Chapter IX: A Bright Evening (7)

[180] Alexander I. said to Caulaincourt: “I must have the
key which opens the gate of my house.”

[181] La Russie c’est le rien.

[182] _Contemporary Evolution_, by St. George Mivart, pp.
66, 67.

[183] Reinhold Baumstarck in the _Hist. Polit. Blätter_ for
Dec. 1, 1876.

UP THE NILE.

II.

Like giant walls the Libyan and Arabian mountains bound the valley on either side, at one point close to the river bank, at another receding inland five or six miles. From Cairo to Wady Halfa, eight hundred miles, they stretch in an unbroken line. Beautiful groves of palm-trees line the banks, among which we wander for hours as the boat is tracked up the stream. This mode of progression is slow indeed, and is used when the wind fails us. A stout rope is made fast to the bow, and eight or ten men, taking hold of the other end, walk along the bank, dragging the boat after them, scarcely ever making more than five or six miles a day. We go ashore at this time. There are numbers of fine birds to shoot――over two hundred and fifty different kinds: vultures, rosy pelicans, golden orioles, pink flamingos, many geese and ducks, and innumerable flocks of aboulgerdans, the _ardetta russata_, or buff-back heron, the constant friend and companion of the buffalo. For hours we wander through palm-groves, cotton and sugar fields, and occasionally pass through a small village, to the intense amusement of the elders and the terror of the juveniles. Near midnight of the 24th of December we reached Ekhmeem, a small town on the east bank. We had been anxious to spend Christmas morning here; for there is a reunited Coptic church, and we all wished to attend Mass. The church was not very handsome nor elaborately finished. The floor was composed of bricks, with a few straw mats scattered here and there. The roof was made of rough, unfinished boards, two openings in which served to admit light and air, thus dispensing with the necessity for windows. There were a few pews. On the walls were painted pictures of saints and holy men and women. They were executed by native artists, and to the untutored eye of these simple natives seemed beautiful no doubt. They reminded us of those pictures we were wont to draw on our slates when schoolboys. After they were finished, painful doubts would arise as to whether any one would be able to tell for what they were intended; so to remove all apprehension we wrote underneath: “This is a man,” “This is a cow.” If many Western Christians are to visit this church, it would be well for them to do the same, so that we may not mistake a picture of the Blessed Virgin for a shadoof, or St. Joseph for a portion of an obelisk. There were about forty Arabs, men and boys, in the body of the church, and some women behind the lattice-work screens at the rear which separated them from the men. This separation of sex is carried on even in the Christian churches of Egypt. Father H―――― officiated, and we had the honor to be the first Latins who had ever heard Mass in the Coptic church of Ekhmeem. Afterwards we were hospitably entertained by the Coptic priest. He invited us to his reception-room on the second story; the congregation crowded in, and each one in turn shook hands with us, and then kissed their own hands in token of respect. Innumerable cups of coffee and cigarettes were forced upon us. I like coffee, and am particularly fond of a cigarette, but both in moderation. One soon tires, however, of converting himself into a movable coffee-pot and perambulating smoke-stack to afford these natives a means of showing that they are pleased with his visit. I have never seen smoking carried on to such an extent as in this country. While dressing in the morning and undressing at night they puff their cigarettes. During the day the smoke is constantly issuing from their lips.

Pococke speaks of some convents near here, one of which is called “Of the Martyrs,” and is mentioned by the Arab historian Macrizi, and another about two miles further in a wild valley, which is composed of grottoes in the rock and a brick chapel covered with Coptic inscriptions. Near this is a rude beaten path leading to what appears to have been the abode of a hermit. Ekhmeem, down to the advent of the Moslems, was considered the oldest city of all Egypt. It was supposed to have been founded by Ekhmeem, the great-grandson of Ham. This was after the Deluge; and if the generally-received date of that event be correct, then the supposition was false. Modern Egyptologists, unless wrong in their chronology, show that many cities existed at least three thousand years before Christ.

A few hours’ sail brought us to Girgeh, a small town on the left bank. Here is the oldest Roman Catholic establishment in Egypt. Girgis, or George, is the patron saint of all the Egyptian Christians, and after him the town was named. Leo Africanus says that Girgeh was formerly the largest and most opulent monastery of Christians in Egypt, called after St. George, and inhabited by upwards of two hundred monks, who possessed much land in the neighborhood. They supplied food to all travellers, and sent annually a large sum to the patriarch at Cairo to be distributed among the Christian poor. About one hundred years ago a dreadful plague afflicted Egypt and carried off all the monks of the convent. There is a small congregation now of some four hundred reunited Copts, with a few Coptic priests, presided over by a Franciscan missionary. We called on him and paid a very pleasant visit. He accepted our invitation to dinner. As it was Christmas day, and this our first dinner-party, Ahmud spared no trouble to have everything as nice as possible. The table was laid with very pretty pink and white china. Ibrahim appeared in a full suit of the purest white. The principal dish was a turkey; and such turkeys as they have in this upper country are to be found nowhere else in the world. Unfortunately, the priest could only speak Arabic and Italian; and as our knowledge of those languages was very limited, the conversation was not animated. One of our party spoke Spanish fluently; with this assistance, and what remained of the Latin of our college days, we made some progress, and were able to exchange a little information and a few ideas. The Father was an Italian of good family, and had been at Girgeh for eight years. His congregation were very much attached to him, but, being very poor, he found it difficult to get along. The only outside aid he received was from the missionary society of Lyons, who send to each mission along the Nile one napoleon (about four dollars) per month.

