{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_29257/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_29257","id":"gutenberg_29257","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29257","summary":null,"tags":["Arab Americans -- Fiction","Category: American Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Immigrants -- New York (State) -- New York -- Fiction"],"text":"*       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber's Note regarding the illustrations\n\n  \"The Book of Khalid\" contains illustrations drawn by Khalil\n  Gibran, the other early Arab-American writer (author of \"The\n  Prophet\"), that are well-known and exceptional. There are no\n  captions in the original book, and are very difficult to describe\n  in words. Their locations in the text have been marked with the\n  text '[Illustration]'. The reader is encouraged to view these\n  illustrations in the HTML version of this ebook.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n                          THE BOOK OF KHALID\n\n\n\n\n                                 THE\n                            BOOK OF KHALID\n\n                                  BY\n                             AMEEN RIHANI\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n                               NEW YORK\n                        DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY\n                                 1911\n\n\n\n\n                           COPYRIGHT, 1911\n                       BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY\n\n                      _Published, October_, 1911\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nBOOK THE FIRST\n\nIN THE EXCHANGE\n\n CHAPTER                                                          PAGE\n         AL-FATIHAH                                                  v\n         TO MAN                                                      3\n       I PROBING THE TRIVIAL                                         5\n      II THE CITY OF BAAL                                           14\n     III VIA DOLOROSA                                               25\n      IV ON THE WHARF OF ENCHANTMENT                                34\n       V THE CELLAR OF THE SOUL                                     46\n      VI THE SUMMER AFTERNOON OF A SHAM                             58\n     VII IN THE TWILIGHT OF AN IDEA                                 70\n    VIII WITH THE HURIS                                             83\n\nBOOK THE SECOND\n\nIN THE TEMPLE\n\n         TO NATURE                                                  97\n       I THE DOWRY OF DEMOCRACY                                     99\n      II SUBTRANSCENDENTAL                                         115\n     III THE FALSE DAWN                                            125\n      IV THE LAST STAR                                             130\n       V PRIESTO-PARENTAL                                          143\n      VI FLOUNCES AND RUFFLES                                      154\n     VII THE HOWDAJ OF FALSEHOOD                                   167\n    VIII THE KAABA OF SOLITUDE                                     181\n      IX SIGNS OF THE HERMIT                                       192\n       X THE VINEYARD IN THE KAABA                                 202\n\nBOOK THE THIRD\n\nIN KULMAKAN\n\n         TO GOD                                                    217\n       I THE DISENTANGLEMENT OF THE ME                             219\n      II THE VOICE OF THE DAWN                                     231\n     III THE SELF ECSTATIC                                         239\n      IV ON THE OPEN HIGHWAY                                       249\n       V UNION AND PROGRESS                                        274\n      VI REVOLUTIONS WITHIN AND WITHOUT                            287\n     VII A DREAM OF EMPIRE                                         298\n    VIII ADUMBRATIONS                                              311\n      IX THE STONING AND FLIGHT                                    325\n       X THE DESERT                                                333\n         AL-KHATIMAH                                               341\n\n\n\n\nAL-FATIHAH\n\n\nIn the Khedivial Library of Cairo, among the Papyri of the Scribe of\nAmen-Ra and the beautifully illuminated copies of the Kor\u00e2n, the\nmodern Arabic Manuscript which forms the subject of this Book, was\nfound. The present Editor was attracted to it by the dedication and\nthe rough drawings on the cover; which, indeed, are as curious, if not\nas mystical, as ancient Egyptian symbols. One of these is supposed to\nrepresent a New York Skyscraper in the shape of a Pyramid, the other\nis a dancing group under which is written: \"The Stockbrokers and the\nDervishes.\" And around these symbols, in Arabic circlewise, these\nwords:--\"_And this is my Book, the Book of Khalid, which I dedicate to\nmy Brother Man, my Mother Nature, and my Maker God._\"\n\nNeedless to say we asked at once the Custodian of the Library to give\nus access to this Book of Khalid, and after examining it, we hired an\namanuensis to make a copy for us. Which copy we subsequently used as\nthe warp of our material; the woof we shall speak of in the following\nchapter. No, there is nothing in this Work which we can call ours,\nexcept it be the Loom. But the weaving, we assure the Reader, was a\nmortal process; for the material is of such a mixture that here and\nthere the raw silk of Syria is often spun with the cotton and wool of\nAmerica. In other words, the Author dips his antique pen in a modern\ninkstand, and when the ink runs thick, he mixes it with a slabbering\nof slang. But we started to write an Introduction, not a Criticism.\nAnd lest we end by writing neither, we give here what is more to the\npoint than anything we can say: namely, Al-Fatihah, or the Opening\nWord of Khalid himself.\n\nWith supreme indifference to the classic Arabic proem, he begins by\nsaying that his Book is neither a Memoir nor an Autobiography, neither\na Journal nor a Confession.\n\n\"Orientals,\" says he, \"seldom adventure into that region of fancy and\nfabrication so alluring to European and American writers; for, like\nthe eyes of huris, our vanity is soft and demure. This then is a book\nof travels in an impalpable country, an enchanted country, from which\nwe have all risen, and towards which we are still rising. It is, as it\nwere, the chart and history of one little kingdom of the Soul,--the\nSoul of a philosopher, poet and criminal. I am all three, I swear, for\nI have lived both the wild and the social life. And I have thirsted in\nthe desert, and I have thirsted in the city: the springs of the former\nwere dry; the water in the latter was frozen in the pipes. That is\nwhy, to save my life, I had to be an incendiary at times, and at\nothers a footpad. And whether on the streets of knowledge, or in the\nopen courts of love, or in the parks of freedom, or in the cellars and\ngarrets of thought and devotion, the only _saki_ that would give me a\ndrink without the asking was he who called himself Patience....\n\n\"And so, the Book of Khalid was written. It is the only one I wrote in\nthis world, having made, as I said, a brief sojourn in its civilised\nparts. I leave it now where I wrote it, and I hope to write other\nbooks in other worlds. Now understand, Allah keep and guide thee, I do\nnot leave it here merely as a certificate of birth or death. I do not\nraise it up as an epitaph, a trade-sign, or any other emblem of\nvainglory or lucre; but truly as a propylon through which my race and\nthose above and below my race, are invited to pass to that higher\nTemple of mind and spirit. For we are all tourists, in a certain\nsense, and this world is the most ancient of monuments. We go through\nlife as those pugreed-solar-hatted-Europeans go through Egypt. We are\npestered and plagued with guides and dragomans of every rank and\nshade;--social and political guides, moral and religious dragomans: a\nTolstoy here, an Ibsen there, a Spencer above, a Nietzche below. And\nthere thou art left in perpetual confusion and despair. Where wilt\nthou go? Whom wilt thou follow?\n\n\"Or wilt thou tarry to see the work of redemption accomplished? For\nSociety must be redeemed, and many are the redeemers. The Cross,\nhowever, is out of fashion, and so is the Dona Dulcinea motive.\nHowbeit, what an array of Masters and Knights have we, and what a\nvariety! The work can be done, and speedily, if we could but choose.\nWagner can do it with music; Bakunin, with dynamite; Karl Marx, with\nthe levelling rod; Haeckel, with an injection of protoplasmic logic;\nthe Pope, with a pinch of salt and chrism; and the Packer-Kings of\nAmerica, with pork and beef. What wilt thou have? Whom wilt thou\nemploy? Many are the applicants, many are the guides. But if they are\nall going the way of Juhannam, the Beef-packer I would choose. For\nverily, a gobbet of beef on the way were better than canned\nprotoplasmic logic or bottled salt and chrism....\n\n\"No; travel not on a Cook's ticket; avoid the guides. Take up thy\nstaff and foot it slowly and leisurely; tarry wherever thy heart\nwould tarry. There is no need of hurrying, O my Brother, whether\neternal Juhannam or eternal Jannat await us yonder. Come; if thou\nhast not a staff, I have two. And what I have in my Scrip I will\nshare with thee. But turn thy back to the guides; for verily we see\nmore of them than of the ruins and monuments. Verily, we get more\nof the Dragomans than of the Show. Why then continue to move and\nremove at their command?--Take thy guidebook in hand and I will\ntell thee what is in it.\n\n\"No; the time will come, I tell thee, when every one will be his own\nguide and dragoman. The time will come when it will not be necessary\nto write books for others, or to legislate for others, or to make\nreligions for others: the time will come when every one will write his\nown Book in the Life he lives, and that Book will be his code and his\ncreed;--that Life-Book will be the palace and cathedral of his Soul in\nall the Worlds.\"\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THE FIRST\n\nIN THE EXCHANGE\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTO MAN\n\n\n_No matter how good thou art, O my Brother, or how bad thou art, no\nmatter how high or how low in the scale of being thou art, I still\nwould believe in thee, and have faith in thee, and love thee. For do I\nnot know what clings to thee, and what beckons to thee? The claws of\nthe one and the wings of the other, have I not felt and seen? Look up,\ntherefore, and behold this World-Temple, which, to us, shall be a\nresting-place, and not a goal. On the border-line of the Orient and\nOccident it is built, on the mountain-heights overlooking both. No\nfalse gods are worshipped in it,--no philosophic, theologic, or\nanthropomorphic gods. Yea, and the god of the priests and prophets is\nburied beneath the Fountain, which is the altar of the Temple, and\nfrom which flows the eternal spirit of our Maker--our Maker who\nblinketh when the Claws are deep in our flesh, and smileth when the\nWings spring from our Wounds. Verily, we are the children of the God\nof Humour, and the Fountain in His Temple is ever flowing. Tarry, and\nrefresh thyself, O my Brother, tarry, and refresh thyself._\n\n                                                               KHALID.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nPROBING THE TRIVIAL\n\n\nThe most important in the history of nations and individuals was once\nthe most trivial, and vice versa. The plebeian, who is called to-day\nthe man-in-the-street, can never see and understand the significance\nof the hidden seed of things, which in time must develop or die. A\ngarter dropt in the ballroom of Royalty gives birth to an Order of\nKnighthood; a movement to reform the spelling of the English language,\ninitiated by one of the presidents of a great Republic, becomes\neventually an object of ridicule. Only two instances to illustrate our\npoint, which is applicable also to time-honoured truths and\nmoralities. But no matter how important or trivial these, he who would\ngive utterance to them must do so in cap and bells, if he would be\nheard nowadays. Indeed, the play is always the thing; the frivolous is\nthe most essential, if only as a disguise.--For look you, are we not\ntoo prosperous to consider seriously your ponderous preachment? And\nwhen you bring it to us in book form, do you expect us to take it into\nour homes and take you into our hearts to boot?--Which argument is\nconvincing even to the man in the barn.\n\nBut the Author of the Khedivial Library Manuscript can make his\nGenius dance the dance of the seven veils, if you but knew. It is\nto be regretted, however, that he has not mastered the most subtle\nof arts, the art of writing about one's self. He seldom brushes\nhis wings against the dust or lingers among the humble flowers close\nto the dust: he does not follow the masters in their entertaining\ntrivialities and fatuities. We remember that even Gibbon interrupts\nthe turgid flow of his spirit to tell us in his Autobiography that he\nreally could, and often did, enjoy a game of cards in the evening. And\nRousseau, in a suppurative passion, whispers to us in his Confessions\nthat he even kissed the linen of Madame de Warens' bed when he was\nalone in her room. And Spencer devotes whole pages in his dull and\nponderous history of himself to narrate the all-important narration\nof his constant indisposition,--to assure us that his ill health more\nthan once threatened the mighty task he had in hand. These, to be\nsure, are most important revelations. But Khalid here misses his cue.\nInspiration does not seem to come to him in firefly-fashion.\n\nHe would have done well, indeed, had he studied the method of the\nprofessional writers of Memoirs, especially those of France. For might\nhe not then have discoursed delectably on The Romance of my Stick Pin,\nThe Tragedy of my Sombrero, The Scandal of my Red Flannel, The\nConquest of my Silk Socks, The Adventures of my Tuxedo, and such like?\nBut Khalid is modest only in the things that pertain to the outward\nself. He wrote of other Romances and other Tragedies. And when his\nGenius is not dancing the dance of the seven veils, she is either\nflirting with the monks of the Lebanon hills or setting fire to\nsomething in New York. But this is not altogether satisfactory to the\npresent Editor, who, unlike the Author of the Khedivial Library MS.,\nmust keep the reader in mind. 'Tis very well to endeavour to unfold a\nfew of the mysteries of one's palingenesis, but why conceal from us\nhis origin? For is it not important, is it not the fashion at least,\nthat one writing his own history should first expatiate on the humble\norigin of his ancestors and the distant obscure source of his genius?\nAnd having done this, should he not then tell us how he behaved in his\nboyhood; whether or not he made anklets of his mother's dough for his\nlittle sister; whether he did not kindle the fire with his father's\nKor\u00e2n; whether he did not walk under the rainbow and try to reach the\nend of it on the hill-top; and whether he did not write verse when he\nwas but five years of age. About these essentialities Khalid is\nsilent. We only know from him that he is a descendant of the brave\nsea-daring Phoenicians--a title which might be claimed with justice\neven by the aborigines of Yucatan--and that he was born in the city of\nBaalbek, in the shadow of the great Heliopolis, a little way from the\nmountain-road to the Cedars of Lebanon. All else in this direction is\nobscure.\n\nAnd the K. L. MS. which we kept under our pillow for thirteen days\nand nights, was beginning to worry us. After all, might it not be\na literary hoax, we thought, and might not this Khalid be a myth. And\nyet, he does not seem to have sought any material or worldly good\nfrom the writing of his Book. Why, then, should he resort to\ndeception? Still, we doubted. And one evening we were detained by\nthe sandomancer, or sand-diviner, who was sitting cross-legged on the\nsidewalk in front of the mosque. \"I know your mind,\" said he,\nbefore we had made up our mind to consult him. And mumbling his\n\"abracadabra\" over the sand spread on a cloth before him, he took up\nhis bamboo-stick and wrote therein--Khalid! This was amazing. \"And I\nknow more,\" said he. But after scouring the heaven, he shook his head\nregretfully and wrote in the sand the name of one of the hasheesh-dens\nof Cairo. \"Go thither; and come to see me again to-morrow evening.\"\nSaying which, he folded his sand-book of magic, pocketed his fee,\nand walked away.\n\nIn that hasheesh-den,--the reekiest, dingiest of the row in the Red\nQuarter,--where the etiolated intellectualities of Cairo flock after\nmidnight, the name of Khalid evokes much resounding wit, and sarcasm,\nand laughter.\n\n\"You mean the new Muhdi,\" said one, offering us his chobok of\nhasheesh; \"smoke to his health and prosperity. Ha, ha, ha.\"\n\nAnd the chorus of laughter, which is part and parcel of a hasheesh\njag, was tremendous. Every one thereupon had something to say on the\nsubject. The contagion could not be checked. And Khalid was called\n\"the dervish of science\" by one; \"the rope-dancer of nature\" by\nanother.\n\n\"Our Prophet lived in a cave in the wilderness of New York for five\nyears,\" remarked a third.\n\n\"And he sold his camel yesterday and bought a bicycle instead.\"\n\n\"The Young Turks can not catch him now.\"\n\n\"Ah, but wait till England gets after our new Muhdi.\"\n\n\"Wait till his new phthisic-stricken wife dies.\"\n\n\"Whom will our Prophet marry, if among all the virgins of Egypt we can\nnot find a consumptive for him?\"\n\n\"And when he pulls down the pyramids to build American Skyscrapers\nwith their stones, where shall we bury then our Muhdi?\"\n\nAll of which, although mystifying to us, and depressing, was none the\nless reassuring. For Khalid, it seems, is not a myth. No; we can even\nsee him, we are told, and touch him, and hear him speak.\n\n\"Shakib the poet, his most intimate friend and disciple, will bring\nyou into the sacred presence.\"\n\n\"You can not miss him, for he is the drummer of our new Muhdi, ha, ha,\nha!\"\n\nAnd this Shakib was then suspended and stoned. But their humour, like\nthe odor and smoke of gunjah, (hasheesh) was become stifling. So, we\nlay our chobok down; and, thanking them for the entertainment, we\nstruggle through the rolling reek and fling to the open air.\n\nIn the grill-room of the Mena House we meet the poet Shakib, who was\nthen drawing his inspiration from a glass of whiskey and soda. Nay, he\nwas drowning his sorrows therein, for his Master, alas! has\nmysteriously disappeared.\n\n\"I have not seen him for ten days,\" said the Poet; \"and I know not\nwhere he is.--If I did? Ah, my friend, you would not then see me here.\nIndeed, I should be with him, and though he be in the trap of the\nYoung Turks.\" And some real tears flowed down the cheeks of the Poet,\nas he spoke.\n\nThe Mena House, a charming little Branch of Civilisation at the gate\nof the desert, stands, like man himself, in the shadow of two terrible\nimmensities, the Sphinx and the Pyramid, the Origin and the End. And\nin the grill-room, over a glass of whiskey and soda, we presume to\nsolve in few words the eternal mystery. But that is not what we came\nfor. And to avoid the bewildering depths into which we were led, we\nsuggested a stroll on the sands. Here the Poet waxed more eloquent,\nand shed more tears.\n\n\"This is our favourite haunt,\" said he; \"here is where we ramble, here\nis where we loaf. And Khalid once said to me, 'In loafing here, I work\nas hard as did the masons and hod-carriers who laboured on these\npyramids.' And I believe him. For is not a book greater than a\npyramid? Is not a mosque or a palace better than a tomb? An object is\ngreat in proportion to its power of resistance to time and the\nelements. That is why we think the pyramids are great. But see, the\ndesert is greater than the pyramids, and the sea is greater than the\ndesert, and the heavens are greater than the sea. And yet, there is\nnot in all these that immortal intelligence, that living, palpitating\nsoul, which you find in a great book. A man who conceives and writes a\ngreat book, my friend, has done more work than all the helots that\nlaboured on these pyramidal futilities. That is why I find no\nexaggeration in Khalid's words. For when he loafs, he does so in good\nearnest. Not like the camel-driver there or the camel, but after the\nmanner of the great thinkers and mystics: like Al-Fared and\nJelal'ud-Deen Rumy, like Socrates and St. Francis of Assisi, Khalid\nloafs. For can you escape being reproached for idleness by merely\nworking? Are you going to waste your time and power in useless\nunproductive labour, carrying dates to Hajar (or coals to Newcastle,\nwhich is the English equivalent), that you might not be called an\nidler, a loafer?\"\n\n\"Indeed not,\" we reply; \"for the Poet taking in the sea, or the woods,\nor the starry-night, the poet who might be just sharing the sunshine\nwith the salamander, is as much a labourer as the stoker or the\nbricklayer.\"\n\nAnd with a few more such remarks, we showed our friend that, not being\nof india-rubber, we could not but expand under the heat of his\ngrandiosity.\n\nWe then make our purpose known, and Shakib is overjoyed. He offers to\nkiss us for the noble thought.\n\n\"Yes, Europe should know Khalid better, and only through you and me\ncan this be done. For you can not properly understand him, unless you\nread the _Histoire Intime_, which I have just finished. That will give\nyou _les dessous de cartes_ of his character.\"\n\n\"_Les dessons_\"--and the Poet who intersperses his Arabic with fancy\nFrench, explains.--\"The lining, the ligaments.\"--\"Ah, that is exactly\nwhat we want.\"\n\nAnd he offers to let us have the use of his Manuscript, if we link his\nname with that of his illustrious Master in this Book. To which we\ncheerfully agree. For after all, what's in a name?\n\nOn the following day, lugging an enormous bundle under each arm, the\nPoet came. We were stunned as he stood in the door; we felt as if he\nhad struck us in the head with them.\n\n\"This is the _Histoire Intime_,\" said he, laying it gently on the\ntable.\n\nAnd we laid our hand upon it, fetching a deep sigh. Our misgivings,\nhowever, were lighted with a happy idea. We will hire a few boys to\nread it, we thought, and mark out the passages which please them most.\nThat will be just what an editor wants.\n\n\"And this,\" continued the Poet, laying down the other bundle, \"is the\noriginal manuscript of my forthcoming Book of Poems.--\"\n\nSweet of him, we thought, to present it to us.\n\n\"It will be issued next Autumn in Cairo.--\"\n\nFortunate City!\n\n\"And if you will get to work on it at once,--\"\n\nMercy!\n\n\"You can get out an English Translation in three month, I am sure--\"\n\nWe sink in our chair in breathless amazement.\n\n\"The Book will then appear simultaneously both in London and Cairo.\"\n\nWe sit up, revived with another happy idea, and assure the Poet that\nhis Work will be translated into a universal language, and that very\nsoon. For which assurance he kisses us again and again, and goes away\nhugging his Muse.\n\nThe idea! A Book of Poems to translate into the English language! As\nif the English language has not enough of its own troubles! Translate\nit, O Fire, into your language! Which work the Fire did in two\nminutes. And the dancing, leaping, singing flames, the white and blue\nand amber flames, were more beautiful, we thought, than anything the\nMs. might contain.\n\nAs for the _Histoire Intime_, we split it into three parts and got our\nboys working on it. The result was most satisfying. For now we can\nshow, and though he is a native of Asia, the land of the Prophets, and\nthough he conceals from us his origin after the manner of the\nProphets, that he was born and bred and fed, and even thwacked, like\nall his fellows there, this Khalid.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE CITY OF BAAL\n\n\nThe City of Baal, or Baalbek, is between the desert and the deep\nsea. It lies at the foot of Anti-Libanus, in the sunny plains of\nCoele-Syria, a day's march from either Damascus or Beirut. It is a\ncity with a past as romantic as Rome's, as wicked as Babel's; its\nruins testify both to its glory and its shame. It is a city with a\nfuture as brilliant as any New-World city; the railroad at its\ngate, the modern agricultural implements in its fields, and the\nporcelain bath-tubs in its hotels, can testify to this. It is a city\nthat enticed and still entices the mighty of the earth; Roman\nEmperors in the past came to appease the wrath of its gods, a German\nEmperor to-day comes to pilfer its temples. For the Acropolis in\nthe poplar grove is a mine of ruins. The porphyry pillars, the\nstatues, the tablets, the exquisite friezes, the palimpsests, the\nbas-reliefs,--Time and the Turks have spared a few of these. And when\nthe German Emperor came, Abd'ul-Hamid blinked, and the Berlin Museum\nis now the richer for it.\n\nOf the Temple of Jupiter, however, only six standing columns remain;\nof the Temple of Bacchus only the god and the Bacchantes are missing.\nAnd why was the one destroyed, the other preserved, only the six\ncolumns, had they a tongue, could tell. Indeed, how many blustering\nvandals have _they_ conquered, how many savage attacks have they\nresisted, what wonders and what orgies have they beheld! These six\ngiants of antiquity, looking over Anti-Lebanon in the East, and\ndown upon the meandering Leontes in the South, and across the\nSyrian steppes in the North, still hold their own against Time and the\nElements. They are the dominating feature of the ruins; they tower\nabove them as the Acropolis towers above the surrounding poplars. And\naround their base, and through the fissures, flows the perennial\ngrace of the seasons. The sun pays tribute to them in gold; the rain,\nin mosses and ferns; the Spring, in lupine flowers. And the\nswallows, nesting in the portico of the Temple of Bacchus, above\nthe curious frieze of egg-decoration,--as curious, too, _their_ art of\negg-making,--pour around the colossal columns their silvery notes.\nSurely, these swallows and ferns and lupine flowers are more\nancient than the Acropolis. And the marvels of extinct nations can\nnot hold a candle to the marvels of Nature.\n\nHere, under the decaying beauty of Roman art, lies buried the\nmonumental boldness of the Phoenicians, or of a race of giants whose\nextinction even Homer deplores, and whose name even the Phoenicians\ncould not decipher. For might they not, too, have stood here\nwondering, guessing, even as we moderns guess and wonder? Might not\nthe Phoenicians have asked the same questions that we ask to-day: Who\nwere the builders? and with what tools? In one of the walls of the\nAcropolis are stones which a hundred bricklayers can not raise an inch\nfrom the ground; and among the ruins of the Temple of Zeus are\nporphyry pillars, monoliths, which fifty horses could barely move, and\nthe quarry of which is beyond the Syrian desert. There, now, solve the\nproblem for yourself.\n\nHidden in the grove of silver-tufted poplars is the little Temple of\nVenus, doomed to keep company with a Mosque. But it is a joy to stand\non the bridge above the stream that flows between them, and listen to\nthe muazzen in the minaret and the bulbuls in the Temple. Mohammad\ncalling to Venus, Venus calling to Mohammad--what a romance! We leave\nthe subject to the poet that wants it. Another Laus Veneris to another\nSwinburne might suggest itself.\n\nAn Arab Prophet with the goddess, this time--but the River flows\nbetween the Temple and the Mosque. In the city, life is one such\npicturesque languid stream. The shop-keepers sit on their rugs in\ntheir stalls, counting their beads, smoking their narghilahs, waiting\nindifferently for Allah's bounties. And the hawkers shuffle along\ncrying their wares in beautiful poetic illusions,--the flower-seller\nsinging, \"Reconcile your mother-in-law! Perfume your spirit! Buy a\njasmine for your soul!\" the seller of loaves, his tray on his head,\nhis arms swinging to a measured step, intoning in pious thankfulness,\n\"O thou Eternal, O thou Bountiful!\" The _sakka_ of licorice-juice,\nclicking his brass cups calls out to the thirsty one, \"Come, drink and\nlive! Come, drink and live!\" And ere you exclaim, How quaint! How\npicturesque! a train of laden camels drives you to the wall, rudely\nshaking your illusion. And the mules and donkeys, tottering under\ntheir heavy burdens, upsetting a tray of sweetmeats here, a counter of\nspices there, must share the narrow street with you and compel you to\nmove along slowly, languidly like themselves. They seem to take Time\nby the sleeve and say to it, \"What's your hurry?\" \"These donkeys,\"\nShakib writes, quoting Khalid, \"can teach the strenuous Europeans and\nhustling Americans a lesson.\"\n\nIn the City Square, as we issue from the congested windings of the\nBazaar, we are greeted by one of those scrub monuments that are found\nin almost every city of the Ottoman Empire. And in most cases, they\nare erected to commemorate the benevolence and public zeal of some\nwali or pasha who must have made a handsome fortune in the promotion\nof a public enterprise. Be this as it may. It is not our business here\nto probe the corruption of any particular Government. But we observe\nthat this miserable botch of a monument is to the ruins of the\nAcropolis, what this modern absolutism, this effete Turkey is to the\nmagnificent tyrannies of yore. Indeed, nothing is duller, more stupid,\nmore prosaic than a modern absolutism as compared with an ancient one.\nBut why concern ourselves with like comparisons? The world is better\nto-day in spite of its public monuments. These little flights or\nfrights in marble are as snug in their little squares, in front of\ntheir little halls, as are the majestic ruins in their poplar groves.\nIn both instances, Nature and Circumstance have harmonised between\nthe subject and the background. Come along. And let the rhymsters\nchisel on the monument whatever they like about sculptures and the\nwali. To condemn in this case is to praise.\n\nWe issue from the Square into the drive leading to the spring at the\nfoot of the mountain. On the meadows near the stream, is always to be\nfound a group of Baalbekians bibbing _arak_ and swaying languidly to\nthe mellow strains of the lute and the monotonous melancholy of Arabic\nsong. Among such, one occasionally meets with a native who, failing as\npeddler or merchant in America, returns to his native town, and,\nutilising the chips of English he picked up in the streets of the\nNew-World cities, becomes a dragoman and guide to English and American\ntourists.\n\nNow, under this sky, between Anti-Libanus rising near the spring,\nRasulain, and the Acropolis towering above the poplars, around\nthese majestic ruins, amidst these fascinating scenes of Nature,\nKhalid spent the halcyon days of his boyhood. Here he trolled his\nfavourite ditties beating the hoof behind his donkey. For he\npreferred to be a donkey-boy than to be called a donkey at school.\nThe pedagogue with his drivel and discipline, he could not learn to\nlove. The company of muleteers was much more to his liking. The open\nair was his school; and everything that riots and rejoices in the\nopen air, he loved. Bulbuls and beetles and butterflies, oxen and\ndonkeys and mules,--these were his playmates and friends. And when he\nbecomes a muleteer, he reaches in his first venture, we are told,\nthe top round of the ladder. This progressive scale in his\ntrading, we observe. Husbanding his resources, he was soon after, by\nselling his donkey, able to buy a sumpter-mule; a year later he\nsells his mule and buys a camel; and finally he sells the camel and\nbuys a fine Arab mare, which he gives to a tourist for a hundred\npieces of English gold. This is what is called success. And with the\ntangible symbol of it, the price of his mare, he emigrates to\nAmerica. But that is to come.\n\nLet us now turn our \"stereopticon on the screen of reminiscence,\"\nusing the pictures furnished by Shakib. But before they can be used to\nadvantage, they must undergo a process of retroussage. Many of the\nlines need be softened, some of the shades modified, and not a few of\nthe etchings, absolutely worthless, we consign to the flames. Who of\nus, for instance, was not feruled and bastinadoed by the town\npedagogue? Who did not run away from school, whimpering, snivelling,\nand cursing in his heart and in his sleep the black-board and the\nhorn-book? Nor can we see the significance of the fact that Khalid\nonce smashed the icon of the Holy Virgin for whetting not his wits,\nfor hearing not his prayers. It may be he was learning then the use of\nthe sling, and instead of killing his neighbour's laying-hen, he broke\nthe sacred effigy. No, we are not warranted to draw from these\ntrivialities the grand results which send Shakib in ecstasies about\nhis Master's genius. Nor do we for a moment believe that the\nwaywardness of a genius or a prophet in boyhood is always a\nsignificant adumbration. Shakespeare started as a deer-poacher, and\nRousseau as a thief. Yet, neither the one nor the other, as far as we\nknow, was a plagiarist. This, however, does not disprove the contrary\nproposition, that he who begins as a thief or an iconoclast is likely\nto end as such. But the actuating motive has nothing to do with what\nwe, in our retrospective analysis, are pleased to prove. Not so far\nforth are we willing to piddle among the knicknacks of Shakib's\n_Histoire Intime_ of his Master.