Chapter 6

"Had anyone retained a cool head, the figure, one cannot help thinking, might easily have been stopped. Two or three men acting in concert might have lifted it bodily off the floor, or have jammed it into a corner. But few human heads are capable of remaining cool under excitement. Those who are not present think how stupid must have been those who were; those who are reflect afterwards how simple it would have been to do this, that, or the other, if only they had thought of it at the time.

"The women grew hysterical. The men shouted contradictory directions to one another. Two of them made a bungling rush at the figure, which had the result of forcing it out of its orbit in the centre of the room, and sending it crashing against the walls and furniture. A stream of blood showed itself down the girl's white frock, and followed her along the floor. The affair was becoming horrible. The women rushed screaming from the room. The men followed them.

"One sensible suggestion was made: 'Find Geibel--fetch Geibel.'

"No one had noticed him leave the room, no one knew where he was. A party went in search of him. The others, too unnerved to go back into the ball-room, crowded outside the door and listened. They could hear the steady whir of the wheels upon the polished floor as the thing spun round and round; the dull thud as every now and again it dashed itself and its burden against some opposing object and ricocheted off in a new direction.

"And everlastingly it talked in that thin ghostly voice, repeating over and over the same formula: 'How charming you are looking to-night. What a lovely day it has been. Oh, don't be so cruel. I could go on dancing for ever--with you. Have you had supper?'

"Of course they sought for Geibel everywhere but where he was. They looked in every room in the house, then they rushed off in a body to his own place, and spent precious minutes in waking up his deaf old housekeeper. At last it occurred to one of the party that Wenzel was missing also, and then the idea of the counting-house across the yard presented itself to them, and there they found him.

"He rose up, very pale, and followed them; and he and old Wenzel forced their way through the crowd of guests gathered outside, and entered the room, and locked the door behind them.

"From within there came the muffled sound of low voices and quick steps, followed by a confused scuffling noise, then silence, then the low voices again.

"After a time the door opened, and those near it pressed forward to enter, but old Wenzel's broad shoulders barred the way.

"'I want you--and you, Bekler,' he said, addressing a couple of the elder men. His voice was calm, but his face was deadly white. 'The rest of you, please go--get the women away as quickly as you can.'

"From that day old Nicholaus Geibel confined himself to the making of mechanical rabbits and cats that mewed and washed their faces."

* * *

We agreed that the moral of MacShaugnassy's story was a good one.

(_To be continued._)

On Pilgrims and the Pilgrim Spirit

by

A. Adams Martin.

In the good old times, when a man wanted a little change from the bosom of his family--in those days a somewhat restricted bosom--he went on a crusade, or a pilgrimage.

What if he did spend his time and substance on that which, from a worldly standpoint, profited not--absenting himself from home and friends for periods of time lengthy enough to afford a modern wife good grounds for a divorce--was it not all meritorious? Heaven, he fondly believed, would more than pay his travelling expenses by a large cheque to his credit on the next world, whilst he had the pleasure of the journey in this: an ingenious method of seeing something of both! And so he donned his pilgrim weeds, and his "cockle hat and shoon"--as all good chroniclers tell us--and hied him off to Canterbury or Cologne, Rome, Jerusalem, or Timbuctoo. Mrs. Pilgrim was left at home to play "patience," and to keep the house and bairns. She was generally a long-suffering creature, but sometimes she _did_ get into mischief. She could not _always_ spin yarn, so she occasionally varied her task by weaving nets--traps for the unwary who was _not_ a pilgrim.