Further up, at Negadeh, we paid a very interesting visit to an old priest, Père Samuel, who had been thirty-seven years in Egypt, thirty-four of which he had spent at Negadeh. At first he did not seem to understand the purport of our visit. We were probably the first Catholics who had ever called on him. In the course of thirty-four years he had made but twenty converts from Moslemism. This is owing to the severe penalties prescribed by the Koran for apostasy, which but few dare brave. There are about four thousand schismatical Copts and two hundred reunited ones, mostly his own converts. It is an edifying sight to see these small but devoted bands of Christians practising their religion in the midst of fanatical enemies who ridicule and annoy them in every possible way.

On we sail, and soon the white minarets of Girgeh fade away in the distance. On the tops of the houses in almost every town pigeon-towers have been built for the shelter and accommodation of the myriads of semi-domesticated pigeons that abound here. I am informed that this care is taken of them for the sake of obtaining their manure. One would think that the owners would resist any attempts to destroy them. On the contrary, they would call to us from a distance, and, after we had trodden down their standing grain to reach them, they would point out a flock of pigeons, tell us to shoot them, and then, seemingly in great glee, run, pick them up, and bring them to us. On the 27th of December the wind was so strong that we furled the sails and were blown up-stream under bare poles at the rate of three miles an hour. The raised cabin, presenting such a broad surface to the wind, acted as a sail and enabled them to steer the boat. As we were seated at dinner that evening, Ahmud entered, appearing very nervous, and told us the sailors were about to stop to make their peace-offering to Sheik Selim. “And pray who is Sheik Selim?” we asked. “He is a very holy man,” said Ahmud――“the guardian spirit of the Nile. He is one hundred and twenty years of age, and for the last eighteen years he has not changed his position, but, seated on the bank, he rules the elements. If we passed without making an offering to him, he would send adverse winds; may be he would set fire to the boat or cause other dire calamities to befall us.” “Does he not tire of sitting there so long?” I venture to inquire. “Oh! no; when no one is with him he calls to the crocodiles, and they come out of the water and play with him. At the approach of any human being he orders them to retire, and is instantly obeyed.” “And do the sailors really believe this?” “Yes, and I do also,” replied Ahmud indignantly. “I tell you again that any one who passes without making an offering to this holy man is sure to meet with some misfortune. Some years ago, Said Pasha, the then Viceroy of Egypt, was passing here in his steamer. The sailors asked permission to stop, but the Viceroy would not permit it, and sneered at their credulity. Immediately the wheels revolved without moving the steamer, and it was not until peace-offerings had been given and accepted that the saint would allow the boat to proceed.”

After such conclusive proof of this holy man’s power we did not dare to interfere, but some suggested that we would call upon the saintly Moslem with the delegation appointed by the crew. Ali was very nervous and seemed almost afraid to go; but his childlike curiosity got the better of him, and he accompanied us. We walked up the bank in solemn procession, not a word being spoken. We found the saint seated on the top, in the centre of a circle made of the stalks of the sugar-cane. A low fire was burning before him. He must always be approached on his right hand. Reis Mohammed was the first of our party, and, saluting him most respectfully, laid at his feet a small basket filled with bread, oranges, tobacco, and money. Sheik Selim was a very old man, entirely nude, and seated on his haunches, long, matted hair flowing to his shoulders. Around him a group of his retainers watched us with eager curiosity. Our sailors, with awe-stricken countenances, gazed upon the holy monk with expressions betokening those feelings which would fill our breasts at looking upon some phantom from the spirit-world. Above us the moon was riding high in the clear blue of an Egyptian sky, lighting up the scene with an almost weird effect. It was a picture never to be forgotten. The fruitful soil of this land gives back to the industrious farmer three and four crops a year. Had Sheik Selim’s body, as it then was, been properly planted and cared for, no less than six crops could easily be realized. If cleanliness be next to godliness, infinite distance must have separated him from the Deity. Each one in turn shook hands with him. He thanked them for the presents and asked for some meat. “I will bring you some from the howadji’s table,” said Ahmud. “No, I will touch nothing which has been handled by the Christian dogs. Reis Mohammed, in return for your offering you will find a pigeon on the boat when you return. I have ordered it to go there and wait until you come to take it; I present it to you.” “He must get a number of good things from the many different boats passing,” I remarked in a side tone to Ahmud. “Yes, but he never eats anything at all; he gives all he receives to his retainers. He is not like other men: he has not eaten anything for eighteen years past.” “He must be on very bad terms with his stomach,” thought I; but, being somewhat incredulous, I concealed myself for a few moments behind a palm-tree. As soon as the party had retired he seized an orange, and, from the avidity with which he devoured it, I concluded that perhaps Ahmud’s story was partly true. When we returned to the boat, Ali told us that Reis Mohammed found a live pigeon on the deck, which suffered itself to be captured, being the one presented by the saint. Not only Ali but all the crew insisted upon the truth of this fact. Something must have displeased the old gentleman, possibly our incredulity, for immediately afterwards we ran aground and remained so for some hours.