\n\nFurthermore, how can we interest ourselves in his fiction of history\nconcerning Baalbek? What have we to do with the fact or fable that\nSeth the Prophet lived in this City; that Noah is buried in its\nvicinity; that Solomon built the Temple of the Sun for the Queen of\nSheba; that this Prince and Poet used to lunch in Baalbek and dine at\nIstachre in Afghanistan; that the chariot of Nimrod drawn by four\nphoenixes from the Tower of Babel, lighted on Mt. Hermon to give said\nNimrod a chance to rebuild the said Temple of the Sun? How can we\nbring any of these fascinating fables to bear upon our subject? It is\nnevertheless significant to remark that the City of Baal, from the\nPhoenicians and Moabites down to the Arabs and Turks, has ever been\nnoted for its sanctuaries of carnal lust. The higher religion, too,\nfound good soil here; for Baalbek gave the world many a saint and\nmartyr along with its harlots and poets and philosophers. St. Minius,\nSt. Cyril and St. Theodosius, are the foremost among its holy\nchildren; Ste. Odicksyia, a Magdalene, is one of its noted daughters.\nThese were as famous in their days as Ashtarout or Jupiter-Ammon. As\nfamous too is Al-Iman ul-Ouzaai the scholar; al-Makrizi the historian;\nKallinichus the chemist, who invented the Greek fire; Kosta ibn Luka,\na doctor and philosopher, who wrote among much miscellaneous rubbish a\ntreaty entitled, On the Difference Between the Mind and the Soul; and\nfinally the Muazzen of Baalbek to whom \"even the beasts would stop to\nlisten.\" Ay, Shakib relates quoting al-Makrizi, who in his turn\nrelates, quoting one of the octogenarian Drivellers, _Muhaddetheen_\n(these men are the chief sources of Arabic History) that he was told\nby an eye and ear witness that when this celebrated Muazzen was once\ncalling the Faithful to prayer, the camels at the creek craned their\nnecks to listen to the sonorous music of his voice. And such was their\ndelight that they forgot they were thirsty. This, by the way of a\nspecimen of the _Muhaddetheen_. Now, about these historical worthies\nof Baalbek, whom we have but named, Shakib writes whole pages, and\nconcludes--and here is the point--that Khalid might be a descendant of\nany or all of them! For in him, our Scribe seriously believes, are\nlusty strains of many varied and opposing humours. And although he had\nnot yet seen the sea, he longed when a boy for a long sea voyage, and\nhe would sail little paper boats down the stream to prove the fact. In\ntruth, that is what Shakib would prove. The devil and such logic had a\ncharm for us once, but no more.\n\nHere is another bubble of retrospective analysis to which we apply the\nneedle. It is asserted as a basis for another astounding deduction\nthat Khalid used to sleep in the ruined Temple of Zeus. As if ruined\ntemples had anything to do with the formation or deformation of the\nbrain-cells or the soul-afflatus! The devil and such logic, we repeat,\nhad once a charm for us. But this, in brief, is how it came about.\nKhalid hated the pedagogue to whom he had to pay a visit of courtesy\nevery day, and loved his cousin Najma whom he was not permitted to\nsee. And when he runs away from the bastinado, breaking in revenge the\nicon of the Holy Virgin, his father turns him away from home.\nComplaining not, whimpering not, he goes. And hearing the bulbuls\ncalling in the direction of Najma's house that evening, he repairs\nthither. But the crabbed, cruel uncle turns him away also, and bolts\nthe door. Whereupon Khalid, who was then in the first of his teens,\ntakes a big scabrous rock and sends it flying against that door. The\ncrabbed uncle rushes out, blustering, cursing; the nephew takes up\nanother of those scabrous missiles and sends it whizzing across his\nshoulder. The second one brushes his ear. The third sends the blood\nfrom his temple. And this, while beating a retreat and cursing his\nfather and his uncle and their ancestors back to fifty generations. He\nis now safe in the poplar grove, and his uncle gives up the charge.\nWith a broken noddle he returns home, and Khalid with a broken heart\nwends his way to the Acropolis, the only shelter in sight. In relating\nthis story, Shakib mentions \"the horrible old moon, who was wickedly\nsmiling over the town that night.\" A broken icon, a broken door, a\nbroken pate,--a big price this, the crabbed uncle and the cruel father\nhad to pay for thwarting the will of little Khalid. \"But he entered\nthe Acropolis a conqueror,\" says our Scribe; \"he won the battle.\" And\nhe slept in the temple, in the portico thereof, as sound as a\nmuleteer. And the swallows in the niches above heard him sleep.\n\nIn the morning he girds his loins with a firm resolution. No longer\nwill he darken his father's door. He becomes a muleteer and\naccomplishes the success of which we have spoken. His first beau id\u00e9al\nwas to own the best horse in Baalbek; and to be able to ride to the\ncamp of the Arabs and be mistaken for one of them, was his first great\nambition. Which he realises sooner than he thought he would. For\nthrift, grit and perseverance, are a few of the rough grains in his\ncharacter. But no sooner he is possessed of his ideal than he begins\nto loosen his hold upon it. He sold his mare to the tourist, and was\nglad he did not attain the same success in his first love. For he\nloved his mare, and he could not have loved his cousin Najma more.\n\"The realisation is a terrible thing,\" writes our Scribe, quoting his\nMaster. But when this fine piece of wisdom was uttered, whether when\nhe was sailing paper boats in Baalbek, or unfurling his sails in New\nYork, we can not say.\n\nAnd now, warming himself on the fire of his first ideal, Khalid will\nseek the shore and launch into unknown seas towards unknown lands.\nFrom the City of Baal to the City of Demiurgic Dollar is not in fact a\nfar cry. It has been remarked that he always dreamt of adventures, of\nlong journeys across the desert or across the sea. He never was\nsatisfied with the seen horizon, we are told, no matter how vast and\nbeautiful. His soul always yearned for what was beyond, above or\nbelow, the visible line. And had not the European tourist alienated\nfrom him the love of his mare and corrupted his heart with the love of\ngold, we might have heard of him in Mecca, in India, or in Dahomey.\nBut Shakib prevails upon him to turn his face toward the West. One\nday, following some tourists to the Cedars, they behold from\nDahr'ul-Qadhib the sun setting in the Mediterranean and make up their\nminds to follow it too. \"For the sundown,\" writes Shakib, \"was more\nappealing to us than the sunrise, ay, more beautiful. The one was so\nnear, the other so far away. Yes, we beheld the Hesperian light that\nday, and praised Allah. It was the New World's bonfire of hospitality:\nthe sun called to us, and we obeyed.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nVIA DOLOROSA\n\n\nIn their baggy, lapping trousers and crimson caps, each carrying a\nbundle and a rug under his arm, Shakib and Khalid are smuggled through\nthe port of Beirut at night, and safely rowed to the steamer. Indeed,\nwe are in a country where one can not travel without a passport, or a\npassword, or a little pass-money. And the boatmen and officials of the\nOttoman Empire can better read a gold piece than a passport. So,\nShakib and Khalid, not having the latter, slip in a few of the former,\nand are smuggled through. One more longing, lingering glance behind,\nand the dusky peaks of the Lebanons, beyond which their native City of\nBaal is sleeping in peace, recede from view. On the high sea of hope\nand joy they sail; \"under the Favonian wind of enthusiasm, on the\nfriendly billows of boyish dreams,\" they roll. Ay, and they sing for\njoy. On and on, to the gold-swept shores of distant lands, to the\ngenerous cities and the bounteous fields of the West, to the Paradise\nof the World--to America.\n\nWe need not dwell too much with our Scribe, on the repulsive details\nof the story of the voyage. We ourselves have known a little of the\nsuffering and misery which emigrants must undergo, before they reach\nthat Western Paradise of the Oriental imagination. How they are\nhuddled like sheep on deck from Beirut to Marseilles; and like cattle\ntransported under hatches across the Atlantic; and bullied and\nbrowbeaten by rough disdainful stewards; and made to pay for a\nleathery gobbet of beef and a slice of black flint-like bread: all\nthis we know. But that New World paradise is well worth these passing\nprivations.\n\nThe second day at sea, when the two Baalbekian lads are snug on deck,\ntheir rugs spread out not far from the stalls in which Syrian cattle\nare shipped to Egypt and Arab horses to Europe or America, they\nrummage in their bags--and behold, a treat! Shakib takes out his\nfavourite poet Al-Mutanabbi, and Khalid, his favourite bottle, the\nchoicest of the Ksarah distillery of the Jesuits. For this whilom\ndonkey-boy will begin by drinking the wine of these good Fathers and\nthen their--blood! His lute is also with him; and he will continue to\npractise the few lessons which the bulbuls of the poplar groves have\ntaught him. No, he cares not for books. And so, he uncorks the bottle,\nhands it to Shakib his senior, then takes a nip himself, and,\nthrumming his lute strings, trolls a few doleful pieces of Arabic\nsong. \"In these,\" he would say to Shakib, pointing to the bottle and\nthe lute, \"is real poetry, and not in that book with which you would\nkill me.\" And Shakib, in stingless sarcasm, would insist that the\nmusic in Al-Mutanabbi's lines is just a little more musical than\nKhalid's thrumming. They quarrel about this. And in justice to both,\nwe give the following from the _Histoire Intime_.\n\n\"When we left our native land,\" Shakib writes, \"my literary bent was\nnot shared in the least by Khalid. I had gone through the higher\nstudies which, in our hedge-schools and clerical institutions, do not\nreach a very remarkable height. Enough of French to understand the\nauthors tabooed by our Jesuit professors,--the Voltaires, the\nRousseaus, the Diderots; enough of Arabic to enable one to parse and\nanalyse the verse of Al-Mutanabbi; enough of Church History to show\nus, not how the Church wielded the sword of persecution, but how she\nwas persecuted herself by the pagans and barbarians of the earth;--of\nthese and such like consists the edifying curriculum. Now, of this\nhigh phase of education, Khalid was thoroughly immune. But his\nintuitive sagacity was often remarkable, and his humour, sweet and\npathetic. Once when I was reading aloud some of the Homeric effusions\nof Al-Mutanabbi, he said to me, as he was playing his lute, 'In the\nheart of this,' pointing to the lute, 'and in the heart of me, there\nbe more poetry than in that book with which you would kill me.' And\none day, after wandering clandestinely through the steamer, he comes\nto me with a gesture of surprise and this: 'Do you know, there are\npassengers who sleep in bunks below, over and across each other? I saw\nthem, billah! And I was told they pay more than we do for such a low\npassage--the fools! Think on it. I peeped into a little room, a dingy,\nsmelling box, which had in it six berths placed across and above each\nother like the shelves of the reed manchons we build for our\nsilk-worms at home. I wouldn't sleep in one of them, billah! even\nthough they bribe me. This bovine fragrance, the sight of these fine\nhorses, the rioting of the wind above us, should make us forget the\nbrutality of the stewards. Indeed, I am as content, as comfortable\nhere, as are their Excellencies in what is called the Salon. Surely,\nwe are above them--at least, in the night. What matters it, then, if\nours is called the Fourth Class and theirs the Primo. Wherever one is\nhappy, Shakib, there is the Primo.'\"\n\nBut this happy humour is assailed at Marseilles. His placidity and\nstolid indifference are rudely shaken by the sharpers, who differ\nonly from the boatmen of Beirut in that they wear pantaloons and\nintersperse their Arabic with a jargon of French. These brokers,\nlike rapacious bats, hover around the emigrant and before his\npurse is opened for the fourth time, the trick is done. And with\nwhat ceremony, you shall see. From the steamer the emigrant is led\nto a dealer in frippery, where he is required to doff his baggy\ntrousers and crimson cap, and put on a suit of linsey-woolsey and a\nhat of hispid felt: end of First Act; open the purse. From the dealer\nof frippery, spick and span from top to toe, he is taken to the\nhostelry, where he is detained a fortnight, sometimes a month, on\nthe pretext of having to wait for the best steamer: end of Second Act;\nopen the purse. From the hostelry at last to the steamship agent,\nwhere they secure for him a third-class passage on a fourth-class\nship across the Atlantic: end of Third Act; open the purse. And now\nthat the purse is almost empty, the poor emigrant is permitted to\nleave. They send him to New York with much gratitude in his heart\nand a little trachoma in his eyes. The result being that a month\nlater they have to look into such eyes again. But the purse of the\ndistressed emigrant now being empty,--empty as his hopes and\ndreams,--the rapacious bats hover not around him, and the door of\nthe verminous hostelry is shut in his face. He is left to starve\non the western shore of the Mediterranean.\n\nAy, even the droll humour and stolidity of Khalid, are shaken,\naroused, by the ghoulish greed, the fell inhumanity of these sharpers.\nAnd Shakib from his cage of fancy lets loose upon them his hyenas of\nsatire. In a squib describing the bats and the voyage he says: \"The\nvoyage to America is the Via Dolorosa of the emigrant; and the Port of\nBeirut, the verminous hostelries of Marseilles, the Island of Ellis in\nNew York, are the three stations thereof. And if your hopes are not\ncrucified at the third and last station, you pass into the Paradise of\nyour dreams. If they are crucified, alas! The gates of the said\nParadise will be shut against you; the doors of the hostelries will be\nslammed in your face; and with a consolation and a vengeance you will\nthrow yourself at the feet of the sea in whose bosom some charitable\nJonah will carry you to your native strands.\"\n\nAnd when the emigrant has a surplus of gold, when his capital is such\nas can not be dissipated on a suit of shoddy, a fortnight's lodging,\nand a passage across the Atlantic, the ingenious ones proceed with the\nFourth Act of _Open Thy Purse_. \"Instead of starting in New York as a\npeddler,\" they say, unfolding before him one of their alluring\nschemes, \"why not do so as a merchant?\" And the emigrant opens his\npurse for the fourth time in the office of some French manufacturer,\nwhere he purchases a few boxes of trinketry,--scapulars, prayer-beads,\ncrosses, jewelry, gewgaws, and such like,--all said to be made in the\nHoly Land. These he brings over with him as his stock in trade.\n\nNow, Khalid and Shakib, after passing a fortnight in Marseilles, and\ngoing through the Fourth Act of the Sorry Show, find their dignity as\nmerchants rudely crushed beneath the hatches of the Atlantic steamer.\nFor here, even the pleasure of sleeping on deck is denied them. The\nAtlantic Ocean would not permit of it. Indeed, everybody has to slide\ninto their stivy bunks to save themselves from its rising wrath. A\nfortnight of such unutterable misery is quite supportable, however, if\none continues to cherish the Paradise already mentioned. But in this\ndark, dingy smelling hole of the steerage, even the poets cease to\ndream. The boatmen of Beirut and the sharpers of Marseilles we could\nforget; but in this grave among a hundred and more of its kind, set\nover and across each other, neither the lute nor the little that\nremained in that Ksarah bottle, could bring us any solace.\n\nWe are told that Khalid took up his lute but once throughout the\nvoyage. And this when they were permitted one night to sleep on deck.\nWe are also informed that Khalid had a remarkable dream, which, to our\nScribe at least, is not meaningless. And who of us, thou silly Scribe,\ndid not in his boyhood tell his dreams to his mother, who would turn\nthem in her interpretation inside out? But Khalid, we are assured,\ncontinued to cherish the belief, even in his riper days, that when you\ndream you are in Jannat, for instance, you must be prepared to go\nthrough Juhannam the following day. A method of interpretation as\nancient as Joseph, to be sure. But we quote the dream to show that\nKhalid should not have followed the setting sun. He should have turned\nhis face toward the desert.\n\nThey slept on deck that night. They drank the wine of the Jesuits,\nrepeated, to the mellow strains of the lute, the song of the bulbuls,\nintoned the verses of Al-Mutanabbi, and, wrapping themselves in their\nrugs, fell asleep. But in the morning they were rudely jostled from\ntheir dreams by a spurt from the hose of the sailors washing the deck.\nComplaining not, they straggle down to their bunks to change their\nclothes. And Khalid, as he is doing this, implores Shakib not to\nmention to him any more that New-World paradise. \"For I have dreamt\nlast night,\" he continues, \"that, in the multicoloured robes of an\nArab amir, on a caparisoned dromedary, at the head of an immense\nmultitude of people, I was riding through the desert. Whereto and\nwherefrom, I know not. But those who followed me seemed to know; for\nthey cried, 'Long have we waited for thee, now we shall enter in\npeace.' And at every oasis we passed, the people came to the gate to\nmeet us, and, prostrating themselves before me, kissed the fringe of\nmy garment. Even the women would touch my boots and kiss their hands,\nexclaiming, '_Allahu akbar!_' And the palm trees, billah! I could see\nbending towards us that we might eat of their fruits, and the springs\nseemed to flow with us into the desert that we might never thirst. Ay,\nthus in triumph we marched from one camp to another, from one oasis to\nthe next, until we reached the City on the Hills of the Cedar Groves.\nOutside the gate, we were met by the most beautiful of its tawny\nwomen, and four of these surrounded my camel and took the reins from\nmy hand. I was then escorted through the gates, into the City, up to\nthe citadel, where I was awaited by their Princess. And she, taking a\nnecklace of cowries from a bag that hung on her breast, placed it on\nmy head, saying, 'I crown thee King of--' But I could not hear the\nrest, which was drowned by the cheering of the multitudes. And the\ncheering, O Shakib, was drowned by the hose of the sailors. Oh, that\nhose! Is it not made in the paradise you harp upon, the paradise we\nare coming to? Never, therefore, mention it to me more.\"\n\nThis is the dream, at once simple and symbolic, which begins to worry\nKhalid. \"For in the evening of the day he related it to me,\" writes\nShakib, \"I found him sitting on the edge of his bunk brooding over I\nknow not what. It was the first time he had the blues. Nay, it was the\nfirst time he looked pensive and profound. And upon asking him the\nreason for this, he said, 'I am thinking of the paper-boats which I\nused to sail down the stream in Baalbek, and that makes me sad.'\"\n\nHow strange! And yet, this first event recorded by our Scribe, in\nwhich Khalid is seen struggling with the mysterious and unknown, is\nmost significant. Another instance, showing a latent phase, hitherto\ndormant, in his character, we note. Among the steerage passengers is a\nSyrian girl who much resembles his cousin Najma. She was sea-sick\nthroughout the voyage, and when she comes out to breathe of the fresh\nair, a few hours before they enter the harbour of New York, Khalid\nsees her, and Shakib swears that he saw a tear in Khalid's eye as he\nstood there gazing upon her. Poor Khalid! For though we are\napproaching the last station of the Via Dolorosa, though we are\nnearing the enchanted domes of the wonder-working, wealth-worshipping\nCity, he is inexplicably sad.\n\nAnd Shakib, directly after swearing that he saw a tear in his eye,\nwrites the following: \"Up to this time I observed in my friend only\nthe dominating traits of a hard-headed, hard-hearted boy, stubborn,\nimpetuous, intractable. But from the time he related to me his dream,\na change in his character was become manifest. In fact a new phase was\nbeing gradually unfolded. Three things I must emphasise in this\nconnection: namely, the first dream he dreamt in a foreign land, the\nfirst time he looked pensive and profound, and the first tear he shed\nbefore we entered New York. These are keys to the secret chamber of\none's soul.\"\n\nAnd now, that the doors, by virtue of our Scribe's open-sesames, are\nthrown open, we enter, _bismillah_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nON THE WHARF OF ENCHANTMENT\n\n\nNot in our make-up, to be sure,--not in the pose which is preceded by\nthe tantaras of a trumpet,--do the essential traits in our character\nfirst reveal themselves. But truly in the little things the real self\nis exteriorised. Shakib observes closely the rapid changes in his\nco-adventurer's humour, the shadowy traits which at that time he\nlittle understood. And now, by applying his palm to his front, he\nillumines those chambers of which he speaks, and also the niches\ntherein. He helps us to understand the insignificant points which mark\nthe rapid undercurrents of the seemingly sluggish soul of Khalid. Not\nin vain, therefore, does he crystallise for us that first tear he shed\nin the harbour of Manhattan. But his gush about the recondite beauty\nof this pearl of melancholy, shall not be intended upon the gustatory\nnerves of the Reader. This then we note--his description of New York\nharbour.\n\n\"And is this the gate of Paradise,\" he asks, \"or the port of some\nsubterrestrial city guarded by the Jinn? What a marvel of enchantment\nis everything around us! What manifestations of industrial strength,\nwhat monstrosities of wealth and power, are here! These vessels\nproudly putting to sea; these tenders scurrying to meet the Atlantic\ngreyhound which is majestically moving up the bay; these barges\nloading and unloading schooners from every strand, distant and near;\nthese huge lighters carrying even railroads over the water; these\nfire-boats scudding through the harbour shrilling their sirens; these\ncareworn, grim, strenuous multitudes ferried across from one enchanted\nshore to another; these giant structures tickling heaven's sides;\nthese cable bridges, spanning rivers, uniting cities; and this\nsuperterrestrial goddess, torch in hand--wake up, Khalid, and behold\nthese wonders. Salaam, this enchanted City! There is the Brooklyn\nBridge, and here is the Statue of Liberty which people speak of, and\nwhich are as famous as the Cedars of Lebanon.\"\n\nBut Khalid is as impassive as the bronze goddess herself. He leans\nover the rail, his hand supporting his cheek, and gazes into the ooze.\nThe stolidity of his expression is appalling. With his mouth open as\nusual, his lips relaxed, his tongue sticking out through the set\nteeth,--he looks as if his head were in a noose. But suddenly he\nbraces up, runs down for his lute, and begins to serenade--Greater New\nYork?\n\n    \"On thee be Allah's grace,\n     Who hath the well-loved face!\"\n\nNo; not toward this City does his heart flap its wings of song. He is\non another sea, in another harbour. Indeed, what are these wonders as\ncompared with those of the City of Love? The Statue of Eros there is\nmore imposing than the Statue of Liberty here. And the bridges are\nnot of iron and concrete, but of rainbows and--moonshine! Indeed, both\nthese lads are now on the wharf of enchantment; the one on the\npalpable, the sensuous, the other on the impalpable and unseen. But\nboth, alas, are suddenly, but temporarily, disenchanted as they are\njostled out of the steamer into the barge which brings them to the\nJuhannam of Ellis Island. Here, the unhappy children of the steerage\nare dumped into the Bureau of Emigration as--such stuff! For even in\nthe land of equal rights and freedom, we have a right to expect from\nothers the courtesy and decency which we ourselves do not have to\nshow, or do not know.\n\nThese are sturdy and adventurous foreigners whom the grumpy officers\njostle and hustle about. For neither poverty, nor oppression, nor both\ntogether can drive a man out of his country, unless the soul within\nhim awaken. Indeed, many a misventurous cowering peasant continues to\nlive on bread and olives in his little village, chained in the fear of\ndying of hunger in a foreign land. Only the brave and daring spirits\nhearken to the voice of discontent within them. They give themselves\nup to the higher aspirations of the soul, no matter how limited such\naspirations might be, regardless of the dangers and hardship of a long\nsea voyage, and the precariousness of their plans and hopes. There may\nbe nothing noble in renouncing one's country, in abandoning one's\nhome, in forsaking one's people; but is there not something remarkable\nin this great move one makes? Whether for better or for worse, does\nnot the emigrant place himself above his country, his people and his\nGovernment, when he turns away from them, when he goes forth propelled\nby that inner self which demands of him a new life?\n\nAnd might it not be a better, a cleaner, a higher life? What say our\nMasters of the Island of Ellis? Are not these straggling, smelling,\ndowncast emigrants almost as clean inwardly, and as pure, as the\ngrumpy officers who harass and humiliate them? Is not that spirit of\ndiscontent which they cherish, and for which they carry the cross, so\nto speak, across the sea, deserving of a little consideration, a\nlittle civility, a little kindness?\n\nEven louder than this Shakib cries out, while Khalid open-mouthed\nsucks his tongue. Here at the last station, where the odours of\ndisinfectants are worse than the stench of the steerage, they await\nbehind the bars their turn; stived with Italian and Hungarian fellow\nsufferers, uttering such whimpers of expectancy, exchanging such\ngestures of hope. Soon they shall be brought forward to be examined by\nthe doctor and the interpreting officer; the one shall pry their\npurses, the other their eyes. For in this United States of America we\nwant clear-sighted citizens at least. And no cold-purses, if the\nmatter can be helped. But neither the eyes, alas, nor the purses of\nour two emigrants are conformable to the Law; the former are filled\nwith granulations of trachoma, the latter have been emptied by the\nsharpers of Marseilles. Which means that they shall be detained for\nthe present; and if within a fortnight nothing turns up in their\nfavour, they shall certainly be deported.\n\nTrachoma! a little granulation on the inner surface of the eyelids,\nwhat additional misery does it bring upon the poor deported emigrant?\nWe are asked to shed a tear for him, to weep with him over his blasted\nhopes, his strangled aspirations, his estate in the mother country\nsold or mortgaged,--in either case lost,--and his seed of a new life\ncrushed in its cotyledon by the physician who might be short-sighted\nhimself, or even blind. But the law must be enforced for the sake of\nthe clear-sighted citizens of the Republic. We will have nothing to do\nwith these poor blear-eyed foreigners.\n\nAnd thus our grievous Scribe would continue, if we did not exercise\nthe prerogative of our Editorial Divan. Rather let us pursue our\nnarration. Khalid is now in the hospital, awaiting further development\nin his case. But in Shakib's, whose eyes are far gone in trachoma, the\ndecision of the Board of Emigration is final, irrevokable. And so,\nafter being detained a week in the Emigration pen, the unfortunate\nSyrian must turn his face again toward the East. Not out into the\nCity, but out upon the sea, he shall be turned adrift. The grumpy\nofficer shall grumpishly enforce the decision of the Board by handing\nour Scribe to the Captain of the first steamer returning to Europe--if\nour Scribe can be found! For this flyaway son of a Phoenician did not\nseem to wait for the decision of the polyglot Judges of the Emigration\nBoard.\n\nAnd that he did escape, we are assured. For one morning he eludes the\ngrumpy officer, and sidles out among his Italian neighbours who were\npermitted to land. See him genuflecting now, to kiss the curbstone\nand thank Allah that he is free. But before he can enjoy his freedom,\nbefore he can sit down and chuckle over the success of his escapade,\nhe must bethink him of Khalid. He will not leave him to the mercy of\nthe honourable Agents of the Law, if he can help it. Trachoma, he\nknows, is a hard case to cure. And in ten days, under the care of the\ndoctors, it might become worse. Straightway, therefore, he puts\nhimself to the dark task. A few visits to the Hospital where Khalid is\ndetained--the patients in those days were not held at Ellis\nIsland--and the intrigue is afoot. On the third or fourth visit, we\ncan not make out which, a note in Arabic is slipt into Khalid's\npocket, and with a significant Arabic sign, Shakib takes himself off.\n\nThe evening of that very day, the trachoma-afflicted Syrian was absent\nfrom the ward. He was carried off by Iblis,--the porter and a few\nGreenbacks assisting. Yes, even Shakib, who knew only a few English\nmonosyllables, could here make himself understood. For money is one of\nthe two universal languages of the world, the other being love.\nIndeed, money and love are as eloquent in Turkey and Dahomey as they\nare in Paris or New York.\n\nAnd here we reach one of those hedges in the _Histoire Intime_ which\nwe must go through in spite of the warning-signs. Between two\nparagraphs, to be plain, in the one of which we are told how the two\nSyrians established themselves as merchants in New York, in the other,\nhow and wherefor they shouldered the peddling-box and took to the\nroad, there is a crossed paragraph containing a most significant\nrevelation. It seems that after giving the matter some serious\nthought, our Scribe came to the conclusion that it is not proper to\nincriminate his illustrious Master. But here is a confession which a\nhundred crosses can not efface. And if he did not want to bring the\nmatter to our immediate cognisance, why, we ask, did he not re-write\nthe page? Why did he not cover well that said paragraph with crosses\nand arabesques? We do suspect him here of chicanery; for by this\nplausible recantation he would shift the responsibility to the\nshoulders of the Editor, if the secret is divulged. Be this as it may,\nno red crosses can conceal from us the astounding confession, which we\nnow give out. For the two young Syrians, who were smuggled out of\ntheir country by the boatmen of Beirut, and who smuggled themselves\ninto the city of New York (we beg the critic's pardon; for, being\nforeigners ourselves, we ought to be permitted to stretch this term,\nsmuggle, to cover an Arabic metaphor, or to smuggle into it a foreign\nmeaning), these two Syrians, we say, became, in their capacity of\nmerchants, smugglers of the most ingenious and most evasive type.\n\nWe now note the following, which pertains to their business. We learn\nthat they settled in the Syrian Quarter directly after clearing their\nmerchandise. And before they entered their cellar, we are assured,\nthey washed their hands of all intrigues and were shrived of their\nsins by the Maronite priest of the Colony. For they were pious in\nthose days, and right Catholics. 