1869.

Can it possibly be true? Père Hyacinthe quits his convent and in some

sort separates himself from the Roman Catholic Church. The bad

newspapers vie with each other in their applauses, while the good ones

groan. Louis Veuillot energetically blames. Pride has much to do with

this great fall. Let us pray that he may come back, this apostle who has

lost his way! Another star fallen!

Picciola daily grows weaker, and I now know, alas! why she is dying. I

would fain give the account with her touching simplicity, but this charm

belongs to her alone.

This morning I was in her room; she has not got up since the 22d. “Are

you alone, aunt?” “Yes, dearest.” “Because I have something to say to

you. I have to ask your pardon.” Poor angel! “My life was my own, was it

not, aunt? I could give it away?” “And why, then, did you give it away,

my child?” “Aunt, do not be so distressed. You love Mme. Marcella very

much, and Anna also. Well! last year, at Orleans, during the winter,

Anna had the fever. The doctor came; he examined her a long time, and it

was I who conducted him to the door. I asked him if my little friend was

very ill. 'She is consumptive, this beautiful child, and will not be

cured without a miracle.’ I was very much struck, but did not show it in

any way, and from that day I offered all my prayers for her recovery.

The day of my First Communion, O aunt! I was so happy. The good God had

given me everything. I tried to find a sacrifice to offer to him, and I

had nothing but my life; so I asked him to take this in exchange for

that of Anna. I felt at the same moment that I was heard, that my prayer

would be fully granted. Oh! how happy I was. But, my poor dear aunt, I

see you so sad that I am almost sorry; but then you have other nieces,

and Mme. Marcella has only one daughter. Do you forgive me?”

My God! my God! Can you understand, Kate, what I felt? “My mother must

not know of this,” continued the gentle victim, after a long effort.

“You will comfort her, dear aunt! Oh! it is so consoling to die for

others. I have a confidence that I shall go to heaven. Monsieur le Curé

has told me not to be afraid. I have always suffered ever since my First

Communion; but my cross was not heavy like that of our Lord! Oh! I long

so for heaven. On earth it is so difficult to keep one’s self always in

the presence of God; we shall see him on high. Aunt, what joy it is to

die!”

Berthe came into the room, from which I hastened precipitately to hide

my tears. I felt thoroughly overcome. What self-devotion! What angelic

desires! I told all to René, who had already his suspicions: Anna had so

delicate a chest, while our Mad’s constitution was so strong. God has

accepted the exchange. Poor Berthe! When she received Marcella with so

sisterly a welcome, how little she imagined that with her death entered

our dwelling! I am proud of Picciola—but I weep!

Ah! dear Kate, let us bless God for all.

SEPTEMBER 30, 1869.

I live as in another world since this revelation. “The holy angels will

come and take me,” said Picciola. Margaret, Berthe, Thérèse, Gertrude,

and I succeed each other in watching by her. “All my body is broken!”

she exclaimed in her delirium; otherwise, never a complaint. She prays,

and likes to hear singing; she is full of tenderness. I have no news of

Edith. Anna has written from Lyons.

Pray for those who remain, dear Kate!

OCTOBER 1, 1869.

She has received the last sacraments; her room exhales the perfume of

incense. We are all there, whispering prayers.

_2d October._—She is in heaven! “Dear angels, thanks, I come!” And her

soul fled away. Oh! how I suffer. I loved her too much! I write to you

near to _her_—near to _her_ who is no longer there. I could have wished

to follow her when the _abbé_ said: “Go forth from this world, Christian

soul!”

Did you know her well, this flower of heaven whose fragrance was so

sweet; this soul, open to every noble sentiment; this exceptional

understanding, which assimilated everything and was ever advancing?

My mother is well-nigh broken down; Berthe is kneeling, and still

kissing this brow so pure, these eyes whose gaze we shall behold no

more.

Raoul and Thérèse weep together; Gertrude occupies herself in attending

to the sad details; and as for me, I would pour upon this paper all the

desolation of my heart.

Shall I have the courage to paint her thus—inanimate—dead? O my God! it

is, then, true? That caressing arm will never again pass itself round my

neck. That beloved voice will no longer resound in my ears. That aërial

footstep will no more reveal her presence. She is gone! She was full of

life, and freely, voluntarily she has accepted death and has left us

alone.

Kate, how shall I pray, how shall I bless God? If you knew how I loved

her!

OCTOBER 12, 1869.

