Chapter III: Part 3

"At first he could not understand why this was so, but in glancing down he saw to his horror that he had not properly closed the lower sluices; in each some eight or ten inches remained open, so that the stream was passing out nearly half as fast as it came in. It would be another five and twenty minutes before the water would be high enough for him to grasp the top.

"He noted where the line of wet had reached to on the smooth stone wall, then looked again after what he thought must be a lapse of ten minutes, and found it had risen half an inch, if that. Once or twice he shouted for help, but the effort taxed severely his already failing breath, and his voice only came back to him in a hundred echoes from his prison walls.

"Inch by inch the line of wet crept up, but the spending of his strength went on more swiftly. It seemed to him as if his inside were being gripped and torn slowly out: his whole body cried out to him to let it sink and lie in rest at the bottom.

"At length his unconscious burden opened its eyes and stared at him stupidly, then closed them again with a sigh; a minute later opened them once more and looked long and hard at him.

"'Let me go,' he said, 'we shall both drown. You can manage by yourself.'

"He made a feeble effort to release himself, but the other held him.

"'Keep still, you fool!' he hissed; 'you're going to get out of this with me, or I'm going down with you.'

"So the grim struggle went on in silence, till the man, looking up, saw the stone coping just a little way above his head, made one mad leap and caught it with his finger-tips, held on an instant, then fell back with a 'plump,' and sank; came up and made another dash, helped by the impetus of his rise, caught the coping firmly this time with the whole of his fingers, hung on till his eyes saw the grass, till they were both able to scramble out upon the bank and lie there, their breasts pressed close against the ground, and their hands clutching the earth, while the overflowing water swirled softly round them.

"After a while, they raised themselves and looked at one another.

"'Tiring work, that sort of thing,' said the other man, with a nod towards the lock.

"'Yes,' answered the husband, 'beastly awkward not being a good swimmer. How did you know I had fallen in? You met my wife, I suppose?'

"'Yes,' said the other man.

"The husband sat staring at a point in the horizon for some minutes. 'Do you know what I was wondering this morning?' said he.

"'No,' said the other man.

"'Whether I should kill you or not.'

"'They told me,' he continued, after a pause, 'a lot of silly gossip which I was cad enough to believe. I know now it wasn't true, because--well, if it had been, you would not have done what you have done.'

"He rose and came across. 'I beg your pardon,' he said, holding out his hand.

"'I beg yours,' said the other man, rising and taking it; 'do you mind giving me a hand with the sluices?'

"They set to work to put the lock right.

"'How did you manage to fall in?' asked the other man, who was raising one of the lower sluices, without looking round.

"The husband hesitated, as if he found the explanation somewhat difficult. 'Oh,' he answered carelessly, 'the wife and I were chaffing, and she said she'd often seen you jump it, and'--he laughed a rather forced laugh--'she promised me a--a kiss if I cleared it. It was a foolish thing to do.'

"'Yes, it was rather,' said the other man.

"A few days afterwards the man and woman met at a reception. He found her in a leafy corner of the garden talking to some friends. She advanced to meet him, holding out her hand. 'What can I say more than thank you,' she murmured in a low voice.

"The others moved away leaving them alone. 'They tell me you risked your life to save his?' she said.

"'Yes,' he answered.

"She raised her eyes to his, then struck him across the face with her ungloved hand.

"'You damned fool!' she whispered.

"He seized her by her white arms, and forced her back behind the orange trees. 'Do you know why?' he said, speaking slowly and distinctly; 'because I feared that with him dead you would want me to marry you, and that, talked about as we have been, I might find it awkward to avoid doing so; because I feared that without him to stand between us you might prove an annoyance to me--perhaps come between me and the woman I love, the woman I am going back to. Now do you understand?'

"'Yes,' whispered the woman, and he left her.

"But there are only two people," concluded Jephson, "who do not regard his saving of the husband's life as a highly noble and unselfish action, and they are the man himself and the woman."

We thanked Jephson for his story, and promised to profit by the moral, when discovered. Meanwhile, MacShaugnassy said that he knew a story dealing with the same theme, namely, the too close attachment of a woman to a strange man, which really had a moral, which moral was: don't have anything to do with inventions.

Brown, who had patented a safety gun, which he had never yet found a man plucky enough to let off, said it was a bad moral. We agreed to hear the particulars, and judge for ourselves.