'Tis further set down in the\n_Histoire Intime_:\n\n\"We rented a cellar, as deep and dark and damp as could be found. And\nour landlord was a Teague, nay, a kind-hearted old Irishman, who\nhelped us put up the shelves, and never called for the rent in the\ndawn of the first day of the month. In the front part of this cellar\nwe had our shop; in the rear, our home. On the floor we laid our\nmattresses, on the shelves, our goods. And never did we stop to think\nwho in this case was better off. The safety of our merchandise before\nour own. But ten days after we had settled down, the water issued\nforth from the floor and inundated our shop and home. It rose so high\nthat it destroyed half of our capital stock and almost all our\nfurniture. And yet, we continued to live in the cellar, because,\nperhaps, every one of our compatriot-merchants did so. We were all\nalike subject to these inundations in the winter season. I remember\nwhen the water first rose in our store, Khalid was so hard set and in\nsuch a pucker that he ran out capless and in his shirt sleeves to\ndiscover in the next street the source of the flood. And one day, when\nwe were pumping out the water he asked me if I thought this was easier\nthan rolling our roofs in Baalbek. For truly, the paving-roller is\nchild's play to this pump. And a leaky roof is better than an\ninundated cellar.\"\n\nHowever, this is not the time for brooding. They have to pump ahead to\nsave what remained of their capital stock. But Khalid, nevertheless,\nwould brood and jabber. And what an inundation of ideas, and what\nquestions!\n\n\"Think you,\" he asks, \"that the inhabitants of this New World are\nbetter off than those of the Old?--Can you imagine mankind living in a\nhuge cellar of a world and you and I pumping the water out of its\nbottom?--I can see the palaces on which you waste your rhymes, but\nmankind live in them only in the flesh. The soul I tell you, still\noccupies the basement, even the sub-cellar. And an inundated cellar at\nthat. The soul, Shakib, is kept below, although the high places are\nvacant.\"\n\nAnd his partner sputters out his despair; for instead of helping to\npump out the water, Khalid stands there gazing into it, as if by some\nmiracle he would draw it out with his eyes or with his breath. And the\npoor Poet cries out, \"Pump! the water is gaining on us, and our shop\nis going to ruin. Pump!\" Whereupon the lazy, absent-minded one resumes\npumping, while yearning all the while for the plashing stone-rollers\nand the purling eaves of his home in Baalbek. And once in a\npinch,--they are labouring under a peltering rain,--he stops as is his\nwont to remind Shakib of the Arabic saying, \"From the dripping ceiling\nto the running gargoyle.\" He is labouring again under a hurricane of\nideas. And again he asks, \"Are you sure we are better off here?\"\n\nAnd our poor Scribe, knee-deep in the water below, blusters out\ncurses, which Khalid heeds not. \"I am tired of this job,\" he growls;\n\"the stone-roller never drew so much on my strength, nor did\nmuleteering. Ah, for my dripping ceiling again, for are we not now\nunder the running gargoyle?\" And he reverts into a stupor, leaving the\nworld to the poet and the pump.\n\nFor five years and more they lead such a life in the cellar. And they\ndo not move out of it, lest they excite the envy of their compatriots.\nBut instead of sleeping on the floor, they stretch themselves on the\ncounters. The rising tide teaches them this little wisdom, which keeps\nthe doctor and Izr\u00e4il away. Their merchandise, however,--their\ncrosses, and scapulars and prayer-beads,--are beyond hope of recovery.\nFor what the rising tide spares, the rascally flyaway peddlers carry\naway. That is why they themselves shoulder the box and take to the\nroad. And the pious old dames of the suburbs, we are told, receive\nthem with such exclamations of joy and wonder, and almost tear their\ncoats to get from them a sacred token. For you must remember, they are\nfrom the Holy Land. Unlike their goods, they at least are genuine. And\nevery Saturday night, after beating the hoof in the country and making\nsuch fabulous profits on their false Holy-Land gewgaws, they return to\ntheir cellar happy and content.\n\n\"In three years,\" writes our Scribe, \"Khalid and I acquired what I\nstill consider a handsome fortune. Each of us had a bank account, and\na check book which we seldom used.... In spite of which, we continued\nto shoulder the peddling box and tramp along.... And Khalid would say\nto me, 'A peddler is superior to a merchant; we travel and earn money;\nour compatriots the merchants rust in their cellars and lose it.' To\nbe sure, peddling in the good old days was most attractive. For the\nexercise, the gain, the experience--these are rich acquirements.\"\n\nAnd both Shakib and Khalid, we apprehend, have been hitherto most\nmoderate in their habits. The fact that they seldom use their check\nbooks, testifies to this. They have now a peddleress, Im-Hanna by\nname, who occupies their cellar in their absence, and keeps what\nlittle they have in order. And when they return every Saturday night\nfrom their peddling trip, they find the old woman as ready to serve\nthem as a mother. She cooks _mojadderah_ for them, and sews the\nbed-linen on the quilts as is done in the mother country.\n\n\"The linen,\" says Shakib, \"was always as white as a dove's wing, when\nIm-Hanna was with us.\"\n\nAnd in the Khedivial Library Manuscript we find this curious note upon\nthat popular Syrian dish of lentils and olive oil.\n\n\"_Mojadderah_,\" writes Khalid, \"has a marvellous effect upon my humour\nand nerves. There are certain dishes, I confess, which give me the\nblues. Of these, fried eggplants and cabbage boiled with corn-beef on\nthe American system of boiling, that is to say, cooking, I abominate\nthe most. But _mojadderah_ has such a soothing effect on the nerves;\nit conduces to cheerfulness, especially when the raw onion or the leek\nis taken with it. After a good round pewter platter of this delicious\ndish and a dozen leeks, I feel as if I could do the work of all\nmankind. And I am then in such a beatific state of mind that I would\nshare with all mankind my sack of lentils and my pipkin of olive oil.\nI wonder not at Esau's extravagance, when he saw a steaming mess of\nit. For what is a birthright in comparison?\"\n\nThat Shakib also shared this beatific mood, the following quaint\npicture of their Saturday nights in the cellar, will show.\n\n\"A bank account,\" he writes, \"a good round dish of _mojadderah_, the\nlute for Khalid, Al-Mutanabbi for me,--neither of us could forego his\nhobby,--and Im-Hanna, affectionate, devoted as our mothers,--these\nwere the joys of our Saturday nights in our underground diggings. We\nwere absolutely happy. And we never tried to measure our happiness in\nthose days, or gauge it, or flay it to see if it be dead or alive,\nfalse or real. Ah, the blessedness of that supreme unconsciousness\nwhich wrapped us as a mother would her babe, warming and caressing our\nhearts. We did not know then that happiness was a thing to be sought.\nWe only knew that peddling is a pleasure, that a bank account is a\nsupreme joy, that a dish of _mojadderah_ cooked by Im-Hanna is a royal\ndelight, that our dour dark cellar is a palace of its kind, and that\nhappiness, like a bride, issues from all these, and, touching the\nstrings of Khalid's lute, mantles us with song.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE CELLAR OF THE SOUL\n\n\nHeretofore, Khalid and Shakib have been inseparable as the Pointers.\nThey always appeared together, went the rounds of their peddling orbit\ntogether, and together were subject to the same conditions and\nrestraints. Which restraints are a sort of sacrifice they make on the\naltar of friendship. One, for instance, would never permit himself an\nadvantage which the other could not enjoy, or a pleasure in which the\nother could not share. They even slept under the same blanket, we\nlearn, ate from the same plate, puffed at the same narghilah, which\nShakib brought with him from Baalbek, and collaborated in writing to\none lady-love! A condition of unexampled friendship this, of complete\noneness. They had both cut themselves garments from the same cloth, as\nthe Arabic saying goes. And on Sunday afternoon, in garments spick and\nspan, they would take the air in Battery Park, where the one would\ninvoke the Statue of Liberty for a thought, or the gilded domes of\nBroadway for a metaphor, while the other would be scouring the horizon\nfor the Nothingness, which is called, in the recondite cant of the\nsophisticated, a vague something.\n\nIn the Khedivial Library MS. we find nothing which this Battery Park\nmight have inspired. And yet, we can not believe that Khalid here was\nonly attracted by that vague something which, in his spiritual\nenceinteship, he seemed to relish. Nothing? Not even the does and\nkangaroos that adorn the Park distracted or detained him? We doubt it;\nand Khalid's lute sustains us in our doubt. Ay, and so does our\nScribe; for in his _Histoire Intime_ we read the following, which we\nfaithfully transcribe.\n\n\"Of the many attractions of Battery Park, the girls and the sea were\nmy favourite. For the girls in a crowd have for me a fascination which\nonly the girls at the bath can surpass. I love to lose myself in a\ncrowd, to buffet, so to speak, its waves, to nestle under their\nfeathery crests. For the rolling waves of life, the tumbling waves of\nthe sea, and the fiery waves of Al-Mutanabbi's poetry have always been\nmy delight. In Battery Park I took especial pleasure in reading aloud\nmy verses to Khalid, or in fact to the sea, for Khalid never would\nlisten.\n\n\"Once I composed a few stanzas to the Milkmaid who stood in her wagon\nnear the lawn, rattling out milk-punches to the boys. A winsome lass\nshe was, fresh in her sororiation, with fair blue eyes, a celestial\nflow of auburn hair, and cheeks that suggested the milk and cherry in\nthe glass she rattled out to me. I was reading aloud the stanzas which\nshe inspired, when Khalid, who was not listening, pointed out to me a\nwoman whose figure and the curves thereof were remarkable. 'Is it not\nstrange,' said he, 'how the women here indraw their stomachs and\noutdraw their hips? And is not this the opposite of the shape which\nour women cultivate?'\n\n\"Yes, with the Lebanon women, the convex curve beneath the waist is\nfrontward, not hindward. But that is a matter of taste, I thought, and\nman is partly responsible for either convexity. I have often wondered,\nhowever, why the women of my country cultivate that shape. And why do\nthey in America cultivate the reverse of it? Needless to say that both\nare pruriently titillating,--both distentions are damnably suggestive,\nquite killing. The American woman, from a fine sense of modesty, I am\ntold, never or seldom ventures abroad, when big with child. But in the\nkangaroo figure, the burden is slightly shifted and naught is amiss.\nAh, such haunches as are here exhibited suggest the _aliats_ of our\nAsiatic sheep.\"\n\nAnd what he says about the pruriently titillating convexities, whether\nfrontward or hindward, suggests a little prudery. For in his rhymes he\nbetrays both his comrade and himself. Battery Park and the attractions\nthereof prove fatal. Elsewhere, therefore, they must go, and begin to\ndraw on their bank accounts. Which does not mean, however, that they\nare far from the snare. No; for when a young man begins to suffer from\nwhat the doctors call hebephrenia, the farther he draws away from such\nsnares the nearer he gets to them. And these lusty Syrians could not\nrepel the magnetic attraction of the polypiosis of what Shakib likens\nto the _aliat_ (fattail) of our Asiatic sheep. Surely, there be more\ndevils under such an _aliat_ than under the hat of a Jesuit. And\nKhalid is the first to discover this. Both have been ensnared,\nhowever, and both, when in the snare, have been infernally inspired.\nWhat Khalid wrote, when he was under the influence of feminine curves,\nwas preserved by Shakib, who remarks that one evening, after returning\nfrom the Park, Khalid said to him, 'I am going to write a poem.' A\nfortnight later, he hands him the following, which he jealously kept\namong his papers.\n\n    I dreamt I was a donkey-boy again.\n    Out on the sun-swept roads of Baalbek, I tramp behind my\n        burro, trolling my _mulayiah_.\n    At noon, I pass by a garden redolent of mystic scents and\n        tarry awhile.\n    Under an orange tree, on the soft green grass, I stretch my\n        limbs.\n    The daisies, the anemones, and the cyclamens are round me\n        pressing:\n    The anemone buds hold out to me their precious rubies; the\n        daisies kiss me in the eyes and lips; and the cyclamens\n        shake their powder in my hair.\n    On the wall, the roses are nodding, smiling; above me the\n        orange blossoms surrender themselves to the wooing\n        breeze; and on yonder rock the salamander sits, complacent\n        and serene.\n    I take a daisy, and, boy as boys go, question its\n        petals:\n    Married man or monk, I ask, plucking them off one by one,\n    And the last petal says, Monk.\n    I perfume my fingers with crumpled cyclamens, cover my\n        face with the dark-eyed anemones, and fall asleep.\n    And my burro sleeps beneath the wall, in the shadow of\n        nodding roses.\n    And the black-birds too are dozing, and the bulbuls flitting\n        by whisper with their wings, 'salaam.'\n    Peace and salaam!\n    The bulbul, the black-bird, the salamander, the burro, and\n        the burro-boy, are to each other shades of noon-day sun:\n    Happy, loving, generous, and free;--\n    As happy as each other, and as free.\n    We do what we please in Nature's realm, go where we\n        please;\n    No one's offended, no one ever wronged.\n    No sentinels hath Nature, no police.\n    But lo, a goblin as I sleep comes forth;--\n    A goblin taller than the tallest poplar, who carries me upon\n        his neck to the Park in far New York.\n    Here women, light-heeled, heavy-haunched, pace up and\n        down the flags in graceful gait.\n    My roses these, I cry, and my orange blossoms.\n    But the goblin placed his hand upon my mouth, and I was\n        dumb.\n    The cyclamens, the anemones, the daisies, I saw them, but I\n        could not speak to them.\n    The goblin placed his hand upon my mouth, and I was\n        dumb.\n    O take me back to my own groves, I cried, or let me speak.\n    But he threw me off his shoulders in a huff, among the daisies\n        and the cyclamens.\n    Alone among them, but I could not speak.\n    He had tied my tongue, the goblin, and left me there alone.\n    And in front of me, and towards me, and beside me,\n    Walked Allah's fairest cyclamens and anemones.\n    I smell them, and the tears flow down my cheeks;\n    I can not even like the noon-day bulbul\n    Whisper with my wings, salaam!\n    I sit me on a bench and weep.\n    And in my heart I sing\n    O, let me be a burro-boy again;\n    O, let me sleep among the cyclamens\n    Of my own land.\n\nShades of Whitman! But Whitman, thou Donkey, never weeps. Whitman, if\nthat goblin tried to silence him, would have wrung his neck, after he\nhad ridden upon it. The above, nevertheless, deserves the space we\ngive it here, as it shadows forth one of the essential elements of\nKhalid's spiritual make-up. But this slight symptom of that disease we\nnamed, this morbidness incident to adolescence, is eventually overcome\nby a dictionary and a grammar. Ay, Khalid henceforth shall cease to\nscour the horizon for that vague something of his dreams; he has\nbecome far-sighted enough by the process to see the necessity of\npursuing in America something more spiritual than peddling crosses and\nscapulars. Especially in this America, where the alphabet is spread\nbroadcast, and free of charge. And so, he sets himself to the task of\nself-education. He feels the embryo stir within him, and in the\nsqueamishness of enceinteship, he asks but for a few of the fruits of\nknowledge. Ah, but he becomes voracious of a sudden, and the little\npocket dictionary is devoured entirely in three sittings. Hence his\nfolly of treating his thoughts and fancies, as he was treated by the\ngoblin. For do not words often rob a fancy of its tongue, or a thought\nof its soul? Many of the pieces Khalid wrote when he was devouring\ndictionaries were finally disposed of in a most picturesque manner, as\nwe shall relate. And a few were given to Shakib, of which that Dream\nof Cyclamens was preserved.\n\nAnd Khalid's motto was, \"One book at a time.\" He would not encumber\nhimself with books any more than he would with shoes. But that the\nmind might not go barefoot, he always bought a new book before\ndestroying the one in hand. Destroying? Yes; for after reading or\nstudying a book, he warms his hands upon its flames, this Khalid, or\nmakes it serve to cook a pot of _mojadderah_. In this extraordinary\nand outrageous manner, barbarously capricious, he would baptise the\nideal in the fire of the real. And thus, glowing with health and\nconfidence and conceit, he enters another Park from which he escapes\nin the end, sad and wan and bankrupt. Of a truth, many attractions and\ndistractions are here; else he could not forget the peddling-box and\nthe light-heeled, heavy-haunched women of Battery Park. Here are\nswings for the mind; toboggan-chutes for the soul; merry-go-rounds for\nthe fancy; and many devious and alluring paths where one can lose\nhimself for years. A sanitarium this for the hebephreniac. And like\nall sanitariums, you go into it with one disease and come out of it\nwith ten. Had Shakib been forewarned of Khalid's mind, had he even\nseen him at the gate before he entered, he would have given him a few\nhints about the cross-signs and barbed-cordons therein. But should he\nnot have divined that Khalid soon or late was coming? Did _he_ not\ncall enough to him, and aloud? \"Get thee behind me on this dromedary,\"\nour Scribe, reading his Al-Mutanabbi, would often say to his comrade,\n\"and come from this desert of barren gold, if but for a day,--come out\nwith me to the oasis of poesy.\"\n\nBut Khalid would only ride alone. And so, he begins his course of\nself-education. But how he shall manage it, in this cart-before-the-horse\nfashion, the reader shall know. Words before rules, ideas before\nsystems, epigrams before texts,--that is Khalid's fancy. And that\nseems feasible, though not logical; it will prove effectual, too, if one\nfinally brushed the text and glanced at the rules. For an epigram,\nwhen it takes possession of one, goes farther in influencing his\nthoughts and actions than whole tomes of ethical culture science. You\nknow perhaps how the Arabs conquered the best half of the world with an\nepigram, a word. And Khalid loves a fine-sounding, easy-flowing word; a\nword of supple joints, so to speak; a word that you can twist and roll\nout, flexible as a bamboo switch, resilient as a fine steel rapier.\nBut once Shakib, after reading one of Khalid's first attempts, gets up in\nthe night when his friend is asleep, takes from the bottom drawer of the\npeddling-box the evil-working dictionary, and places therein a grammar.\nThis touch of delicacy, this fine piece of criticism, brief and neat,\nwithout words withal, Khalid this time is not slow to grasp and\nappreciate. He plunges, therefore, headlong into the grammar, turns a\nfew somersaults in the mazes of Sibawai and Naftawai, and coming out\nwith a broken noddle, writes on the door the following: \"What do I care\nabout your theories of nouns and verbs? Whether the one be derived from\nthe other, concerns not me. But this I know, after stumbling once or\ntwice in your labyrinths, one comes out parsing the verb, to run.\nIndeed, verbs are more essential than nouns and adjectives. A noun can\nbe represented pictorially; but how, pictorially, can you represent a noun\nin motion,--Khalid, for instance, running out of your labyrinths? Even\nan abstract state can be represented in a picture, but a transitive state\nnever. The richest language, therefore, is not the one which can boast of\na thousand names for the lion or two thousand for the camel, but the\none whose verbs have a complete and perfect gamut of moods and tenses.\"\n\nThat is why, although writing in Arabic, Khalid prefers English. For\nthe Arabic verb is confined to three tenses, the primary ones only;\nand to break through any of these in any degree, requires such\ncrowbars as only auxiliaries and other verbs can furnish. For this and\nmany other reasons Khalid stops short in the mazes of Sibawai, runs\nout of them exasperated, depressed, and never for a long time after\nlooks in that direction. He is now curious to know if the English\nlanguage have its Sibawais and Naftawais. And so, he buys him a\ngrammar, and there finds the way somewhat devious, too, but not enough\nto constitute a maze. The men who wrote these grammars must have had\nplenty of time to do a little useful work. They do not seem to have\nwalked leisurely in flowing robes disserting a life-long dissertation\non the origin and descent of a preposition. One day Shakib is amazed\nby finding the grammars page by page tacked on the walls of the cellar\nand Khalid pacing around leisurely lingering a moment before each\npage, as if he were in an art gallery. That is how he tackled his\nsubject. And that is why he and Shakib begin to quarrel. The idea!\nThat a fledgling should presume to pick flaws. To Shakib, who is\ntextual to a hair, this is intolerable. And that state of oneness\nbetween them shall be subject hereafter to \"the corrosive action of\nvarious unfriendly agents.\" For Khalid, who has never yet been\nsnaffled, turns restively from the bit which his friend, for his own\nsake, would put in his mouth. The rupture follows. The two for a while\nwend their way in opposite directions. Shakib still cherishing and\ncultivating his bank account, shoulders his peddling-box and jogs\nalong with his inspiring demon, under whose auspices, he tells us, he\ncontinues to write verse and gull with his brummagems the pious dames\nof the suburbs. And Khalid sits on his peddling-box for hours\npondering on the necessity of disposing of it somehow. For now he\nscarcely makes more than a few peddling-trips each month, and when he\nreturns, he does not go to the bank to add to his balance, but to draw\nfrom it. That is why the accounts of the two Syrians do not fare\nalike; Shakib's is gaining in weight, Khalid's is wasting away.\n\nYes, the strenuous spirit is a long time dead in Khalid. He is\ngradually reverting to the Oriental instinct. And when he is not\nloafing in Battery Park, carving his name on the bench, he is\nburrowing in the shelves of some second-hand book-shop or dreaming in\nthe dome of some Broadway skyscraper. Does not this seem inevitable,\nhowever, considering the palingenetic burden within him? And is not\nloafing a necessary prelude to the travail? Khalid, of course, felt\nthe necessity of this, not knowing the why and wherefor. And from the\nvast world of paper-bound souls, for he relished but pamphlets at the\nstart--they do not make much smoke in the fire, he would say--from\nthat vast world he could command the greatest of the great to help him\nsupport the loafing while. And as by a miracle, he came out of that\nchaos of contending spirits without a scratch. He enjoyed the\nbelligerency of pamphleteers as an American would enjoy a prize\nfight. But he sided with no one; he took from every one his best and\nconsigned him to Im-Hanna's kitchen. Torquemada could not have done\nbetter; but Khalid, it is hoped, will yet atone for his crimes.\n\nMonsieur Pascal, with whom he quarrels before he burns, had a\nparticular influence upon him. He could not rest after reading his\n\"Thoughts\" until he read the Bible. And of the Prophets of the Old\nTestament he had an especial liking for Jeremiah and Isaiah. And once\nhe bought a cheap print of Jeremiah which he tacked on the wall of his\ncellar. From the Khedivial Library MS. we give two excerpts relating\nto Pascal and this Prophet.\n\n  \"O Monsieur Pascal,\n\n  \"I tried hard to hate and detest myself, as you advise, and I\n  found that I could not by so doing love God. 'Tis in loving the\n  divine in Man, in me, in you, that we rise to the love of our\n  Maker. And in giving your proofs of the true religion, you speak\n  of the surprising measures of the Christian Faith, enjoining man\n  to acknowledge himself vile, base, abominable, and obliging him\n  at the same time to aspire towards a resemblance of his Maker.\n  Now, I see in this a foreshadowing of the theory of evolution,\n  nay a divine warrant for it. Nor is it the Christian religion\n  alone which unfolds to man the twofold mystery of his nature;\n  others are as dark and as bright on either side of the pole. And\n  Philosophy conspiring with Biology will not consent to the\n  apotheosis of Man, unless he wear on his breast a symbol of his\n  tail.... _Au-revoir_, Monsieur Pascal, Remember me to St.\n  Augustine.\"\n\n  \"O Jeremiah,\n\n  \"Thy picture, sitting among the ruins of the City of Zion,\n  appeals to my soul. Why, I know not. It may be because I myself\n  once sat in that posture among the ruins of my native City of\n  Baal. But the ruins did not grieve me as did the uncle who\n  slammed the door in my face that night. True, I wept in the\n  ruins, but not over them. Something else had punctured the\n  bladderets of my tears. And who knows who punctured thine, O\n  Jeremiah? Perhaps a daughter of Tamar had stuck a bodkin in\n  thine eye, and in lamenting thine own fate--Pardon me, O\n  Jeremiah. Melikes not all these tears of thine. Nor did Zion and\n  her children in Juhannam, I am sure.... Instead of a scroll in\n  thy hand, I would have thee hold a harp. Since King David, Allah\n  has not thought of endowing his prophets with musical talent.\n  Why, think what an honest prophet could accomplish if his\n  message were put into music. And withal, if he himself could\n  sing it. Yes, our modern Jeremiahs should all take music\n  lessons; for no matter how deep and poignant our sorrows, we can\n  always rise from them, harp in hand, to an ecstasy, joyous and\n  divine.\"\n\nNow, connect with this the following from the _Histoire Intime_, and\nyou have the complete history of this Prophet in Khalid's cellar. For\nKhalid himself never gives us the facts in the case. Our Scribe,\nhowever, comes not short in this.\n\n\"The picture of the Prophet Jeremiah,\" writes he, \"Khalid hung on the\nwall, above his bed. And every night he would look up to it\ninvokingly, muttering I know not what. One evening, while in this\nposture, he took up his lute and trolled a favourite ditty. For three\ndays and three nights that picture hung on the wall. And on the\nmorning of the fourth day--it was a cold December morning, I\nremember--he took it down and lighted the fire with it. The Pamphlet\nhe had read a few days since, he also threw into the fire, and\nthereupon called to me saying, 'Come, Shakib, and warm yourself.'\"\n\nAnd the Pamphlet, we learn, which was thus baptised in the same fire\nwith the Prophet's picture, was Tom Paine's _Age of Reason_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nTHE SUMMER AFTERNOON OF A SHAM\n\n\nFor two years and more Khalid's young mind went leaping from one swing\nto another, from one carousel or toboggan-chute to the next, without\nhaving any special object in view, without knowing why and wherefor.\nHe even entered such mazes of philosophy, such labyrinths of mysticism\nas put those of the Arabian grammaticasters in the shade. To him,\neducation was a sport, pursued in a free spirit after his own fancy,\nwithout method or discipline. For two years and more he did little but\nramble thus, drawing meanwhile on his account in the bank, and burning\npamphlets.\n\nOne day he passes by a second-hand book-shop, which is in the\nfinancial hive of the city, hard by a church and within a stone's\nthrow from the Stock Exchange. The owner, a shabby venerable,\nstanding there, pipe in mouth, between piles of pamphlets and\nlittle pyramids of books, attracts Khalid. He too occupies a\ncellar. And withal he resembles the Prophet in the picture which was\nburned with Tom Paine's _Age of Reason_. Nothing in the face at\nleast is amiss. A flowing, serrated, milky beard, with a touch of\ngold around the mouth; an aquiline nose; deep set blue eyes canopied\nwith shaggy brows; a forehead broad and high; a dome a little frowsy\nbut not guilty of a hair--the Prophet Jeremiah! Only one thing, a clay\npipe which he seldom took out of his mouth except to empty and\nrefill, seemed to take from the prophetic solemnity of the face.\nOtherwise, he is as grim and sullen as the Prophet. In his voice,\nhowever, there is a supple sweetness which the hard lines in his face\ndo not express. Khalid nicknames him second-hand Jerry, makes to him\nprofessions of friendship, and for many months comes every day to\nsee him. He comes with his bucket, as he would say, to Jerry's well.\nFor the two, the young man and the old man of the cellar, the\nneophite and the master, would chat about literature and the makers\nof it for hours. And what a sea of information is therein under that\nfrowsy dome. Withal, second-hand Jerry is a man of ideals and\nabstractions, exhibiting now and then an heretical twist which is\nas agreeable as the vermiculations in a mahogany. \"We moderns,\" said\nhe once to Khalid, \"are absolutely one-sided. Here, for instance, is\nmy book-shop, there is the Church, and yonder is the Stock Exchange.\nNow, the men who frequent them, and though their elbows touch, are\nas foreign to each other as is a jerboa to a polar bear. Those who\ngo to Church do not go to the Stock Exchange; those who spend their\ndays on the Stock Exchange seldom go to Church; and those who\nfrequent my cellar go neither to the one nor the other. That is why\nour civilisation produces so many bigots, so many philistines, so\nmany pedants and prigs. The Stock Exchange is as necessary to\nSociety as the Church, and the Church is as vital, as essential\nto its spiritual well-being as my book-shop. And not until man\ndevelops his mental, spiritual and physical faculties to what\nMatthew Arnold calls 'a harmonious perfection,' will he be able to\nreach the heights from which Idealism is waving to him.\"\n\nThus would the master discourse, and the neophite, sitting on the\nsteps of the cellar, smoking his cigarette, listens, admiring,\npondering. And every time he comes with his bucket, Jerry would be\nstanding there, between his little pyramids of books, pipe in mouth,\nhands in pockets, ready for the discourse. He would also conduct\nthrough his underworld any one who had the leisure and inclination.\nBut fortunately for Khalid, the people of this district are either too\nrich to buy second-hand books, or too snobbish to stop before this\ncuriosity shop of literature. Hence the master is never too busy; he\nis always ready to deliver the discourse.\n\nOne day Khalid is conducted into the labyrinthine gloom and mould of\nthe cellar. Through the narrow isles, under a low ceiling, papered, as\nit were, with pamphlets, between ramparts and mounds of books, old\nJerry, his head bowed, his lighted taper in hand, proceeds. And Khalid\nfollows directly behind, listening to his guide who points out the\nobjects and places of interest. And thus, through the alleys and\nby-ways, through the nooks and labyrinths of these underground\ntemple-ruins, we get to the rear, where the ramparts and mounds\ncrumble to a mighty heap, rising pell-mell to the ceiling. Here, one\nis likely to get a glimpse into such enchanted worlds as the name of\na Dickens or a Balzac might suggest. Here, too, is Shakespeare in\nlamentable state; there is Carlyle in rags, still crying, as it were,\nagainst the filth and beastliness of this underworld. And look at my\nlord Tennyson shivering in his nakedness and doomed to keep company\nwith the meanest of poetasters. Observe how Emerson is wriggled and\nruffled in this crushing crowd. Does he not seem to be still sighing\nfor a little solitude? But here, too, are spots of the rarest literary\ninterest. Close to the vilest of dime novels is an autograph copy of a\nbook which you might not find at Brentano's. Indeed, the rarities here\nstand side by side with the superfluities--the abominations with the\nblessings of literature--cluttered together, reduced to a common\nlevel. And all in a condition which bespeaks the time when they were\nheld in the affection of some one. Now, they lie a-mouldering in these\nmounds, and on these shelves, awaiting a curious eye, a kindly hand.\n\n  \"To me,\" writes Khalid in the K. L. MS., \"there is always\n  something pathetic in a second-hand book offered again for sale.