But if she got into mischief, she paid the penalty; my lord invariably cut off her head with his scimitar when he returned home--if she waited for that--and there was an end of the matter. There was no Divorce Court in the good old days, and a woman's head did not count for much. But these slight casualties never diminished the ardour of the pilgrim spirit: the pilgrim increased and multiplied, and sought new shrines as well as new wives. To slightly vary the words of the poet, "_Shrine_ after _shrine_ his rising raptures fill. But still he sighs--for _shrines_ are wanting still." The law of supply and demand, however, worked as surely then as now; and as pilgrims increased to venerate, objects increased to be venerated. There is a good story told by the Arabs--it was given by Dr. Samuel Jessup in one of his contributions to "Picturesque Palestine" some years ago--and it is an apt illustration of this supply and demand principle.

There was a certain Sheik-Mohammed who, once upon a time, was the keeper of a "wely" or shrine, supposed by the faithful to be the tomb of an eminent Saint, and so largely frequented by them that the Sheik grew rich from their costly offerings. His servant Ali, however, receiving but a small share of the profits, ran away to the south of the Jordan, taking with him his master's donkey. The animal died on the way, and Ali, having covered his body with a heap of stones, sat down in despair. A passer-by enquired the cause of his sorrow, and Ali replied that he had just found the tomb of an eminent Saint; the man kissed the stones, gave Ali a present, and passed on his way.

The news of the holy shrine spread throughout the land, and pilgrims thronged to visit it: Ali became rich, built a fine "Kubbeh" (Dome), and was envied by all the Sheiks.

Mohammed, hearing of the new shrine, and finding his own eclipsed by it, made a pilgrimage to it himself, in hopes of finding out the source of its great repute. Finding Ali in charge, he asked, in a whisper, if he would tell him the name of the Saint whose tomb he kept charge of. "I will," replied Ali, "on condition that you tell me the name of your Saint." Mohammed consented, and Ali then whispered, "God alone is great! This is the tomb of the donkey I stole from you."

"Mashallah!" cried Mohammed, "and my 'wely' is the tomb of that donkey's father!" Methinks Palestine has not a monopoly of the long-eared and long-suffering race, either living or dead!

But we have changed all that; as we have a good many other things. Saints and their shrines are out of fashion. "It is an age of seeing, not believing," we say complacently; and we laugh with superior wisdom at the follies of our forefathers, and the relics they went so far to adore--relics which, like the fabled frog, by trying to swell themselves to greater and still greater dimensions, ended in growing a little too extensive for their ultimate good. Saints, like sinners, can only have two legs apiece, we all know; but the saints of our ancestors, if their relics spoke truly, must have been saintly centipedes: of making new limbs there was no end, and, as their numbers increased, reverence waned, till hey!--the bubble of credulity burst at last, as did the frog!

But if the heavenly profitability was cut off by this collapse of superstition, or eclipse of faith--call it which you will--the habit of pleasurable moving remained; stronger by the force of repeated custom throughout all past times: we keep the shell, but we cunningly substitute a new kernel in the place of the exploded core of heretofore.

We go a pilgrimage still, but your modern spirit is now the pilgrim of Health, Pleasure, Science, Art, and such-like--all high-sounding names to conjure by; and the world, that old time-server, ever seeking to accommodate itself to the new ways of its inhabitants, is ever supplying us with a new Spa, a new "old master," or masterpiece, a newly dug-up ruin, or hieroglyph, or Dark Continent, or--for even the humblest "tripper" is not forgotten--a new Mudport-on-Sea.

The shrines of our forefathers' worship have crept back into favour by hiding themselves in the voluminous draperies of History or Art. Our appetite for shows is omnivorous, and we don't object to a shrine if it has a Gothic moulding sufficiently "cute," or a Byzantine roof, or some other attraction--are we not pilgrims of _Art_?--though if called upon to define our roof or moulding many of us might be considerably nonplussed, taking refuge in describing one as a "thing with a round top," and the other as "a sort of stone trimming, don't you know."

