“On a late visit to Paris I went in full canonical dress, and assisted at High Mass in Notre Dame. The ceremony was a grand one; the Cardinal Archbishop of Paris himself officiated. I knew but little of the rites and ceremonies he went through, but when he bowed or knelt I did the same. When he prayed, I joined in the prayer; when he blessed, I bowed my head and asked inwardly his blessing. I felt the devotion of all around, and I joined my gratitude to the Giver of all mercies.
“The ceremony over, I went to the usual room behind the altar for disrobing, and was disrobed by canonical officials, as though I had been one of the chiefs in the Church. I believe, from what I have heard since, that no one was offended by the manner in which I assumed a somewhat prominent part.
“The next day I went in my official robes as a Metropolitan of the Eastern Church, and attended by the acolytes usual on official occasions, to pay a visit to the Cardinal Archbishop himself. He would not receive me. No doubt orders had been sent from elsewhere forbidding an official recognition of my position in a Church at all events equal in antiquity to his own.
“You see what divisions sever the leaders; how then can we expect the flock to follow them into one fold? No, no; we priests divide in order to reign. Unity of the Church can only be obtained by people going to Christ without waiting for us. None of us can define, with convincing simplicity to the masses, what authority we really possess as delegates of our Saviour. I for my part am willing to hold out the hand of fellowship to all men, even to those erring brethren the Jews. In a few days I shall pronounce in the Senate a speech in favour of their admission into this country as citizens. I must confess that in this I have listened more to the voice of Christianity in the West than in this part of the world. It is difficult for us Roumanians to look upon the Jew as a brother who looks upon our Saviour as an impostor. Yet still I have persuaded myself to perform this ill-defined task. I only trust in God that the passing of the measure will not tend to increase free-thinking doubt. I would even open my seminaries to the Jews, so much do I long to see all men brethren, but they would not come to them; neither do I regret it, for the orthodox Church ought, I think, to remain in the present what she has been in the past—a prudent, wise, and charitable mother, seeking to govern her own children wisely, leaving other Churches to do the same with theirs.
“I shall go to England next year if my health allow; and although I shall try and convert no one, I hope there will be no necessity for conversion to convince English prelates that they have in me a true Christian brother.”
The English prelate was a kind-hearted, learned man, full to overflowing with a wish to do good, but evidently puzzled how to set about it. There is a patriarchal vigour about some of the older forms of belief, which, in its racy bonhomie, dwarfs Anglicanism considerably, and makes it look somewhat of a sect—true, a good one, as, from the power and influence at its disposal, it would be strange if it were not; yet in a contrast like the above, it must be confessed that it has, outwardly at least, a rather “Brummagem” look. The Protestantism of Germany, in spite of its dreary aspirations, has a much broader basis. It encourages an untrammelled intercourse between thinkers of all denominations. There is an ebb and flow of ideas going on between it and the older forms of religion in the East which merit the attention of all who follow the outward growth and forms of Christianity. I have attended a Protestant service in the East where more than half of a large congregation were members of the Greek Church; and of the many members of that community with whom I have come into contact, and with whom I have spoken on the subject of religion, none seemed to dislike, and many seemed to like, the Saxon form of Protestantism as it exists in Transylvania; and I must testify that a better class of men than there produced under this form of religion it would be difficult to find anywhere.
To return from this long digression to my position at Cape Town. My execution of some Hottentot deserters had made me some pious enemies there. Of this I was quite indifferent. The Commander-in-chief, who saw one of them strung up to a tree, displayed his approval of the proceeding. I intimated, however, to those who were kindly bestirring themselves to get up an address to me from the inhabitants of Cape Town to leave the matter alone. I had been perfectly satisfied with the recognition of those living near the seat of war, who had had opportunities of seeing the work I had to do, and the way in which I did it.
I now prepared for my return to England. I had several proposals, amongst others, from my friend Captain Sam Rowe, who placed himself and his stout little smack at my disposal. I hardly liked the idea of being cooped up again in so small a space for so long a voyage, although I was strongly tempted by the thought of visiting the whole western coast of Africa, as Captain Rowe proposed we should do. I even entertained, for a time, the idea of traversing the whole continent—at all events, of proceeding up the Zambesi, and from thence on to Zanzibar. But the supposed hostility of the Portuguese authorities to the last-named trip, which was somewhat confirmed by the conversations I had with the Portuguese Consul at Cape Town, prevented me. The trip across the continent was also put off by the refusal of the Hon. R. C——, who did not wish to go to such length on a shooting expedition (the only object he had in view); while I, more ambitiously inclined, had not the means to make alone so lengthened a journey as a trip across the dark continent would have been.
After many hesitations, the fortunate arrival of some brother officers from the seat of war decided the question. We engaged for ourselves a schooner-yacht called the Arethusa, belonging to a Mr Eade, a London merchant: the only part of the vessel not at our disposal was the necessary space for a sufficient cargo as ballast. Everything being ready for our departure, we were seated in the boat that was to convey us to the tight little ship that had already let go her hold of African ground, and was tacking about in the bay, bending her white wings to the breeze, seemingly as eager as ourselves to wend her way to our island-home. There were many kind adieus waved to us from the shore, which the Arethusa acknowledged by a parting salute from her small miniature guns. Loud cheers, hurrahs, sham demonstrations—the more boisterous the better, to conceal real parting regret—when, above all the din, one clear shrill voice pierced my ear as an arrow. “Come back! come back!” it cried. I looked behind, and there, on the pier, stood Noziah beckoning me to return to the shore. How could I? What could I say to her? Never by word or deed had I wronged her. Often when she looked in a mirror had she told me that she wished herself dead because her skin was not white like mine. Her simple faith, however, shamed mine. When I told her that “God made us all equal,” her colour ever rose like a sable shroud between her life and mine. If ever the dream of making all races one is to be realised, God must do it; man never can. So the boat went on its way, and I left that dusky form standing on the narrow pier like a statue of clay.
When the war had come to an end, I had obtained, through the kindness of General Cathcart, an order for a commissariat transport to take Noziah to her brother Sandilli. This conveyance was afterwards sold off and purchased by her. In this she had come to Cape Town. My agent, Mr H——, upon whom she called the next day as she was leaving the town, wrote and informed me that she had gone back to her home. This was the last I heard of that pure-hearted, innocent African maid.