I am beginning to rise up. For ten days I have been in a state of

delirium. I saw Madeleine constantly by me, spoke to her, told her to

wait for me—that I did not wish to live without her. René was in

despair; but his prayers and yours have been heard. A strange calm has

succeeded to the disorder of my thoughts; I have the certainty that

Picciola and Edith have entered into everlasting rest. Yes, Edith! How

did I learn that she was dead? I do not know, but René saw that I knew

it and no longer sought to hide it from me. Adrien leaves us to-day to

go and bring hither Mary and Ellen, and also Mistress Annah, who is

wanted by Margaret. They compel me to stop. I love you.

OCTOBER 20, 1869.

I am still weak, dear Kate, but my soul is strengthened. Let us love

God, let us love God! I went at noon to the cemetery, to the beloved

grave. René accompanied me. Oh! how he also loved her. How sweet she was

when she spoke of him! Raoul has taken Berthe and Thérèse into Normandy

for a fortnight; their intense grief made him anxious. It is all like a

dream; but, alas! _she_ is no longer here. Let us so live that we may

rejoin her!

A friend of René’s gave Edith the comfort of embracing her son; our dear

friend’s will is addressed to me. René is utterly opposed to the young

girls being brought up with us, and we shall no doubt place them at the

Sacred Heart. René is right: no one could ever take the place of

Picciola in my heart.

Margaret and Gertrude have been angels of consolation to me. How shall I

ever repay their tenderness! Ah! it is good to be so loved. Let us

always love each other in Jesus, dear Kate!

OCTOBER 25.

The orphans are come, very touching in their mourning garments. The good

Mistress Annah has grown ten years older. Edith died the death of a

saint! How painfully this word death sounds in my heart!

My mother does not wish that Berthe should see _them_ here; the generous

Adrien offers to accompany them, but Margaret solicits this privilege,

with the secret intention, we believe, of paying the first year’s

expenses. Kind Margaret! I should like to have kept these children, but

in every point of view it is impossible. René fears that I may love them

too much—and you also, dear Kate. Thus it is decided that they are to

leave us on the 5th.

I send you the _journal_ of the last days of Edith; Mistress Annah

wished to give me this consolation, sweet and bitter at the same time.

Dear old friend! what good care we are going to take of her. I should

like to have her here. Karl will be made a priest on Christmas Eve; we

shall therefore be in Paris towards the 10th of December. For how long?

I do not yet know. My mother has changed very much since our _angel_ is

no longer here. O Christ! O Saviour! O Sovereign Friend of our souls!

take compassion on our sorrows.

Johanna is here, by me, with my beautiful godson on her knees, smiling

and playing with him in a thousand ways. Oh! how sweet was Picciola in

this same place. Alix and Marguérite come every minute to talk to me, to

amuse me. Margaret occupies herself in reading to me serious and

absorbing things; but—I constantly see _her_, my little dove that is

flown away.

Marcella is at Naples; the letter of mourning reached her there. She

does not know what her daughter’s life has cost us, nor will she ever

know it. Ah my God! who would have believed that?

Send me your good angel, dear, beloved sister!

TO BE CONTINUED.

PRESBYTERIAN INFIDELITY IN SCOTLAND.

The people of England, as his Eminence Cardinal Manning is fond of

saying, never abandoned the Catholic faith; it was torn from them by

violence. The people of Ireland were made of sterner stuff; they clung

to the faith, successfully resisting the pitiless persecutions to which

they were subjected. But the people of Scotland joyfully received the

new gospel and took it into their hearts with zealous ardor. In England

the sovereign imposed the new religion upon the people, and they

submitted to it; in Ireland the whole authority of the civil power,

exercised in the most cruel forms, was exhausted in vain attempts to

compel the apostasy of the people. In Scotland the people apostatized by

their own motion and the Reformation there was essentially a popular

movement. The late Archbishop Spalding, in his _History of the

Protestant Reformation_, says that the Reformation in Scotland spread

from low to high; that it “worked its way up from the people, through

the aid of the nobles, through political combinations and civil

commotions, to the foot of the throne itself, and, after having gained

the supreme civil power and deposed first the queen-regent and then the

queen, it dictated its own terms to the new regent and the new

sovereign; and thus, by the strong arm, it firmly established itself on

the ruins of the old religion of the country.” The true explanation of

the fact that the Reformation in Scotland was a popular movement is to

be found in the words of a Protestant writer[14] quoted by Archbishop

Spalding: “Scotland, from her local situation, had been less exposed to

disturbance from the encroaching ambition, vexatious exactions, and

fulminating anathemas of the Vatican court” than other countries; that

is to say, the authority of the Holy See for a long time prior to the

Reformation had been scarcely felt in Scotland; the wise and wholesome

provisions of the canon law had fallen into disuse; the civil power had

thrust its own creatures into benefices and bishoprics; and the people

had become disgusted by “the scandalous lives, ostentatious pomp, and

occasional exactions of the unworthy men who had been thus unlawfully

foisted into the bishoprics and abbeys.”