On the 29th of December we reached Keneh, on the east bank, and the next morning crossed the river, mounted our little donkeys, and rode to the great temple of Dendera. This temple was dedicated to the goddess Athor, or Aphrodite, the name Dendera or Tentyra being taken from Tei-n-Athor, the abode of Athor. To my mind none of the temples of Egypt can be called beautiful, or even graceful. Compared with the architectural gems of Greece, or the more recent fairy-like structures of the Moguls, they are heavy, coarse, and ungainly. But their interest is derived from their solidity, their antiquity, and the records of events sculptured on them, making each temple wall a page of that immortal book which tells of the manners and customs of the mighty people who ruled the known world six thousand years ago. On the ceiling of this temple was the Zodiac, so long the subject of such earnest controversy, by some assigned to an antediluvian age, but more probably belonging to the Ptolemaic or Roman epochs. The most interesting sculpture on the walls of Dendera is the contemporary representation of the great Cleopatra. It is generally believed to resemble her somewhat, allowance being made for the conventional mode of drawing then in vogue. It is not what would now be thought a very handsome face――full, thick lips, a nose somewhat Roman in shape, large eyes, and rather a sharp profile. But many think that Cleopatra was not so very beautiful, her charm lying more in her abilities and her power to please. She spoke to ambassadors from six or seven different nations, each in his own tongue. She sang charmingly, and was said to be the only sovereign of Egypt who understood the language of all her subjects――Greek, Ethiopic, Egyptian, Troglodytic, Hebrew, Arabic, and Syriac.

We shot a trochilus, or spur-winged plover. We had been very anxious to obtain a specimen of this bird, called by the Arabs tic-tac, but so far had been unsuccessful. True that almost every bird we brought on board was determined to be a tic-tac by some of the sailors, but, on comparing each with the description given in Smith’s admirable work on the Nile voyage, we found it was not the veritable trochilus. Why were we so anxious to obtain this bird? Because Herodotus tells about its strange doings, its acting as a self-propelling tooth-pick for the crocodile. Says that ancient traveller: When the crocodile gets out of the water on land, and then opens its jaws, which it most commonly does towards the west, the trochilus enters its mouth and swallows the leeches. The crocodile is so well pleased with this service that it never hurts the trochilus. It is called spur-winged plover on account of the large spur which it has on the carpal joint of each wing, rendering it a formidable adversary to the crow, three times its size. These Tentyrites were professed enemies of the crocodile. They hunted them with great energy and feasted off them when captured. This persecution of a being considered god-like by the Kom-Ombites people, living further up the river, was resented by them with all the fanatical rage and hatred of the most bitter sectarian feud. “Those who considered the crocodiles as sacred trained them up and taught them to be quite tame. They put crystal and gold earrings into their ears, and bracelets on their forepaws, and they gave them appointed and sacred food, and treated them as well as possible while alive, and when dead they embalmed them and buried them in sacred vaults” (Herodotus, _Euterpe_). The latter part of this strange narrative I can vouch for, as I have now in my possession three young mummied crocodiles taken from the crocodile mummy-pits of Moabdeh, near the southern extremity of the rocks of Gebel Aboo Faydah. One afternoon, while reclining on our luxurious divan, not a cloud obscuring the sky, as the light winds bore us slowly onward, I dreamed in pleasant reveries of the lands we were about to visit. Suddenly loud cries of “Folk! folk!” are heard, and Ali rushes up on deck. “Warrene! warrene! Shoot him! kill him!” My gun hung above me, loaded with light bird-shot. In a moment I was on the forecastle, gun in hand, but without the faintest idea as to what or where a warrene was. Still, all the sailors cried “Folk! folk!” and, running along the bank, I saw what appeared to be a crocodile, about four feet long. The frightened reptile ran rapidly along, at times about to plunge into the water, but immediately the cry of “Folk!” was raised, and it ran up on the bank again. The whole charge of bird-shot entering its head cut short its career, and it was soon a captive on the deck. “Why did you cry folk?” we asked the sailors. “Why, it means ‘Go up,’ and it prevents the warrene from entering the water.” “So, then, it understands what you say, and obeys?” “Yes; and besides, if you call out ‘Folk!’ to a crocodile, it will raise its forepaw, and thus expose the only part through which a bullet can penetrate its body.” No more said, but considerable doubt raised in the minds of the howadjii, and resolutions formed to experiment upon the first crocodile met with. The warrene is a species of crocodile, brought forth, according to the sailors’ story, in this way: The crocodile lays a number of eggs on land. When these are hatched, from some come forth crocodiles, from others warrenes; but what law of nature operates to produce this change they do not understand.

