The Catholic World Volume Ii Part 61

[Footnote 56: "Toward the sh.o.r.es of France," etc.]

One day when I was making ready to brave those perilous roads in company with two Irishmen, there came into our carriage a large gentleman, whose weight would have been formidable to us, had I not managed to balance his pounds by my kilogrammes. [Footnote 57] By his appearance I took him for a _Briton_, and, therefore, took no pains to enter into conversation. But after a little, one of my Irishmen, annoyed by the jolting of the carriage, said to me in English: "Faith!

these Frenchmen needn't boast of the way they keep these roads of theirs." At this remark, you should have seen my stout gentleman leap, and with a menacing air reply to my interlocutor: "I warn you to say nothing here against the French. I am a Frenchman."

[Footnote 57: A kilogramme is equal to 2 lb. 3 oz. and 4 drms.]

This was said in English. I had not yet opened my mouth. I thought I would appease my irascible fat man by speaking to him in his own tongue. "Come, come," said I, "no one here has any intention of laughing at the French." My man instantly drew in his horns, stammering three or four syllables which I could not understand.

"Magical effect of the mother tongue!" thought I; and ten yards further on, in order to perfect a good understanding between us, I began again to address him in French on any subject that presented itself. He looked at me with mouth and eyes open. Supposing that he had not heard what I said, I repeated it. He was then forced to confess that he did not know a word of French; that he was an Irishman, an old soldier. In short, he was an original, well known in the country by his eccentricity, and styling himself _the hero of 132 fights_. Now retired from the service, he is writing his exploits in a little diary full of fun and humor. He detests England, loves France in general, and attacks all Frenchmen in particular. Once at his ease, after his candid confession, he took to chatting, and talked so much and so well that we forgot the jolting of the carriage, and even the lofty and magnificent trees that, fringe the road.

After some winding about, and after pa.s.sing a great number of Indian huts, and meeting hundreds of Hindoos loaded each with a great pitcher of water, here we are at last in a street. _Rue de Paris_, if you please: long and dirty, and ill aired; nothing remarkable; let us pa.s.s on. _Rue Neuve,_in ruins. _Rue des Grands Escaliers_, so narrow that the slightest staircase before a door would block it up completely.

Let us go on, turn to the left, and here we are at the river side.

Here all is large and wide--quay, river, houses, gardens. Without stopping now, let us go on immediately to the end of the quay, where we shall rest and refresh ourselves in a friendly house. It deserves that name in three ways, for, 1st, it was formerly the house of G.o.d, an ancient chapel of the Franciscans. An old plank yet to be seen there still bears the following inscription in French, nowise remarkable for good orthography: "_This church is dedicated to St.

Francis of a.s.sissium._" 2nd, It belongs to the venerable pastor, Father Cheroutre, who is now our neighbor at Bailloul. And, 3rd, It is occupied by M. Moyne of Lyons, one {395} of our old pupils, of whom I have already spoken to you. He stands on the threshold, and receives us with open arms.

The Franciscans were formerly pastors at Chandernagor; this chapel served as parish church; their convent is now converted into a hotel.

From one of its windows there is a magnificent and extensive view, thanks to the river and the level character of the ground. That square tower to the left is the guard-house; for there is here a French army, composed of thirty Indians, commanded by a European lieutenant. They pretend, but erroneously, that these thirty soldiers have but twenty uniforms amongst them, and that often, when the guard is relieved, the new comers enter, not only into the functions, but also into the clothes, of their comrades. It is a calumny of "perfidious Albion;" my information is certain. I have it from the general-in-chief. Close by is the police station. With their white tunics, their red pantaloons, these Indian policemen have very much the look of altar-boys. This fine house to the left is the house of the administrator, or, as he is styled by courtesy, the governor. Let us go in. We shall see this governor, a fat little man, born in the colonies. He will speak a little on everything, but especially on honor and the happiness, to him so rare, of receiving a visit from a man of learning. It is very unlucky that his lady has the influenza at this moment; for she is an astronomer, and had ever so many questions to ask me whatever day I should have accepted their invitation. Another time will do as well.

The governor himself is a horticulturist; he has his garden kept in perfect order by Indian convicts, who drag the cannon ball along his walks. [Footnote 58]

[Footnote 58: A military punishment.--TRANS. ]

The sun is setting; let us go home. We shall see in the streets of Calcutta what is seen there every evening; dogs, fireworks, and marriages.