Footnote 14:

Thomas McCrie, minister of the Gospel, Edinburgh.

In England and Ireland the influence and authority of the popes had

not been thus disregarded; the church there had been kept tolerably

pure, and the affection of the people had not been alienated by the

faults and crimes of prelates and priests. In Ireland to-day, after

three hundred and thirty-six years of Protestant assaults upon the

faith, Catholic truth remains as firmly as ever rooted in the hearts

and exemplified in the lives of the people. In England the effects of

the retention of Catholic tradition are still to be seen: some of the

great fasts and festivals of the church are observed as legal

holidays; marriages are not solemnized at a later hour than that which

formerly was fixed for the celebration of the nuptial Mass; and

respectable Protestants, belonging to the Nonconformist societies as

well as to the Established Church, abstain from marrying or giving in

marriage during Lent.[15] But in Scotland the “blessed Reformation”

swept away all these “rags of Popery”; it had full course to run and

be glorified; and it made such thorough work that, for example, only

within the past few years has even the most modest recognition of

Christmas day as a festival been permitted. The Scottish Reformers,

having burned the religious houses, stripped and disfigured the

churches, and driven the priests from the land, set up the Bible as

their fetich, and ordained that it should be worshipped in conformity

with the precepts embodied in certain creeds and confessions of faith

which they framed to suit themselves. For three hundred years the

Scottish Presbyterians have been the most ardent Protestants in the

world, and have boasted most loudly of their devotion to, and their

implicit faith in, the written Word of God. This, and this alone,

contained in itself all that was necessary for salvation; and it were

better that a man should never have been born rather than that he

should take away from, or add one word to, what was written in this

book. God had not on the day of Pentecost called into being, by the

power of the Holy Spirit, a body commissioned “to teach all whatsoever

he had commanded until the consummation of the world”; he had simply

caused a book to be written. “In the books of the Old and New

Testaments,” they declared in their “Standards,” “the revelation of

God and the declaration of his will are committed wholly unto writing

... and they are all given by inspiration of God to be the only rule

of faith and life.” This has been the nominal faith of the Scotch

Presbyterians ever since the dawn of the Reformation, and it is their

nominal faith to-day. It has long been difficult, however, for the

admirers of Scotch Presbyterianism to reconcile the fact that they

were at once “the most Bible-loving and whiskey-loving people on the

face of the earth”; that their sexual immorality was threefold that of

the English, and tenfold that of the Catholic Irish; and that marriage

among them had become divested of every form of religious sanction.

Close observers of what was going on in Scotland had, indeed, from

time to time perceived evidences of the existence and extension of a

curious phase of scepticism among the people—a hypocritical and

speculative scepticism. The leading journal of the country had for

many years, with great skill and with the evident approbation of its

constantly-increasing circle of readers, devoted itself to the

stealthy inculcation of rationalism and of secularism in education. In

private, and sometimes in public, leading members of the various

branches of the Presbyterian Church had indulged in covert sneers at

this or that article of faith, and every attempt to reprove or punish

these heresies by the discipline of the church resulted in failure.

Events have now occurred which reveal in a startling manner the extent

to which infidelity has made conquest of the Scotch Presbyterian

ministers, and which show that those among them who still care to

profess their adherence to their standards of faith are unwilling or

afraid to attempt either the correction or the expulsion of their

atheistic brethren.

Footnote 15:

Moreover, the favor with which that parody of Catholic ceremony and

Catholic truths known as ritualism has been received in England,

especially among the common people, is an evidence of the imperfect

manner in which the Reformation there has done its work.

A new edition of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_ has lately been

published, the article “Angels” and the article “Bible” in which work

were written by Professor W. R. Smith, of the Free Church College of

Aberdeen. Both these articles contained statements which, in the

moderate language of the official report before us, and from which we

shall quote, “awakened anxiety in the minds of ministers and members of

the church.” The affairs of this college are managed by a committee, who

are authorized to “originate and prosecute before the church courts

processes against any of the professors for heresy or immorality,

according to the present laws of the church.” On the 17th of May last

this committee “had their attention called” to these writings of

Professor Smith; on the 19th of September they appointed seven of their

number—Mr. Laughton, Principal Rainy, Principal Douglas, Sir Henry

Moncreiff, Professor Smeaton, Dr. Gould, and Professor Candlish—to

consider the two articles, and to report to the committee what action,

if any, should be taken upon them. On the 17th of October the

sub-committee, two members dissenting, reported that they did not find

it necessary to say anything about Professor Smith’s views concerning

“angels,” but that it would be advisable in the first instance to ask

the professor if he had any explanation or apology to offer respecting

his article upon the Bible. On the 14th of November the committee

received a communication from Professor Smith not at all in the nature

of an apology; and on the 17th of January—eight months having been taken

for consideration of the matter from the commencement—the committee made

their report, which is addressed to the General Assembly of the church.