"This story," commenced MacShaugnassy, "comes from Furtwangen, a small town in the Black Forest. There lived there a very wonderful old fellow named Nicholaus Geibel. His business was the making of mechanical toys, at which work he had acquired an almost European reputation. He made rabbits that would emerge from the heart of a cabbage, flop their ears, smooth their whiskers, and disappear again; cats that would wash their faces, and mew so naturally that dogs would mistake them for real cats, and fly at them; dolls, with phonographs concealed within them, that would raise their hats and say, 'Good morning; how do you do,' and some that would even sing a song.

"But he was something more than a mere mechanic; he was an artist. His work was with him a hobby, almost a passion. His shop was filled with all manner of strange things that never would, or could, be sold--things he had made for the pure love of making them. He had contrived a mechanical donkey that would trot for two hours by means of stored electricity, and trot, too, much faster than the live article, and with less need for exertion on the part of the driver; a bird that would shoot up into the air, fly round and round in a circle, and drop to earth at the exact spot from where it started; a skeleton that, supported by an upright iron bar, would dance a hornpipe; a life-size lady doll that could play the fiddle; and a gentleman with a hollow inside who could smoke a pipe and drink more lager beer than any three average German students put together, which is saying much.

"Indeed, it was the belief of the town that old Geibel could make a man capable of doing everything that a respectable man need want to do. One day he made a man who did too much, and it came about in this way.

"Young Doctor Follen had a baby, and the baby had a birthday. Its first birthday put Doctor Follen's household into somewhat of a flurry, but on the occasion of its second birthday, Mrs. Doctor Follen gave a ball in honour of the event. Old Geibel and his daughter Olga were among the guests.

"During the afternoon of the next day some three or four of Olga's bosom friends, who had also been present at the ball, dropped in to have a chat about it. They naturally fell to discussing the men, and to criticising their dancing. Old Geibel was in the room, but he appeared to be absorbed in his newspaper, and the girls took no notice of him.

"'There seem to be fewer men who can dance at every ball you go to,' said one of the girls.

"'Yes, and don't the ones who can give themselves airs,' said another; 'they make quite a favour of asking you.'

"'And how stupidly they talk,' added a third. 'They always say exactly the same things: "How charming you are looking to-night." "Do you often go to Vienna? Oh, you should, it's delightful." "What a charming dress you have on." "What a warm day it has been." "Do you like Wagner?" I do wish they'd think of something new.'

"'Oh, I never mind how they talk,' said a fourth. 'If a man dances well he may be a fool for all I care.'

"'He generally is,' slipped in a thin girl, rather spitefully.

"'I go to a ball to dance,' continued the previous speaker, not noticing the interruption. 'All I ask of a partner is that he shall hold me firmly, take me round steadily, and not get tired before I do.'

"'A clockwork figure would be the thing for you,' said the girl who had interrupted.

"'Bravo!' cried one of the others, clapping her hands, 'what a capital idea!'

"'What's a capital idea?' they asked.

"'Why, a clockwork dancer, or, better still, one that would go by electricity and never run down.'

"The girls took up the idea with enthusiasm.

"'Oh, what a lovely partner he would make,' said one; 'he would never kick you, or tread on your toes.'

"'Or tear your dress,' said another.

"'Or get out of step.'

"'Or get giddy and lean on you.'

"'And he would never want to mop his face with his handkerchief. I do hate to see a man do that after every dance.'

"'And wouldn't want to spend the whole evening in the supper room.'

"'Why, with a phonograph inside him to grind out all the stock remarks, you would not be able to tell him from a real man,' said the girl who had first suggested the idea.

"'Oh, yes, you would,' said the thin girl, 'he would be so much nicer.'

"Old Geibel had laid down his paper, and was listening with both his ears. On one of the girls glancing in his direction, however, he hurriedly hid himself again behind it.

"After the girls were gone, he went into his workshop, where Olga heard him walking up and down, and every now and then chuckling to himself; and that night he talked to her a good deal about dancing and dancing men--asked what they usually said and did--what dances were most popular--what steps were gone through, with many other questions bearing on the subject.

"Then for a couple of weeks he kept much to his factory, and was very thoughtful and busy, though prone at unexpected moments to break into a quiet low laugh, as if enjoying a joke that nobody else knew of.

"A month later another ball took place in Furtwangen. On this occasion it was given by old Wenzel, the wealthy timber merchant, to celebrate his niece's betrothal, and Geibel and his daughter were again among the invited.

"When the hour arrived to set out, Olga sought her father. Not finding him in the house, she tapped at the door of his workshop. He appeared in his shirt-sleeves, looking hot but radiant.

"'Don't wait for me,' he said, 'you go on, I'll follow you. I've got something to finish.'

"As she turned to obey he called after her, 'Tell them I'm going to bring a young man with me--such a nice young man, and an excellent dancer. All the girls will like him.' Then he laughed and closed the door.