I remember once reading a child's tale--I have forgotten where, for it was many years ago--but the drift of the story was too good to forget. It was about a small pig who lived with his mother in a stye which possessed but a limited front yard. Piggy had the pilgrim spirit, and sighed to escape to pastures new, to see what lay beyond his little wall. One day his chance came--he escaped somehow, and made a pilgrimage round the farmyard, where the strange things he saw either frightened him dreadfully, or were utterly unintelligible to his piggish mind. He was so frightened by the roaring of a bull that he fled with great precipitation home, where he gave a glowing account of his travels to his mother.

"Yes," he said, "I have seen the world. It is square, and it has a wall all round it, to keep the pigs from falling off, of course. I saw some queer white pigs, with only two legs--think of that! They said 'Quack, quack'--that is what they say in the world, you know, but, of course, _you_ don't understand. Then I saw a great red pig, who cried, 'Mou-e-e-e!' There is but _one_ such pig in the world, and _I_ have seen it. I am content to live quietly now, for I have seen the whole world!"

Who has not seen that smug satisfaction of small souls as reflected by piggy?

There is a great deal in _looking_ wise even if you don't feel so. Talk always of your "dones," and leave out the "undones."

Most of us have heard of the apocryphal American who "does Europe" in a fortnight! I cannot say that I have actually met that gentleman, but I have met pilgrims, both English and American, who will tell you grandly that they have "done"--say Rome, in two, nay in one day! All the antiquities, of _course_, and the Museums; and then comes a string of names of churches, and galleries, until you gasp for breath! You go away and lean against something to recover your breath, and your gravity, but the pilgrimage is an accomplished fact. They have a right to stick to the cockle-shell in their cap, so to speak, and go home saying, "Oh, yes! We have done Rome, or Italy, or Egypt, _thoroughly_; missed nothing!"

If one could take an impression of one of these pilgrim's brains by "Kodak," one would get some queer results in chaos, rather like the game of family post--the Raphael frescoes transferring themselves to Karnak, and the Sphinx hiding in the Catacombs, whilst pictures, statuary, and shrines of "cult" executed a Bacchanalian dance on a gigantic scale all round.

But results do not alter facts; and in these busy days people are generally content to _see_ your tree of knowledge; they have no time to climb its branches to look for the fruit of wisdom!

We have changed our pilgrim weeds for an ulster of the latest cut, and our Missal for a "Murray" or "Baedeker," but are we really so much wiser than our forefathers?

Alas! we have but changed the object, and human nature, gullible ever, sees no reason why it should not flock in thousands to drop a visiting card into the tomb (so called) of "Juliet" at Verona, with as fond credulity as their fathers, when they deposited their candle at the tomb of some miracle-working saint; with this difference, however--that the latter was deposited for the glory and praise of the saint, and the former of the sinner _himself_. Who could say, after that, that he had not seen it!

I happened, when there, to make some irreverent remarks about that tomb. I had walked out to see it on a hot afternoon, and I found it inconveniently far. One is accustomed to have these places "grouped," and I was displeased with _Juliet_ for not being buried nearer home--it was an oversight--but perhaps it had been arranged for the benefit of the carriage-drivers. _Juliet_ was public-spirited, and thought of all classes, and their interests. I did not think of all these extenuating circumstances then, however, and so I said unbelieving things about her tomb.

The _custode_ was deeply pained, as an orthodox _custode_ ought to be. He remonstrated with me first, and then he pointed to the wall. "_Ecco, Signor! è scritto, è scritto è verissimo!_"

And there indeed it was written, in good set terms, and in two or three languages, for the benefit of all non-literary or unbelieving pilgrims.

I have often thought since how many people there are, like my friend the _custode_, to whom the magic "it is written" is sufficient ground for their faith, without further consideration as to _when_ and _how_.

Some time ago a friend of mine encountered a portly Western American tourist at Kenilworth. He came in a hurry, and asked to be shown the part "wrote up" by Scott. He gazed for a few minutes, and then departed as quickly as he came. To him Kenilworth was merely a place "wrote up" by Scott, and no doubt he had Warwick and Stratford-on-Avon to see that same afternoon, before going on to Liverpool.