They state that “after carefully examining the article 'Bible,’ and

considering with attention the explanations which Professor Smith has

been good enough to furnish,” they have not found in the article

sufficient ground “to support a process for heresy”—a conclusion from

which one member of the committee, Dr. Smeaton, dissents, as will

appear, with good reason. It is true, the committee go on to say, that

Professor Smith’s statements relating to “the date, authorship, and

literary history” of certain books and portions of books in the Bible

not only “differ from the opinions which have been most usually

maintained in our churches,” but are “such as have been maintained by

writers who treat the Scriptures as merely human compositions.” But the

committee magnanimously decline to “assume that this circumstance is of

itself a ground either of suspicion or complaint,” inasmuch as “much

liberty of judgment should be maintained.” They confess, again, that

they “have observed with regret that the article does not adequately

indicate that the professor holds the divine inspiration” of the Bible,

and that he does not “adequately state the view of the Bible taken by

the Christian church as a whole.” “A clear note on this point” was much

needed, but the professor would not give it, and “the committee are

compelled to regard this feature of the case with disapprobation,” since

it would have been so easy for the professor, by “a single sentence or

clause of a sentence, at successive stages of his argument,” to have

“prevented the injurious effect which the committee deprecate.” The

professor gave “decided opinions in favor of some of the critical

positions maintained by theologians of the destructive school,” and he

consistently refrained from blowing hot and cold, as the committee

wished him to do, “by showing decisively that he did not agree with

their destructive inferences.” But since, in his communication to the

committee, Professor Smith “admits direct prediction of the Messias in

the Old Testament,” and receives three of the four gospels as “authentic

and inspired,” the committee—Professor Smeaton again dissenting—did not

think it wise to prosecute him for heresy on these points. They stumbled

sadly, however, in their attempts to explain why they resolved to acquit

him of flagrant heresy in the expressions of his views “with respect to

portions of the Pentateuch, and more particularly to the Book of

Deuteronomy.” It would be bad enough, they say, had Professor Smith

contented himself with maintaining that the Book of Deuteronomy in its

present form could not have been written, for philological reasons,

until eight hundred years after the death of Moses. But this would not

necessarily prove that the author of the book was not inspired and did

not faithfully record the history as it occurred. Professor Smith did

worse than this; for he affirmed “that instructions and laws which, in

the Book of Deuteronomy, appear as uttered by Moses, are certainly

post-Mosaic, and so could not, as a matter of fact, have been uttered by

him.” Professor Smith, say the committee, holds:

“1. That various portions of the Levitical institutions, to which a

Mosaic authorship is assigned in the Pentateuch, are of later date,

having come into the form in which they are exhibited only by

degrees, and in days long subsequent to the age of Moses. This is

held to be established by discrepancies between different parts of

Scripture, which are held to arise when the Mosaic origin is

assumed.

“2. In particular, the Book of Deuteronomy, in portions of it which,

_ex facie_, bear to be the record of utterances by Moses, makes

reference to institutions and arrangements much later than his time.

“3. This is to be accounted for by assuming that some prophetic

person, in later times, threw into this form a series of oracles,

embracing at once Mosaic revelations, and modifications, or

adaptations which were of later development; all together being

thrown into the form of a declaration and testimony of Moses.

“4. That, viewed especially with reference to the literary

conceptions and habits of that time and people, the method thus

employed was legitimate, and was such as the divine Spirit might

sanction and employ. It was designed to teach that the whole body of

laws delivered were the fruit of the same seed, had received the

same sanction, and were alike inspired by the Spirit which spake by

Moses.

“5. The sub-committee do not understand the professor to mean that

this involved any fraud upon those to whom the book was delivered.

It was given and taken for what it was; however, it may subsequently

have been misunderstood, in the professor’s view, in so far as it

came to be believed to be an ordinary historical record of actual

Mosaic utterances.”