Here is how we pass our time on board: We rise between six and seven, and each one, as soon as ready, takes what the Hindoos call the _Chotee Hazree_, or little breakfast――coffee, eggs, bread, and butter: canned butter brought from England, very sweet; bread baked on board which would do credit to the best _café_ in Europe; coffee far better than all Paris could make; and eggs of a correspondingly excellent quality. After this Mr. S―――― and I generally go ashore and shoot. If the wind be not strong, and the men track or pole, we can easily walk ahead of the boat. Madam reads, sews, and sometimes walks with us. Father H―――― spends several hours writing in his room, and about ten o’clock shows his bright, cheerful face on deck, ready for a walk, talk, or almost anything else. At noon we breakfast together, and the afternoons are generally spent in practising taxidermy. Many travellers complain that the long Nile voyage is somewhat tiresome. Assuredly it is to one who has no other resources than looking upon the scenes around. The scenery is monotonous, the general features of river, plain, and mountain being almost precisely alike from Cairo to Wady Haifa. To us time was short; day glided into day, week into week――no marked transition, no jarring, scarce anything to note the change, to show that to-day is not yesterday. Nor, in sooth, do we care what day, what week, what month it is. We have left the world and its regulations of time behind us, and we will have naught of the world until we return to civilization. Pleasant occupation of the mind is one of the highest worldly happinesses one can hope to attain. We were constantly employed in pleasing occupations. Add to this the cloudless sky, the sweet, delicious atmosphere, the soft calm and stillness, unknown in our own harsher clime, and one seems lifted above the dull realities of this hard world, and to live in the brightest dream-land. Truly, this is the very acme of pleasure-travelling.

We learned in an empiric manner the art of taxidermy. At first we knew nothing about it――had no books upon the subject. The first birds we prepared were sorry specimens. Each day we made new discoveries, and finally we preserved over one hundred birds in perfect order and condition. In this interesting occupation the afternoon hours glided swiftly by. At six we dined. Then one would read aloud for an hour or more. After that we played dominos or engaged in conversation until ten o’clock, when we retired.

At half-past six of the afternoon of December 30, amid the waving of flags and the firing of pistol-shots, we cast anchor off the town of Luxor. Ali Murad, our worthy consul, appeared on his house-top, and saluted us with a battery in the shape of a pair of antiquated horse-pistols, the firing of which seemed to afford him much amusement. Ali is a fine fellow, it is said. He called and spent half an hour with us. He did not talk――in fact, he could not talk much intelligibly; in short, he could not talk at all so that we could understand him. He represents the majesty and power of the great republic of the western ocean, and is not able to speak the first word of English. But he can shake hands, and tell us through Ahmud that he is glad to see us; so we stop his mouth with a nargileh, and supply him with coffee, and he squats on the divan and is happy.

That night we visited majestic Karnak. The soft light of the moon playing here and there among its ruined halls and fallen obelisks made the picture so rich and beautiful that we lingered on till late in the night. Luxor, Karnak, and the temples on the western shore mark the site of hundred-gated Thebes. The western division of the city was, in ages long since passed away, under the particular protection of Athor. For, taught the learned priests, beneath yon western mountain our holy goddess receives each evening the setting sun in her outstretched arms. We sailed on the next day, dipping our flag as we passed the _Nubia_ and _Clara_, occupied by a very pleasant party from Boston, whom we were destined to meet again at the extremity of our voyage. Passing Erment on the west bank, where there is a sugar-factory, we saw a long line of camels carrying sugar-cane. There must have been at least five hundred of these patient animals; but the load that each one carried could not have weighed fifty pounds. Soon we reach Esne. We are to stop here seventy-four hours, according to contract, for the men to bake their bread. They paid three pounds for the doora, or grain, from which the bread is made; this included the grinding. Having kneaded and prepared the dough, it was baked in a public oven at the cost of seventeen shillings. This bread is the staple food of the crew. The quantity baked on January 3 lasted the men until we returned to Sioot, the 21st of March following. The bread was then brought aboard, and for two days the little old cook was busy cutting it up into small pieces, which were strewn over the deck and exposed to the sun for a few days, until they became hard as stones. The preparation of their meals is very simple. A number of these slices of bread are put into a pot filled with water; to this is added some salt and lentils, and the whole is then boiled and stirred over a fire. This meal they have twice a day. Many a time have I joined them in their humble repast; and it was palatable indeed, this time-honored mess of red porridge for which the hungry Esau sold his birthright to his ambitious brother. These fellows, strong and hardy as they were, eat meat but four times in as many months, on which occasions we presented them with a sheep. The animal served them for two meals. It was butchered and skinned by the captain, and the only parts not used were the entrails. The body was divided into fifteen equal parts, one for each man. These parts were weighed to ensure a fair distribution, and the hoofs and head were boiled with the porridge to impart flavor to it.

Some years ago the authorities at Cairo became suddenly imbued with high ideas of morality. In a fit of virtuous indignation they banished thence the ghawázee, or dancing girls of not very reputable character. Numbers of them ascended the Nile to Esne and settled there. Many Eastern travellers, filled with those romantic feelings touching everything Oriental, have raved in wild rhapsodies about the beauty and grace of these ghawázee. Those that I saw were coarse, corpulent, and homely. They were attired in bright robes and tawdry finery, their actions were disgusting, and their movements in dancing a little more graceful than the frantic struggles of a half-boiled lobster.