\n  Why did its first owner part with it? Was it out of disgust or\n  surfeit or penury? Did he throw it away, or give it away, or\n  sell it? Alas, and is this how to treat a friend? Were it not\n  better burned, than sold or thrown away? After coming out of the\n  press, how many have handled this tattered volume? How many has\n  it entertained, enlightened, or perverted? Look at its pages,\n  which evidence the hardship of the journey it has made. Here\n  still is a pressed flower, more convincing in its shrouded\n  eloquence than the philosophy of the pages in which it lies\n  buried. On the fly-leaf are the names of three successive\n  owners, and on the margin are lead pencil notes in which the\n  reader criticises the author. Their spirits are now shrouded\n  together and entombed in this pile, where the mould never fails\n  and the moths never die. They too are fallen a prey to the worms\n  of the earth. A second-hand book-shop always reminds me of a\n  Necropolis. It is a kind of Serapeum where lies buried the kings\n  and princes with the helots and underlings of literature. Ay,\n  every book is a mortuary chamber containing the remains of some\n  poor literary wretch, or some mighty genius.... A book is a\n  friend, my brothers, and when it ceases to entertain or instruct\n  or inspire, it is dead. And would you sell a dead friend, would\n  you throw him away? If you can not keep him embalmed on your\n  shelf, is it not the wiser part, and the kinder, to cremate\n  him?\"\n\nAnd Khalid tells old Jerry, that if every one buying and reading\nbooks, disposed of them in the end as he himself does, second-hand\nbook-shops would no longer exist. But old Jerry never despairs of\nbusiness. And the idea of turning his Serapeum into a kiln does not\nappeal to him. Howbeit, Khalid has other ideas which the old man\nadmires, and which he would carry out if the police would not\ninterfere. \"If I were the owner of this shop,\" thus the neophite to\nthe master, \"I would advertise it with a bonfire of pamphlets. I would\ntake a few hundreds from that mound there and give them the match\nright in front of that Church, or better still before the Stock\nExchange. And I would have two sandwich-men stand about the bonfire,\nas high priests of the Temple, and chant the praises of second-hand\nJerry and his second-hand book-shop. This will be the sacrifice which\nyou will have offered to the god of Trade right in front of his\nsanctuary that he might soften the induration in the breasts of these\nworthy citizens, your rich neighbours. And if he does not, why, shut\nup shop or burn it up, and let us go out peddling together.\"\n\nWe do not know, however, whether old Jerry ever adopted Khalid's idea.\nHe himself is an Oriental in this sense; and the business is good\nenough to keep up, so long as Khalid comes. He is supremely content.\nIndeed, Shakib asseverates in round Arabic, that the old man of the\ncellar got a good portion of Khalid's balance, while balancing\nKhalid's mind. Nay, firing it with free-thought literature. Are we\nthen to consider this cellar as Khalid's source of spiritual\nillumination? And is this genial old heretic an American avatar of the\nmonk Bohaira? For Khalid is gradually becoming a man of ideas and\ncrotchets. He is beginning to see a purpose in all his literary and\nspiritual rambles. His mental nebulosity is resolving itself into\nsomething concrete, which shall weigh upon him for a while and propel\nhim in the direction of Atheism and Demagogy. For old Jerry once\nvisits Khalid in his cellar, and after partaking of a dish of\n_mojadderah_, takes him to a political meeting to hear the popular\norators of the day.\n\nAnd in this is ineffable joy for Khalid. Like every young mind he is\nspellbound by one of those masters of spread-eagle oratory, and for\nsome time he does not miss a single political meeting in his district.\nWe even see him among the crowd before the corner groggery, cheering\none of the political spouters of the day.\n\nAnd once he accompanies Jerry to the Temple of Atheism to behold its\nhigh Priest and hear him chant halleluiah to the Nebular Hypothesis.\nThis is wonderful. How easy it is to dereligionise the human race and\nbanish God from the Universe! But after the High Priest had done this,\nafter he had proven to the satisfaction of every atheist that God is a\nmyth, old Jerry turns around and gives Khalid this warning: \"Don't\nbelieve all he says, for I know that atheist well. He is as eloquent\nas he is insincere.\"\n\nAnd so are all atheists. For at bottom, atheism is either a fad or a\ntrade or a fatuity. And whether the one or the other, it is a sham\nmore pernicious than the worst. To the young mind, it is a shibboleth\nof cheap culture; to the shrewd and calculating mind, to such orators\nas Khalid heard, it is a trade most remunerative; and to the\nscientists, or rather monists, it is the aliment with which they\nnourish the perversity of their preconceptions. Second-hand Jerry did\nnot say these things to our young philosopher; for had he done so,\nKhalid, now become edacious, would not have experienced those\ndyspeptic pangs which almost crushed the soul-fetus in him. For we are\ntold that he is as sedulous in attending these atheistic lectures as\nhe is in flocking with his fellow citizens to hear and cheer the idols\nof the stump. Once he took Shakib to the Temple of Atheism, but the\nPoet seems to prefer his _Al-Mutanabby_. In relating of Khalid's\nwaywardness he says:\n\n\"Ever since we quarrelled about Sibawai, Khalid and I have seldom been\ntogether. And he had become so opinionated that I was glad it was so.\nEven on Sunday I would leave him alone with Im-Hanna, and returning\nin the evening, I would find him either reading or burning a pamphlet.\nOnce I consented to accompany him to one of the lectures he was so\nfond of attending. And I was really surprised that one had to pay\nmoney for such masquerades of eloquence as were exhibited that night\non the platform. Yes, it occurred to me that if one had not a dollar\none could not become an atheist. Billah! I was scandalized. For no\nmatter how irreverent one likes to pose, one ought to reverence at\nleast his Maker. I am a Christian by the grace of Allah, and my\nancestors are counted among the martyrs of the Church. And thanks to\nmy parents, I have been duly baptized and confirmed. For which I\nrespect them the more, and love them. Now, is it not absurd that I\nshould come here and pay a hard dollar to hear this heretical\nspeechifier insult my parents and my God? Better the ring of\nAl-Mutanabbi's scimitars and spears than the clatter of these\natheistical bones!\"\n\nFrom which we infer that Shakib was not open to reason on the subject.\nHe would draw his friend away from the verge of the abyss at any cost.\n\"And this,\" continues he, \"did not require much effort. For Khalid\nlike myself is constitutionally incapable of denying God. We are from\nthe land in which God has always spoken to our ancestors.\"\n\nAnd the argument between the shrewd verse-maker and the foolish\nphilosopher finally hinges on this: namely, that these atheists are\nnot honest investigators, that in their sweeping generalisations, as\nin their speciosity and hypocrisy, they are commercially perverse.\nAnd Khalid is not long in deciding about the matter. He meets with an\naccident--and accidents have always been his touchstones of\nsuccess--which saves his soul and seals the fate of atheism.\n\nOne evening, returning from a ramble in the Park, he passes by the\nHall where his favourite Mountebank was to lecture on the Gospel of\nSoap. But not having the price of admittance that evening, and being\nanxious to hear the orator whom he had idolised, Khalid bravely\nappeals to his generosity in this quaint and touching note: \"My\npocket,\" he wrote, \"is empty and my mind is hungry. Might I come to\nyour Table to-night as a beggar?\" And the man at the stage door, who\ncarries the note to the orator, returns in a trice, and tells Khalid\nto lift himself off. Khalid hesitates, misunderstands; and a heavy\nhand is of a sudden upon him, to say nothing of the heavy boot.\n\nAy, and that boot decided him. Atheism, bald, bold, niggardly, brutal,\npretending withal, Khalid turns from its door never to look again in\nthat direction, Shakib is right. \"These people,\" he growled, \"are not\nfree thinkers, but free stinkards. They do need soap to wash their\nhearts and souls.\"\n\nAn idea did not come to Khalid, as it were, by instalments. In his\npuerperal pains of mind he was subject to such crises, shaken by such\ndownrushes of light, as only the few among mortals experience. (We are\nquoting our Scribe, remember.) And in certain moments he had more\nfaith in his instincts than in his reason. \"Our instincts,\" says he,\n\"never lie. They are honest, and though they be sometimes blind.\" And\nhere, he seems to have struck the truth. He can be practical too.\nHonesty in thought, in word, in deed--this he would have as the\ncornerstone of his truth. Moral rectitude he places above all the\ncardinal virtues, natural and theological. \"Better keep away from the\ntruth, O Khalid,\" he writes, \"better remain a stranger to it all thy\nlife, if thou must sully it with the slimy fingers of a mercenary\njuggler.\" Now, these brave words, we can not in conscience criticise.\nBut we venture to observe that Khalid must have had in mind that\nGospel of Soap and the incident at the stage door.\n\nAnd in this, we, too, rejoice. We, too, forgetting the dignity of our\nposition, participate of the revelry in the cellar on this occasion.\nFor our editorialship, dear Reader, is neither American nor English.\nWe are not bound, therefore, to maintain in any degree the algidity\nand indifference of our confr\u00e8res' sublime attitude. We rejoice in the\nspiritual safety of Khalid. We rejoice that he and Shakib are now\nreconciled. For the reclaimed runagate is now even permitted to draw\non the poet's balance at the banker. Ay, even Khalid can dissimulate\nwhen he needs the cash. For with the assistance of second-hand Jerry\nand the box-office of the atheistical jugglers, he had exhausted his\nlittle saving. He would not even go out peddling any more. And when\nShakib asks him one morning to shoulder the box and come out, he\nreplies: \"I have a little business with it here.\" For after having\nimpeached the High Priests of Atheism he seems to have turned upon\nhimself. We translate from the K. L. MS.\n\n\"When I was disenchanted with atheism, when I saw somewhat of the\nmeanness and selfishness of its protagonists, I began to doubt in\nthe honesty of men. If these, our supposed teachers, are so vile,\nso mercenary, so false,--why, welcome Juhannam! But the more I\ndoubted in the honesty of men, the more did I believe that honesty\nshould be the cardinal virtue of the soul. I go so far in this, that\nan honest thief in my eyes is more worthy of esteem than a canting\nmaterialist or a hypocritical free thinker. Still, the voice within\nme asked if Shakib were honest in his dealings, if I were honest in\nmy peddling? Have I not misrepresented my gewgaws as the atheist\nmisrepresents the truth? 'This is made in the Holy Land,'--'This is\nfrom the Holy Sepulchre'--these lies, O Khalid, are upon you. And\nwhat is the difference between the jewellery you passed off for gold\nand the arguments of the atheist-preacher? Are they not both\ninstruments of deception, both designed to catch the dollar? Yes, you\nhave been, O Khalid, as mean, as mercenary, as dishonest as those\ncanting infidels.\n\n\"And what are you going to do about it? Will you continue, while in\nthe quagmires yourself, to point contemptuously at those standing in\nthe gutter? Will you, in your dishonesty, dare impeach the honesty of\nmen? Are you not going to make a resolution now, either to keep silent\nor to go out of the quagmires and rise to the mountain-heights? Be\npure yourself first, O Khalid; then try to spread this purity around\nyou at any cost.\n\n\"Yes; that is why, when Shakib asked me to go out peddling one day, I\nhesitated and finally refused. For atheism, in whose false dry light I\nwalked a parasang or two, did not only betray itself to me as a sham,\nbut also turned my mind and soul to the sham I had shouldered for\nyears. From the peddling-box, therefore, I turned even as I did from\natheism. Praised be Allah, who, in his providential care, seemed to\nkick me away from the door of its temple. The sham, although effulgent\nand alluring, was as brief as a summer afternoon.\"\n\nAs for the peddling-box, our Scribe will tell of its fate in the\nfollowing Chapter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nIN THE TWILIGHT OF AN IDEA\n\n\nIt is Voltaire, we believe, who says something to the effect that\none's mind should be in accordance with one's years. That is why an\nacademic education nowadays often fails of its purpose. For whether\none's mind runs ahead of one's years, or one's years ahead of one's\nmind, the result is much the same; it always goes ill with the mind.\nTrue, knowledge is power; but in order to feel at home with it, we\nmust be constitutionally qualified. And if we are not, it is likely to\ngive the soul such a wrenching as to deform it forever. Indeed, how\nmany of us go through life with a fatal spiritual or intellectual\ntwist which could have been avoided in our youth, were we a little\nless wise. The young _philosophes_, the products of the University\nMachine of to-day, who go about with a nosegay of -isms, as it were,\nin their lapels, and perfume their speech with the bottled logic of\nthe College Professor,--are not most of them incapable of honestly and\nbravely grappling with the real problems of life? And does not a\nsystematic education mean this, that a young man must go through life\ndragging behind him his heavy chains of set ideas and stock systems,\npolitical, social, or religious? (Remember, we are translating from\nthe Khedivial Library MS.) The author continues:\n\n  \"Whether one devour the knowledge of the world in four years\n  or four nights, the process of assimilation is equally\n  hindered, if the mind is sealed at the start with the seal of\n  authority. Ay, we can not be too careful of dogmatic science in\n  our youth; for dogmas often dam certain channels of the soul\n  through which we might have reached greater treasures and\n  ascended to purer heights. A young man, therefore, ought to be\n  let alone. There is an infinite possibility of soul-power in\n  every one of us, if it can be developed freely, spontaneously,\n  without discipline or restraint. There is, too, an infinite\n  possibility of beauty in every soul, if it can be evoked at an\n  auspicious moment by the proper word, the proper voice, the\n  proper touch. That is why I say, Go thy way, O my Brother. Be\n  simple, natural, spontaneous, courageous, free. Neither\n  anticipate your years, nor lag child-like behind them. For\n  verily, it is as ridiculous to dye the hair white as to dye it\n  black. Ah, be foolish while thou art young; it is never too late\n  to be wise. Indulge thy fancy, follow the bent of thy mind;\n  for in so doing thou canst not possibly do thyself more harm\n  than the disciplinarians can do thee. Live thine own life;\n  think thine own thoughts; keep developing and changing until\n  thou arrive at the truth thyself. An ounce of it found by thee\n  were better than a ton given to thee _gratis_ by one who\n  would enslave thee. Go thy way, O my Brother. And if my words\n  lead thee to Juhannam, why, there will be a great surprise for\n  thee. There thou wilt behold our Maker sitting on a flaming\n  glacier waiting for the like of thee. And he will take thee\n  into his arms and poke thee in the ribs, and together you will\n  laugh and laugh, until that glacier become a garden and thou\n  a flower therein. Go thy way, therefore; be not afraid. And no\n  matter how many tears thou sheddest on this side, thou wilt\n  surely be poked in the ribs on the other. Go--thy--but--let\n  Nature be thy guide; acquaint thyself with one or two of her\n  laws ere thou runnest wild.\"\n\nAnd to what extent did this fantastic mystic son of a Phoenician\nacquaint himself with Nature's laws, we do not know. But truly, he was\nalready running wild in the great cosmopolis of New York. From his\nstivy cellar he issues forth into the plashing, plangent currents of\ncity life. Before he does this, however, he rids himself of all the\nencumbrances of peddlery which hitherto have been his sole means of\nsupport. His little stock of crosses, rosaries, scapulars, false\njewellery, mother-of-pearl gewgaws, and such like, which he has on the\nlittle shelf in the cellar, he takes down one morning--but we will let\nour Scribe tell the story.\n\n\"My love for Khalid,\" he writes, \"has been severely tried. We could no\nlonger agree about anything. He had become such a dissenter that often\nwould he take the wrong side of a question if only for the sake of\nbucking. True, he ceased to frequent the cellar of second-hand Jerry,\nand the lectures of the infidels he no longer attended. We were in\naccord about atheism, therefore, but in riotous discord about many\nother things, chief among which was the propriety, the necessity, of\ndoing something to replenish his balance at the banker. For he was now\nimpecunious, and withal importunate. Of a truth, what I had I was\nalways ready to share with him; but for his own good I advised him to\ntake up the peddling-box again. I reminded him of his saying once,\n'Peddling is a healthy and profitable business.' 'Come out,' I\ninsisted, 'and though it be for the exercise. Walking is the whetstone\nof thought.'\n\n\"One evening we quarrelled about this, and Im-Hanna sided with me. She\nrated Khalid, saying, 'You're a good-for-nothing loafer; you don't\ndeserve the _mojadderah_ you eat.' And I remember how she took me\naside that evening and whispered something about books, and Khalid's\nhead, and Mar-Kizhayiah.[1] Indeed, Im-Hanna seriously believed that\nKhalid should be taken to Mar-Kizhayiah. She did not know that New\nYork was full of such institutions.[2] Her scolding, however, seemed\nto have more effect on Khalid than my reasoning. And consenting to go\nout with me, he got up the following morning, took down his stock from\nthe shelf, every little article of it--he left nothing there--and\npacked all into his peddling-box. He then squeezed into the bottom\ndrawer, which he had filled with scapulars, the bottle with a little\nof the Stuff in it. For we were in accord about this, that in New York\nwhiskey is better than arak. And we both took a nip now and then. So I\nthought the bottle was in order. But why he placed his bank book,\nwhich was no longer worth a straw, into that bottom drawer, I could\nnot guess. With these preparations, however, we shouldered our boxes,\nand in an hour we were in the suburbs. We foot it along then, until we\nreach a row of cottages not far from the railway station. 'Will you\nknock at one of these doors,' I asked. And he, 'I do not feel like\nchaffering and bargaining this morning.' 'Why then did you come out,'\nI urged. And he, in an air of nonchalance, 'Only for the walk.' And\nso, we pursued our way in the Bronx, until we reached one of our\nfavourite spots, where a sycamore tree seemed to invite us to its\nample shade.\n\n\"Here, Khalid, absent-minded, laid down his box and sat upon it, and I\nstretched my limbs on the grass. But of a sudden, he jumped up, opened\nthe bottom drawer of his case, and drew from it the bottle. It is\nquite in order now, I mused; but ere I had enjoyed the thought, Khalid\nhad placed his box at a little distance, and, standing there beside\nit, bottle in hand, delivered himself in a semi-solemn, semi-mocking\nmanner of the following: 'This is the oil,' I remember him saying,\n'with which I anoint thee--the extreme unction I apply to thy soul.'\nAnd he poured the contents of the bottle into the bottom drawer and\nover the box, and applied to it a match. The bottle was filled with\nkerosene, and in a jiffy the box was covered with the flame. Yes; and\nso quickly, so neatly it was done, that I could not do aught to\nprevent it. The match was applied to what I thought at first was\nwhiskey, and I was left in speechless amazement. He would not even\nhelp me to save a few things from the fire. I conjured him in the name\nof Allah, but in vain. I clamoured and remonstrated, but to no\npurpose. And when I asked him why he had done this, he asked me in\nreply, 'And why have you not done the same? Now, methinks I deserve my\n_mojadderah_. And not until you do likewise, will you deserve yours, O\nShakib. Here are the lies, now turned to ashes, which brought me my\nbread and are still bringing you yours. Here are our instruments of\ndeception, our poisoned sources of lucre. I am most happy now, O\nShakib. And I shall endeavour to keep my blood in circulation by\nbetter, purer means.' And he took me thereupon by the shoulders,\nlooked into my face, then pushed me away, laughing the laugh of the\nhasheesh-smokers.\n\n\"Indeed, Im-Hanna was right. Khalid had become too odd, too queer to\nbe sane. Needless to say, I was not prone to follow his example at\nthat time. Nor am I now. _Mashallah!_ Lacking the power and madness to\nset fire to the whole world, it were folly, indeed, to begin with\none's self. I believe I had as much right to exaggerate in peddling as\nI had in writing verse. My license to heighten the facts holds good in\neither case. And to some extent, every one, a poet be he or a cobbler,\nenjoys such a license. I told Khalid that the logical and most\neffective course to pursue, in view of his rigorous morality, would be\nto pour a gallon of kerosene over his own head and fire himself out of\nexistence. For the instruments of deception and debasement are not in\nthe peddling-box, but rather in his heart. No; I did not think\npeddling was as bad as other trades. Here at least, the means of\ndeception were reduced to a minimum. And of a truth, if everybody were\nto judge themselves as strictly as Khalid, who would escape burning?\nSo I turned from him that day fully convinced that my little stock of\nholy goods was innocent, and my balance at the banker's was as pure as\nmy rich neighbour's. And he turned from me fully convinced, I believe,\nthat I was an unregenerate rogue. Ay, and when I was knocking at the\ndoor of one of my customers, he was walking away briskly, his hands\nclasped behind his back, and his eyes, as usual, scouring the\nhorizon.\"\n\nAnd on that horizon are the gilded domes and smoking chimneys of the\nseething city. Leaving his last friend and his last burden behind, he\nwill give civilised life another trial. Loafer and tramp that he is!\nFor even the comforts of the grand cable-railway he spurns, and foots\nit from the Bronx down to his cellar near Battery Park, thus cutting\nthe city in half and giving one portion to Izr\u00e4il and the other to\nIblis. But not being quite ready himself for either of these winged\nFuries, he keeps to his cellar. He would tarry here a while, if but to\ncarry out a resolution he has made. True, Khalid very seldom resolves\nupon anything; but when he does make a resolution, he is even willing\nto be carried off by the effort to carry it out. And now, he would\nsolve this problem of earning a living in the great city by honest\nmeans. For in the city, at least, success well deserves the\ncompliments which those who fail bestow upon it. What Montaigne said\nof greatness, therefore, Khalid must have said of success. If we can\nnot attain it, let us denounce it. And in what terms does he this, O\nmerciful Allah! We translate a portion of the apostrophe in the K. L.\nMS., and not the bitterest, by any means.\n\n\"O Success,\" the infuriated failure exclaims, \"how like the Gorgon of\nthe Arabian Nights thou art! For does not every one whom thou favorest\nundergo a pitiful transformation even from the first bedding with\nthee? Does not everything suffer from thy look, thy touch, thy breath?\nThe rose loses its perfume, the grape-vine its clusters, the bulbul\nits wings, the dawn its light and glamour. O Success, our lords of\npower to-day are thy slaves, thy helots, our kings of wealth. Every\none grinds for thee, every one for thee lives and dies.... Thy palaces\nof silver and gold are reared on the souls of men. Thy throne is\nmortised with their bones, cemented with their blood. Thou ravenous\nGorgon, on what bankruptcies thou art fed, on what failures, on what\nsorrows! The railroads sweeping across the continents and the steamers\nploughing through the seas, are laden with sacrifices to thee. Ay, and\nmillions of innocent children are torn from their homes and from their\nschools to be offered to thee at the sacrificial-stone of the\nFactories and Mills. The cultured, too, and the wise, are counted\namong thy slaves. Even the righteous surrender themselves to thee and\nare willing to undergo that hideous transformation. O Success, what an\ninfernal litany thy votaries and high-priests are chanting to thee....\nThou ruthless Gorgon, what crimes thou art committing, and what crimes\nare being committed in thy name!\"\n\nFrom which it is evident that Khalid does not wish for success. Khalid\nis satisfied if he can maintain his hold on the few spare feet he has\nin the cellar, and continue to replenish his little store of lentils\nand olive oil. For he would as lief be a victim of success, he assures\nus, as to forego his _mojadderah_. And still having this, which he\nconsiders a luxury, he is willing to turn his hand at anything, if he\ncan but preserve inviolate the integrity of his soul and the freedom\nof his mind. These are a few of the pet terms of Khalid. And in as\nmuch as he can continue to repeat them to himself, he is supremely\ncontent. He can be a menial, if while cringing before his superiors,\nhe were permitted to chew on his pet illusions. A few days before he\nburned his peddling-box, he had read Epictetus. And the thought that\nsuch a great soul maintained its purity, its integrity, even in bonds,\nencouraged and consoled him. \"How can they hurt me,\" he asks, \"if\nspiritually I am far from them, far above them? They can do no more\nthan place gilt buttons on my coat and give me a cap to replace this\nslouch. Therefore, I will serve. I will be a slave, even like\nEpictetus.\"\n\nAnd here we must interpose a little of our skepticism, if but to\ngratify an habitual craving in us. We do not doubt that Khalid's\nself-sufficiency is remarkable; that his courage--on paper--is quite\nabove the common; that the grit and stay he shows are wonderful; that\nhis lofty aspirations, so indomitable in their onwardness, are great:\nbut we only ask, having thus fortified his soul, how is he to fortify\nhis stomach? He is going to work, to be a menial, to earn a living by\nhonest means? Ah, Khalid, Khalid! Did you not often bestow a furtive\nglance on some one else's checkbook? Did you not even exercise therein\nyour skill in calculation? If the bank, where Shakib deposits his\nlittle saving, failed, would you be so indomitable, so dogged in your\nresolution? Would you not soften a trifle, loosen a whit, if only for\nthe sake of your blood-circulation?\n\nIndeed, Shakib has become a patron to Khalid. Shakib the poet, who\nhimself should have a patron, is always ready to share his last dollar\nwith his loving, though cantankerous friend. And this, in spite of all\nthe disagreeable features of a friendship which in the Syrian Colony\nwas become proverbial. But Khalid now takes up the newspapers and\nscans the Want Columns for hours. The result being a clerkship in a\nlawyer's office. Nay, an apprenticeship; for the legal profession, it\nseems, had for a while engaged his serious thoughts.\n\nAnd this of all the professions is the one on which he would graft his\nscion of lofty morality? Surely, there be plenty of fuel for a\nconflagration in a lawyer's office. Such rows of half-calf tomes, such\npiles of legal documents, all designed to combat dishonesty and fraud,\n\"and all immersed in them, and nourished and maintained by them.\" In\nwhat a sorry condition will your Morality issue out of these bogs! A\nlawyer's clerk, we are informed, can not maintain his hold on his\nclerkship, if he does not learn to blink. That is why Khalid is not\nlong in serving papers, copying summonses, and searching title-deeds.\nIn this lawyer's office he develops traits altogether foreign to his\nnature. He even becomes a quidnunc, prying now and then into the\npersonal affairs of his superiors. Ay, and he dares once to suggest to\nhis employer a new method of dealing with the criminals among his\nclients. Withal, Khalid is slow, slower than the law itself. If he\ngoes out to serve a summons he does not return for a day. If he is\nsent to search title-deeds, he does not show up in the office for a\nweek. And often he would lose himself in the Park surrounding the\nRegister's Office, pondering on his theory of immanent morality. He\nwould sit down on one of those benches, which are the anchors of\nloafers of another type, his batch of papers beside him, and watch the\nmad crowds coming and going, running, as it were, between two fires.\nThese puckered people are the living, moving chambers of sleeping\nsouls.\n\nKhalid was always glad to come to this Register's Office. For though\nthe searching of title-deeds be a mortal process, the loafing margin\nof the working hour could be extended imperceptibly, and without\nhazarding his or his employer's interest. The following piece of\nspeculative fantasy and insight must have been thought out when he\nshould have been searching title-deeds.\n\n\"This Register's Office,\" it is written in the K. L. MS., \"is the very\nbulwark of Society. It is the foundation on which the Trust Companies,\nthe Courts, and the Prisons are reared. Your codes are blind without\nthe miraculous torches which this Office can light. Your judges can\nnot propound the 'laur'--I beg your pardon, the law--without the aid\nof these musty, smelling, dilapidated tomes. Ay, these are the very\nconstables of the realm, and without them there can be no realm, no\nlegislators, and no judges. Strong, club-bearing constables, these\nLiebers, standing on the boundary lines, keeping peace between\nbrothers and neighbours.\n\n\"Here, in these Liebers is an authority which never fails, never\ndies--an authority which willy-nilly we obey and in which we place\nunbounded trust. In any one of these Registers is a potentiality which\ncan always worst the quibbles and quiddities of lawyers and ward off\nthe miserable technicalities of the law. Any of them, when called\nupon, can go into court and dictate to the litigants and the\nattorneys, the jury and the judge. They are the deceased witnesses\ncome to life. And without them, the judges are helpless, the marshals\nand sheriffs too. Ay, and what without them would be the state of our\nreal-estate interests? Abolish your constabulary force, and your\npolice force, and with these muniments of power, these dumb but\nfar-seeing agents of authority and intelligence, you could still\nmaintain peace and order. But burn you this Register's Office, and\nbefore the last Lieber turn to ashes, ere the last flame of the\nconflagration die out, you will have to call forth, not only your fire\nsquads, but your police force and even your soldiery, to extinguish\nother fires different in nature, but more devouring--and as many of\nthem as there are boundary lines in the land.\"\n\nAnd we now come to the gist of the matter.\n\n  \"What wealth of moral truth,\" he continues, \"do we find in these\n  greasy, musty pages. When one deeds a piece of property, he\n  deeds with it something more valuable, more enduring. He deeds\n  with it an undying human intelligence which goes down to\n  posterity, saying, Respect my will; believe in me; and convey\n  this respect and this belief to your offspring. Ay, the immortal\n  soul breathes in a deed as in a great book. And the implicit\n  trust we place in a musty parchment, is the mystic outcome of\n  the blind faith, or rather the far-seeing faith which our\n  ancestors had in the morality and intelligence of coming\n  generations. For what avails their deeds if they are not\n  respected?... We are indebted to our forbears, therefore, not\n  for the miserable piece of property they bequeath us, but for\n  the confidence and trust, the faith and hope they had in our\n  innate or immanent morality and intelligence. The will of the\n  dead is law for the living.\"\n\nAre we then to look upon Khalid as having come out of that Office with\nsoiled fingers only? Or has the young philosopher abated in his\nclerkship the intensity of his moral views? Has he not assisted his\nemployer in the legal game of quieting titles? Has he not acquired a\nlittle of the delusive plausibilities of lawyers? Shakib throws no\nlight on these questions. We only know that the clerkship or rather\napprenticeship was only held for a season. Indeed, Khalid must have\nrecoiled from the practice. Or in his recklessness, not to say\nobtrusion, he must have been outrageous enough to express in the\noffice of the honourable attorney, or in the neighbourhood thereof,\nhis views about pettifogging and such like, that the said honourable\nattorney was under the painful necessity of asking him to stay home.\nNay, the young Syrian was discharged. Or to put it in a term adequate\nto the manner in which this was done, he was \"fired.\" Now, Khalid\nbetakes him back to his cellar, and thrumming his lute-strings, lights\nup the oppressive gloom with Arabic song and music.\n\n-----\n\n [1] A monastery in Mt. Lebanon, a sort of Bedlam, where the\n     exorcising monks beat the devil out of one's head with clouted\n     shoes.