The committee found themselves “obliged to regard this position with

grave concern.” They did not feel willing to admit the force of the

evidence which Professor Smith relied upon as establishing the

non-Mosaic character of some of the Deuteronomic laws; and “the

hypothesis of inspired personation applied to such a book as

Deuteronomy” appeared to them “highly questionable in itself and in its

consequences.” This is stating the case very mildly, especially as they

go on to say that the so-called “explanations produced by Professor

Smith in his statement have not relieved the apprehensions of the

committee,” but, on the contrary, have rather served “to make more

evident the stumbling-block for readers of the Bible arising from a

theory which represents a book of Scripture as putting into the mouth of

Moses regulations that are at variance with institutions which the same

theory supposes him to have actually sanctioned.” This theory is “liable

to objection and is fitted to create apprehension.” It ascribes to the

author of the book “the use of a device which appears unworthy and

inadmissible in connection with the divine inspiration and divine

authority of such a book as Deuteronomy.”... “The admissions that the

statements of the book regarding Moses are not true in the obvious sense

will operate in the way of unsettling belief.” The committee are

compelled to admit that the article is “of a dangerous and unsettling

tendency.” Nevertheless, they declare that they cannot and will not

exercise the rights and discharge the duties of their office by

instituting a process against Professor Smith for heresy. He has written

a most heretical, dangerous, and really blasphemous article, and has

caused it to be published in a book of the highest character and of the

most extensive circulation. But they have “a cordial sense of his great

learning,” and he has been good enough to say that although he has

proved that the Holy Spirit lied in certain portions of Deuteronomy, and

lent himself to the perpetration of a fraud in other portions, still he

can accept the book “as part of the inspired record of revelation, on

the witness of our Lord and the _testimonium Spiritus Sancti_”—the

testimony of the same Holy Spirit to whom he has imputed the crimes of

falsehood and of fraud! Therefore they declare that they find no fault

in Professor Smith other than that of being a little too free in the

utterance of his opinions, and, accordingly, they decide to let him go.

From this free and easy deliverance four members of the committee

dissented, but on different grounds. One of them thought that Professor

Smith’s views respecting angels were as “destructive” and as full of

“negations” as were his statements concerning the Bible, and that he

should have been arraigned for heresy on this ground. Another—Professor

Candlish—was of the opinion that there was no “ground in the articles

for concern about Professor Smith’s views”; and a third—Mr.

Whyte—insisted that, instead of indulging in “timid and cautious” blame,

the committee should have expressed their real feelings of approbation,

and given utterance to “a hearty and grateful acknowledgment of the

goodness of God to their church in the succession of eminent theologians

and teachers he was raising up among them,” and of whom Professor Smith

was the chief! The fourth dissentient was Dr. Smeaton, of whom we have

already spoken, and who, save the member who was distressed about

Professor Smith’s opinions respecting angels, seems to have been the

only orthodox person upon the committee. An appendix to the report sets

forth the reasons for his dissent at great length, but their purport may

be given in a few words. The finding of the committee was “wholly

inadequate to the gravity of the offence”; Professor Smith had offered

no retractation of his heresies, and he should have been arraigned at

the bar of the church. It is absurd for the committee to avow “regret

and grave concern” at the expression of heresy by a luminary of the

church, and then to “accept a mere profession of loyalty as a sufficient

reason for abstaining from further action.” He exposes the inconsistency

of the committee’s statement that the professor’s views, while

“injurious,” “destructive,” and “naturalistic,” are still compatible

with the belief that the book which he declares to be a forgery was

inspired by the Holy Ghost.

“I hold,” says Dr. Smeaton, “that the doctrine of inspiration and

Professor Smith’s views are irreconcilable, and that this will be

evident if, for example, we take account of his theory of

Deuteronomy or of his conception of the Song of Solomon. The view

which he propounds as to the origin of Deuteronomy is that it is a

fictitious personation of Moses by another man, in the unspeakably

solemn position of professing to receive and communicate a divine

revelation, and that the book was not composed until many centuries

after Moses’ death. The point at issue is not alone the age and

Mosaic authorship of Deuteronomy, but whether this book of Scripture

is supposititious, and whether it was after a great interval of time

composed and put into the mouth of Moses by another. This fraudulent

personation-theory is the lowest depth of criticism; for, as has

often been said, the mythical criticism had still this redeeming

point, that it did not impute to the writers conscious fabrication.

The supposititious or personation-theory, on the contrary, is not in

keeping with the character of an honest man, and wholly inconsistent

with that of an ambassador from God; and the attempt to exculpate

the writer who is said to have put his words into the mouth of

Moses, on the supposition that it was well known at the time, only

widens the sphere of the fraudulent deception, and makes the

receivers of the book act in collusion with the writer in his crime.