What numbers of shadoofs we now see on either bank! Before the voice of God called his servant Abraham to enter the kingdom of the mighty Pharaos, these shadoofs――or more properly in the plural, shawadéef――were the common means employed to supply artificial irrigation to the parched but fruitful soil. As the Nile recedes it leaves a rich and heavy alluvial deposit; in this the first crop is sown and brought forth, but it soon becomes dry, parched, and cracked, as rain scarcely ever falls in Upper Egypt. The shadoof is then used. From the top of an upright frame placed on the river bank is swung a long pole. To one end a rope is attached, from which swings a bucket made of skin. On the other end of the pole is fastened sufficient clay, hardened as a rock by the sun, to keep the pole in a horizontal position when the bucket is filled with water. The operator pulls downward on the rope until the bucket is immersed and filled. By a very slight effort it is then raised to the top of the bank, sometimes eight or ten feet high, and emptied into a trough, from which the water is conducted through numberless little canals to a distance often of five or six miles. These canals run in every direction, and by breaking the banks any part of the soil may be covered with water.

January 5, at six in the evening, we reached Assouan, and moored alongside the island of Elephantine. Here we are at Syene; for Assouan is but the Coptic Souan or Syene with the Arabic initial Alef added, together Assouan――to the Romans the frontier of the world, as all beyond was savage barbarism and unproductive soil. Domitian could think of no more horrible place to which he might banish the great satirist, and while here Juvenal amused himself by satirizing equally the Roman and Egyptian soldiers. Under the Ptolemies Syene was thought to lie immediately beneath the tropic of Cancer; but, as is now well known, this was a mistake, as it is situated in latitude 24° 5´ 25´´, seven hundred and thirty miles from the Mediterranean. In the early ages of Christianity Syene was the seat of a bishopric, and at one time more than twenty thousand of the inhabitants were destroyed by a fearful pest. The present town is large and well built. Merchandise from the Soodan and Central Africa is here taken from the camel’s back and shipped by water to Cairo. Here for the first time we see those different specimens of the African race――Nubians, Ababdeh, Bisharee, Bedoween, and many others from the still far-off interior. We are pestered and besieged by itinerant venders with every description of wares to be sold. They squat on the bank, waiting for some of the howadjii to come out. As soon as any of us appear we are surrounded by this motley crew, spears brandished in our faces――spears that have seen actual usage in the barbarous wars of the natives of the interior――ostrich eggs are poked under our noses, and the beautiful ostrich feathers waved above our heads. Strings of beads, elephants’ tusks are offered to us. I wish to buy a chibouk. I select one――a fine bowl of red clay beautifully polished, and a stem six feet long and straight as an arrow. “Well, you miserable, sordid, grovelling, lucre-loving, half-naked wretch” (this in English), “How much?” (this in Arabic).

A shrug of the shoulders, and eyes cast upon the ground.

“Well, how much?”

In a low, moaning voice: “Ten piastres”――only five times the proper value.

“I will give you one piastre.”

“Oh! no, by no means.” This is not spoken with the mouth, but by a more expressive movement of the head and shoulders. In the course of time the bargain is concluded for two piastres. I give him a piece of ten and hold out the hand for change. A bag is produced, filled with copper coins, of which it takes an indefinite quantity to equal a silver piece of any given value. Slowly and deliberately he counts into my hand a score or two of them, stops, and looks up into my face. More! Again they are reluctantly doled out one by one. Another stoppage, another demand for more; and so it goes, until one party cries enough, or the other knows that he has given the proper change. This is carried so far that on one occasion, where silver change was to be given for a napoleon, I observed the seller count out from his money-bag the proper amount of change, conceal it in his hand, and then go through the operation above described. But the regular shop-keeper does not bother you to buy――only the outside board, as it were. The merchant is a most dignified man; if it pleases Allah for you to buy, you will do it, otherwise not――Oriental predestination――so he is perfectly indifferent.

We wanted to go shopping, and looked around for the rich merchant of the town, who had fine ostrich eggs and feathers, elephants’ tusks, and spears. We found him seated on the ground reading a letter, brought out, no doubt, to impress us with his importance. I half think the letter was upside down, and doubt very much whether he could read at all; but it gave him the air of a man engaged in extensive foreign correspondence. Ali made known what we wanted. Without raising his head, he sent a boy to open his store, and told Ali he would follow when he finished his letter. Shortly after he came up, sat down on a divan, and got at the letter again. When we complained of the price, he did not deign a reply, and finally, when we rose to leave, he did not even lift his eyes, but seemed to be still trying to decipher his correspondence. I am sure it was partly done for effect, for he could have read a dozen letters while we were in his shop. But then he wanted to show his indifference.

LONGINGS.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

I said: O heart! what is thy goal――thy end?
As the lambs follow where the mothers lead,
Shall I so tread their footprints who precede,
And life’s brief, death-doomed hour in folly spend?

One chases wealth across the restless wave――
Whelmed in the deep, his bark, his hopes go down;
Another loves the acclaim of vain renown,
And finds in glory’s bosom but a grave.

One makes men’s passions serve as steps to rise,
And mounts a throne――anon behold him fall;
Another dallies where soft accents call,
And reads his destiny in woman’s eyes.

In hunger’s arms I see the idler faint,
The laborer drive his ploughshare through the soil,
The wise man’s books, the warrior’s deadly toil,
The beggar by the wayside making plaint.

All pass; but whither? Whither flits the leaf
Chased by the rough blast, torn by winter rime?
So fade they from their various ways as time
Harvests and sows the generations brief.