--EDITOR.\n\n [2] And the doctors here practise in the name of science what\n     the exorcising monks practise in the name of religion. The poor\n     devil, or patient, in either case is done to death.--EDITOR.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nWITH THE HURIS\n\n\nFrom the house of law the dervish Khalid wends his way to that of\nscience, and from the house of science he passes on to that of\nmetaphysics. His staff in hand, his wallet hung on his shoulder, his\nsilver cigarette case in his pocket, patient, confident, content, he\nmakes his way from one place to another. Unlike his brother dervishes,\nhe is clean and proud of it, too. He knocks at this or that door,\nmakes his wish known to the servant or the mistress, takes the crumbs\ngiven him, and not infrequently gives his prod to the dogs. In the\nvestibule of one of the houses of spiritism, he tarries a spell and\nparleys with the servant. The Mistress, a fair-looking, fair-spoken\ndame of seven lustrums or more, issues suddenly from her studio, in a\ncuriously designed black velvet dressing-gown; she is drawn to the\ndoor by the accent of the foreigner's speech and the peculiar cadence\nof his voice. They meet: and magnetic currents from his dark eyes and\nher eyes of blue, flow and fuse. They speak: and the lady asks the\nstranger if he would not serve instead of begging. And he protests, \"I\nam a Dervish at the door of Allah.\" \"And I am a Spirit in Allah's\nhouse,\" she rejoins. They enter: and the parley in the vestibule is\nfollowed by a t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate in the parlour and another in the\ndining-room. They agree: and the stranger is made a member of the\nSpiritual Household, which now consists of her and him, the Medium and\nthe Dervish.\n\nNow, this fair-spoken dame, who dotes on the occult and exotic,\ndelights in the aroma of Khalid's cigarettes and Khalid's fancy. And\nthat he might feel at ease, she begins by assuring him that they have\nmet and communed many times ere now, that they have been friends under\na preceding and long vanished embodiment. Which vagary Khalid seems to\ncountenance by referring to the infinite power of Allah, in the\ncompass of which nothing is impossible. And with these mystical\ncircumlocutions of ceremony, they plunge into an intimacy which is\nbordered by the metaphysical on one side, and the physical on the\nother. For though the Medium is at the threshold of her climacteric,\nKhalid afterwards tells Shakib that there be something in her eyes and\nlimbs which always seem to be waxing young. And of a truth, the\nAmerican woman, of all others, knows best how to preserve her beauty\nfrom the ravages of sorrow and the years. That is why, we presume, in\ncalling him, \"child,\" she does not permit him to call her, \"mother.\"\nIndeed, the Medium and the Dervish often jest, and somewhiles mix the\nfrivolous with the mysterious.\n\nWe would still follow our Scribe here, were it not that his pruriency\noften reaches the edge. He speaks of \"the _liaison_\" with all the rude\nsimplicity and frankness of the Arabian Nights. And though, as the\nMohammedans say, \"To the pure everything is pure,\" and again, \"Who\nquotes a heresy is not guilty of it\"; nevertheless, we do not feel\nwarranted in rending the veil of the reader's prudery, no matter how\ntransparent it might be. We believe, however, that the pruriency of\nOrientals, like the prudery of Occidentals, is in fact only an\nappearance. On both sides there is a display of what might be called\nverbal virtue and verbal vice. And on both sides, the exaggerations\nare configured in a harmless pose. Be this as it may, we at least,\nshall withhold from Shakib's lasciviousness the English dress it seeks\nat our hand.\n\nWe note, however, that Khalid now visits him in the cellar only when\nhe craves a dish of _mojadderah_; that he and the Medium are absorbed\nin the contemplation of the Unseen, though not, perhaps, of the\nImpalpable; that they gallivant in the Parks, attend Bohemian dinners,\nand frequent the Don't Worry Circles of Metaphysical Societies; that\nthey make long expeditions together to the Platonic North-pole and\nback to the torrid regions of Swinburne; and that together they\nperform their _zikr_ and drink at the same fountain of ecstasy and\ndevotion. Withal, the Dervish, who now wears his hair long and grows\nhis finger nails like a Brahmin, is beginning to have some manners.\n\nThe Medium, nevertheless, withholds from him the secret of her art. If\nhe desires, he can attend the s\u00e9ances like every other stranger. Once\nKhalid, who would not leave anything unprobed, insisted, importuned;\nhe could not see any reason for her conduct. Why should they not work\ntogether in Tiptology, as in Physiology and Metaphysics? And one\nmorning, dervish-like, he wraps himself in his _aba_, and, calling\nupon Allah to witness, takes a rose from the vase on the table,\nangrily plucks its petals, and strews them on the carpet. Which\nportentous sign the Medium understands and hastens to minister her\npalliatives.\n\n\"No, Child, you shall not go,\" she begs and supplicates; \"listen to\nme, are we not together all the time? Why not leave me alone then with\nthe spirits? One day you shall know all, believe me. Come, sit here,\"\nstroking her palm on her lap, \"and listen. I shall give up this\ntiptology business very soon; you and I shall overturn the table. Yes,\nChild, I am on the point of succumbing under an awful something. So,\ndon't ask me about the spooks any more. Promise not to torment me thus\nany more. And one day we shall travel together in the Orient; we shall\nvisit the ruins of vanished kingdoms and creeds. Ah, to be in Palmyra\nwith you! Do you know, Child, I am destined to be a Beduin queen. The\nthrone of Zenobia is mine, and yours too, if you will be good. We\nshall resuscitate the glory of the kingdom of the desert.\"\n\nTo all of which Khalid acquiesces by referring as is his wont to the\ninfinite wisdom of Allah, in whose all-seeing eye nothing is\nimpossible.\n\nAnd thus, apparently satisfied, he takes the cigarette which she had\nlighted for him, and lights for her another from his own. But the\nsmoke of two cigarettes dispels not the threatening cloud; it only\nconceals it from view. For they dine together at a Bohemian Club that\nevening, where Khalid meets a woman of rare charms. And she invites\nhim to her studio. The Medium, who is at first indifferent, finally\nwarns her callow child. \"That woman is a writer,\" she explains, \"and\nwriters are always in search of what they call 'copy.' She in\nparticular is a huntress of male curiosities, _originales_, whom she\ntakes into her favour and ultimately surrenders them to the reading\npublic. So be careful.\" But Khalid hearkens not. For the writer, whom\nhe afterwards calls a flighter, since she, too, \"like the van of the\nbrewer only skims the surface of things,\" is, in fact, younger than\nthe Medium. Ay, this woman is even beautiful--to behold, at least. So\nthe Dervish, a captive of her charms, knocks at the door of her studio\none evening and enters. Ah, this then is a studio! \"I am destined to\nknow everything, and to see everything,\" he says to himself, smiling\nin his heart.\n\nThe charming hostess, in a Japanese kimono receives him somewhat\norientally, offering him the divan, which he occupies alone for a\nspell. He is then laden with a huge scrap-book containing press\nnotices and reviews of her many novels. These, he is asked to go\nthrough while she prepares the tea. Which is a mortal task for the\nDervish in the presence of the Enchantress. Alas, the tea is long in\nthe making, and when the scrap-book is laid aside, she reinforces him\nwith a lot of magazines adorned with stories of the short and long and\nmiddling size, from her fertile pen. \"These are beautiful,\" says he,\nin glancing over a few pages, \"but no matter how you try, you can not\nwith your pen surpass your own beauty. The charm of your literary\nstyle can not hold a candle to the charm of your--permit me to read\nyour hand.\" And laying down the magazine, he takes up her hand and\npresses it to his lips. In like manner, he tries to read somewhat in\nthe face, but the Enchantress protests and smiles. In which case the\nsmile renders the protest null and void.\n\nHenceforth, the situation shall be trying even to the Dervish who can\neat live coals. He oscillates for some while between the Medium and\nthe Enchantress, but finds the effort rather straining. The first\nclimax, however, is reached, and our Scribe thinks it too sad for\nwords. He himself sheds a few rheums with the fair-looking,\nfair-spoken Dame, and dedicates to her a few rhymes. Her magnanimity,\nhe tells us, is unexampled, and her fatalism pathetic. For when Khalid\nsevers himself from the Spiritual Household, she kisses him thrice,\nsaying, \"Go, Child; Allah brought you to me, and Allah will bring you\nagain.\" Khalid refers, as usual, to the infinite wisdom of the\nAlmighty, and, taking his handkerchief from his pocket, wipes the\ntears that fell--from her eyes over his. He passes out of the\nvestibule, silent and sad, musing on the time he first stood there as\na beggar.\n\nNow, the horizon of the Enchantress is unobstructed. Khalid is there\nalone; and her free love can freely pass on from him to another. And\nsuch messages they exchange! Such evaporations of the insipidities of\nfree love! Khalid again takes up with Shakib, from whom he does not\nconceal anything. The epistles are read by both, and sometimes replied\nto by both! And she, in an effort to seem Oriental, calls the\nDervish, \"My Syrian Rose,\" \"My Desert Flower,\" \"My Beduin Boy,\" et\ncetera, always closing her message with either a strip of Syrian sky\nor a camel load of the narcissus. Ah, but not thus will the play\nclose. True, Khalid alone adorns her studio for a time, or rather\nadores in it; he alone accompanies her to Bohemia. But the Dervish,\nwho was always going wrong in Bohemia,--always at the door of the\nDevil,--ventures one night to escort another woman to her studio. Ah,\nthose studios! The Enchantress on hearing of the crime lights the fire\nunder her cauldron. \"Double, double, toil and trouble!\" She then goes\nto the telephone--g-r-r-r-r you swine--you Phoenician murex--she hangs\nup the receiver, and stirs the cauldron. \"Double, double, toil and\ntrouble!\" But the Dervish writes her an extraordinary letter, in which\nwe suspect the pen of our Scribe, and from which we can but transcribe\nthe following:\n\n  \"You found in me a vacant heart,\" he pleads, \"and you occupied\n  it. The divan therein is yours, yours alone. Nor shall I ever\n  permit a chance caller, an intruder, to exasperate you.... My\n  breast is a stronghold in which you are well fortified. How then\n  can any one disturb you?... How can I turn from myself against\n  myself? Somewhat of you, the best of you, circulates with my\n  blood; you are my breath of life. How can I then overcome you?\n  How can I turn to another for the sustenance which you alone can\n  give?... If I be thirst personified, you are the living, flowing\n  brook, the everlasting fountain. O for a drink--\"\n\nAnd here follows a hectic uprush about pearly breasts, and\nhoney-sources, and musk-scented arbours, closing with \"Your Beduin Boy\nshall come to-night.\"\n\nNotwithstanding which, the Enchantress abandons the Syrian Dwelling:\nshe no longer fancies the vacant Divan of which Khalid speaks.\nFortress or no fortress, she gives up occupation and withdraws from\nthe foreigner her favour. Not only that; but the fire is crackling\nunder the cauldron, and the typewriter begins to click. Ay, these\nmodern witches can make even a typewriter dance around the fire and\njoin in the chorus. \"Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire burn, and\ncauldron bubble!\" and the performance was transformed from the studio\nto the magazine supplement of one of the Sunday newspapers. There, the\nDervish is thrown into the cauldron along with the magic herbs.\nBubble--bubble. The fire-eating Dervish, how can he now swallow this\ndouble-tongued flame of hate and love? The Enchantress had wrought her\nspell, had ministered her poison. Now, where can he find an antidote,\nwho can teach him a healing formula? Bruno D'Ast was once bewitched by\na sorceress, and by causing her to be burned he was immediately cured.\nAh, that Khalid could do this! Like an ordinary pamphlet he would\nconsign the Enchantress to the flames, and her scrap-books and novels\nto boot. He does well, however, to return to his benevolent friend,\nthe Medium. The spell can be counteracted by another, though less\npotent. Ay, even witchcraft has its homeopathic remedies.\n\nAnd the Medium, Shakib tells us, is delighted to welcome back her\nprodigal child. She opens to him her arms, and her heart; she slays\nthe fatted calf. \"I knew that Allah will bring you back to me,\" she\nejaculates; \"my prevision is seldom wrong.\" And kissing her hand,\nKhalid falters, \"Forgiveness is for the sinner, and the good are for\nforgiveness.\" Whereupon, they plunge again into the Unseen, and thence\nto Bohemia. The aftermath, however, does not come up to the\nexpectations of the good Medium. For the rigmarole of the Enchantress\nabout the Dervish in New York had already done its evil work.\nAnd--double--double--wherever the Dervish goes. Especially in Bohemia,\nwhere many of its daughters set their caps for him.\n\nAnd here, he is neither shy nor slow nor visionary. Nor shall his\ntheory of immanent morality trouble him for the while. Reality is met\nwith reality on solid, though sometimes slippery, ground. His\nanimalism, long leashed and starved, is eager for prey. His Phoenician\npassion is awake. And fortunately, Khalid finds himself in Bohemia\nwhere the poison and the antidote are frequently offered together.\nHere the spell of one sorceress can straightway be offset by that of\nher sister. And we have our Scribe's word for it, that the Dervish\nwent as far and as deep with the huris, as the doctors eventually\nwould permit him. That is why, we believe, in commenting upon his\nadventures there, he often quotes the couplet,\n\n    \"In my sublunar paradise\n     There's plenty of honey--and plenty of flies.\"\n\nThe flies in his cup, however, can not be detected with the naked\neye. They are microbes rather--microbes which even the physicians can\nnot manage with satisfaction. For it must be acknowledged that\nKhalid's immanent morality and intellectualism suffered an interregnum\nwith the huris. Reckless, thoughtless, heartless, he plunges headlong\nagain. It is said in Al-Hadith that he who guards himself against the\nthree cardinal evils, namely, of the tongue (_laklaka_), of the\nstomach (_kabkaba_), and of the sex (_zabzaba_), will have guarded\nhimself against all evil. But Khalid reads not in the Hadith of the\nProphet. And that he became audacious, edacious, and loquacious, is\nevident from such wit and flippancy as he here likes to display. \"Some\nwomen,\" says he, \"might be likened to whiskey, others to seltzer\nwater; and many are those who, like myself, care neither for the soda\nor the whiskey straight. A 'high-ball' I will have.\"\n\nNay, he even takes to punch; for in his cup of amour there is a subtle\nand multifarious mixture. With him, he himself avows, one woman\ncomplemented another. What the svelte brunette, for instance, lacked,\nthe steatopygous blonde amply supplied. Delicacy and intensity,\neffervescence and depth, these he would have in a woman, or a hareem,\nas in anything else. But these excellences, though found in a hareem,\nwill not fuse, as in a poem or a picture. Even thy bones, thou scented\nhigh-lacquered Dervish, are likely to melt away before they melt into\none.\n\nIt is written in the K. L. MS. that women either bore, or inspire, or\nexcite. \"The first and the last are to be met with anywhere; but the\nsecond? Ah, well you have heard the story of Diogenes. So take up your\nlamp and come along. But remember, when you do meet the woman that\ninspires, you will begin to yearn for the woman that excites.\"\n\nAnd here, the hospitality of the Dervish does not belie his Arab\nblood. In Bohemia, the bonfire of his heart was never extinguished,\nand the wayfarers stopping before his tent, be they of those who\nbored, or excited, or inspired, were welcome guests for at least three\ndays and nights. And in this he follows the rule of hospitality among\nhis people.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THE SECOND\n\nIN THE TEMPLE\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTO NATURE\n\n_O Mother eternal, divine, satanic, all encompassing, all-nourishing,\nall-absorbing, O star-diademed, pearl-sandaled Goddess, I am thine\nforever and ever: whether as a child of thy womb, or an embodiment of\na spirit-wave of thy light, or a dumb blind personification of thy\nsmiles and tears, or an ignis-fatuus of the intelligence that is in\nthee or beyond thee, I am thine forever and ever: I come to thee, I\nprostrate my face before thee, I surrender myself wholly to thee. O\ntouch me with thy wand divine again; stir me once more in thy\nmysterious alembics; remake me to suit the majestic silence of thy\nhills, the supernal purity of thy sky, the mystic austerity of thy\ngroves, the modesty of thy slow-swelling, soft-rolling streams, the\nimperious pride of thy pines, the wild beauty and constancy of thy\nmountain rivulets. Take me in thine arms, and whisper to me of thy\nsecrets; fill my senses with thy breath divine; show me the bottom of\nthy terrible spirit; buffet me in thy storms, infusing in me of thy\nruggedness and strength, thy power and grandeur; lull me in thine\nautumn sun-downs to teach me in the arts that enrapture, exalt,\nsupernaturalise. Sing me a lullaby, O Mother eternal! Give me to drink\nof thy love, divine and diabolic; thy cruelty and thy kindness, I\naccept both, if thou wilt but whisper to me the secret of both. Anoint\nme with the chrism of spontaneity that I may be ever worthy of\nthee.--Withdraw not from me thy hand, lest universal love and sympathy\ndie in my breast.--I implore thee, O Mother eternal, O sea-throned,\nheaven-canopied Goddess, I prostrate my face before thee, I surrender\nmyself wholly to thee. And whether I be to-morrow the censer in the\nhand of thy High Priest, or the incense in the censer,--whether I\nbecome a star-gem in thy cestus or a sun in thy diadem or even a\nfirefly in thy fane, I am content. For I am certain that it shall be\nfor the best._--KHALID.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE DOWRY OF DEMOCRACY\n\n\nOld Arabic books, printed in Bulaq, generally have a broad margin\nwherein a separate work, independent of the text, adds gloom to the\npage. We have before us one of these tomes in which the text treats of\nthe ethics of life and religion, and the margins are darkened with\ncertain adventures which Shahrazad might have added to her famous\nNights. The similarity between Khalid's life in its present stage and\nsome such book, is evident. Nay, he has been so assiduous in writing\nthe marginal Work, that ever since he set fire to his peddling-box, we\nhave had little in the Text worth transcribing. Nothing, in fact; for\nmany pages back are as blank as the evil genius of Bohemia could wish\nthem. And how could one with that mara upon him, write of the ethics\nof life and religion?\n\nAl-Hamazani used to say that in Jorajan the man from Khorasan must\nopen thrice his purse: first, to pay for the rent; second, for the\nfood; and third, for his coffin. And so, in Khalid's case, at least,\nis Bohemia. For though the purse be not his own, he was paying dear,\nand even in advance, in what is dearer than gold, for his experience.\n\"O, that the Devil did not take such interest in the marginal work of\nour life! Why should we write it then, and for whom? And how will it\nfare with us when, chapfallen in the end and mortified, we stand\nbefore the great Task-Master like delinquent school boys with a blank\ntext in our hands?\" (Thus Shakib, who has caught the moralising evil\nfrom his Master.) And that we must stand, and fall, for thus standing,\nhe is quite certain. At least, Khalid is. For he would not return to\nthe Text to make up for the blank pages therein, if he were not.\n\n\"When he returned from his last sojourn in Bohemia,\" writes our\nScribe, \"Khalid was pitiful to behold. Even Sindbad, had he seen him,\nwould have been struck with wonder. The tears rushed to my eyes when\nwe embraced; for instead of Khalid I had in my arms a phantom. And I\ncould not but repeat the lines of Al-Mutanabbi,\n\n    \"So phantom-like I am, and though so near,\n     If I spoke not, thou wouldst not know I'm here.\"\n\n\"No more voyages, I trust, O thou Sindbad.\" And he replied, \"Yes, one\nmore; but to our dear native land this time.\" In fact, I, too, was\nbeginning to suffer from nostalgia, and was much desirous of returning\nhome. But Shakib is in such a business tangle that he could not\nextricate himself in a day. So, they tarry another year in New York,\nthe one meanwhile unravelling his affairs, settling with his creditors\nand collecting what few debts he had, the other brooding over the few\nblank pages in his Text.\n\nOne day he receives a letter from a fellow traveller, a distinguished\ncitizen of Tammany Land, whom he had met and befriended in Bohemia,\nrelating to an enterprise of great pith and moment. It was election\ntime, we learn, and the high post of political canvasser of the Syrian\nDistrict was offered to Khalid for a consideration of--but the letter\nwhich Shakib happily preserved, we give in full.\n\n  \"Dear Khalid:\n\n  \"I have succeeded in getting Mr. O'Donohue to appoint you a\n  canvasser of the Syrian District. You must stir yourself,\n  therefore, and try to do some good work, among the Syrian\n  voters, for Democracy's Candidate this campaign. Here is a\n  chance which, with a little hustling on your part, will\n  materialise. And I see no reason why you should not try to cash\n  your influence among your people. This is no mean position, mind\n  you. And if you will come up to the Wigwam to-morrow, I'll give\n  you a few suggestions on the business of manipulating votes.\n\n                                 \"Yours truly,\n                                     \"PATRICK HOOLIHAN.\"\n\nAnd the said Mr. Hoolihan, the letter shows, is Secretary to\nMr. O'Donohue, who is first henchman to the Boss. Such a letter,\nif luckily misunderstood, will fire for a while the youthful\nimagination. No; not his Shamrag Majesty's Tammany Agent to\nSyria, this Canvassership, you poor phantom-like zany! A high\npost, indeed, you fond and pitiful dreamer, on which you must\nhang the higher aspirations of your soul, together with your\ntheory of immanent morality. You would not know this at first. You\nwould still kiss the official notification of Mr. Hoolihan, and\nhug it fondly to your breast. Very well. At last--and the gods\nwill not damn thee for musing--you will stand in the band-wagon\nbefore the corner groggery and be the object of the admiration of\nyour fellow citizens--perhaps of missiles, too. Very well, Khalid;\nbut you must shear that noddle of thine, and straightway, for the\npoets are potted in Tammany Land. We say this for your sake.\n\nThe orator-dream of youth, ye gods, shall it be realised in this\nheaven of a dray-cart with its kerosene torch and its drum, smelling\nand sounding rather of Juhannam? Surely, from the Table of Bohemia to\nthe Stump in Tammany Land, is a far cry. But believe us, O Khalid, you\nwill wish you were again in the gardens of Proserpine, when the\nsilence and darkness extinguish the torch and the drum and the echoes\nof the shouting crowds. The headaches are certain to follow this\ninebriation. You did not believe Shakib; you would not be admonished;\nyou would go to the Wigwam for your portfolio. \"_High post_,\"\n\"_political canvasser_,\" \"_manipulation of votes_,\" you will know the\nexact meaning of these esoteric terms, when, alas, you meet Mr.\nHoolihan. For you must know that not every one you meet in Bohemia is\nnot a Philistine. Indeed, many helots are there, who come from\nPhilistia to spy out the Land.\n\nWe read in the _Histoire Intime_ of Shakib that Khalid did become a\nTammany citizen, that is to say, a Tammany dray-horse; that he was\nmuch esteemed by the Honourable Henchmen, and once in the Wigwam he\nwas particularly noticed by his Shamrag Majesty Boss O'Graft; that he\nwas Tammany's Agent to the Editors of the Syrian newspapers of New\nYork, whom he enrolled in the service of the Noble Cause for a\nconsideration which no eloquence or shrewdness could reduce to a\nminimum; that he also took to the stump and dispensed to his fellow\ncitizens, with rhetorical gestures at least, of the cut-and-dried\nlogic which the Committee of Buncombe on such occasions furnishes its\nsquad of talented spouters; and that--the most important this--he was\nsubject in the end to the ignominy of waiting in the lobby with\ntuft-hunters and political stock-jobbers, until it pleased the\nCommittee of Buncombe and the Honourable Treasurer thereof to give\nhim--a card of dismissal!\n\nBut what virtue is there in waiting, our cynical friend would ask. Why\nnot go home and sleep? Because, O cynical friend, the Wigwam now is\nKhalid's home. For was he not, in creaking boots and a slouch hat,\nceremoniously married to Democracy? Ay, and after spending their\nhoneymoon on the Stump and living another month or two with his troll\namong her People, he returns to his cellar to brood, not over the\nblank pages in his Text, nor over the disastrous results of the\nCampaign, but on the weightier matter of divorce. For although\nPolitics and Romance, in the History of Human Intrigue, have often\nknown and enjoyed the same yoke, with Khalid they refused to pull at\nthe plough. They were not sensible even to the goad. Either the yoke\nin his case was too loose, or the new yoke-fellow too thick-skinned\nand stubborn.\n\nMoreover, the promise of a handsome dowry, made by the Shamrag\nFather-in-Law or his Brokers materialised only in the rotten eggs and\ntomatoes with which the Orator was cordially received on his honeymoon\ntrip. Such a marriage, O Mohammad, and such a honeymoon, and such a\ndowry!--is not this enough to shake the very sides of the Kaaba with\nlaughter? And yet, in the Wigwam this not uncommon affair was\nindifferently considered; for the good and honourable Tammanyites\nmarry off their Daughters every day to foreigners and natives alike,\nand with like extraordinary picturesque results.\n\nWere it not wiser, therefore, O Khalid, had you consulted your\nfriend the Dictionary before you saw exact meaning of canvass and\nmanipulation, before you put on your squeaking boots and slouch\nhat and gave your hand and heart to Tammany's Daughter and her\nFather-in-Law O'Graft? But the Dictionary, too, often falls short\nof human experience; and even Mr. O'Donohue could at best but hint at\nthe meaning of the esoteric terms of Tammany's political creed. These\nyou must define for yourself as you go along; and change and revise\nyour definitions as you rise or descend in the Sacred Order. For\ncanvass here might mean eloquence; there it might mean shrewdness;\nlower down, intimidation and coercion; and further depthward, human\nsloth and misery. It is but a common deal in horses. Ay, in Tammany\nLand it is essentially a trade honestly conducted on the known\nprinciple of supply and demand. These truths you had to discover for\nyourself, you say; for neither the Dictionary, nor your friend and\nfellow traveller in Bohemia, Mr. Hoolihan, could stretch their\nknowledge or their conscience to such a compass. And you are not\nsorry to have made such a discovery? Can you think of the Dowry and\nsay that? We are, indeed, sorry for you. And we would fain insert\nin letter D of the Dictionary a new definition: namely, Dowry, n.\n(Tammany Land Slang). The odoriferous missiles, such as eggs and\ntomatoes, which are showered on an Orator-Groom by the people.\n\nBut see what big profits Khalid draws from these small shares in the\nReality Stock Company. You remember, good Reader, how he was kicked\naway from the door of the Temple of Atheism. The stogies of that\ninspired Doorkeeper were divine, according to his way of viewing\nthings, for they were at that particular moment God's own boots. Ay,\nit was God, he often repeats, who kicked him away from the Temple of\nhis enemies. And now, he finds the Dowry of Democracy, with all its\nwonderful revelations, as profitable in its results, as divine in its\npurpose. And in proof of this, we give here a copy of his letter to\nBoss O'Graft, written in that downright manner of his contemporaries,\nthe English original of which we find in the _Histoire Intime_.\n\n                   \"From Khalid to Boss O'Graft.\n\n  \"Right _Dis_honourable Boss:\n\n  \"I have just received a check from your Treasurer, which by no\n  right whatever is due me, having been paid for my services by\n  Him who knows better than you and your Treasurer what I deserve.\n  The voice of the people, and their eggs and tomatoes, too, are,\n  indeed, God's. And you should know this, you who dare to\n  remunerate me in what is not half as clean as those missiles. I\n  return not your insult of a check, however; but I have tried to\n  do your state some service in purchasing the few boxes of soap\n  which I am now dispatching to the Wigwam. You need more, I know,\n  you and your Honourable Henchmen or Hashmen. And instead of\n  canvassing and orating for Democracy's illustrious Candidate and\n  the Noble Cause, _mashallah!_ one ought to do a little\n  canvassing for Honesty and Truth among Democracy's leaders,\n  tuft-hunters, political stock-jobbers, and such like. O, for a\n  higher stump, my Boss, to preach to those who are supporting and\n  degrading the stumps and the stump-orators of the Republic!\"\n\nAnd is it come to this, you poor phantom-like dreamer? Think you a\nTammany Boss is like your atheists and attorneys and women of the\nstudio, at whom you could vent your ire without let or hindrance?\nThese harmless humans have no constables at their command. But his\nShamrag Majesty--O wretched Khalid, must we bring one of his myrmidons\nto your cellar to prove to you that, even in this Tammany Land, you\ncan not with immunity give free and honest expression to your\nthoughts? Now, were you not summoned to the Shamrag's presence to\nanswer for the crime of _l\u00e8se-majest\u00e9_? And were you not, for your\naudacity, left to brood ten days and nights in gaol? And what tedium\nwe have in Shakib's History about the charge on which he was arrested.\nIt is unconscionable that Khalid should misappropriate Party funds.\nIndeed, he never even touched or saw any of it, excepting, of course,\nthat check which he returned. But the Boss was still in power. And\nwhat could Shakib do to exonerate his friend? He did much, and he\ntells as much about it. With check-boot in his pocket, he makes his\nway through aldermen, placemen, henchmen, and other questionable\npolitical species of humanity, up to the Seat of Justice--but such\ndetail, though of the veracity of the writer nothing doubting, we\ngladly set aside, since we believe with Khalid that his ten days in\ngaol were akin to the Boots and the Dowry in their motive and effect.\n\nBut our Scribe, though never remiss when Khalid is in a pickle, finds\nmuch amiss in Khalid's thoughts and sentiments. And as a further\nillustration of the limpid shallows of the one and the often opaque\ndepths of the other, we give space to the following:\n\n\"When Khalid was ordered to appear before the Boss,\" writes Shakib,\n\"such curiosity and anxiety as I felt at that time made me accompany\nhim. For I was anxious about Khalid, and curious to see this great\nLeader of men. We set out, therefore, together, I musing on an\nincident in Baalbek when we went out to meet the Pasha of the Lebanons\nand a droll old peasant, having seen him for the first time, cried\nout, 'I thought the Pasha to be a Pasha, but he's but a man.' And I am\nsorry, after having seen the Boss, I can not say as much for him.\"\n\nHere follows a little philosophising, unbecoming of our Scribe, on men\nand names and how they act and react upon each other. Also, a page\nabout his misgivings and the effort he made to persuade Khalid not to\nappear before the Boss. But skipping over these, \"we reach the Tammany\nWigwam and are conducted by a thick-set, heavy-jowled, heavy-booted\ncitizen through the long corridor into a little square room occupied\nby a little square-faced clerk. Here we wait a half hour and more,\nduring which the young gentleman, with his bell before him and his\norders to minor clerks who come and go, poses as somebody of some\nimportance. We are then asked to follow him from one room into\nanother, until we reach the one adjoining the private office of the\nBoss. A knock or two are executed on the door of Greatness with a\nnauseous sense of awe, and 'Come in,' Greatness within huskily\nreplies. The square-faced clerk enters, shuts the door after him,\nreturns in a trice, and conducts us into the awful Presence. Ye gods\nof Baalbek, the like of this I never saw before. Here is a room\nsumptuously furnished with sofas and fauteuils, and rugs from Ispahan.