This theory, which I never expected to encounter in Scotland,

overlooks the important fact that, in the very book to which such an

origin is ascribed, we find the repeated condemnation of false

prophets, of false testimony, and of adding to, or diminishing from,

the Word of God; and we must therefore suppose the writer practising

deception while exposing falsehood in every form. Professor Smith

must make his choice between the reception of the book as an

inspired revelation, with all that it purports to be, as written in

the time of Moses, and as the work of Moses, or reject it altogether

as a fraud and entitled to no respect. There is no middle way. He

cannot maintain its fictitious origin, and yet assert its

inspiration. However convenient it may be for a speculative

theologian to oscillate between the two ideas, as the necessities of

a daring criticism may suggest, the notion of a fabricated prophetic

programme or of an inspired forgery will be regarded by the general

community, as it has always been regarded by me, as no better than

the very quintessence of absurdity. The robust common sense of

mankind scouts the possibility of the combination. For my part, I

could not stultify myself before the church and the world by

allowing such an incoherent and self-contradictory juxtaposition of

terms. But such a theory, if it could be endured for a moment,

would, it is evident, render inspiration incapable of vindication or

defence. And the enemies of revelation, I believe, could desire no

more effective weapon in their warfare than the power to proclaim

that a Christian church permitted a theological teacher to represent

any one book of Scripture as an inspired fabrication. But the

question forces itself on our minds: If one book may be so

described, what is to be the limit of this license, and how far is

the concession to be extended in the way of giving a chartered right

to similar caricatures of the sacred oracles? I am obliged to add

that, in my judgment, Professor Smith’s treatment of the Book of

Deuteronomy is tantamount to dropping it from the inspired canon.

And the same thing may be said of his mode of representing the scope

and purport of the Song of Solomon, to which he denies the spiritual

sense, and all that allusion to the communion between the Bridegroom

and the Bride which the church of all ages—notwithstanding the

wayward tendencies of a few individual writers—has always regarded

as immediately connected with its divine origin; for no reason can

be shown for its inspiration and canonical rank if it is to be

interpreted on the low exegetical conception that it is an earthly

love-poem. It will not do to say that this is a dispute about the

authorship of a book, and that the authorship of a book is of small

moment. I have already stated how much more is involved. But the

references to the Mosaic authorship of Deuteronomy, not only by

Peter and Paul (Acts iii. 22; Rom x. 6; x. 19), but by the Lord

Jesus Christ himself (Matt. xix. 8), are so express and definite

that the denial of that one accredited fact tends to shake the

inspiration of many other books of Scripture which explicitly assert

or imply it. In conclusion, I regret that the committee, fettered by

the interpretation which they have put upon their functions, have

not sent up with their report a strong recommendation to the

Assembly to deal effectually with the negative and destructive

opinions brought to light in Professor Smith’s articles as wholly

inconsistent with our recognized doctrines, and contrary to the

genius of every Reformed Presbyterian church. This is the first

instance that has occurred in any Scottish church of an attack on

the genuineness of any book of Scripture on the part of an

office-bearer within the church. And the question now raised, and

which must be decided one way or other, is whether the negative

criticism, with the rationalistic theology which uniformly goes

along with it, is to claim a legitimate position within the pale of

the Free Church of Scotland? To that I cannot consent. The

Continental churches, having neither our spiritual independence nor

our Scriptural discipline, can be no guide to us in this matter.

Under the control of the state, they are obliged to allow all manner

of latitudinarian opinions, and have ceased to put forth any

ecclesiastical testimony on great questions. We have what they want,

and are bound to call the spiritual independence and Scriptural

discipline, which are our distinctive privilege, into active

exercise or the side of the divine authority of Scripture.

Unfaithfulness or weak concession at this juncture would allow two

classes of professors, students, and preachers antagonistic to each

other, and end in the long run, as all such false alliances must

end, in an ultimate separation between the rationalistic and

evangelical elements, as incapable of existing together. Any man of

long views, or who has looked into the history of the church, must

see this; and, therefore, in the exercise of that inherent authority

which we possess, the church must at once nip these opinions in the

bud, and do so effectually. On one point I have not the shadow of a

doubt. An attack on the genuineness and authority of Scripture,

whether dignified by the title of the higher criticism or prompted

by the lower scepticism, ought never to be permitted within the

church on the part of any office-bearer. We can keep criticism

within its proper limits, and this occasion may have been permitted

to occur that we may show to other churches how we can act in the

exercise of our independent jurisdiction.”

These bold and true words of Dr. Smeaton had no effect upon the decision

of the committee; and, so far as that decision goes, it must now be

taken for granted that it is _not_ heresy for a minister of the

Presbyterian Church to teach that portions of the Holy Scriptures are

fictitious, supposititious, fraudulent, and deceptive. By the same

decision the Free Church of Scotland has “rendered inspiration incapable

of vindication or defence,” and has placed it within the power of the

enemies of revelation to say that a Christian church permits a

theological teacher to represent Scripture as an inspired fabrication.