They strove ’gainst time――time conquers all at last.
As the light sand-bank wastes down in the stream,
I see them vanish. Was their life a dream?
So quickly are they come, so quickly passed!

For me, I sing the Lord whom I adore,
In crowded cities or in deserts dun,
At rise of day or at the set of sun,
Tossed on the sea or couching on the shore.

Earth cries out: Who is God? That soul divine
Whose presence fills the illimitable place;
Who with one step doth span the realms of space;
Who lends his splendor in the sun to shine;

Who bade from nothing rise creation’s morn;
Who made on nothingness the world to stand;
Who held the sea in check ere yet was land;
Who gazed, and light ineffable was born;

For whom no morrow and no yesterday;
Who through eternity doth self sustain;
To whom revealed the future lieth plain;
Who can recall the past and bid it stay――

God! Let his hundred names of glory wake
For ever in my song! Oh! be my tongue
A golden harp before his altar hung,
Until his hand shall touch me and I break.

SIMILARITIES OF PHYSICAL AND RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE.[184]

When Macaulay remarked that the Catholic Church owed its success in a great measure to the far-reaching policy of its organization, he uttered a truth of vast pregnancy; for the evidences of this far-sightedness abound on every side, and we find its latest attestation in the attitude the church holds to the questions which agitate the scientific world to-day. Had she, at any period of her existence, so far departed from a well-defined and consistent policy as to formulate theories touching the nature and course of physical phenomena, she might stand to-day condemned and branded in the light of recent scientific discoveries; but apart from the opinions of individual writers, lay and ecclesiastical, to whom she accorded full license to hold what they pleased in such matters, provided they did not contradict revealed truth, and who accordingly often touched on the border-land of the ridiculous and extravagant, not one authoritative expression of hers can be found at variance with a single scientific truth even of yesterday’s discovery. Of course she condemns materialism, because it runs counter to the belief in the immortality of the soul, which is a truth as readily demonstrable as the most undoubted fact in science; and she disbelieves in the eternity of matter, because such a monstrosity involves a violation of reason; but neither materialism nor the belief that matter is eternal is science, nor do any but the blatant fuglemen of scientism hold to them. What we insist upon is that no expression recorded in any council or authoritatively uttered by the Holy See can be adduced which is in conflict with any truth of physical science now established. This may sound strange to those whose prejudices against the church have been fanned and fostered by the terrible things told concerning Copernicus, Galileo, and Giordano Bruno; but it is as true as it stands printed, and it is a disgrace to the intelligence of the day that writers are tolerated who still retail trash in opposition to overwhelming historical evidence.

As in the past, the church to-day benignantly encourages all who devote themselves to the prosecution of the natural sciences, and welcomes their discoveries with delight. She wishes merely that scientific investigators confine themselves to their legitimate labors, and do not wildly rush to impious conclusions from insufficient data. She is ever willing to accept whatever conclusions premises really justify, and no more. Surely this attitude of the church towards science is eminently rational, and no right-thinking man can condemn it. Yet it is not alone such men as Spencer, Huxley, Tyndall, St. Hilaire, and Figuier who charge the church with being steadily reactionary and actively antagonistic to science, but the whole sectarian world has taken up the cry. We are sorry to number among these the author of the volume which affords subject-matter for this article, and which contains much that is novel, ingenious, and true, as we hope to be able to show when considering the chapter on the “Faiths of Science.”

But we will first learn from Mr. Bixby what manner of religion it is to which science is not opposed, so that we may ascertain the scope and purpose of his work. “In its most general significance,” he says, “it is _the expression of man’s spiritual nature awakening to spiritual things_” (italics by the author). After developing this definition at some length, he considers it more restrictedly as embracing the following elements:

“1. Belief in a soul within man.
“2. Belief in a sovereign soul without.
“3. Belief in actual or possible relations between them.”

This, then, is religion according to Mr. Bixby, and it is to the rather easy task of reconciling a few modern scientific theories to this attenuated abstraction of religious sentiment, this evanescent aroma of an emotion, that he addresses himself. The statement of those three fully sufficient conditions of religion clearly involves pantheism; and not one of the wildest scientific conjectures of the day is there which may not be made to harmonize with pantheism. The task, therefore, of reducing science and religion to a harmonious plane is quite supererogatory, since on a bare statement of religion it is reconcilable with anything. Pantheism, as taught by its most eminent exponents in Germany――Hegel, Schelling, and Fichte――consists in a sovereign soul without the τὸ non ἐγώ, from which the soul of man, the τὸ ἐγώ, is an emanation――_i.e._, a fragmentary expression of its consciousness. Beyond this these distinguished philosophers admit and recognize nothing. Do we not clearly find the same thing in the religion of Mr. Bixby?――viz., 1, soul within man; 2, sovereign soul without man; 3, actual or possible relations between the two. Now, taking the term soul as univocal in the first and second statements, is it not evident that the latter contains the former, and are we not landed high and dry on the absolute pantheism of Schelling? Or rather, going back to the parent source of pantheism, does not Mr. Bixby’s definition of religion strongly recall these words of the Vedas: “Thus the man who in his own soul recognizes the soul supreme present throughout all creation obtains the happiest lot of all――to be absorbed into Brahma”?