"Her father generally kept his doings secret from everybody, but she had a pretty shrewd suspicion of what he had been planning, and so, to a certain extent, was able to prepare the guests for what was coming. Anticipation ran high, and the arrival of the famous mechanist was eagerly awaited.

"At length the sound of wheels was heard outside, followed by a great commotion in the passage, and old Wenzel himself, his jolly face red with excitement and suppressed laughter, burst into the room and announced in stentorian tones:

"'Herr Geibel--and a friend.'

"Herr Geibel and his 'friend' entered, greeted with shouts of laughter and applause, and advanced to the centre of the room.

"'Allow me, ladies and gentlemen,' said Herr Geibel, 'to introduce you to my friend, Lieutenant Fritz. Fritz, my dear fellow, bow to the ladies and gentlemen.'

"Geibel placed his hand encouragingly on Fritz's shoulder, and the lieutenant bowed low, accompanying the action with a harsh clicking noise in his throat, unpleasantly suggestive of a death rattle. But that was only a detail.

"'He walks a little stiffly' (old Geibel took his arm and walked him forward a few steps. He certainly did walk stiffly), 'but then, walking is not his forte. He is essentially a dancing man. I have only been able to teach him the waltz as yet, but at that he is faultless. Come, which of you ladies may I introduce him to as a partner. He keeps perfect time; he never gets tired; he won't kick you or tread on your dress; he will hold you as firmly as you like, and go as quickly or as slowly as you please; he never gets giddy; and he is full of conversation. Come, speak up for yourself, my boy.'

"The old gentleman twisted one of the buttons at the back of his coat, and immediately Fritz opened his mouth, and in thin tones that appeared to proceed from the back of his head, remarked suddenly, 'May I have the pleasure?' and then shut his mouth again with a snap.

"That Lieutenant Fritz had made a strong impression on the company was undoubted, yet none of the girls seemed inclined to dance with him. They looked askance at his waxen face, with its staring eyes and fixed smile, and shuddered. At last old Geibel came to the girl who had conceived the idea.

"'It is your own suggestion, carried out to the letter,' said Geibel, 'an electric dancer. You owe it to the gentleman to give him a trial.'

"She was a bright, saucy little girl, fond of a frolic. Her host added his entreaties, and she consented.

"Herr Geibel fixed the figure to her. Its right arm was screwed round her waist, and held her firmly; its delicately-jointed left hand was made to fasten itself upon her right. The old toymaker showed her how to regulate its speed, and how to stop it, and release herself.

"'It will take you round in a complete circle,' he explained; 'be careful that no one knocks against you, and alters its course.'

"The music struck up. Old Geibel put the current in motion, and Annette and her strange partner began to dance.

"For a while everyone stood watching them. The figure performed its purpose admirably. Keeping perfect time and step, and holding its little partner tight clasped in an unyielding embrace, it revolved steadily, pouring forth at the same time a constant flow of squeaky conversation, broken by brief intervals of grinding silence.

"'How charming you are looking to-night,' it remarked in its thin, far-away voice. 'What a lovely day it has been. Do you like dancing? How well our steps agree. You will give me another, won't you? Oh, don't be so cruel. What a charming gown you have on. Isn't waltzing delightful? I could go on dancing for ever--with you. Have you had supper?'

"As she grew more familiar with the uncanny creature, the girl's nervousness wore off, and she entered into the fun of the thing.

"'Oh, he's just lovely,' she cried, laughing, 'I could go on dancing with him all my life.'

"Couple after couple now joined them, and soon all the dancers in the room were whirling round behind them. Nicholaus Geibel stood looking on, beaming with childish delight at his success.

"Old Wenzel approached him, and whispered something in his ear. Geibel laughed, and nodded, and the two worked their way quietly towards the door.

"'This is the young people's house to-night,' said Wenzel, so soon as they were outside; 'you and I will have a quiet pipe and a glass of hock, over in the counting-house.'

"Meanwhile the dancing grew more fast and furious. Little Annette loosened the screw regulating her partner's rate of progress, and the figure flew round with her swifter and swifter. Couple after couple dropped out exhausted, but they only went the faster, till at length they remained dancing alone.

"Madder and madder became the waltz. The music lagged behind: the musicians, unable to keep pace, ceased, and sat staring. The younger guests applauded, but the older faces began to grow anxious.

"'Hadn't you better stop, dear,' said one of the women, 'you'll make yourself so tired.'

"But Annette did not answer.

"'I believe she's fainted,' cried out a girl who had caught sight of her face as it was swept by.