It might have been expected, however, that this decision would have been

received with horror and consternation by the Bible-loving laity of

Scotland. The very contrary has proved to be the case, and the only

reproof which the committee seems to have received is in the nature of a

reproach for their weak affectation of disapproval of Professor Smith’s

heresies while really sympathizing with them. The ministers of the Free

Church of Scotland are wholly dependent upon the laity for their

support, and the control of the laity over them is far-reaching, if it

be not absolute. The decision in the case of Professor Smith would have

been different had not the laity of the church long since ceased, in a

great measure, to cherish that reverence for the written Word which

distinguished their ancestors. The Edinburgh _Scotsman_ expresses its

belief that there will be “very extensive satisfaction” at the decision

of the committee, and confidently assumes that “it will ultimately

become the collective judgment of the Free Church.” Dr. Smeaton, it

says, is the one member of the committee belonging to the old orthodox

party in the church—“a party whose diminishing numbers entirely preclude

the possibility of any view springing out of their turn of mind

successfully asserting itself against the influence of the majority that

has enjoyed so long and mollifying an experience in turning closed into

open questions.” Open questions! The inspiration and authenticity of the

Bible have become an open question among the Scotch Presbyterians, with

the probability that it will soon be decided by a verdict against the

book. The _Scotsman_ ridicules the committee for pretending to regard

Professor Smith’s position with “grave concern” while they themselves

“substantially sympathize with him,” or else know that so many of the

people agree with him that to prosecute him for heresy would be

dangerous.

Nor is it the Free Church of Scotland alone which has thus, to all

appearance, lost its faith in the Scriptures and in the “Standards.” The

Rev. David Macrae, of Gourock, one of the most talented and popular

ministers of the United Presbyterian Church of Scotland, declared

recently in the presbytery of that body that he and very many—almost

all—of his fellow-ministers had ceased to believe, and in some cases to

preach, the traditional creed of the church. He, for one, was henceforth

resolved to be honest, and was determined no longer to profess what he

had ceased to believe, but the majority of his brethren, he thought,

would continue for some time to be hypocrites. “The relation of the

clergy to the Standards was not an honest one,” he said; “the professed

was not the actual creed of the church; our church is professing one

creed while holding, and to a large extent preaching, another. I am

determined to strike a blow, even though it should be my last, to

liberate the church I love from the tyranny of a narrow creed and the

hypocrisy of a professed adherence to it.”

The lapse of the Scotch Presbyterians into infidelity may seem to be a

startling event, but it was inevitable. If the Bible could have saved

them, they would have been safe; but the Bible in itself never yet saved

any one, for God did not ordain that it should be written and preserved

for that purpose. The Bible, indeed, points out the way to salvation; it

is a finger-post directing men to the gate of heaven, but it is not that

gate itself, nor even the key which opens it. All non-Catholic sects are

certain, sooner or later, to lead their adherents to that pit of

perdition on the brink of which the Scotch Presbyterians now seem to be

standing—the blind lead the blind, and both fall into the ditch. The

Catholic Church in Scotland is small and weak; it is only within a very

few years that her growth there has been at all perceptible, and the

hierarchy has not been re-established there since it was swept away by

the Reformation. But the rapid decline of Scotch Protestantism into

practical infidelity may have a favorable effect upon the interests of

the church. The really pious of the people—and there are many such—may

now begin to turn their eyes towards the living Teacher of God’s word,

and listen to her unerring voice; and when they enter her fold they can

say that they have abandoned the church of their fathers in order to

return to the church of their forefathers.

HOW PERCY BINGHAM CAUGHT HIS TROUT.

One lovely evening towards the end of the month of June, 187-, an

outside car jingled into the picturesque little village of

Ballynacushla. The sun had set in a flood of golden glory; purple

shadows wooed midsummer-night dreams on crested hill and in hooded

hollow; a perfumed stillness slept upon the tranquil waters of the

Killeries, that wild but beauteous child of the Atlantic, broken only by

the shrill note of the curlew seeking its billow-rocked nest, or the

tinkle of the sheep-bell on the heather-clad heights of

Carrignagolliogue. Lights like truant stars commenced to twinkle in

lonely dwellings perched like eyries in the mountain clefts, and night

prepared to don her lightest mourning in memory of the departed day.

The rickety vehicle which broke upon the stillness was occupied by two

persons—a handsome, aristocratic-looking young man attired in

fashionable tourist costume, and the driver, whose general “get-up”

would have won the heart of Mr. Boucicault at a single glance.

“That’s a nate finish, yer honner,” he exclaimed, as, bringing a wheel

into collision with a huge boulder which lay in the roadway, he decanted

the traveller upon the steps of the “Bodkin Arms” at the imminent risk

of breaking his neck.

The “Bodkin Arms,” conscious of its whitewash and glowing amber thatch,

stood proudly isolated. Its proprietor had been “own man” to Lord

Clanricarde, and scandal whispered that a portion of the contents of

“the lord’s” cellar was to be found in Tom Burke’s snuggery behind the

bottle-bristling bar.

