The Convict: A TaleJames, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
General
The Convict: A Tale
James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
Prisoners -- Fiction
"I am happy to find," continued Dudley, aloud, "that such very just
and liberal views are entertained; for undoubtedly the definitions of
the Council of Trent have been one of the great stumbling-blocks in
the way of those persons who would willingly have abandoned doctrines
of which they are by no means sure, to embrace others emanating from a
church, the principal boast of which is its invariable consistency
with itself."
The priest looked at him with a doubtful and hesitating glance. He was
apprehensive, perhaps, of showing too much of the policy of the church
of Rome; and he stopped, as it was his invariable custom to do when
the expression of his opinions might do injury to the cause he
advocated, and no great object was to be obtained. He thought, indeed,
in the present instance, that something more might be ventured; but
yet he judged it more prudent to wait awhile, calculating that if he
managed well, growing passion might do the work of argument; and after
viewing, with Dudley, the little fountain, he turned back to the
house, directing his conversation to subjects of a totally different
character, grave but not ascetic, round which he threw a peculiar and
extraordinary charm. It was very strange the fascination of his manner
and conversation. When first its power was felt by any keen and quick
mind, one strove to grasp and analyze it, to ascertain in what it
consisted; but like those subtle and delicate essences which chemists
sometimes prepare, and which defy analysis, something, and that the
most important, that which gave efficacy and vigour to the whole,
always escaped. The words seemed nothing in themselves: a little
subtle, perhaps, somewhat vague, not quite definite. The manner was
calm and gentle, the look was only at wide distant moments emphatic;
but yet there was a certain spirit in the whole which seemed to glide
into the heart and brain, unnerving and full of languor, disarming
opposition, persuading rather than convincing, wrapping the senses in
pleasing dreams rather than presenting tangible objects for their
exercise. It was like the faint odours of unseen plants, which,
stealing through the night air, visit us with a narcotic rather than a
balmy influence, and lull us to a deadly sleep, without our knowing
whence they come or feeling the effect till it is too late.
CHAPTER VIII.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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