There are pilgrims who certainly carry a feeling of duty into all things. Wherever they go they mean work!

This quality pre-eminently distinguishes the English-speaking world, and it always fills our Continental, or Oriental, neighbours with lazy wonder. "Oh, these Englishwomen! they have legs and stomachs of bronze!" I once heard an Italian say.

We are inclined to overdo it. I think an occasional rest-day is as necessary to the tired brain as the photographer's dark room is to the development of the negative impression--without it the brain would, indeed, record a "_negative impression_."

But I am straying from _Juliet's_ tomb, and the subject of unlimited faith. Only make a thing possible, and, _if there is an undercurrent of desire to believe it_, the large majority will swallow almost anything with what theologians call "simple faith." The "if" is an important one--the key to the situation. We believe readily when it is agreeable to do so, and all pilgrims have ever sought to heighten the attractions of the objects of their interest. It adds to their own enjoyment of them, and, after all, is it not a reflex compliment to ourselves? If "there is but _one_ such pig in the world," have not _I_ seen it?

Have you ever noticed the effect of the expression, "They say?" If we say "Tom," or "Dick," or "Harry," says "so and so," "Tom" is no better authority than "Dick," nor are both together much better than "Harry." But if we say, indefinitely, "_They_ say" "so and so," there is a mysterious potency in the unknown quantity which leads, if not to universal belief, at least to universal transmission.

"Yes, it is an interesting spot. They say that a princess is buried here who was laid under a potent spell by a mighty wizard, long, long ago," etc.; or "They tell of a beauteous maiden who sat on this rock, in the far past, and sang, and thus lured men to destruction," etc.

He or she is always swallowed up by the mists of obscurity--oh, ye mists of obscurity, ye have much to answer for!

We do not care to dispute with "They" his superior information--even if we could find him; for he seems to reside permanently in the aforesaid mists himself; only issuing forth, like a valiant knight, to rescue the fair maidens--Fact, or Fiction--from the jaws of the dragon Oblivion! What he _is_, we leave to the learned, who could no doubt dispose of him suitably in connection with the highly convenient solar myths, as a Potent Rescuing Power! As for us, we meddle not with the mists: we rather like the delicious glow of their luminous dimness, which glorifies the past if it clouds it; and which softens off the hardness of our prosaic modern life, as a summer haze our English landscape.

We are delighted to get hold of an ancient legend, whether of headless horseman or housekeeper, pixie or wizard. Even in that "happy hunting ground" of the Modern Spirit, the United States of America, the old legends linger still, if but faintly. The soil of a new country does not grow sentiment of this sort readily, but the plant is indigenous to the human heart; and its fair flowers have been gathered and wreathed around their pages by many an essayist and poet. We cannot do without the element of mystery in our life, however we may represent it. It is part of the spirit within us, and we find it in everything around us. It is the veil of "Isis" which science, her worshipper, is ever trying to lift, but cannot. The muse of Inspiration pours forth her melodious voice, like the nightingale, in the darkness and the shady covert. We listen to her song with entranced ears; a few whose spirits are "finely touched," try to repeat it; but who has ever seen her; the soul that animates, the spirit that inspires! Our life itself is a mystery--the Past and Future--are they not the wings of the Spirit of Time which are brooding over our Present? When they are lifted--when the mighty pinions are outspread for flight--_then_ the shadows will flee for ever, for the great Daybreak of Eternity will have begun!

Without the spirit of mystery, the mother of enquiry--of romance, the days of pilgrimage would be ended. If it is a mere matter of rest, and of oiling the wheels of the machine for a fresh grind, Mudport-on-Sea will do well enough; but Mudport-on-Sea can never satisfy the hunger of the curious soul for the beautiful; the marvellous; all that is in itself lovely, or that has lived in the past, and caught a brighter glow from its rainbow reflections. One spot of ground may content the naturalist, or the Buddhist sage, for one can find a world of wondrous thought in the smallest leaf--a microcosm in a dew-drop; and the other can send his soul off on aerial pilgrimages, though his body may be in chains! But we are not all either natural or transcendental philosophers; our appetite requires not one leaf, but many, for our powers of assimilation are not great enough to draw spiritual sustenance from one alone; and so, like the caterpillar, when we have finished our leaf, we crawl to another.