The occupant of the car was flung into the arms of an expectant waiter,

who, true to the instincts of that remarkable race, had scented his prey

from afar, and calmly awaited its approach. This Ganymede was attired in

a cast-off evening dress-coat frescoed in grease; a shirt bearing traces

of the despairing grasp of a frantic washerwoman; a necktie of the

dimensions of a window-curtain, of faded brocade; and waistcoat with

continuations of new corduroy, which wheezed and chirruped with every

motion of his lanky frame. His nose and hair vied in richness of ruby,

and his eyes mutely implored every object upon which they rested for a

sleep—or a drink.

“You got my note?” said the traveller interrogatively.

“Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir.” Of course they had it. The post in the

west of Ireland is an eccentric institution, which disgorges letters

just as it suits itself, and without any particular scruple as to dates.

“Have you a _table d’hôte_ here?”

This was a strange sound, but the waiter was a bold man.

“Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir! Would you like it hot, sir?”

“Hot! Certainly.”

“Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir! With a taste of lemon in it?”

“I said—Pshaw! Is dinner ready?” said the traveller impatiently.

“Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir; it’s on the fire, sir,” joyously responded

the relieved servitor, although the fowls which were to furnish it were

engaged in picking up a precarious subsistence at his very feet, and the

cabbage to “poultice” the bacon flabbily flourishing in the adjoining

garden.

“Get in my traps and rods”—the car was laden with fishing-tackle of the

most elaborate description. “Have you good fishing here?”

“Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir—the finest in Ireland. Trouts lepping into

the fryin’-pan out of the lake foreninst ye. The marquis took twoscore

between where yer standing and Fin Ma Coole’s Rock last Thursday; and

Mr. Blake, of Town Hill—more power to him!—hooked six elegant salmon in

the pool over, under Kilgobbin Head.”

“I want change of a sovereign.”

“Yes, sir, _of_ course, sir—change for a hundred pound, sir. This way,

sir. Mind yer head in regard of that flitch of bacon. It gave Captain

Burke a black eye on Friday, and the county inspector got a wallop in

the jaw that made his teeth ring like the bell in the middle o’ Mass.”

And he led the way into the hotel.

The charioteer, after a prolonged and exciting chase through several

interstices in his outer garment, succeeded in fishing up a

weather-beaten black pipe, which he proceeded to “ready” with a care and

gravity befitting the operation.

“Have ye got a taste o’ fire, Lanty Kerrigan?” addressing a diminutive

personage, the remains of whose swallow-tailed frieze coat were

connected with his frame through the medium of a hay-rope, and whose

general appearance bore a stronger resemblance to that of a scarecrow

than a man and a brother. “I’m lost intirely for a _shough_. The

forriner [the stranger] wudn’t stand smokin’, as he sed the tobaccy was

infayrior, but never an offer he med me av betther.”

“Howld a minnit, an’ I’ll get ye a hot sod.” And in less than the time

specified Lanty returned with a glowing sod of turf snatched from a

neighboring fire.

“More power, Lanty!” exclaimed the car-driver, proceeding to utilize the

burning brand. “Don’t stan’ too nigh the baste, _avic_, or she’ll be

afther aiting yer waistband and lavin’ ye in yer buff.”

“What soart av a fare have ye, Misther Malone?” asked Lanty, now at a

respectful distance from the mare.

“Wan av th’ army—curse o’ Crummle an thim!—from the barrack beyant at

Westpoort.”

“Is it a good tack?”

“I’ve me doubts,” shaking his head gravely and taking several wicked

whiffs of his _dhudheen_. “He’s afther axin’ for change, an’ that luks

like a naygur.”

“Thrue for ye, Misther Malone! Did ye rouse him at all?” asked the other

in an anxious tone. He expected the return of the “forriner” and was

taking soundings.

“Rouse him! Begorra, ye might as well be endayvorin’ to rouse a griddle.

I’m heart scalded wud him. I soothered him wud stories av the good

people, leprechauns, an’ banshees until I was as dhry as a cuckoo.”

“Musha, thin, he must be only fit for wakin’ whin _you_ cudn’t rouse

him, Mickey Malone.”

“I’d as lieve have a sack o’ pitaties on me car as—” He stopped short

and plunged the pipe into his pocket, as the object of the discussion

suddenly appeared upon the steps.

“Here is a sovereign for the car and half a sovereign for yourself,”

exclaimed the young officer, tossing the coins to the expectant Malone.

“Shure you won’t forget the little mare, Captain?”

“Forget her? Not likely, or you either, Patsey.”