The Bengal dog is a wretched and cowardly animal, long muzzled, red-haired; he barks little, but howls incessantly. Be very sure that he will a.s.sail us persistently in the lanes, as we pa.s.s now in the evening, distance being our only security against him. There are also in the country, and even in the city, a great number of _paria_ dogs, that prowl around, especially by night; a species of wild beasts; not very dangerous, however, because of their cowardice. It is said that dogs of European race gradually degenerate here.

Those rockets that you see going up from all points of the horizon are a daily amus.e.m.e.nt in which the Bengalese take much delight. There is scarcely ever a fire-work worth seeing; but there is fire, smoke, and crackers, and that suffices. Sometimes they send up little paper balloons, with a ball of lighted camphor, which burns a good quarter of an hour.

But look yonder: is not that a fire? A bright light flashes on the tree-tops and on the European houses. No, it is not a fire; it is a marriage. The procession is turning the comer of the street; a score of Indians carry each on his head a plank, on which some fifty candles are burning; others carry resinous wood burning on the top of a long pole; in the centre of the procession trumpets, drums, large and small, pots and saucepans, produce a frightful din, each musician having no other rule than that of making the greatest possible noise.

Behind the orchestra come one or two open palanquins containing the brides, around whom "blue lights" are lit from time to time. I defy you to form any correct idea of this _cortege_, and especially of the music. They go about thus from street to street for several hours; then they will eat rice to satiety, gorge themselves with Indian pastry, and to-morrow will not have a single sou. We see that from our terrace several times in the week, and, at certain seasons, every day.

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If I am not mistaken, I have said nothing yet of the character of these poor Indians. In this respect some reserve is necessary. I hear it said that there is very little resemblance between Bengal, Maduras, the Bombay territory, the Punjaub, etc. As for the Bengalese, all agree in regarding them as the most degraded; they are effeminate, idle, and cowardly by temperament; liars and thieves by education.

They often dispute amongst themselves, but never fight. That cowardice encourages many Englishmen, who beat them at random when they have nothing else to do. My idea is that, unless miracles of grace be wrought for them, it is scarcely possible to make true Christians of these poor people. The only means of establishing Christianity amongst the race would be to buy their children, and bring them up, away from all contact with the others. There are Christians amongst them, who are oftenest found as cooks or _kansama_ amongst the Europeans; but they know not the first rudiments of their religion, go to church only on Good Friday and All Souls' Day, and are generally admitted to be worse than the pagan servants.

Our day is now ended. If you are fatigued, come and rest yourself on the college roof, constructed as a platform, like those of all the other houses in the country. There, evening and morning, but only then, the heat is bearable. I sometimes go and sit there to think of my friends. I look back into the past, forget the present, and, as I do everywhere else, laugh at what worldlings call _the future_. The future is heaven. It seems to me that I am nearer to it here than in Europe. May G.o.d grant us grace to gain it one day or another!

T. CARBONNNELLE.

THE ROUND OF THE WATERS.

BY ROBT. W. WEIR

"All thy works praise thee, O Lord."

Up, up on the mountains, high up near the sky.

Where the earth gathers moisture from clouds pa.s.sing by; Where the first drops of rain patter down full of glee, As they join hand in hand on their way to the sea;

There the rills, like young children, go prattling along.

Full of life, full of joy, full of motion and song; And, swelling the brooks, with glad voices they raise, To him who made all things, their tribute of praise.

Then, as they dance onward, half hidden in spray, Like bands of young nymphs dress'd in bridal array, With shouts of wild laughter they leap the deep linn.

Where the broad flowing river at once takes them in.

Now calm their rude mirth as they matronly glide, Bearing onward rich freight to the blue briny tide.

Where the mist of the mountains once more joins the sea With its incense, O Lord, ever heaving to thee.

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Translated from the German

THE BIBLE; OR, CHRISTMAS EVE,

Christmas Eve had come. The bells of the high towers in majestic and solemn tones were reminding the faithful that the advent of the Lord was near. Here and there through the gathering darkness already glimmered a solitary taper, casting a feeble light upon the streets, where a throng of people, large and small, young and old, were moving to and fro with joyful activity, impatiently awaiting the hour when the treasures and splendor of the Christmas market should be opened to them. Good mothers were engaged in quietly and secretly baking the cakes and adorning the Christmas-tree for the children, and shared beforehand in the delights and surprises of the little ones, while others, who had perhaps chosen the best part, were preparing themselves in still devotion and pious meditation for the great festival.