"One of the men sprang forward and clutched at the figure, but its impetus threw him down on to the floor, where its steel-cased feet laid bare his cheek. The thing evidently did not intend to part with its prize easily.

"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! e scritto, e scritto e 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.

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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.

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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.

When that manuscript was completed, it was read aloud, night after night, to an admiring audience of family members, and pronounced as fit for publication as anything of Dickens or Thackeray or Bulwer, who were then in the full swing of their mighty capacities. Alas! I was a better judge than my partial and amiable critics. I had very grave doubts--"qualms," I think they are called--and I had read that it was uphill work to get a book published, and swagger through the world as a real live being who had actually written a novel. There was a faint hope, that was all; and so, with my MS. under my arm, I strolled into the palatial premises of Messrs. Hurst and Blackett ("successors to Henry Colburn" they proudly designated themselves at that period), laid my heavy parcel on the counter, and waited, with fear and trembling, for someone to emerge from the galleries of books and rows of desks beyond, and enquire the nature of my business. And here ensued my first surprise--quite a dramatic coincidence--for the tall, spare, middle-aged gentleman who advanced from the shadows towards the counter, proved, to my intense astonishment, to be a constant chess antagonist of mine at Kling's Chess Rooms, round the corner, in New Oxford Street--rooms which have disappeared long ago, along with Horwitz, Harrwitz, Loewenthal, Williams, and other great chess lights of those far-away times, who were to be seen there, night after night, prepared for all comers. Kling's was a great chess house, and I was a chess enthusiast, as well as a youth who wanted to get into print. Failing literature, I had made up my mind to become a chess champion, if possible, although I knew already, by quiet observation of my antagonists, that in that way madness lay, sheer uncontrollable, raging madness--for me at any rate. And the grave, middle-aged gentleman behind the counter of 13, Great Marlborough Street, proved to be the cashier of the firm, and used--being chess-mad like the rest of us--to spend his evenings at "Kling's." He was a player of my own strength, and for twelve months or so had I skirmished with him over the chessboard, and fought innumerable battles with him. He had never spoken of his occupation, or I of my restless ambitions--chess players never go far beyond the chequered board.

"Hallo, Robinson!" he exclaimed, in his surprise, "you don't mean to say that you----"

And then he stopped and regarded my youthful appearance very critically.

"Yes, Mr. Kenny--it's a novel," I said, modestly; "my first."

"There's plenty of it," he remarked, drily. "I'll send it upstairs at once. And I'll wish you luck too; but," he added, kindly, preparing to soften the shock of a future refusal, "we have plenty of these come in--about seven a day--and most of them go back to their writers again."

"Ye-es, I suppose so," I answered, with a sigh.

For awhile, however, I regarded the meeting as a happy augury--a lucky coincidence. I even had the vain, hopeless notion that Mr. Kenny might put in a good word for me, ask for special consideration, out of that kindly feeling which we had for each other, and which chess antagonists have invariably for each other, I am inclined to believe. But though we met three or four times a week, from that day forth not one word concerning the fate of my manuscript escaped the lips of Mr. Kenny. It is probable the incident had passed from his memory; he had nothing to do with the novel department itself, and the delivery of MSS. was a very common everyday proceeding to him. I was too bashful, perhaps too proud, an individual to ask any questions of him; but every evening that I encountered him I used to wonder "if he had heard anything," if any news of the book's fate had reached him, directly or indirectly; occasionally even, as time went on, I was disposed to imagine that he was letting me win the game out of kindness--for he was a gentle, kindly soul always--in order to soften the shock of a disappointment which he knew perfectly well was on its way towards me.

Some months afterwards, the fateful letter came to me from the firm, regretting their inability to make use of the MS., and expressing many thanks for a perusal of the same--a polite, concise, all-round kind of epistle, which a publisher is compelled to keep in stock, and to send out when rejected literature pours forth like a waterfall from the dusky caverns of a publishing house in a large way of business. It was all over, then--I had failed! From that hour I would turn chess player, and soften my brain in a quest for silver cups or champion amateur stakes. I could play chess better than I could write fiction, I was sure. Still, after some days of dead despair, I sent the MS. once more on its travels--this time to Smith and Elder's, whose reader, Mr. Williams, had leapt into singular prominence since his favourable judgment of Charlotte Bronte's book, and to whom most MSS. flowed spontaneously for many years afterwards. And in due course of time, Mr. Williams, acting for Messrs. Smith and Elder, asked me to call upon him--_for the MS._!--at Cornhill, and there I received my first advice, my first thrill of exultation. "Presently, and probably, _and with perseverance_," he said, "you will succeed in literature, and if you will remember now, that to write a good novel is a very considerable achievement. Years of short story-writing is the best apprenticeship for you. Write and re-write, and spare no pains." I thanked him, and I went home with tears in my eyes of gratitude and consolation, though my big story had been declined with thanks. But I did not write again. I put away my MS., and went on for six or eight hours a day at chess for many idle months before I was in the vein for composition, and then, with a sudden dash, I began "The House of Elmore." It was half finished when another strange incident in its little way occurred. I received one morning a letter from Lascelles Wraxall (afterwards Sir Lascelles Wraxall, Bart., as the reader may be probably aware), informing me that he was one of the readers for Messrs. Hurst and Blackett, and that it had been his duty some time ago to decide unfavourably against a story which I had submitted to the notice of his firm, but that he had intended to write to me a private note urging me to adopt literature as a profession. His principal object in writing at that time was to suggest my trying the fortunes of the novel which he had already read with Messrs. Routledge, and he kindly added a letter of introduction to that firm in the Broadway--an introduction which, by the way, never came to anything.