If this be Mr. Bixby’s meaning――or rather, whether meant or not, if this be the legitimate resultant of his views on religion――we see no way of escaping from the conclusion that matter is eternal, since his religion by no means includes the dogma of creation――indeed, it is his custom to scout dogmas――but is strictly limited to the recognition of an inner and an outer soul. It is true Mr. Bixby admits no such consequence, but he cannot help himself; he speaks most devoutly of God, condemns a “bald materialism that would make matter the sum and substance of all things, self-existent, and alone immortal, etc.,” all which is true enough, but by no means bound up in Mr. Bixby’s concept of religion. Our author consequently deprecates a conflict with a shadow, points out to scientific men the possibility of a complete reconciliation between their theories and a Bixbian fugitive tenuity, and devoutly implores them not to use language which might delay “the awakening of our spiritual nature.” Mr. Bixby says that metaphysics must not obtrude themselves on the realm of physical science; that the missions of both constantly diverge. We would, however, remind him that without metaphysics――and we mean the metaphysics he so much abhors, viz., those of the scholastics――we could find no argument as supplied by reason against the eternity of matter. It is wonderful that a man of Mr. Bixby’s respectable attainments should not perceive into what a complete _petitio principii_ he has fallen when he postulates the non-eternity of matter. He does not admit the correctness of the Mosaic cosmic genesis, and as he employs no reasoning to substantiate his postulate, we must regard it as a _petitio principii_ and nothing more.

How differently do the theologians and philosophers of the Catholic Church comport themselves in presence of this old philosophical heresy, revived to-day in full force by Draper, Tyndall, and Huxley, and which may be regarded as the arch sin of modern scientific theories! They do not beg the question as Mr. Bixby does, but, grappling it with an iron logic, dispose of it as effectually as when St. Thomas overthrew the crude systems of Leucippus and Averroës by the aid of a few well-established metaphysical principles. Mr. Bixby says: “Mediæval scholasticism especially grievously sinned in these respects. It delighted in hair-splitting disputations over frivolous puzzles, and in endless speculations about things not only transcending the possibility of human knowledge, but destitute of any practical moment. Its only criterion was the deliverances of the church on the almost equally venerated Aristotle.” Alas! we fear that the _Summa_ of St. Thomas is a sealed book for Mr. Bixby, that he has not tempted the page of Suarez with well-trimmed lamp, and that his stock of mediæval lore is borrowed from Hallam or the latest edition of the encyclopædia. To prove how immeasurably superior the “hair-splitters” are to beggars of the question we will show in what way the former hold their own against the modern eternists. Prof. Draper says that as there will be an unending succession in the future, so there has been an unbeginning series in the past; species succeed species, and genera succeed genera, in a never-beginning and a never-to-end chain; Tyndall repeats the words of Draper, whom he so much admires; and Mr. Bixby says, “Gentlemen, it may not be so”; while the scholastic clearly proves that it cannot be so. At the outset a little “hair-splitting” is necessary. We distinguish what is called an actual series, each link of which has had an actual existence, from a potential series, in which the links have not as yet been projected into existence, but will be. Now, an actual series has an end――viz., the link marking the point of transition from the actual to the potential――and is susceptible of increase, since, indeed, it constantly receives fresh accessions from the potential. If, however, it can thus acquire increase, that increase is representable by numbers, so many fresh links added to the series. But a number cannot be added except to another number; consequently, the series to which fresh increase is added must be numerical――_i.e._, representable by figures. Now, whatever can be represented by figures must have had a beginning; for there can be no number without a first unit, which is the first element of number. Moreover, the supposition that there stretches back into eternity a non-beginning succession of events contradicts the principle of causality; for it would give us one more effect than cause. Viewed in its descending aspect, every link in the chain is cause of the event which follows, till the last link is reached, the which is not cause, since it has as yet preceded no other event. But it is effect, since it depends on the previous event. Viewed now in its ascending aspect, the chain consists of a series of links which are all effects――effects more numerous than the causes by the addition of the latest link, which is effect but not cause. We must have, then, one effect without a cause, which is absurd. The same maybe said about consequent and antecedent terms in such a series; for the last term in the series being merely consequent, the chain or series which, by hypothesis, has no beginning contains more consequent than antecedent terms, which is equally absurd. We have here given but an outline of the argument. The scholastics have summed it up more fully, though far more tersely and concisely, in these words: There can be no infinite series _a parte ante_, but there can be _a parte post_. This reasoning not only conclusively disproves, but renders ridiculous, the arguments of Draper, Tyndall, and the rest. Yet from this philosophical armory Mr. Bixby would disdain to draw a single weapon in defence of his thesis, but prefers rather that the church be considered essentially inimical to the progress of true science, and constantly jealous of its encroachments.

“Mutato nomine de te
Fabula narratur.”

Mr. Bixby entertains a special dislike to theology as being apt to interfere with his pet scheme of reconciling science with――shall we call it Bixbyism? Certainly we cannot consistently call it religion. He says:

“Again, theological dogmas and science have been, and still
are, opposed. Theologians have formulated their dim guesses
about God’s character and ways into creeds, and imagined
them finalities. They have speculated upon matters of purely
physical knowledge――such as the antiquity of the earth and
the age of man, the condition of the primitive globe and its
inhabitants, the manner and method of their appearing――and
have made these speculations into dogmas held as essential
to religion.”