The young student of theology, Ernest Kuhn, was sitting in his little upper chamber, watching, with eyes full of deep affection and sympathy, his dear mother, who, after a confinement to her bed of several weeks, had been refreshed for the first time by a peaceful sleep. His countenance was lighted up with an expression of great interior joy, for on this day the physician had announced to him that his mother had safely pa.s.sed through a perilous crisis, and that, with care, a speedy recovery might be expected.

But he turned his eyes from his dear mother and looked upon the bare walls, which gave a speaking proof of the poverty of the inmates, then a cloud of sadness pa.s.sed over his countenance, his young breast heaved heavily, as if oppressed by a weight of sorrow. The house-rent was due, the fire-wood was reduced to a few sticks, hardly enough to last two days, his little sister needed a new dress, his mother good strengthening nourishment, the apothecary's bill was to be paid, and where were the means to be found?

Heavily and slowly he rose from his seat, as if standing would lighten his burdens, and cast his eyes thoughtfully around the apartment. "The tables and chairs," he said to himself in an under-tone, "are gone not to come back, the pictures too are sold, and the clock also; and now it is your turn, O my books! It cannot be helped; I have spared you for a long, long time." At these words he stood before the book-case and gazed on the few but good books by which he had so often been instructed and counselled, and which had remained with him in joy and in sorrow. Each of them was dear to him, a.s.sociated with some dear remembrance either of joy or sorrow. Sad and wavering, he looked at them again and again, as if he could never part from them. At last, after long hesitation, he took down from the shelf a large bound volume; it was a Bible adorned with beautiful copper-plate engravings.

"I can best spare you," he said sadly, "for I have two more in Greek and in Latin; I shall meet with the most ready sale and get the most money for you. My grandfather who is in heaven will forgive me this; I have other remembrances of him; Agnes will grieve and weep greatly for the beautiful Bible, but I think I can easily quiet her, and I can also give my mother a satisfactory explanation."

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He cast a sorrowful glance at the beautiful book which had afforded him so much enjoyment in his boyhood, and which was so much dearer to him as a memorial of his pious grandfather, long since dead, whom he held in great veneration. Then he thought of earlier and better times, of the present, so full of trouble, and of the blessed future, and his heart was heavy and his youthful breast heaved painfully.

Then his eye fell as if by chance upon the open Bible, and he read: "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted."

And he humbly kissed the consoling words, and a tear of sorrow but also of the firmest trust flowed down his cheek, and he turned his true and weeping eyes to heaven as if he would ask pardon of his Father for his faint-heartedness. He remembered how G.o.d had heard his earnest prayer, and restored his dear mother, how often he had helped him, and his heart became lighter, and hope once more began to dawn upon him.

II.

Suddenly the door opened, and his little sister Agnes, a child seven years old, ran in, joyfully holding up her little writing-book. "Look here, dear Ernest," she eagerly exclaimed, "only see how beautifully I have written to-day! That great A is very nice." "Softly, softly, you noisy little girl," said her brother, putting his hand over her mouth; "you will wake up mother!" Agnes hastened on tip-toe to her mother's bedside, softly kissed her white hand, and said beseechingly, as she watched her slumber, "Do not scold, dear brother, mother is sleeping so good!"

Ernest smiled and told her that while he attended to some necessary business she must stay with their mother, and be very quiet and silent that she might not wake her; but that if she did awake she was to give her the warm broth upon the stove, and that the bread and b.u.t.ter for herself was on the window ledge. "Now be very quiet," he added, "for you know what the doctor said."

The little girl a.s.sured him that he might trust her, but, added she, coaxingly, "When you come back, may I not go with dame Margaret to the Christmas market?" "That you shall," promised her brother. But Agnes clung to him, and full of pious simplicity, whispered in his ear: "If you meet the Christ-child in the street, tell him he must not forget me, but must look in here."

The brother embraced the little girl with a sad smile, and casting an affectionate glance upon his mother, left the room.