Poor Lascelles Wraxall, clever writer and editor, pressman and literary adviser, real Bohemian and true friend--indeed, everybody's friend but his own--I never think of him but with feelings of deep gratitude. He was a rolling stone, and when I met him for the first time in my life, years afterwards, he had left Marlborough Street for the Crimea; he had been given a commission in the Turkish Contingent at Kertch; he had come back anathematising the service, and "chock full" of grievances against the Government, and he became once more editor and sub-editor, and publisher's hack even at last, until he stepped into his baronetcy--an empty title, for he had sold the reversion of the estates for a mere song long ago--and became special correspondent in Austria for the _Daily Telegraph_. And in Vienna he died, young in years still--not forty, I think--closing a life that only wanted one turn more of "application," I have often thought, to have achieved very great distinction. There are still a few writing men about who remember Lascelles Wraxall, but they are "the boys of the old brigade."

It was to Lascelles Wraxall I sent, when finished, "The House of Elmore," the reader may very easily guess. Wraxall had stepped so much out of his groove--for the busy literary man that he was--to take me by the hand, and point the way along "the perilous road"; he had given me so many kind words, that I wrote my hardest to complete my new story before I should fade wholly from his recollection. The book was finished in five weeks, and in hot haste, and for months again I was left wondering what the outcome of it all was to be--whether Wraxall was reading my story, or whether--oh, horror!--some other reader less kindly disposed, and more austere and critical, and hard to please, had been told off to sit in judgment upon my second MS.

I went back to chess for a distraction till the fate of that book was pronounced or sealed--it was always chess in the hours of my distress and anxiety--and I once again faced Charles Kenny, and once again wondered if he knew, and how much he knew, whilst he was deep in his king's gambit or his giuoco-piano; but he was not even aware that I had sent in a second story, I learned afterwards. And then at last came the judgment--the pleasant, if formal, notice from Marlborough Street that the novel had been favourably reported upon by the reader, and that Messrs. Hurst and Blackett would be pleased to see me at Marlborough Street to talk the matter of its publication over with me. Ah! what a letter that was!--what a surprise, after all!--what a good omen!

And some three months afterwards, at the end of the year 1854, my first book--but my second novel--was launched into the reading world, and I have hardly got over the feeling yet that I had actually a right to dub myself a novelist!

When the first three notices of the book appeared, wild dreams of a brilliant future beset me. They were all favourable notices--too favourable; but _John Bull_, _The Press_, and _Bell's Messenger_ (I think they were the papers) scattered favourable notices indiscriminately at that time. Presently the _Athenaeum_ sobered me a little, but wound up with a kindly pat on the back, and the _Saturday Review_, then in its seventh number, drenched me with vitriolic acid, and brought me to a lower level altogether; and finally the _Morning Herald_ blew a loud blast to my praise and glory--that last notice, I believe, having been written by my old friend Sir Edward Clarke, then a very young reviewer on the _Herald_ staff, with no dreams of becoming Her Majesty's Solicitor-General just then! And the "House of Elmore" actually paid its publishers' expenses, and left a balance, and brought me in a little cheque, and thus my writing life began in sober earnest.

Told by the Colonel.

XI.

HOSKINS'S PETS.

BY W. L. ALDEN. ILLUSTRATIONS BY R. JACK.

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"Yes!" said the Colonel, reflectively, "I've been almost everywhere in my time except in gaol, and I've been in a great deal worse places than a first-class American gaol with all the modern improvements. The fact is, that philanthropic people have gone so far in improving the condition of prisoners, that most of our prisons are rather better than most of our hotels. At any rate, they are less expensive, and the guests are treated with more respect.