We saw in the work of revision some fine examples of ‘the word-moulding power of Christianity.’ To give a few of them: Fitòndràntèna meant carriage of the body, or one’s self; hence tsàra fitòndràntèna meant good carriage—as we would say, a lady, or a person of good carriage—debonair; but it has come to mean good conduct, hence moral character. Fièritrèrètana, which meant the faculty of meditation, has come to mean conscience. Fàhadiòvana, an abstract noun from root dìo, whence adjective madìo, clean, pure, hence white, meant cleanness, purity or whiteness of, say, a garment, or a cotton làmba (plaid); it has come to mean moral purity (a virtue formerly unknown in Madagascar, as it is in all heathen lands), as fàhadiòvampanàhy, the purity or whiteness of the soul. Hàmasìnana and fàhamasìnana, from root hàsina, probably connected with hàsina—if not really the same word—the sacred tree, meaning sacredness, has come to mean holiness. Fanàtitra meant a present, a gift; it now means, and is used almost exclusively for, a religious offering. Thus: Fanàtitra nòho ny òta, a sin-offering, lit. an offering on account of sin. Fanàtitra alàtsa-drà, a sacrificial offering, lit. an offering in which there is shedding of blood. Fandràisana meant the time or place of receiving, now Ny Fandràisana stands for the Communion. Fàhaverèzana, abstract noun, meant disgrace, of an officer or an official, or any one who lost their position, now stands for the loss of the soul. Fanàhy, if derived from the root àhy, which means care or solicitude, anxiety, would mean the faculty of care, solicitude or anxiety; but if, as seems more probable, it is derived from the root nàhy, which signifies will or intention, it would mean the faculty of will, or choice; but it has come to mean (if it did not always mean that, in a vague sort of way at least) the soul, the spirit. The existence of a soul or spirit, as distinct from the tèna, body, and nòfo, flesh, seems always to have been recognized; for so much was certainly implied in the belief of the people in ghosts, matòatòa, and àmbiròa, shades, or second selves. Radàma I’s father when dying said: ‘It is my body that will be buried, but my (fanàhy) spirit will be with you to whisper to you words of counsel.’ Fanàhy vàovào is a new spirit, which a Christian receives at conversion. Tsàrafanàhy is a good spirit, hence Lehilàhy tsàrafanàhy is a good man, lit. good-souled man. Ràtsifanàhy is a bad spirit, hence wicked.
THE AUTHOR TRAVELLING IN PALANQUIN.
THE MANSE AT FÌHÀONANA.
The late J. Andrìanaivoràvèlona—the Spurgeon of Madagascar—was a member of the Bible Revision Committee for twelve years, and did more for the idiomatic tone of the new translation than all the others put together. He was not only the orator of the island, but was also a genius in his knowledge and use of the language, and a giant in physical strength. He came into the committee looking very tired and exhausted one morning. Our chief reviser said to him: ‘You look very tired and worn-out this morning, Andrianaivo—what’s the matter? what have you been doing?’ He answered: ‘I am tired; for I have not recovered from my Sabbath labours yet.’ He was asked what he had done on the Sabbath, when he replied that he had preached fourteen times! He had left the capital at five o’clock, had his first service at six, had food prepared for him at various centres, and continued services till seven o’clock at night—fourteen in all—little wonder if he was tired. I have heard all the great British preachers of the past forty years; and I would as soon have heard Andrianaivo as any of them. I have seen him keep an immense congregation spellbound for an hour and twenty minutes. When at his best, the force, fervour and enthusiasm of the man were magnificent, and carried all before them.
On Thursday, July 30, 1885, Razàka, the pastor of our old station church at Fìhàonana, was called to his rest and his reward. Few men were ever more missed or more sincerely mourned than he was. He was the best and noblest Malagasy Christian pastor I ever knew, and one of the truest and most sincere men I ever met. ‘He was a faithful man, and feared God above many.’ He was loved and looked up to by his fellow countrymen in a way, and to an extent, I have never known in the case of other Malagasy pastors.
A tall, handsome, noble-looking old man, he appeared like a king among men, with his ‘silvery locks waving in the breeze,’ in his case a veritable ‘crown of glory.’ You felt, when you met him, that he was no ordinary man. ‘Nature has written a letter of credit upon some men’s faces,’ says Thackeray, ‘which is honoured almost wherever presented.’ It was so with dear old Razàka, for it might almost have been said that ‘his face was his fortune’; for, although he had no ‘face like a benediction,’ yet honesty was so stamped upon its every feature that you had but to see it to feel that its owner was one of God’s noblest works—an honest man.
One could not help being drawn, as by some magnetic influence, towards the good old man. I well remember our first meeting, a few weeks after our arrival at Antanànarìvo. We could not exchange a word, we could only grasp each other by the hand, and look in each other’s faces; but I felt, as I looked in that transparently honest face, that here was a true man; and my heart warmed towards him, as a man who had done, and said, and suffered much for the cause of Christ in Madagascar; and the longer I knew him the more I loved and respected him. We drew to each other from the first. We were fellow labourers in the vineyard of God for many years, and the fastest friends to the day of his death. He was ever a tower of strength to me. I hardly know how I could have got through one-half of the work I was privileged to do in Vònizòngo but for the help and encouragement I received from Razàka. ‘He was a good man, and full of the Holy Ghost and of faith.’
Napoleon Bonaparte said: ‘Conquest made me what I am, and conquest must sustain me.’ It was the grace of God, and the conquest it made of him heart and soul, that made Razàka what he was, and sustained him to the end. He had a deep and passionate love for his Bible: I have seldom met any one who knew it as he did, for he seemed to know it from Genesis to Revelation, and ‘the word of Christ dwelt richly’ in him, ‘in all wisdom and spiritual understanding,’ while he strove to live up to his light and to the testimonies of the Book he so dearly loved.
Once in a Bible-class I said to him: ‘Supposing some one were to say to you, Razàka, that the Bible was not trustworthy—what answer would you give him?’ ‘No one would be so foolish as to say anything of the kind,’ he replied, ‘except some foolish Malagasy, who did not know what he was speaking about. I should tell him to hold his peace until he knew what he was talking about.’ ‘But,’ I said, ‘suppose some Vazàha (European) were to say such a thing to you—how would you answer him?’ It was difficult to get the good old man to imagine any European who could doubt or deny that the Bible was the Word of God. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘just let us suppose such a case for the sake of argument—I would like to hear how you would answer him.’