\nOn the walls are pictures of Washington, Jefferson, and the great Boss\nTweed; and right under the last named, behind that preciously carved\nmahogany desk, in that soft rolling mahogany chair, is the squat\nfigure of the big Boss. On the desk before him, besides a plethora of\ndocuments, lay many things pell-mell, among which I noticed a box of\ncigars, the Criminal Code, and, most prominent of all, the Boss' feet,\nraised there either to bid us welcome, or to remind us of his power.\nAnd the rich Ispahan rug, the cuspidor being small and overfull,\nreceives the richly coloured matter which he spurts forth every time\nhe takes the cigar out of his mouth. O, the vulgarity, the bestiality\nof it! Think of those poor patient Persian weavers who weave the\ntissues of their hearts into such beautiful work, and of this proud\nand paltry Boss, whose office should have been furnished with straw.\nYes, with straw; and the souls of those poor artist-weavers will sleep\nin peace. O, the ignominy of having such precious pieces of\nworkmanship under the feet and spittle of such vulgar specimens of\nhumanity. But if the Boss had purchased these rugs himself, with money\nearned by his own brow-sweat, I am sure he would appreciate them\nbetter. He would then know, if not their intrinsic worth, at least\ntheir market value. Yes, and they were presented to him by some one\n_needing, I suppose, police connivance and protection_. The first half\nof this statement I had from the Boss himself; the second, I base on\nKhalid's knowingness and suspicion. Be this, however, as it may.\n\n\"When we entered this sumptuously furnished office, the squat figure\nin the chair under the picture of Boss Tweed, remained as immobile as\na fixture and did not as much as reply to our _salaam_. But he pointed\ndisdainfully to seats in the corner of the room, saying, 'Sit down\nthere,' in a manner quite in keeping with his stogies raised on the\ndesk directly in our face. Such freedom, nay, such bestiality, I could\nnever tolerate. Indeed, I prefer the suavity and palaver of Turkish\nofficials, no matter how crafty and corrupt, to the puffing, spitting\nmanners of these come-up-from-the-shamble men. But Khalid could sit\nthere as immobile as the Boss himself, and he did so, billah! For he\nwas thinking all the while, as he told me when we came out, not of\nsuch matters as grate on the susceptibilities of a poet, but on the\none sole idea of how such a bad titman could lead by the nose so many\ngood people.\"\n\nShakib then proceeds to give us a verbatim report of the interview. It\nbegins with the Boss' question, \"What do you mean by writing such a\nletter?\" and ends with this other, \"What do you mean by immanent\nmorality?\" The reader, given the head and tail of the matter, can\nsupply the missing parts. Or, given its two bases, he can construct\nthis triangle of Politics, Ethics, and the Constable, with Khalid's\nletter, offended Majesty, and a prison cell, as its three turning\npoints. We extract from the report, however, the concluding advice of\nthe Boss. For when he asked Khalid again what he meant by immanent\nmorality, he continued in a crescendo of indignation: \"You mean the\nmorality of hayseeds, and priests, and philosophical fools? That sort\nof morality will not as much as secure a vote during the campaign, nor\neven help to keep the lowest clerk in office. That sort of morality is\ngood for your mountain peasants or other barbarous tribes. But the\nfree and progressive people of the United States must have something\nbetter, nobler, more practical. You'd do well, therefore, to get you a\npair of rings, hang them in your ears, and go preach, your immanent\nmorality to the South African Pappoos. But before you go, you shall\ntaste of the rigour of our law, you insolent, brazen-faced, unmannerly\nscoundrel!\"\n\nAnd we are assured that the Boss did not remain immobile as be spurted\nforth this mixture of wrath and wisdom, nor did the stogies; for\nmoved by his own words, he rose promptly to his feet. \"And what\nof it,\" exclaims our Scribe. \"Surely, I had rather see those boots\nperform any office, high or low, as to behold their soles raised like\nmirrors to my face.\" But how high an office they performed when the\nBoss came forward, we are not told. All that our Scribe gives out\nabout the matter amounts to this: namely, that he walked out of the\nroom, and as he looked back to see if Khalid was following, he saw him\nbrushing with his hands--his hips! And on that very day Khalid was\nsummoned to appear before the Court and give answer to the charge of\nmisappropriation of public funds. The orator-dream of youth--what a\nrealisation! He comes to Court, and after the legal formalities are\nperformed, he is delivered unto an officer who escorts him across\nthe Bridge of Sighs to gaol. There, for ten days and nights,--and it\nmight have been ten months were it not for his devoted and steadfast\nfriend,--we leave Khalid to brood on Democracy and the Dowry of\nDemocracy. A few extracts from the Chapter in the K. L. MS.\nentitled \"In Prison,\" are, therefore, appropriate.\n\n  \"So long as one has faith,\" he writes, \"in the general moral\n  summation of the experience of mankind, as the philosophy of\n  reason assures us, one should not despair. But the material fact\n  of the Present, the dark moment of no-morality, consider that,\n  my suffering Brothers. And reflect further that in this great\n  City of New York the majority of citizens consider it a blessing\n  to have a _rojail_ (titman) for their boss and leader.... How\n  often have I mused that if Ponce de Leon sought the Fountain of\n  Youth in the New World, I, Khalid, sought the Fountain of Truth,\n  and both of us have been equally successful!\n\n  \"But the Americans are neither Pagans--which is consoling--nor\n  fetish-worshipping heathens: they are all true and honest\n  votaries of Mammon, their great God, their one and only God. And\n  is it not natural that the Demiurgic Dollar should be the\n  national Deity of America? Have not deities been always\n  conceived after man's needs and aspirations? Thus in Egypt, in a\n  locality where the manufacture of pottery was the chief\n  industry, God was represented as a potter; in agricultural\n  districts, as a god of harvest; among warring tribes as an\n  avenger, a Jehovah. And the more needs, the more deities; the\n  higher the aspirations, the better the gods. Hence the ugly\n  fetish of a savage tribe, and the beautiful mythology of a Greek\n  Civilisation. Change the needs and aspirations of the Americans,\n  therefore, and you will have changed their worship, their\n  national Deity, and even their Government. And believe me, this\n  change is coming; people get tired of their gods as of\n  everything else. Ay, the time will come, when man in this\n  America shall not suffer for not being a seeker and lover and\n  defender of the Dollar....\n\n  \"Obedience, like faith, is a divine gift; but only when it comes\n  from the heart: only when prompted by love and sincerity is it\n  divine. If you can not, however, reverence what you obey, then,\n  I say, withhold your obedience. And if you prefer to barter your\n  identity or ego for a counterfeit coin of ideology, that right\n  is yours. For under a liberal Constitution and in a free\n  Government, you are also at liberty to sell your soul, to open a\n  bank account for your conscience. But don't blame God, or\n  Destiny, or Society, when you find yourself, after doing this, a\n  brother to the ox. Herein, we Orientals differ from Europeans\n  and Americans; we are never bribed into obedience. We obey\n  either from reverence and love, or from fear. We are either\n  power-worshippers or cowards but never, never traders. It might\n  be said that the masses in the East are blind slaves, while in\n  Europe and America they are become blind rebels. And which is\n  the better part of valour, when one is blind--submission or\n  revolt?...\n\n  \"No; popular suffrage helps not the suffering individual; nor\n  does it conduce to a better and higher morality. Why, my\n  Masters, it can not as much as purge its own channels. For what\n  is the ballot box, I ask again, but a modern vehicle of\n  corruption and debasement? The ballot box, believe me, can not\n  add a cubit to your frame, nor can it shed a modicum of light on\n  the deeper problems of life. Of course, it is the exponent of\n  the will of the majority, that is to say, the will of the Party\n  that has more money at its disposal. The majority, and Iblis,\n  and Juhannam--ah, come out with me to the new gods!...\"\n\nBut we must make allowance for these girds and gibes at Democracy, of\nwhich we have given a specimen. Khalid's irony bites so deep at times\nas to get at the very bone of truth. And here is the marrow of it. We\ntranslate the following prophecy with which he closes his Chapter \"In\nPrison,\" and with it, too, we close ours.\n\n  \"But my faith in man,\" he swears, \"is as strong as my faith in\n  God. And as strong, too, perhaps, is my faith in the future\n  world-ruling destiny of America. To these United States shall\n  the Nations of the World turn one day for the best model of good\n  Government; in these United States the well-springs of the\n  higher aspirations of the soul shall quench the thirst of every\n  race-traveller on the highway of emancipation; and from these\n  United States the sun and moon of a great Faith and a great Art\n  shall rise upon mankind. I believe this, billah! and I am\n  willing to go on the witness stand to swear to it. Ay, in this\n  New World, the higher Superman shall rise. And he shall not be\n  of the tribe of Overmen of the present age, of the beautiful\n  blond beast of Zarathustra, who would riddle mankind as they\n  would riddle wheat or flour; nor of those political moralists\n  who would reform the world as they would a parish.\n\n  \"From his transcendental height, the Superman of America shall\n  ray forth in every direction the divine light, which shall\n  mellow and purify the spirit of Nations and strengthen and\n  sweeten the spirit of men, in this New World, I tell you, he\n  shall be born, but he shall not be an American in the Democratic\n  sense. He shall be nor of the Old World nor of the New; he shall\n  be, my Brothers, of both. In him shall be reincarnated the\n  Asiatic spirit of origination, of Poesy and Prophecy, and the\n  European spirit of Art, and the American spirit of Invention.\n  Ay, the Nation that leads the world to-day in material progress\n  shall lead it, too, in the future, in the higher things of the\n  mind and soul. And when you reach that height, O beloved\n  America, you will be far from the majority-rule, and Iblis, and\n  Juhannam. And you will then conquer those 'enormous mud\n  Megatheriums' of which Carlyle makes loud mention.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nSUBTRANSCENDENTAL\n\n\nDeficiencies in individuals, as in States, have their value and\nimport. Indeed, that sublime impulse of perfectibility, always\nvivacious, always working under various forms and with one underlying\npurpose, would be futile without them, and fatuous. And what were life\nwithout this incessant striving of the spirit? What were life without\nits angles of difficulty and defeat, and its apices of triumph and\npower? A banality this, you will say. But need we not be reminded of\nthese wholesome truths, when the striving after originality nowadays\nis productive of so much quackery? The impulse of perfectibility, we\nrepeat, whether at work in a Studio, or in a Factory, or in a Prison\nCell, is the most noble of all human impulses, the most divine.\n\nOf that Chapter, In Prison, we have given what might be called the\nexogenous bark of the Soul, or that which environment creates. And now\nwe shall endeavour to show the reader somewhat of the ludigenous\nprocess, by which the Soul, thrumming its own strings or eating its\nown guts, develops and increases its numbers. For Khalid in these\ngaol-days is much like Hamlet's player, or even like Hamlet\nhimself--always soliloquising, tearing a passion to rags. And what\nmean these outbursts and objurgations of his, you will ask; these\nsuggestions, fugitive, rhapsodical, mystical; this furibund allegro\nabout Money, Mediums, and Bohemia; these sobs and tears and\nasseverations, in which our Lady of the Studio and Shakib are both\nexpunged with great billahs;--the force and significance of these\nsubliminal uprushes, dear Reader, we confess we are, like yourself,\nunable to understand, without the aid of our Interpreter. We shall,\ntherefore, let him speak.\n\n\"When in prison,\" writes Shakib, \"Khalid was subject to spasms and\nstrange hallucinations. One day, when I was sweating in the effort to\nget him out of gaol, he sends me word to come and see him. I go; and\nafter waiting a while at the Iron gate, I behold Khalid rushing down\nthe isle like an angry lion. 'What do you want,' he growled, 'why are\nyou here?' And I, amazed, 'Did you not send for me?' And he snapped\nup, 'I did; but you should not have come. You should withhold from me\nyour favours.' Life of Allah, I was stunned. I feared lest his mind,\ntoo, had gone in the direction of his health, which was already\nsorrily undermined. I looked at him with dim, tearful eyes, and\nassured him that soon he shall be free. 'And what is the use of\nfreedom,' he exclaimed, 'when it drags us to lower and darker depths?\nDon't think I am miserable in prison. No; I am not--I am happy. I have\nhad strange visions, marvellous. O my Brother, if you could behold the\nsloughs, deeper and darker than any prison-cell, into which _you_ have\nthrown me. Yes, _you_--and another. O, I hate you both. I hate my\nbest lovers. I hate You--no--no, no, no.' And he falls on me, embraces\nme, and bathes my cheeks with his tears. After which he falters out\nbeseechingly, 'Promise, promise that you will not give me any more\nmoney, and though starving and in rags you find me crouching at your\ndoor, promise.' And of a truth, I acquiesced in all he said, seeing\nhow shaken in body and mind he was. But not until I had made a promise\nunder oath would he be tranquillised. And so, after our farewell\nembrace, he asked me to come again the following day and bring him\nsome books to read. This I did, fetching with me Rousseau's _Emile_\nand Carlyle's _Hero-Worship_, the only two books he had in the cellar.\nAnd when he saw them, he exclaimed with joy, 'The very books I want! I\nread them twice already, and I shall read them again. O, let me kiss\nyou for the thought.' And in an ecstasy he overwhelms me again with\nsuffusing sobs and embraces.\n\n\"What a difference, I thought, between Khalid of yesterday and Khalid\nof to-day. What a transformation! Even I who know the turn and temper\nof his nature had much this time to fear. Surely, an alienist would\nhave made a case of him. But I began to get an inkling into his cue of\npassion, when he told me that he was going to start a little business\nagain, if I lend him the necessary capital. But I reminded him that we\nshall soon be returning home. 'No, not I,' he swore; 'not until I can\npay my own passage, at least. I told you yesterday I'll accept no more\nmoney from you, except, of course, the sum I need to start the little\nbusiness I am contemplating.' 'And suppose you lose this money,' I\nasked.--'Why, then _you_ lose _me_. But no, you shall not. For I know,\nI believe, I am sure, I swear that my scheme this time will not be a\nfailure in any sense of the word. I have heavenly testimony on\nthat.'--'And what was the matter with you yesterday? Why were you so\nqueer?' 'O, I had nightmares and visions the night before, and you\ncame too early in the morning. See this.' And he holds down his head\nto show me the back of his neck. 'Is there no swelling here? I feel\nit. Oh, it pains me yet. But I shall tell you about it and about the\nvision when I am out.'--And at this, the gaoler comes to inform us\nthat Khalid's minutes are spent and he must return to his cell.\"\n\nAll of which from our Interpreter is as clear as God Save the King.\nAnd from which we hope our Reader will infer that those outbursts and\ntears and rhapsodies of Khalid did mean somewhat. They did mean, even\nwhen we first approached his cell, that something was going on in\nhim--a revolution, a _coup d'\u00e9tat_, so to speak, of the spirit. For a\nPrince in Rags, but not in Debts and Dishonour, will throttle the\nHarpy which has hitherto ruled and degraded his soul.\n\nBut the dwelling, too, of that soul is sorely undermined. And so, his\nleal and loving friend Shakib takes him later to the best physician in\nthe City, who after the tapping and auscultation, shakes his head,\nwrites his prescriptions, and advises Khalid to keep in the open air\nas much as possible, or better still, to return to his native\ncountry. The last portion of the advice, however, Khalid can not\nfollow at present. For he will either return home on his own account\nor die in New York. \"If I can not in time save enough money for the\nSteamship Company,\" he said to Shakib, \"I can at least leave enough to\nsettle the undertaker's bill. And in either case, I shall have paid my\nown passage out of this New World. And I shall stand before my Maker\nin a shroud, at least, which I can call my own.\"\n\nTo which Shakib replies by going to the druggist with the prescriptions.\nAnd when he returns to the cellar with a package of four or five\nmedicine bottles for rubbing and smelling and drinking, he finds Khalid\nsitting near the stove--we are now in the last month of Winter--warming\nhis hands on the flames of the two last books he read. _Emile_ and\n_Hero-Worship_ go the way of all the rest. And there he sits, meditating\nover Carlyle's crepitating fire and Rousseau's writhing, sibilating\nflame. And it may be he thought of neither. Perhaps he was brooding\nover the resolution he had made, and the ominous shaking of the doctor's\nhead. Ah, but his tutelar deities are better physicians, he thought.\nAnd having made his choice, he will pitch the medicine bottles into the\nstreet, and only follow the doctor's advice by keeping in the open air.\n\nBehold him, therefore, with a note in hand, applying to Shakib, in a\nformal and business-like manner, for a loan; and see that noble\nbenefactor and friend, after gladly giving the money, throw the note\ninto the fire. And now, Khalid is neither dervish nor philosopher,\nbut a man of business with a capital of twenty-five dollars in his\npocket. And with one-fifth of this capital he buys a second-hand\npush-cart from his Greek neighbour, wends his way with it to the\nmarket-place, makes a purchase there of a few boxes of oranges, sorts\nthem in his cart into three classes,--\"there is no equality in\nnature,\" he says, while doing this,--sticks a price card at the head\nof each class, and starts, in the name of Allah, his business. That is\nhow he will keep in the open air twelve hours a day.\n\nBut in the district where he is known he does not long remain. The\nsympathy of his compatriots is to him worse than the doctor's\nmedicines, and those who had often heard him speechifying exchanged\nsignificant looks when he passed. Moreover, the police would not let\nhim set up his stand anywhere. \"There comes the push-cart orator,\"\nthey would say to each other; and before our poor Syrian stops to\nbreathe, one of them grumpishly cries out, \"Move on there! Move on!\"\nOnce Khalid ventures to ask, \"But why are others allowed to set up\ntheir stands here?\" And the \"copper\" (we beg the Critic's pardon\nagain) coming forward twirling his club, lays his hand on Khalid's\nshoulder and calmly this: \"Don't you think I know you? Move on, I\nsay.\" O Khalid, have you forgotten that these \"coppers\" are the\nminions of Tammany? Why tarry, therefore, and ask questions? Yes, make\na big move at once--out of the district entirely.\n\nNow, to the East Side, into the Jewish Quarter, Khalid directs his\ncart. And there, he falls in with Jewish fellow push-cart peddlers\nand puts up with them in a cellar similar to his in the Syrian\nQuarter. But only for a month could he suffer what the Jew has\nsuffered for centuries. Why? There is this difference between the\ncellar of the Semite Syrian and that of the Semite Jew: in the first\nwe eat _mojadderah_, in the second, _kosher_ but stinking flesh; in\nthe first we read poetry and play the lute, in the second we fight\nabout the rent and the division of the profits of the day; in the\nfirst we sleep in linen \"as white as the wings of the dove,\" in the\nsecond on pieces of smelly blankets; the first is redolent of ottar of\nroses, Shakib's favourite perfume, the second is especially made\ninsufferable by that stench which is peculiar to every Hebrew hive.\nFor these and other reasons, Khalid separates himself from his Semite\nfellow peddlers, and makes this time a bigger move than the first.\n\nAy, even to the Bronx, where often in former days, shouldering the\npeddling-box, he tramped, will he now push his orange-cart and his\nhopes. There, between City and Country, nearer to Nature, and not far\nfrom the traffic of life, he fares better both in health and purse. It\nis much to his liking, this upper end of the City. Here the atmosphere\nis more peaceful and soothing, and the police are more agreeable. No,\nthey do not nickname and bully him in the Bronx. And never was he\nordered to move on, even though he set up his stand for months at the\nsame corner. \"Ah, how much kinder and more humane people become,\" he\nsays, \"even when they are not altogether out of the City, but only on\nthe outskirts of the country expanse.\"\n\nKhalid passes the Spring and Summer in the Bronx and keeps in the open\nair, not only in the day, but also in the night. How he does this, is\ntold in a letter which he writes to Shakib. But does he sleep at all,\nyou ask, and how, and where? Reader, we thank you for your anxiety\nabout Khalid's health. And we would fain show you the Magic Carpet\nwhich he carries in the lock-box of his push-cart. But see for\nyourself, here be neither Magic Carpet, nor Magic Ring. Only his\npapers, a few towels, a blanket, some underwear, and his coffee\nutensils, are here. For Khalid could forego his _mojadderah_, but\nnever his coffee, the Arab that he is. But an Arab on the wayfare, if\nhe finds himself at night far from the camp, will dig him a ditch in\nthe sands and lie there to sleep under the living stars. Khalid could\nnot do thus, neither in the City nor out of it. And yet, he did not\nlodge within doors. He hired a place only for his push-cart; and this,\na small padlock-booth where he deposits his stock in trade. But how he\nlived in the Bronx is described in the following letter:\n\n  \"My loving Brother Shakib,\n\n  \"I have been two months here, in a neighbourhood familiar to\n  you. Not far from the place where I sleep is the sycamore tree\n  under which I burned my peddling-box. And perhaps I shall yet\n  burn there my push-cart too. But for the present, all's well. My\n  business is good and my health is improving. The money-order I\n  am enclosing with this, will cancel the note, but not the many\n  debts, I owe you. And I hope to be able to join you again soon,\n  to make the voyage to our native land together. Meanwhile I am\n  working, and laying up a little something. I make from two to\n  three dollars a day, of which I never spend more than one. And\n  this on one meal only; for my lodging and my lunch and breakfast\n  cost next to nothing. Yes, I can be a push-cart peddler in the\n  day; I can sleep out of doors at night; I can do with coffee and\n  oranges for lunch and breakfast; but in the evening I will\n  assert my dignity and do justice to my taste: I will dine at the\n  Hermitage and permit you to call me a fool. And why not, since\n  my purse, like my stomach, is now my own? Why not go to the\n  Hermitage since my push-cart income permits of it? But the first\n  night I went there my shabbiness attracted the discomforting\n  attention of the fashionable diners, and made even the waiters\n  offensive. Indeed, one of them came to ask if I were looking for\n  somebody. 'No,' I replied with suppressed indignation; 'I'm\n  looking for a place where I can sit down and eat, without being\n  eaten by the eyes of the vulgar curious.' And I pass into an\n  arbor, which from that night becomes virtually my own, followed\n  by a waiter who from that night, too, became my friend. For\n  every evening I go there, I find my table unoccupied and my\n  waiter ready to receive and serve me. But don't think he does\n  this for the sake of my black eyes or my philosophy. That\n  disdainful glance of his on the first evening I could never\n  forget, billah. And I found that it could be baited and mellowed\n  only by a liberal tip. And this I make in advance every week for\n  both my comfort and his. Yes, I am a fool, I grant you, but I'm\n  not out of my element there.\n\n  \"After dinner I take a stroll in the Flower Gardens, and\n  crossing the rickety wooden bridge over the river, I enter the\n  hemlock grove. Here, in a sequestered spot near the river bank,\n  I lay me on the grass and sleep for the night. I always bring my\n  towels with me; for in the morning I take a dip, and at night I\n  use them for a pillow. When the weather requires it, I bring my\n  blankets too. And hanging one of them over me, tied to the trees\n  by the cords sown to its corners, I wrap myself in the other,\n  and praise Allah.\n\n  \"These and the towels, after taking my bath, I leave at the\n  Hermitage; my waiter minds them for me. And so, I suspect I am\n  happy--if, curse it! I could but breathe better. O, come up to\n  see me. I'll give you a royal dinner at the Hermitage, and a\n  royal bed in the hemlock grove on the river-bank. Do come up,\n  the peace of Allah upon thee. Read my salaam to Im-Hanna.\"\n\nAnd during his five months in the Bronx he did not sleep five nights\nwithin doors, we are told, nor did he once dine out of the Hermitage.\nEven his hair, a fantastic fatuity behind a push-cart, he did not take\nthe trouble to cut or trim. It must have helped his business. But this\nconstancy, never before sustained to such a degree, must soon cease,\nhaving laid up, thanks to his push-cart and the people of the Bronx,\nenough to carry him, not only to Baalbek, but to _Aymakanenkan_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE FALSE DAWN\n\n\nWhat the Arabs always said of Andalusia, Khalid and Shakib said\nonce of America: a most beautiful country with one single vice--it\nmakes foreigners forget their native land. But now they are both\nsuffering from nostalgia, and America, therefore, is without a\nsingle vice. It is perfect, heavenly, ideal. In it one sees only the\nvices of other races, and the ugliness of other nations. America\nherself is as lovely as a dimpled babe, and as innocent. A dimpled\nbabe she. But wait until she grows, and she will have more than one\nvice to demand forgetfulness.\n\nShakib, however, is not going to wait. He begins to hear the call of\nhis own country, now that his bank account is big enough to procure\nfor him the Pashalic of Syria. And Khalid, though his push-cart had\ndeveloped to a stationary fruit stand,--and perhaps for this very\nreason,--is now desirous of leaving America anon. He is afraid of\nsuccess overtaking him. Moreover, the Bronx Park has awakened in him\nhis long dormant love of Nature. For while warming himself on the\nflames of knowledge in the cellar, or rioting with the Bassarides of\nBohemia, or canvassing and speechifying for Tammany, he little thought\nof what he had deserted in his native country. The ancient historical\nrivers flowing through a land made sacred by the divine madness of the\nhuman spirit; the snow-capped mountains at the feet of which the lily\nand the oleander bloom; the pine forests diffusing their fragrance\neven among the downy clouds; the peaceful, sun-swept multi-coloured\nmeadows; the trellised vines, the fig groves, the quince orchards, the\norangeries: the absence of these did not disturb his serenity in the\ncellar, his voluptuousness in Bohemia, his enthusiasm in Tammany\nLand.\n\nAnd we must not forget to mention that, besides the divine voice of\nNature and native soil, he long since has heard and still hears the\nstill sweet voice of one who might be dearer to him than all. For\nKhalid, after his return from Bohemia, continued to curse the huris in\nhis dreams. And he little did taste of the blessings of \"sore labour's\nbath, balm of hurt minds.\" Ay, when he was not racked and harrowed by\nnightmares, he was either disturbed by the angels of his visions or\nthe succubi of his dreams. And so, he determines to go to Syria for a\nnight's sleep, at least, of the innocent and just. His cousin Najma is\nthere, and that is enough. Once he sees her, the huris are no more.\n\nNow Shakib, who is more faithful in his narration than we first\nthought--who speaks of Khalid as he is, extenuating nothing--gives us\naccess to a letter which he received from the Bronx a month before\ntheir departure from New York. In these Letters of Khalid, which our\nScribe happily preserved, we feel somewhat relieved of the dogmatism,\nfantastic, mystical, severe, which we often meet with in the K. L.\nMS. In his Letters, our Syrian peddler and seer is a plain blunt man\nunbosoming himself to his friend. Read this, for instance.\n\n  \"My loving Brother:\n\n  \"It is raining so hard to-night that I must sleep, or in fact\n  keep, within doors. Would you believe it, I am no more\n  accustomed to the luxuries of a soft spring-bed, and I can not\n  even sleep on the floor, where I have moved my mattress. I am\n  sore, broken in mind and spirit. Even the hemlock grove and the\n  melancholy stillness of the river, are beginning to annoy me.\n  Oh, I am tired of everything here, tired even of the cocktails,\n  tired of the push-cart, tired of earning as much as five dollars\n  a day. Next Sunday is inauguration day for my stationary fruit\n  stand; but I don't think it's going to stand there long enough\n  to deserve to be baptized with champagne. If you come up,\n  therefore, we'll have a couple of steins at the Hermitage and\n  call it square.--O, I would square myself with the doctors by\n  thrusting a poker down my windpipe: I might be able to breathe\n  better then. I pause to curse my fate.--Curse it, Juhannam-born,\n  curse it!--\n\n  \"I can not sleep, nor on the spring-bed, nor on the floor. It is\n  two hours past midnight now, and I shall try to while away the\n  time by scrawling this to you. My brother, I can not long\n  support this sort of life, being no more fit for rough,\n  ignominious labor. 'But why,' you will ask, 'did you undertake\n  it?' Yes, why? Strictly speaking, I made a mistake. But it's a\n  noble mistake, believe me--a mistake which everybody in my\n  condition ought to make, if but once in their life-time. Is it\n  not something to be able to make an honest resolution and carry\n  it out? I have heard strange voices in prison; I have hearkened\n  to them; but I find that one must have sound lungs, at least, to\n  be able to do the will of the immortal gods. And even if he had,\n  I doubt if he could do much to suit them in America. O, my\n  greatest enemy and benefactor in the whole world is this\n  dumb-hearted mother, this America, in whose iron loins I have\n  been spiritually conceived. Paradoxical, this? But is it not\n  true? Was not the Khalid, now writing to you, born in the\n  cellar? Down there, in the very loins of New York? But alas,\n  our spiritual Mother devours, like a cat, her own children. How\n  then can we live with her in the same house?\n\n  \"I need not tell you now that the ignominious task I set my\n  hands to, was never to my liking. But the ox under the yoke is\n  not asked whether he likes it or not. I have been yoked to my\n  push-cart by the immortal gods; and soon my turn and trial will\n  end. It must end. For our country is just beginning to speak,\n  and I am her chosen voice. I feel that if I do not respond, if I\n  do not come to her, she will be dumb forever. No; I can not\n  remain here any more. For I can not be strenuous enough to be\n  miserably happy; nor stupid enough to be contentedly miserable.\n  I confess I have been spoiled by those who call themselves\n  spiritual sisters of mine. The huris be dam'd. And if I don't\n  leave this country soon, I'll find myself sharing the damnation\n  again--in Bohemia.