"But this spirit of curiosity, or unrest, is all owing to lack of self-culture," cry some. Perhaps it is--some of it. No doubt the cocoon stage of rest and self-development is higher, and nearer to the ultimate perfection--the winged creature which soars above where others crawl--but until we are fit to be cocoons, and evolve butterflies, we must be content with our caterpillar instincts.

People speak scornfully of "mere curiosity," but it is only worthless when it bears no fruit. Curiosity, in itself, is a healthy, natural instinct, which we see to perfection in the small child. Toddie's speech in "Helen's Babies," "Want to shee wheels go wound," is the pilgrim spirit epitomised. We hear of the watch, and we want to see it; we see it, and then we want to hold it; we hear it tick, and we want to open it; and then we would like to "shee wheels go wound" constantly, and if we cannot, we kick at the prohibition!

Curiosity may be a worthless element in life when idle, but when otherwise, is it not the mainspring of the watch? Think of the manifold results of "mere curiosity," when rightly persevered in! But then we change the name--it becomes insight--research--it becomes a power which can climb the dizziest height, and dive the deepest depths, to bring to us their treasures--the star--the pearl!

A College Idyl.

BY S. GORDON.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. H. FISHER.

Night it was--nay, nearer morning, Snores and nightmares whisked about, And the pallid moon gave warning That her lamp was nearly out. Twain we sat, and ruminated On the world, its joys and ills, What we loved, and what we hated, Woman, wine--exams and bills.

Often, too, with short-lived splendour, Flashed the ready epigram, Thoughts we uttered, soft and tender, Ending in a smothered "----"; All the truths and lies of ages Compassed we in one short breath, Flouted whims of priests and sages, Lightly toyed with life and death.

Men and manners, saints and sinners, All and more we touched upon, How the worst were ever winners, For _we_ yet had never won; And we cursed at superstition, Villain smiles, and sects, and cants, Hurled to ruin and perdition All the tribe of sycophants--

Queried, thinking of cold faces, Colder hearts of living stone, Why our lot within such places, Why upon such days was thrown; In our years' maturing crescent Spied we how our fate was fraught, Spanned the future and the present With the flimsy bridge of thought.

So the morn came, pale and haggard, Lighting up our sunken eyes, And we rose and thither staggered Whence we would but slowly rise; Plain our footsteps, weak and frisky, Told their moral--speak who can-- Midnight words and midnight whiskey Play the devil with a man!

My First Book.

BY F. W. ROBINSON.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEO. HUTCHINSON.

It is a far cry back to 1853, when dreams of writing a book had almost reached the boundary line of "probable events." I was then a pale, long-haired, consumptive-looking youth, who had been successful in prize poems--for there were prize competitions even in those far-off days--and in acrostics, and in the acceptance of one or two short stories, which had been actually published in a magazine that did not pay for contributions (it was edited by a clergyman of the Church of England, too, and the chaplain to a real Duke), and which magazine has gone the way of many magazines, and is now as extinct as the Dodo. It was in the year 1853, or a month or two earlier, that I wrote my first novel--which, upon a moderate computation, I think, would make four or five good-sized library volumes, but I have never attempted to "scale" the manuscript. It is in my possession still, although I have not seen it for many weary years. It is buried with a heap more rubbish in a respectable old oak chest, the key of which is even lost to me. And yet that MS. was the turning-point of my small literary career. And it is the history of that manuscript which leads up to the publication of my first novel; my first step, though I did not know it, and hence it is part and parcel of the history of my first book--a link in the chain.