Here we must take sharp issue with Mr. Bixby. In the first place, have not the theologians as good right to speculate on such matters as Messrs. Spencer, Huxley, and Tyndall? And if they have fallen into error, it is no more than the latter gentlemen have frequently done. Surely Mr. Bixby must allow the fact that St. George Mivart is no less a sound _savant_ because he is read in theology; or would he maintain that Father Secchi is liable to additional chromatic aberration because he believes in the decrees of the Vatican Council? In the next place, no theologian deserving the name deems himself competent to erect into a religious dogma demanding the reverence and belief of his fellows his individual scientific opinions. The absurdity of such an idea is apparent to any one who has read a Catholic theological treatise, which breathes a spirit of submissiveness in every line where the author’s own views are expounded――a spirit strikingly in contrast with the arrogant dogmatism of our scientific philosophers. Moreover, the church, the only competent authority to promulgate dogmas of faith, has never yet attempted to impose on the minds of her children a purely scientific truth as an article of belief. From this it is evident that Mr. Bixby occasionally palters, and merely wishes to pave the way for an easier adaptation of his religious views to the so-called advanced scientific tendencies of the day.

He says that all theologies stand in the way of science, but that two dogmas especially exhibit this perversity――viz., 1, the assumed infallibility of the Bible; 2, the assumed intervention of God. “In consequence of the first of these dogmas,” he says, “there has been a struggle by theologians to limit modern science to the contracted circle of the ancient Hebrew knowledge of the universe, and any variation of statement from the letter of Moses or Job, David or Paul, is regarded as a dangerous loosening of another screw in the bonds of righteousness and the evidences of immortality.” Mr. Bixby is not himself a believer in the divine inspiration of the Scriptures, and evidently thinks that whoever does not agree with him stands on the extreme opposite line and believes the very shaping of the letters to have been divinely commanded. This is wrong. The Scriptures were never intended as a manual of science. They merely state the great facts of human and cosmic genesis in a general way, so far as those two momentous facts affect the interests of the race. It has been proved time and again that the Mosaic books, fairly interpreted, contain nothing adverse to scientific truth. Why, then, will writers be ever harping on this well-worn theme? It is not honest to advance a statement without proof, and try to clinch it with a sneer.

“In consequence of the second dogma,” he writes,
“theologians have been jealous of any attempt at a natural
explanation of the mysteries of the world, and have looked
upon every extension of the realm of unbroken order and
second causes as an invasion by science of the religious
kingdom. They imagine that one must lose what the other
gains; that, step by step, as the arcana of the Kosmos are
penetrated, and the same laws and substances are found
ruling and constituting these as rule and constitute the
more familiar parts and operations of nature, the action and
presence of the Deity must be denied, and the human mind
landed more and more in the slough of materialism.”

These words bear their refutation with them. The accusation is serious, and yet not a word of proof to substantiate it. Too often is Mr. Bixby guilty of this illogical procedure of substituting statements for proven facts and captious deliverances for argument. When Dr. Draper denies the possibility of miracles, he does so at least logically; for he believes in the eternity, immutability, and necessity of law. With him there is no lawgiver, but with Mr. Bixby it is different. He speaks of God “pouring his will through the channels of unvaried law.” Now, it is an axiom in law that the framers thereof may derogate from it from time to time, if so it should seem good to them. Why not, therefore, God? Mr. Bixby cannot, then, deny the utter impossibility of a miracle, and yet he argues against it just as strenuously and in the same spirit as Mr. Draper or Mr. Tyndall. Should he charge that such exceptional deviations from apparently established laws would argue caprice or shortsightedness on the part of God, we beg to reply that they occur in consequence of a higher law, representing the divine will, by which those secondary laws were established, and which, with far-reaching and clear-eyed gaze, made provision for those exceptional occurrences, so that they may be said virtually to come within the scope of the law itself. Should, then, the testimony in support of a miracle be of an unimpeachable nature, we see no reason why the possibility of a miraculous event is to be denied. When Voltaire said he would more readily believe that a whole citiful of people, separated by prejudices, social position, tastes, habits of life, and mutual distrust, might conspire to deceive him than he would that a dead man had arisen from the grave, he confounded physical with metaphysical impossibility; and this is precisely what every unbeliever since his time has done. To this charge Mr. Bixby is more grievously amenable, since he admits the reason for the validity of the distinction between the two impossibilities mentioned, by admitting God to be the author of law, and yet he virtually ignores it by the position he assumes.

But this chapter on the “Causes of Actual Antagonism” is so replete with reckless assertion and inconsequent reasoning that we have only to take up a passage at hazard to be confronted by an error. On page 41 he says:

“Neither is religion based on, nor bound up with, any one
book. Had Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob no religion, because
Moses had not yet written? Was there no Christianity in the
lifetime of Jesus, or the first forty years of the apostolic
generation before Matthew put his pen on to parchment? As
well say that chemical affinity is based on Lavoisier’s or
Dalton’s treatises, or that gravitation is ruined if
Newton’s _Principia_ is shown false in a single theorem.”