--\n\n  \"The power of the soul is doubled by the object of its love,\n  or by such labor of love as it undertakes. But, here I am,\n  with no work and nobody I can love; nay, chained to a task\n  which I now abominate. If a labor of love doubles the power of\n  the soul, a labor of hate, to use an antonym term, warps it,\n  poisons it, destroys it. Is it not a shame that in this great\n  Country,--this Circe with her golden horns of plenty,--one can\n  not as much as keep his blood in circulation without damning\n  the currents of one's soul? O America, equally hated and\n  beloved of Khalid, O Mother of prosperity and spiritual\n  misery, the time will come when you shall see that your gold\n  is but pinchbeck, your gilt-edge bonds but death decrees, and\n  your god of wealth a carcase enthroned upon a dung-hill. But\n  you can not see this now; for you are yet in the false dawn,\n  floundering tumultuously, worshipping your mammoth carcase on\n  a dung-hill--and devouring your spiritual children. Yes,\n  America is now in the false dawn, and as sure as America\n  lives, the true dawn must follow.\n\n  \"Pardon, Shakib. I did not mean to end my letter in a rhapsody.\n  But I am so wrought, so broken in body, so inflamed in spirit. I\n  hope to see you soon. No, I hope to see myself with you on board\n  of a Transatlantic steamer.\"\n\nAnd is not Khalid, like his spiritual Mother, floundering, too, in the\nfalse dawn of life? His love of Nature, which was spontaneous and\nfree, is it not likely to become formal and scientific? His love of\nCountry, which begins tremulously, fervently in the woods and streams,\nis it not likely to end in Nephelococcygia? His determination to work,\nwhich was rudely shaken at a push-cart, is it not become again a\ndetermination to loaf? And now, that he has a little money laid up,\nhas he not the right to seek in this world the cheapest and most\nsuitable place for loafing? And where, if not in the Lebanon hills,\n\"in which it seemed always afternoon,\" can he rejoin the Lotus-Eaters\nof the East? This man of visions, this fantastic, rhapsodical--but we\nmust not be hard upon him. Remember, good Reader, the poker which he\nwould thrust down his windpipe to broaden it a little. With asthmatic\nfits and tuberous infiltrations, one is permitted to commune with any\nof Allah's ministers of grace or spirits of Juhannam. And that divine\nspark of primal, paradisical love, which is rapidly devouring all\nothers--let us not forget that. Ay, we mean his cousin Najma. Of\ncourse, he speaks, too, of his nation, his people, awaking, lisping,\nbeginning to speak, waiting for him, the chosen Voice! Which reminds\nus of how he was described to us by the hasheesh-smokers of Cairo.\n\nIn any event, the Reader will rejoice with us, we hope, that Khalid\nwill not turn again toward Bohemia. He will agree with us that,\nwhether on account of his health, or his love, or his mission, it is\nwell, in his present fare of mind and body, that he is returning to\nthe land \"in which it seemed always afternoon.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE LAST STAR\n\n\nIs it not an ethnic phenomenon that a descendant of the ancient\nPhoenicians can not understand the meaning and purport of the Cash\nRegister in America? Is it not strange that this son of Superstition\nand Trade can not find solace in the fact that in this Pix of Business\nis the Host of the Demiurgic Dollar? Indeed, the omnipresence and\nomnipotence of it are not without divine significance. For can you not\nsee that this Cash Register, this Pix of Trade, is prominently set up\non the altar of every institution, political, moral, social, and\nreligious? Do you not meet with it everywhere, and foremost in the\nsanctuaries of the mind and the soul? In the Societies for the\nDiffusion of Knowledge; in the Social Reform Propagandas; in the Don't\nWorry Circles of Metaphysical Gymnasiums; in Alliances, Philanthropic,\nEducational; in the Board of Foreign Missions; in the Sacrarium of\nVaticinatress Eddy; in the Church of God itself;--is not the Cash\nRegister a divine symbol of the _credo_, the faith, or the idea?\n\n\"To trade, or not to trade,\" Hamlet-Khalid exclaims, \"that is the\nquestion: whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer, etc., or to take\narms against the Cash Registers of America, and by opposing end--\"\nWhat? Sacrilegious wretch, would you set your face against the\ndivinity in the Holy Pix of Trade? And what will you end, and how will\nYou end by it? An eternal problem, this, of opposing and ending. But\nbefore you set your face in earnest, we would ask you to consider if\nthe vacancy or chaos which is sure to follow, be not more pernicious\nthan what you would end. If you are sure it is not, go ahead, and we\ngive you Godspeed. If you have the least doubt about it--but Khalid is\nincapable now of doubting anything. And whether he opposes his theory\nof immanent morality to the Cash Register, or to Democracy, or to the\nruling powers of Flunkeydom, we hope He will end well. Such is the\npenalty of revolt against the dominating spirit of one's people and\nancestors, that only once in a generation is it attempted, and\nscarcely with much success. In fact, the first who revolts must\nperish, the second, too, and the third, and the fourth, until, in the\ncourse of time and by dint of repetition and resistance, the new\nspecies of the race can overcome the forces of environment and the\ncrushing influence of conformity. This, we know, is the biological\nlaw, and Khalid must suffer under it. For, as far as our knowledge\nextends, he is the first Syrian, the ancient Lebanon monks excepted,\nwho revolted against the ruling spirit of his people and the dominant\ntendencies of the times, both in his native and his adopted\nCountries.\n\nYes, the _\u00eathos_ of the Syrians (for once we use Khalid's philosophic\nterm), like that of the Americans, is essentially money-seeking. And\nwhether in Beirut or in New York, even the moralists and reformers,\nlike the hammals and grocers, will ask themselves, before they\nundertake to do anything for you or for their country, \"What will this\nprofit us? How much will it bring us?\" And that is what Khalid once\nthought to oppose and end. Alas, oppose he might--and End He Must. How\ncan an individual, without the aid of Time and the Unseen Powers, hope\nto oppose and end, or even change, this monstrous mass of things? Yet\nwe must not fail to observe that when we revolt against a tendency\ninimical to our law of being, it is for our own sake, and not the\nrace's, that we do so. And we are glad we are able to infer, if not\nfrom the K. L, MS., at least from his Letters, that Khalid is\nbeginning to realise this truth. Let us not, therefore, expatiate\nfurther upon it.\n\nIf the reader will accompany us now to the cellar to bid our Syrian\nfriends farewell, we promise a few things of interest. When we first\ncame here some few years ago in Winter, or to another such underground\ndwelling, the water rose ankle-deep over the floor, and the mould and\nstench were enough to knock an ox dead. Now, a scent of ottar of roses\nwelcomes us at the door and leads us to a platform in the centre,\nfurnished with a Turkish rug, which Shakib will present to the\nlandlord as a farewell memento.\n\nAnd here are our three Syrians making ready for the voyage. Shakib\nis intoning some verses of his while packing; Im-Hanna is cooking\nthe last dish of _mojadderah_; and Khalid, with some vague dream\nin his eyes, and a vaguer, far-looming hope in his heart, is\nsitting on his trunk wondering at the variety of things Shakib is\ncramming into his. For our Scribe, we must not fail to remind the\nReader, is contemplating great things of State, is nourishing a great\npolitical ambition. He will, therefore, bethink him of those in\npower at home. Hence these costly presents. Ay, besides the plated\njewellery--the rings, bracelets, brooches, necklaces, ear-rings,\nwatches, and chains--of which he is bringing enough to supply the\npeasants of three villages, see that beautiful gold-knobbed ebony\nstick, which he will present to the vali, and this precious gold cross\nwith a ruby at the heart for the Patriarch, and these gold fountain\npens for his literary friends, and that fine Winchester rifle for the\nchief of the tribe Anezah. These he packs in the bottom of his\ntrunk, and with them his precious dilapidated copy of Al-Mutanabbi,\nand--what MS. be this? What, a Book of Verse spawned in the\ncellar? Indeed, the very embryo of that printed copy we read in\nCairo, and which Shakib and his friends would have us translate\nfor the benefit of the English reading public.\n\nFor our Scribe is the choragus of the Modern School of Arabic poetry.\nAnd this particular Diwan of his is a sort of rhymed inventory of all\nthe inventions and discoveries of modern Science and all the wonders\nof America. He has published other Diwans, in which French morbidity\nis crowned with laurels from the Arabian Nights. For this Modern\nSchool has two opposing wings, moved by two opposing forces, Science\nbeing the motive power of the one, and Byron and De Musset the\ninspiring geniuses of the other. We would not be faithful to our\nEditorial task and to our Friend, if we did not give here a few\nluminant examples of the Diwan in question. We are, indeed, very\nsorry, for the sake of our readers, that space will not allow us to\ngive them a few whole qas\u00efdahs from it. To those who are so fortunate\nas to be able to read and understand the Original, we point out the\nOde to the Phonograph, beginning thus:\n\n    \"O Phonograph, thou wonder of our time,\n     Thy tongue of wax can sing like me in rhyme.\"\n\nAnd another to the Brooklyn Bridge, of which these are the opening\nlines:\n\n    \"O Brooklyn Bridge, how oft upon thy back\n     I tramped, and once I crossed thee in a hack.\"\n\nAnd finally, the great Poem entitled, On the Virtue and Benefit of\nModern Science, of which we remember these couplets:\n\n    \"Balloons and airships, falling from the skies,\n     Will be as plenty yet as summer flies.\n           *       *       *       *       *\n    \"Electricity and Steam and Compressed Air\n     Will carry us to heaven yet, I swear.\"\n\nHere be rhymed truth, at least, which can boast of not being poetry.\nAy, in this MS. which Shakib is packing along with Al-Mutanabbi in the\nbottom of his trunk to evade the Basilisk touch of the Port officials\nof Beirut, is packed all the hopes of the Modern School. Pack on,\nShakib; for whether at the Mena House, or in the hasheesh-dens of\nCairo, the Future is drinking to thee, and dreaming of thee and thy\nSchool its opium dreams. And Khalid, the while, sits impassive on his\ntrunk, and Im-Hanna is cooking the last dinner of _mojadderah_.\n\nEmigration has introduced into Syria somewhat of the three prominent\nfeatures of Civilisation: namely, a little wealth, a few modern ideas,\nand many strange diseases. And of these three blessings our two\nSyrians together are plentifully endowed. For Shakib is a type of the\nemigrant, who returns home prosperous in every sense of the word. A\nBook of Verse to lure Fame, a Letter of Credit to bribe her if\nnecessary, and a double chin to praise the gods. This is a complete\nset of the prosperity, which Khalid knows not. But he has in his lungs\nwhat Shakib the poet can not boast of; while in his trunk he carries\nbut a little wearing apparel, his papers, and his blankets. And in his\npocket, he has his ribbed silver cigarette case--the only object he\ncan not part with--a heart-shaped locket with a little diamond star on\nits face--the only present he is bringing with him home,--and a\nthird-class passage across the Atlantic. For Khalid will not sleep in\na bunk, even though it be furnished with eiderdown cushions and tiger\nskins.\n\nAnd since he is determined to pass his nights on deck, it matters\nlittle whether he travels first class, or second or tenth. Shakib, do\nwhat he may, cannot prevail upon him to accept the first-class passage\nhe had bought in his name. \"Let us not quarrel about this,\" says he;\n\"we shall be together on board the same ship, and that settles the\nquestion. Indeed, the worse way returning home must be ultimately the\nbest. No, Shakib, it matters not how I travel, if I but get away\nquickly from this pandemonium of Civilisation. Even now, as I sit on\nthis trunk waiting for the hour of departure, I have a foretaste of\nthe joy of being away from the insidious cries of hawkers, the\ntormenting bells of the rag-man, the incessant howling of children,\nthe rumbling of carts and wagons, the malicious whir of cable cars,\nthe grum shrieks of ferry boats, and the thundering, reverberating,\nsmoking, choking, blinding abomination of an elevated railway. A\nmusician might extract some harmony from this chaos of noises, this\njumble of sounds. But I--extract me quickly from them!\"\n\nAy, quickly please, especially for our sake and the Reader's. Now, the\ndinner is finished, the rug is folded and presented to our landlord\nwith our salaams, the trunks are locked and roped, and our Arabs will\nsilently steal away. And peacefully, too, were it not that an hour\nbefore sailing a capped messenger is come to deliver a message to\nShakib. There is a pleasant dilative sensation in receiving a message\non board a steamer, especially when the messenger has to seek you\namong the Salon passengers. Now, Shakib dilates with pride as he takes\nthe envelope in his hand; but when he opens it, and reads on the\nenclosed card, \"Mr. Isaac Goldheimer wishes you a _bon voyage_,\" he\nturns quickly on his heels and goes on deck to walk his wrath away.\nFor this Mr. Goldheimer is the very landlord who received the Turkish\nrug. Reflect on this, Reader. Father Abraham would have walked with us\nto the frontier to betoken his thanks and gratitude. \"But this modern\nJew and his miserable card,\" exclaims Shakib in his teeth, as he tears\nand throws it in the water,--\"who asked him to send it, and who would\nhave sued him if he didn't?\"\n\nBut Shakib, who has lived so long in America and traded with its\npeople, is yet ignorant of some of the fine forms and conventions of\nCivilisation. He does not know that fashionable folk, or those aping\nthe dear fashionable folk, have a right to assert their superiority at\nhis expense.--I do not care to see you, but I will send a messenger\nand card to do so for me. You are not my equal, and I will let you\nknow this, even at the hour of your departure, and though I have to\nhire a messenger to do so.--Is there no taste, no feeling, no\ngratitude in this? Don't you wish, O Shakib,--but compose yourself.\nAnd think not so ill of your Jewish landlord, whom you wish you could\nwrap in that rug and throw overboard. He certainly meant well. That\nformula of card and messenger is so convenient and so cheap. Withal,\nis he not too busy, think you, to come up to the dock for the puerile,\nprosaic purpose of shaking hands and saying ta-ta? If you can not\nconsider the matter in this light, try to forget it. One must not be\ntoo visceral at the hour of departure. Behold, your skyscrapers and\nyour Statue of Liberty are now receding from view; and your landlord\nand his card and messenger will be further from us every while we\nthink of them, until, thanks to Time and Space and Steam! they will\nbe too far away to be remembered.\n\nHere, then, with our young Seer and our Scribe, we bid New York\nfarewell, and earnestly hope that we do not have to return to it\nagain, or permit any of them to do so. In fact, we shall not hereafter\nconsider, with any ulterior material or spiritual motive, any more of\nsuch disparaging, denigrating matter, in the two MSS. before us, as\nhas to pass through our reluctant hands \"touchin' on and appertainin'\nto\" the great City of Manhattan and its distinguished denizens. For\nour part, we have had enough of this painful task. And truly, we have\nnever before undergone such trials in sailing between--but that\nCharybdis and Scylla allusion has been done to death. Indeed, we love\nAmerica, and in the course of our present task, which we also love, we\nhad to suffer Khalid's shafts to pass through our ken and sometimes\nreally through our heart. But no more of this. Ay, we would fain set\naside our pen from sheer weariness of spirit and bid the Reader, too,\nfarewell. Truly, we would end here this Book of Khalid were it not\nthat the greater part of the most important material in the K. L. MS.\nis yet intact, and the more interesting portion of Shakib's History is\nyet to come. Our readers, though we do not think they are sorry for\nhaving come out with us so far, are at liberty either to continue with\nus, or say good-bye. But for the Editor there is no choice. What we\nhave begun we must end, unmindful of the influence, good or ill, of\nthe Zodiacal Signs under which we work.\n\n\"Our Phoenician ancestors,\" says Khalid, \"never left anything they\nundertook unfinished. Consider what they accomplished in their days,\nand the degree of culture they attained. The most beautiful\nfabrications in metals and precious stones were prepared in Syria.\nHere, too, the most important discoveries were made: namely, those of\nglass and purple. As for me, I can not understand what the Murex\ntrunculus is; and I am not certain if scholars and arch\u00e6ologists, or\neven mariners and fishermen, will ever find a fossil of that\nparticular species. But murex or no murex, Purple was discovered by my\nancestors. Hence the purple passion, that is to say the energy and\nintensity which coloured everything they did, everything they felt and\nbelieved. For whether in bemoaning Tammuz, or in making tear-bottles,\nor in trading with the Gauls and Britons, the Phoenicians were the\nsame superstitious, honest, passionate, energetic people. And do not\nforget, you who are now enjoying the privilege of setting down your\nthoughts in words, that on these shores of Syria written language\nreceived its first development.\n\n\"It is also said that they discovered and first navigated the Atlantic\nOcean, my Phoenicians; that they worked gold mines in the distant isle\nof Thasos and opened silver mines in the South and Southwest of Spain.\nIn Africa, we know, they founded the colonies of Utica and Carthage.\nBut we are told they went farther than this. And according to some\nhistorians, they rounded the Cape, they circumnavigated Africa. And\naccording to recent discoveries made by an American arch\u00e6ologist,\nthey must have discovered America too! For in the ruins of the Aztecs\nof Mexico there are traces of a Phoenician language and religion.\nThis, about the discovery of America, however, I can not verify with\nanything from Sanchuniathon. But might they not have made this\ndiscovery after the said Sanchuniathon had given up the ghost? And if\nthey did, what can We, their worthless descendants do for them now?\nAh, if we but knew the name of their Columbus! No, it is not practical\nto build a monument to a whole race of people. And yet, they deserve\nmore than this from us, their descendants.\n\n\"These dealers in tin and amber, these manufacturers of glass and\npurple, these developers of a written language, first gave the impetus\nto man's activity and courage and intelligence. And this activity of\nthe industry and will is not dead in man. It may be dead in us\nSyrians, but not in the Americans. In their strenuous spirit it rises\nuppermost. After all, I must love the Americans, for they are my\nPhoenician ancestors incarnate. Ay, there is in the nature of things a\nmysterious recurrence which makes for a continuous, everlasting\nmodernity. And I believe that the spirit which moved those brave\nsea-daring navigators of yore, is still working lustily, bravely, but\nalas, not joyously--bitterly, rather, selfishly, greedily--behind the\nsteam engine, the electric motor, the plough, and in the clinic and\nthe studio as in the Stock Exchange. That spirit in its real essence,\nhowever, is as young, as puissant to-day as it was when the native of\nByblus first struck out to explore the seas, to circumnavigate\nAfrica, to discover even America!\"\n\nAnd what in the end might Khalid discover for us or for himself, at\nleast, in his explorations of the Spirit-World? What Colony of the\nchosen sons of the young and puissant Spirit, on some distant isle\nbeyond the seven seas, might he found? To what far, silent, undulating\nshore, where \"a written language is the instrument only of the lofty\nexpressions and aspirations of the soul\" might he not bring us? What\nCape of Truth in the great Sea of Mystery might we not be able to\ncircumnavigate, if only this were possible of the language of man?\n\n\"Not with glass,\" he exclaims, \"not with tear-bottles, not with\npurple, not with a written language, am I now concerned, but rather\nwith what those in Purple and those who make this written language\ntheir capital, can bring within our reach of the treasures of the\ngood, the true, and the beautiful. I would fain find a land where the\nsoul of man, and the heart of man, and the mind of man, are as the\nglass of my ancestors' tear-bottles in their enduring quality and\nbeauty. My ancestors' tear-bottles, and though buried in the earth ten\nthousand years, lose not a grain of their original purity and\ntransparency, of their soft and iridescent colouring. But where is the\nnatural colour and beauty of these human souls, buried in bunks under\nhatches? Or of those moving in high-lacquered salons above?...\n\n\"O my Brothers of the clean and unclean species, of the scented and\nsmelling kind, of the have and have-not classes, there is but one\nstar in this vague dusky sky above us, for you as for myself. And that\nstar is either the last in the eternal darkness, or the first in the\nrising dawn. It is either the first or the last star of night. And who\nshall say which it is? Not the Church, surely, nor the State; not\nScience, nor Sociology, nor Philosophy, nor Religion. But the human\nwill shall influence that star and make it yield its secret and its\nfire. Each of you, O my Brothers, can make it light his own hut, warm\nhis own heart, guide his own soul. Never before in the history of man\ndid it seem as necessary as it does now that each individual should\nthink for himself, will for himself, and aspire incessantly for the\nrealisation of his ideals and dreams. Yes, we are to-day at a terrible\nand glorious turning point, and it depends upon us whether that one\nstar in the vague and dusky sky of modern life, shall be the harbinger\nof Jannat or Juhannam.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nPRIESTO-PARENTAL\n\n\nIf we remember that the name of Khalid's cousin is Najma (Star), the\nsignificance to himself of the sign spoken of in the last Chapter, is\nquite evident. But what it means to others remains to be seen. His one\nstar, however, judging from his month's experience in Baalbek, is not\npromising of Jannat. For many things, including parental tyranny and\npriestcraft and Jesuitism, will here conspire against the single\nblessedness of him, which is now seeking to double itself.\n\n\"Where one has so many Fathers,\" he writes, \"and all are pretending to\nbe the guardians of his spiritual and material well-being, one ought\nto renounce them all at once. It was not with a purpose to rejoin my\nfolk that I first determined to return to my native country. For,\nwhile I believe in the Family, I hate Familism, which is the curse of\nthe human race. And I hate this spiritual Fatherhood when it puts on\nthe garb of a priest, the three-cornered hat of a Jesuit, the hood of\na monk, the gaberdine of a rabbi, or the jubbah of a sheikh. The\nsacredness of the Individual, not of the Family or the Church, do I\nproclaim. For Familism, or the propensity to keep under the same roof,\nas a social principle, out of fear, ignorance, cowardice, or\ndependence, is, I repeat, the curse of the world. Your father is he\nwho is friendly and reverential to the higher being in you; your\nbrothers are those who can appreciate the height and depth of your\nspirit, who hearken to you, and believe in you, if you have any truth\nto announce to them. Surely, one's value is not in his skin that you\nshould touch him. Are there any two individuals more closely related\nthan mother and son? And yet, when I Khalid embrace my mother,\nmingling my tears with hers, I feel that my soul is as distant from\nher own as is Baalbek from the Dog-star. And so I say, this attempt to\nbind together under the principle of Familism conflicting spirits, and\nbe it in the name of love or religion or anything else more or less\nsacred, is in itself a very curse, and should straightway end. It will\nend, as far as I am concerned. And thou my Brother, whether thou be a\nson of the Morning or of the Noontide or of the Dusk,--whether thou be\na Japanese or a Syrian or a British man--if thou art likewise\ncircumstanced, thou shouldst do the same, not only for thine own sake,\nbut for the sake of thy family as well.\"\n\nNo; Khalid did not find that wholesome plant of domestic peace in his\nmother's Nursery. He found noxious weeds, rather, and brambles galore.\nAnd they were planted there, not by his father or mother, but by those\nwho have a lien upon the souls of these poor people. For the priest\nhere is no peeled, polished affair, but shaggy, scrubby, terrible,\nforbidding. And with a word he can open yet, for such as Khalid's\nfolk, the gate which Peter keeps or the other on the opposite side of\nthe Universe. Khalid must beware, therefore, how he conducts himself\nat home and abroad, and how, in his native town, he delivers his mind\non sacred things, and profane. In New York, for instance, or in Turabu\nfor that matter, he could say in plain forthright speech what he\nthought of Family, Church or State, and no one would mind him. But\nwhere these Institutions are the rottenest existing he will be minded\ntoo well, and reminded, too, of the fate of those who preceded him.\n\nThe case of Habib Ish-Shidiak at Kannubin is not yet forgotten. And\nHabib, be it known, was only a poor Protestant neophite who took\npleasure in carrying a small copy of the Bible in his hip pocket, and\nwas just learning to roll his eyes in the pulpit and invoke the\n\"laud.\" But Khalid, everybody out-protesting, is such an intractable\npro_test_ant, with, neither Bible in his pocket nor pulpit at his\nservice. And yet, with a flint on his tongue and a spark in his eyes,\nhe will make the neophite Habib smile beside him. For the priesthood\nin Syria is not, as we have said, a peeled, polished, pulpy affair.\nAnd Khalid's father has been long enough in their employ to learn\nsomewhat of their methods. Bigotry, cruelty, and tyranny at home,\npriestcraft and Jesuitism abroad,--these, O Khalid, you will know\nbetter by force of contact before you end. And you will begin to pine\nagain for your iron-loined spiritual Mother. Ay, and the scelerate\nJesuit will even make capital of your mass of flowing hair. For in\nthis country, only the native priests are privileged to be shaggy and\nscrubby and still be without suspicion. But we will let Shakib give us\na few not uninteresting details of the matter.\n\n\"Not long after we had rejoined our people,\" he writes, \"Khalid comes\nto me with a sorry tale. In truth, a fortnight after our arrival in\nBaalbek--our civility towards new comers seldom enjoys a longer\nlease--the town was alive with rumours and whim-whams about my friend.\nAnd whereso I went, I was not a little annoyed with the tehees and\ngrunts which his name seemed to invoke. The women often came to his\nmother to inquire in particular why he grows his hair and shaves his\nmustaches; the men would speak to his father about the change in his\naccent and manners; the children teheed and tittered whenever he\npassed through the town-square; and all were of one mind that Khalid\nwas a worthless fellow, who had brought nothing with him from the\nParadise of the New World but his cough and his fleece. Such tattle\nand curiosity, however, no matter what degree of savage vulgarity they\nreach, are quite harmless. But I felt somewhat uneasy about him, when\nI heard the people asking each other, \"Why does he not come to Church\nlike honest folks?\" And soon I discovered that my apprehensions were\nwell grounded; for the questioning was noised at Khalid's door, and\nthe fire crackled under the roof within. The father commands; the\nmother begs; the father objurgates, threatens, curses his son's faith;\nand the mother, prostrating herself before the Virgin, weeps, and\nprays, and beats her breast. Alas, and my Khalid? he goes out on the\nterrace to search in the Nursery for his favourite Plant. No, he does\nnot find it; brambles are there and noxious weeds galore. The thorny,\nbitter reality he must now face, and, by reason of his lack of\nsavoir-faire, be ultimately out-faced by it. For the upshot of the\nmany quarrels he had with his father, the prayers and tears of the\nmother not availing, was nothing more or less than banishment. You\nwill either go to Church like myself, or get out of this house: this\nthe ultimatum of Abu-Khalid. And needless to say which alternative the\nson chose.\n\n\"I still remember how agitated he was when he came to tell me of the\nfatal breach. His words, which drew tears from my eyes, I remember\ntoo. 'Homeless I am again,' said he, 'but not friendless. For besides\nAllah, I have you.--Oh, this straitness of the chest is going to kill\nme. I feel that my windpipe is getting narrower every day. At least,\nmy father is doing his mighty best to make things so hard and\nstrait.--Yes, I would have come now to bid you farewell, were it not\nthat I still have in this town some important business. In the which I\nask your help. You know what it is. I have often spoken to you about\nmy cousin Najma, the one star in my sky. And now, I would know what is\nits significance to me. No, I can not leave Baalbek, I can not do\nanything, until that star unfolds the night or the dawn of my destiny.\nAnd you Shakib--'\n\n\"Of course, I promised to do what I could for him. I offered him such\ncheer and comfort as my home could boast of, which he would not\naccept. He would have only my terrace roof on which to build a booth\nof pine boughs, and spread in it a few straw mats and cushions. But I\nwas disappointed in my calculations; for in having him thus near me\nagain, I had hoped to prevail upon him for his own good to temper his\nbehaviour, to conform a little, to concede somewhat, while he is among\nhis people. But virtually he did not put up with me. He ate outside;\nhe spent his days I know not where; and when he did come to his booth,\nit was late in the night. I was informed later that one of the\ngoatherds saw him sleeping in the ruined Temple near Ras'ul-Ain. And\nthe muazzen who sleeps in the Mosque adjacent to the Temple of Venus\ngave out that one night he saw him with a woman in that very place.\"\n\nA woman with Khalid, and in the Temple of Venus at night? Be not too\nquick, O Reader, to suspect and contemn; for the Venus-worship is not\nreinstated in Baalbek. No tryst this, believe us, but a scene\npathetic, more sacred. Not Najma this questionable companion, but one\nas dear to Khalid. Ay, it is his mother come to seek him here. And she\nbegs him, in the name of the Virgin, to return home, and try to do the\nwill of his father. She beats her breast, weeps, prostrates herself\nbefore him, beseeches, implores, cries out, 'dakhilak (I am at your\nmercy), come home with me.' And Khalid, taking her up by the arm,\nembraces her and weeps, but says not a word. As two statues in the\nTemple, silent as an autumn midnight, they remain thus locked in each\nother's arms, sobbing, mingling their sighs and tears. The mother\nthen, 'Come, come home with me, O my child.' And Khalid, sitting on\none of the steps of the Temple, replies, 'Let him move out of the\nhouse, and I will come. I will live with you, if he will keep at the\nJesuits.'\n\nFor Khalid begins to suspect that the Jesuits are the cause of his\nbanishment from home, that his father's religious ferocity is fuelled\nand fanned by these good people. One day, before Khalid was banished,\nShakib tells us, one of them, Father Farouche by name, comes to pay a\nvisit of courtesy, and finds Khalid sitting cross-legged on a mat\nwriting a letter.\n\nThe Padre is received by Khalid's mother who takes his hand, kisses\nit, and offers him the seat of honour on the divan. Khalid continues\nwriting. And after he had finished, he turns round in his cross-legged\nposture and greets his visitor. Which greeting is surely to be\nfollowed by a conversation of the sword-and-shield kind.\n\n\"How is your health?\" this from Father Farouche in miserable Arabic.\n\n\"As you see: I breathe with an effort, and can hardly speak.\"\n\n\"But the health of the body is nothing compared with the health of the\nsoul.\"\n\n\"I know that too well, O Reverend\" (Ya Muhtaram).\n\n\"And one must have recourse to the physician in both instances.\"\n\n\"I do not believe in physicians, O Reverend.\"\n\n\"Not even the physician of the soul?\"\n\n\"You said it, O Reverend.\"\n\nThe mother of Khalid serves the coffee, and whispers to her son a\nword. Whereupon Khalid rises and sits on the divan near the Padre.\n\n\"But one must follow the religion of one's father,\" the Jesuit\nresumes.\n\n\"When one's father has a religion, yes; but when he curses the\nreligion of his son for not being ferociously religious like\nhimself--\"\n\n\"But a father must counsel and guide his children.\"\n\n\"Let the mother do that. Hers is the purest and most disinterested\nspirit of the two.\"\n\n\"Then, why not obey your mother, and--\"\n\nKhalid suppresses his anger.\n\n\"My mother and I can get along without the interference of our\nneighbours.\"\n\n\"Yes, truly. But you will find great solace in going to Church and\nceasing your doubts.\"\n\nKhalid rises indignant.\n\n\"I only doubt the Pharisees, O Reverend, and their Church I would\ndestroy to-day if I could.\"\n\n\"My child--\"\n\n\"Here is your hat, O Reverend, and pardon me--you see, I can hardly\nspeak, I can hardly breathe. Good day.\"\n\nAnd he walks out of the house, leaving Father Farouche to digest his\nire at his ease, and to wonder, with his three-cornered hat in hand,\nat the savage demeanour of the son of their pious porter. \"Your son,\"\naddressing the mother as he stands under the door-lintel, \"is not only\nan infidel, but he is also crazy. And for such wretches there is an\nasylum here and a Juhannam hereafter.\"\n\nAnd the poor mother, her face suffused with tears, prostrates herself\nbefore the Virgin, praying, beating her breast, invoking with her\ntongue and hand and heart; while Farouche returns to his coop to hatch\nunder his three-cornered hat, the famous Jesuit-egg of intrigue. That\nhat, which can outwit the monk's hood and the hundred fabled devils\nunder it, that hat, with its many gargoyles, a visible symbol of the\nleaky conscience of the Jesuit, that hat, O Khalid, which you would\nhave kicked out of your house, has eventually succeeded in ousting\nYOU, and will do its mighty best yet to send you to the Bosphorus.\nIndeed, to serve their purpose, these honest servitors of Jesus will\neven act as spies to the criminal Government of Abd'ul-Hamid. Read\nShakib's account.\n\n\"About a fortnight after Khalid's banishment from home,\" he writes, \"a\nbooklet was published in Beirut, setting forth the history of Ignatius\nLoyola and the purports and intents of Jesuitism. On the cover it was\nexpressly declared that the booklet is translated from the English,\nand the Jesuits, who are noted for their scholarly attainments, could\nhave discovered this for themselves without the explicit declaration.\nBut they did not deem it necessary to make such a discovery then. It\nseemed rather imperative to maintain the contrary and try to prove\nit. Now, Khalid having received a copy of this booklet from a friend\nin Beirut, reads it and writes back, saying that it is not a\ntranslation but a mutilation, rather, of one of Thomas Carlyle's\nLatter-Day Pamphlets entitled _Jesuitism_. This letter must have\nreached them together with Father Farouche's report on Khalid's\ninfidelity, just about the time the booklet was circulating in\nBaalbek. For in the following Number of their _Weekly Journal_ an\narticle, stuffed and padded with execrations and anathema, is\npublished against the book and its anonymous author. From this I quote\nthe following, which is by no means the most erring and most poisonous\nof their shafts.\n\n\"'Such a Pamphlet,' exclaims the scholarly Jesuit Editor, 'was never\nwritten by Thomas Carlyle, as some here, from ignorance or malice,\nassert. For that philosopher, of all the thinkers of his day, believed\nin God and in the divinity of Jesus His Son, and could never descend\nto these foul and filthy depths. He never soiled his pen in the\nputrescence of falsehood and incendiarism. The author of this\nblasphemous and pernicious Pamphlet, therefore, in trying to father\nhis infidelity, his sedition, and his lies, on Carlyle, is doubly\nguilty of a most heinous crime. And we suspect, we know, and for the\nwelfare of the community we hope to be able soon to point out openly,\nwho and where this vile one is. Yes, only an atheist and anarchist is\ncapable of such villainous mendacity, such unutterable wickedness and\ntreachery. Now, we would especially call upon our readers in Baalbek\nto be watchful and vigilant, for among them is one, recently come back\nfrom America, who harbours under his bushy hair the atheism and\nanarchy of decadent Europe, etc, etc.'\n\n\"And this is followed by secret orders from their Head Office to the\nSuperior of their Branch in Zahleh, to go on with the work hinted in\nthe article aforesaid. Let it not be supposed that I make this\nstatement in jaundice or malice. For the man who was instigated to do\nthis foul work subsequently sold the secret. And the Kaimkam, my\nfriend, when speaking to me of the matter, referred to the article in\nquestion, and told me that Khalid was denounced to the Government by\nthe Jesuits as an anarchist. 'And lest I be compelled,' he continued,\n'to execute such orders in his case as I might receive any day, I\nadvise you to spirit him away at once.'\"\n\nBut though the Jesuits have succeeded in kicking Khalid out of his\nhome, they did not succeed, thanks to Shakib, in sending him to the\nBosphorus. Meanwhile, they sit quiet, hatching another egg.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nFLOUNCES AND RUFFLES\n\n\nNow, that there is a lull in the machinations of Jesuitry, we shall\nturn a page or two in Shakib's account of the courting of Khalid. And\napparently everything is propitious. The fates, at least, in the\nbeginning, are not unkind. For the feud between Khalid's father and\nuncle shall now help to forward Khalid's love-affair. Indeed, the\nfather of Najma, to spite his brother, opens to the banished nephew\nhis door and blinks at the spooning which follows. And such an\ninterminable yarn our Scribe spins out about it, that Khalid and Najma\ndo seem the silliest lackadaisical spoonies under the sun. But what we\nhave evolved from the narration might have for our readers some\ncurious alien phase of interest.\n\nHere then are a few beads from Shakib's romantic string. When Najma\ncooks _mojadderah_ for her father, he tells us, she never fails to\ncome to the booth of pine boughs with a platter of it. And this to\nKhalid was very manna. For never, while supping on this single dish,\nwould he dream of the mensal and kitchen luxuries of the Hermitage in\nBronx Park. In fact, he never envied the pork-eating Americans, the\nbeef-eating English, or the polyphagic French. \"Here is a dish of\nlentils fit for the gods,\" he would say....\n\nWhen Najma goes to the spring for water, Khalid chancing to meet her,\ntakes the jar from her shoulder, saying, \"Return thou home; I will\nbring thee water.\" And straightway to the spring hies he, where the\nwomen there gathered fill his ears with tittering, questioning tattle\nas he is filling his jar. \"I wish I were Najma,\" says one, as he\npasses by, the jar of water on his shoulder. \"Would you cement his\nbrain, if you were?\" puts in another. And thus would they gibe and\njoke every time Khalid came to the spring with Najma's jar....\n\nOne day he comes to his uncle's house and finds his betrothed\nribboning and beading some new lingerie for her rich neighbour's\ndaughter. He sits down and helps her in the work, writing meanwhile,\nbetween the acts, an alphabetic ideology on Art and Life. But as they\nare beading the vests and skirts and other articles of richly laced\nlinen underwear, Najma holds up one of these and na\u00efvely asks, \"Am I\nnot to have some such, _ya habibi_ (O my Love)?\" And Khalid, affecting\nlike bucolic innocence, replies, \"What do we need them for, my heart?\"\nWith which counter-question Najma is silenced, convinced.\n\nFinally, to show to what degree of ecstasy they had soared without\nsearing their wings or losing a single feather thereof, the following\ndeserves mention. In the dusk one day, Khalid visits Najma and finds\nher oiling and lighting the lamp. As she beholds him under the\ndoor-lintel, the lamp falls from her hands, the kerosene blazes on the\nfloor, and the straw mat takes fire. They do not heed this--they do\nnot see it--they are on the wings of an ecstatic embrace. And the\nfather, chancing to arrive in the nick of time, with a curse and a\ncuff, saves them and his house from the conflagration.\n\nAside from these curious and not insignificant instances, these\nradiations of a giddy hidden flame of heart-fire, this melting gum of\nspooning on the bark of the tree of love, we turn to a scene in the\nTemple of Venus which unfolds our future plans--our hopes and dreams.\nBut we feel that the Reader is beginning to hanker for a few pieces of\ndescription of Najma's charms. Gentle Reader, this Work is neither a\nNovel, nor a Passport. And we are exceeding sorry we can not tell you\nanything about the colour and size of Najma's eyes; the shape and\ncurves of her brows and lips; the tints and shades in her cheeks; and\nthe exact length of her figure and hair. Shakib leaves us in the dark\nabout these essentials, and we must needs likewise leave you. Our\nScribe thinks he has said everything when he speaks of her as a huri.\nBut this paradisal title among our Arabic writers and verse-makers is\nbecome worse than the Sultan's Medjidi decorations. It is bestowed\nalike on every drab and trollop as on the very few who really deserve\nit. Let us rank it, therefore, with the Medjidi decorations and pass\non.\n\nBut Khalid, who has seen enough of the fair, would not be attracted to\nNajma, enchanted by her, if she were not endowed with such of the\ncelestial treasures as rank above the visible lines of beauty. Our\nScribe speaks of the \"purity and na\u00efvete of her soul as purest\nsources of felicity and inspiration.\" Indeed, if she were not constant\nin love, she would not have spurned the many opportunities in the\nabsence of Khalid; and had she not a fine discerning sense of real\nworth, she would not have surrendered herself to her poor ostracised\ncousin; and if she were not intuitively, preternaturally wise, she\nwould not marry an enemy of the Jesuits, a bearer withal of\ninfiltrated lungs and a shrunken windpipe. \"There is a great advantage\nin having a sickly husband,\" she once said to Shakib, \"it lessons a\nwoman in the heavenly virtues of our Virgin Mother, in patient\nendurance and pity, in charity, magnanimity, and pure love.\" What,\nwith these sublimities of character, need we know of her visible\ncharms, or lack of them? She might deserve the title Shakib bestows\nupon her; she might be a real huri, for all we know? In that event,\nthe outward charms correspond, and Khalid is a lucky dog--if some one\ncan keep the Jesuits away.\n\nThis, then, is our picture of Najma, to whom he is now relating, in\nthe Temple of Venus, of the dangers he had passed and the felicities\nof the beduin life he has in view. It is evening. The moon struggles\nthrough the poplars to light the Temple for them, and the ambrosial\nbreeze caresses their cheeks.\n\n\"No,\" says Khalid; \"we can not live here, O my Heart, after we are\nformally married. The curse in my breast I must not let you share, and\nonly when I am rid of it am I actually your husband. By the life of\nthis blessed night, by the light of these stars, I am inalterably\nresolved on this, and I shall abide by my resolution. We must leave\nBaalbek as soon as the religious formalities are done. And I wish your\nfather would have them performed under his roof. That is as good as\ngoing to Church to be the central figures of the mummery of priests.\nBut be this as You will. Whether in Church or at home, whether by your\nfather or by gibbering Levites the ceremony is performed, we must hie\nus to the desert after it is done. I shall hire the camels and prepare\nthe necessary set-out for the wayfare a day or two ahead. No, I must\nnot be a burden to you, my Heart. I must be able to work for you as\nfor myself. And Allah alone, through the ministration of his great\nHandmaid Nature, can cure me and enable me to share with you the joys\nof life. No, not before I am cured, can I give you my whole self, can\nI call myself your husband. Into the desert, therefore, to some oasis\nin its very heart, we shall ride, and there crouch our camels and\nestablish ourselves as husbandmen. I shall even build you a little\nhome like your own. And you will be to me an aura of health, which I\nshall breathe with the desert air, and the evening breeze. Yes, our\nlove shall dwell in a palace of health, not in a hovel of disease.\nMeanwhile, we shall buy with what money I have a little patch of\nground which we shall cultivate together. And we shall own cattle and\ndrink camel milk. And we shall doze in the afternoon in the cool shade\nof the palms, and in the evening, wrapt in our cloaks, we'll sleep on\nthe sands under the living stars. Yes, and Najma shall be the\nharbinger of dawn to Khalid.--Out on that little farm in the oasis of\nour desert, far from the world and the sanctified abominations of the\nworld, we shall live near to Allah a life of purest joy, of true\nhappiness. We shall never worry about the hopes of to-morrow and the\ngone blessings of yesterday. We shall not, while labouring, dream of\nrest, nor shall we give a thought to our tasks while drinking of the\ncup of repose: each hour shall be to us an epitome of eternity. The\ntrials and troubles of each day shall go with the setting sun, never\nto rise with him again. But I am unkind to speak of this. For your\nglances banish care, and we shall ever be together. Ay, my Heart, and\nwhen I take up the lute in the evening, you'll sing _mulayiah_ to me,\nand the stars above us shall dance, and the desert breeze shall house\nus in its whispers of love....\"\n\nAnd thus interminably, while Najma, understanding little of all this,\nsits beside him on a fallen column in the Temple and punctuates his\nwords with assenting exclamations, with long eighs of joy and wonder.\n\"But we are not going to live in the desert all the time, are we?\" she\nasks.\n\n\"No, my Heart. When I am cured of my illness we shall return to\nBaalbek, if you like.\"\n\n\"Eigh, good. Now, I want to say--no. I shame to speak about such\nmatters.\"\n\n\"Speak, _ya Gazalty_ (O my Doe or Dawn or both); your words are like\nthe scented breeze, like the ethereal moon rays, which enter into this\nTemple without permission. Speak, and light up this ruined Temple of\nthine.\"\n\n\"How sweet are Your words, but really I can not understand them. They\nare like the sweetmeats my father brought with him once from Damascus.\nOne eats and exclaims, 'How delicious!' But one never knows how they\nare made, and what they are made of. I wish I could speak like you,\n_ya habibi_. I would not shame to say then what I want.\"\n\n\"Say what you wish. My heart is open, and your words are silvery\nmoonbeams.\"\n\n\"Do not blame me then. I am so simple, you know, so foolish. And I\nwould like to know if you are going to Church on our wedding day in\nthe clothes you have on now.\"\n\n\"Not if you object to them, my Heart.\"\n\n\"Eigh, good! And must I come in my ordinary Sunday dress? It is so\nplain; it has not a single ruffle to it.\"\n\n\"And what are ruffles for?\"\n\n\"I never saw a bride in a plain gown; they all have ruffles and\nflounces to them. And when I look at your lovely hair--O let people\nsay what they like! A gown without ruffles is ugly.--So, you will buy\nme a sky-blue silk dress, _ya habibi_ and a pink one, too, with plenty\nof ruffles on them? Will you not?\"\n\n\"Yes, my Heart, you shall have what you desire. But in the desert you\ncan not wear these dresses. The Arabs will laugh at you. For the women\nthere wear only plain muslin dipped in indigo.\"\n\n\"Then, I will have but one dress of sky-blue silk for the wedding.\"\n\n\"Certainly, my Heart. And the ruffles shall be as many and as long as\nyou desire them.\"\n\nAnd while the many-ruffled sky-blue dress is being made, Khalid,\ninspired by Najma's remarks on his hair, rhapsodises on flounces\nand ruffles. Of this striking piece of fantasy, in which are\nscintillations of the great Truth, we note the following:\n\n\"What can you do without your flounces? How can you live without your\nruffles? Ay, how can you, without them, think, speak, or work? How can\nyou eat, drink, walk, sleep, pray, worship, moralise, sentimentalise,\nor love, without them? Are you not ruffled and flounced when you first\nsee the light, ruffled and flounced when you last see the darkness?\nThe cradle and the tomb, are they not the first and last ruffles of\nMan? And between them what a panoramic display of flounces! What clean\nand attractive visible Edges of unclean invisible common Skirts! Look\nat your huge elaborate monuments, your fancy sepulchers, what are they\nbut the ruffles of your triumphs and defeats? The marble flounces,\nthese, of your cemeteries, your Pantheons and Westminster Abbeys. And\nwhat are your belfries and spires and chimes, your altars and\nreredoses and such like, but the sanctified flounces of your churches.\nNo, these are not wholly adventitious sanctities; not empty,\nsuperfluous growths. They are incorporated into Life by Time, and they\ngrow in importance as our \u00c6sthetics become more inutile, as our\nReligions begin to exude gum and pitch for commerce, instead of\nbearing fruits of Faith and Love and Magnanimity.\n\n\"The first church was the forest; the first dome, the welkin; the\nfirst altar, the sun. But that was, when man went forth in native\nbuff, brother to the lion, not the ox, without ruffles and without\nfaith. His spirit, in the course of time, was born; it grew and\ndeveloped zenithward and nadirward, as the cycles rolled on. And in\nspiritual pride, and pride of power and wealth as well, it took to\nruffling and flouncing to such an extent that at certain epochs it\ndisappeared, dwindled into nothingness, and only the appendages\nremained. These were significant appendages, to be sure; not\naltogether adscititious. Ruffles these, indeed, endowed, as it were,\nwith life, and growing on the dead Spirit, as the grass on the grave.\n\n\"And is it not noteworthy that our life terrene at certain epochs\nseems to be made up wholly of these? That as the great Pine falls, the\nnoxious weeds, the brambles and thorny bushes around it, grow quicker,\nlustier, luxuriating on the vital stores in the earth that were its\nown--is not this striking and perplexing, my rational friends? Surely,\nMan is neither the featherless biped of the Greek Philosopher, nor the\ntool-using animal of the Sage of Chelsea. For animals, too, have their\ntools, and man, in his visible flounces, has feathers enough to make\neven a peacock gape. Both my Philosophers have hit wide of the mark\nthis time. And Man, to my way of thinking, is a flounce-wearing\nSpirit. Indeed, flounces alone, the invisible ones in particular,\ndistinguish us from the beasts. For like ourselves they have their\nfashions in clothes; their peculiar speech; their own hidden means of\nintellection, and, to some extent, of imagination: but flounces they\nhave not, they know not. These are luxuries, which Man alone enjoys.\n\n\"Ah, Man,--thou son and slave of Allah, according to my Oriental\nProphets of Heaven; thou exalted, apotheosised ape, according to my\nOccidental Prophets of Science;--how much thou canst suffer, how much\nthou canst endure, under what pressure and in what Juhannam depths\nthou canst live; but thy flounces thou canst not dispense with for a\nday, nor for a single one-twelfth part of a day. Even in thy suffering\nand pain, the agonised spirit is wrapped, bandaged, swathed in\nruffles. It is assuaged with the flounces of thy lady's caresses, and\nthe scalloped intonations of her soft and soothing voice. It is\nhumbugged into health by the malodorous flounces of the apothecary and\nthe medicinal ruffles of the doctor.\n\n\"Ay, we live in a phantasmagoric, cycloramic economy of flounces and\nruffles. The human Spirit shirks nudity as it shirks pain. Even your\nmodern preacher of the Simple Life is at best suggesting the moderate\nuse of ruffles.... Indeed, we can suffer anything, everything, but the\nnaked and ugly reality. Alas, have I not listened for years to what I\nmistook to be the strong, pure voice of the naked Truth? And have I\nnot discovered, to my astonishment, that the supposed scientific\nNudity is but an indurated thick Crust under which the Lie lies\nhidden. Why strip Man of his fancy appendages, his adventitious\nsanctities, if you are going to give him instead only a few yards of\nshoddy? No, I tell you; this can not be done. Your brambles and thorn\nhedges will continue to grow and luxuriate, will even shut from your\nview the Temple in the Grove, until the great Pine rises again to\nstunt, and ultimately extirpate, them.\n\n\"Behold, meanwhile, how the world parades in ruffles before us. What a\nbewildering phantasmagoria this: a very Dress Ball of the human race.\nSee them pass: the Pope of Christendom, in his three hats and heavy\ntrailing gowns, blessing the air of heaven; the priest, in his alb and\nchasuble, dispensing of the blessings of the Pope; the judge, in his\nwig and bombazine, endeavouring to reconcile divine justice with the\nlaw's mundane majesty; the college doctor, in cap and gown, anointing\nthe young princes of knowledge; the buffoon, in his cap and bells,\ndancing to the god of laughter; mylady of the pink-tea circle, in her\nhuffing, puffing gasoline-car, fleeing the monster of ennui; the bride\nand bridegroom at the altar or before the mayor putting on their\nalready heavy-ruffled garments the sacred ruffle of law or religion;\nthe babe brought to church by his mother and kindred to have the\npriest-tailor sew on his new garment the ruffle of baptism; the\nsoldier in his gaudy uniform; the king in his ermine with a crown and\nsceptre appended; the Nabob of Ind in his gorgeous and multi-colored\nrobes; and the Papuan with horns in his nostrils and rings in his\nears: see them all pass.\n\n\"And wilt thou still add to the bewildering variety of the pageant? Or\nwilt have another of the higher things of the mind? Lo, the artist\nthis, wearing his ruffles of hair over his shoulders; and here, too,\nis the man of the sombrero and red flannel, which are the latest\nflounces of a certain set of New World poets. Directly behind them is\nDame Religion with her heavy ruffled robes, her beribboned and belaced\nbodices, her ornaments and sacred gewgaws. And billah, she has\nstuffings and paddings, too. And false teeth and foul breath! Never\nmind. Pass on, and let her pass. But tarry thou a moment here. Behold\nthis pyrotechnic display, these buntings and flags; hear thou this\nmusic and these shouts and cheers; on yonder stump is an orator\ndispensing to his fellow citizens spread-eagle rhetoric as empty as\nyonder drum: these are the elaborate and attractive ruffles of\npolitics. And among the crowd are genial and honest citizens who have\ntheir own way of ruffling your temper with their coarse flounces of\nlinsey-woolsey freedom. Wilt thou have more?\"\n\nDecidedly not, we reply. For how can we even keep company with Khalid,\nwho has become such a maniac on flounces? And was this fantastic,\nphantasmagoric rhapsody all inspired by Najma's simple remark on his\nhair? Fruitful is thy word, O woman!\n\nBut being so far away now from the Hermitage in the Bronx, what has\nthe \"cherry in the cocktail\" and \"the olive in the oyster patty\" to do\nwith all this? Howbeit, the following deserves a place as the\ntail-flounce of his Fantasy.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Your superman and superwoman,\" says he, with philosophic calm, \"may\ngo Adam-and-Eve like if they choose. But can they, even in that chaste\nand splendid nudity, dispense with ruffles and flounces? Pray, tell\nme, did not our first parents spoon and sentimentalise in the\nParadise, before the Serpent appeared? And would they not often\nwhisper unto each other, 'Ah, Adam, ah, Eve!' sighing likewise for\nsweeter things? And what about those fatal Apples, those two sour\nfruits of their Love?--I tell thee every new-born babe is the\nmagnificent flesh-flounce of a shivering, trembling, nudity. And I\nKhalid, what am I but the visible ruffle of an invisible skirt?\nVerily, I am; and thou, too, my Brother. Yea, and this aquaterrestrial\nglobe and these sidereal heavens are the divine flounces of the\nVesture of Allah.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE HOWDAJ OF FALSEHOOD\n\n\n\"Humanity is so feeble in mind,\" says Renan, \"that the purest thing\nhas need of the co-operation of some impure agent.\" And this, we\nthink, is the gist of Khalid's rhapsody on flounces and ruffles. But\nhow is he to reconcile the fact with the truth in his case? For a\nsingle sanctified ruffle--a line of type in the canon law--is likely\nto upset all his plans. Yes, a priest in alb and chasuble not only can\ndispense with the blessings of his Pope, but--and here is the rub--he\ncan also withhold such blessings from Khalid. And now, do what he may,\nsay what he might, he must either revise his creed, or behave, at\nleast, like a Christian.\n\nEverything is ready, you say? The sky-blue, many-ruffled wedding gown;\nthe set-out for the wayfare; the camel and donkeys; the little stock\nof books; the coffee utensils; the lentils and sweet oil;--all ready?\nVery well; but you can not set forth to-morrow, nor three weeks from\nto-morrow. Indeed, before the priest can give you his blessings--and\nwhat at this juncture can you do without them?--the dispensations of\nthe ban must be performed. In other words, your case must now be laid\nbefore the community. Every Sunday, for three such to come, the\nintended marriage of Khalid to Najma will be published in the Church,\nand whoso hath any objection to make can come forth and make it.\nMoreover, there is that little knot of consanguinity to be considered.\nAnd your priest is good enough to come and explain this to you.\nUnderstand him well. \"An alm of a few gold pieces,\" says he, \"will\nremove the obstacle; the unlawfulness of your marriage resulting from\nconsanguinity will cease on payment of five hundred piasters.\"\n\nAll of which startles Khalid, stupefies him. He had not, heretofore,\nthought of such a matter. Indeed, he was totally ignorant of these\nforms, these prohibitions and exemptions of the Church. And the father\nof Najma, though assenting, remarks nevertheless that the alms\ndemanded are much. \"Why,\" exclaims Khalid, \"I can build a house for\nfive hundred piasters.\"\n\nThe priest sits down cross-legged on the divan, lights the cigarette\nwhich Najma had offered with the coffee, and tries to explain.\n\n\"And where have you this, O Reverend, about consanguinity, prohibition,\nand alms!\" Khalid asks.\n\n\"Why, my child, in the Canons of our Church, Catholic and Apostolic.\nEvery one knows that a marriage between cousins can not be effected,\nwithout the sanction of the Bishop.\"\n\n\"But can we not obtain this sanction without paying for it?\"\n\n\"You are not paying for it, my child; you are only contributing some\nalms to the Church.\"\n\n\"You come to us, therefore, as a beggar, not as a spiritual father and\nguide.\"\n\n\"That is not good speaking. You misunderstand my purpose.\"\n\n\"And pray, tell me, what is the purpose of prohibiting a marriage\nbetween cousins; what chief good is there in such a ban?\"\n\n\"Much good for the community.\"\n\n\"But I have nothing to do with the community. I'm going to live with\nmy wife in the desert.\"\n\n\"The good of your souls is chiefly concerned.\"\n\n\"Ah, the good of our souls!\"\n\n\"And there are other reasons which can not be freely spoken of here.\"\n\n\"You mean the restriction and prohibition of sexual knowledge between\nrelatives. That is very well. But let us return to what concerns us\nproperly: the good of my soul, and the spiritual well-being of the\ncommunity,--what becomes of these, when I pay the prescribed alms and\nobtain the sanction of the Bishop?\"\n\n\"No harm then can come to them--they'll be secure.\"\n\n\"Secure, you say? Are they not hazarded, sold by your Church for five\nhundred piasters? If my marriage to my cousin be wrong, unlawful, your\nBishop in sanctioning same is guilty of perpetuating this wrong, this\nunlawfulness, is he not?\"\n\n\"But what the Church binds only the Church can loosen.\"\n\n\"And what is the use of binding, O Reverend Father, when a little\nsum of money can loosen anything you bind? It seems to me that these\nprohibitions of the Church are only made for the purpose of\ncollecting alms. In other words, you bind for the sake of loosening,\nwhen a good bait is on the hook, do you not? Pardon, O my Reverend\nFather, pardon. I can not, to save my soul and yours, reconcile these\ncontradictions. For if Mother Church be certain that my marriage to my\ncousin is contrary to the Law of God, is destructive of my spiritual\nwell-being, then let her by all means prohibit it. Let her restrain\nme, compel me to obey. Ay, and the police ought to interfere in\ncase of disobedience. In her behalf, in my behalf, in the behalf of my\ncousin's soul and mine, the police ought to do the will of God, if\nthe Church knows what it is, and is certain and honest about it.\nCompel me to stop, I conjure you, if you know I am going in the way\nof damnation. O my Father, what sort of a mother is she who would sell\ntwo of her children to the devil for a few hundred piasters? No,\nbillah! no. What is unlawful by virtue of the Divine Law the wealth\nof all the Trust-Kings of America can not make lawful. And what is so\nby virtue of your Canon Law concerns not me. You may angle, you and\nyour Church, as long as you please in the murky, muddy waters of\nBind-and-Loosen, I have nothing to do with you.\"...\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut the priests, O Khalid, have yet a little to do with you. Such\narguments about the Divine Law and the Canon Law, about alms and\nspiritual beggars, might cut the Gordian knot with your uncle,\nbut--and whether it be good or bad English, we say it--they cut no ice\nwith the Church. Yes, Mother Church, under whose wings you and your\ncousin were born and bred, and under whose wings you and your cousin\nwould be married, can not take off for the sweet sake of your black\neyes the ruffles and flounces of twenty centuries. Think well on it,\nyou who have so extravagantly and not unwisely delivered yourself on\nflounces and ruffles. But to think, when in love, were, indeed,\ndisastrous. O Love, Love, what Camels of wisdom thou canst force to\npass through the needle's eye! What miracles divine are thine! Khalid\nhimself says that to be truly, deeply, piously in love, one must needs\nhate himself. How true, how inexorably true! For would he be always\ninviting trouble and courting affliction, would he be always bucking\nagainst the dead wall of a Democracy or a Church, if he did not\nsincerely hate himself--if he were not religiously, fanatically in\nlove--in love with Najma, if not with Truth?\n\nNow, on the following Sunday, instead of publishing the intended\nmarriage of Khalid and Najma, the parish priest places a ban upon it.\nAnd in this, ye people of Baalbek, is food enough for tattle, and\ncause enough for persecution. Potent are the ruffles of the Church!\nBut why, we can almost hear the anxious Reader asking, if the camels\nare ready, why the deuce don't they get on and get them gone? But did\nwe not say once that Khalid is slow, even slower than the law itself?\nNevertheless, if this were a Novel, an elopement would be in order,\nbut we must repeat, it is not. We are faithful transcribers of the\ntruth as we find it set down in Shakib's _Histoire Intime_.\n\nTrue, Khalid did ask Najma to throw with him the handful of dust, to\nsteal out of Baalbek and get married on the way, say in Damascus. But\npoor Najma goes over to his mother instead, and mingling their tears\nand prayers, they beseech the Virgin to enlighten the soul and mind of\nKhalid. \"Yes, we must be married here, before we go to the desert,\"\nsays she, \"for think, O my mother, how far away we shall be from the\nworld and the Church if anything happens to us.\"\n\nAnd they would have succeeded, the mother and cousin of Khalid, in\npersuading the parish priest to accept from them the prescribed alms\nand perform the wedding ceremony, had not the Jesuits, in the interest\nof the Faith and the Church, been dogging Khalid still. For if they\nhave failed in sending him to the Bosphorus, they will succeed in\nsending him elsewhither. And observe how this is done.\n\nAfter communicating with the Papal Legate in Mt. Lebanon about that\nfatal Latter Day Pamphlet of Thomas Carlyle, the Adjutant-General, or\nAdjutant-Bird, stalks up there one night in person and lays before the\nRt. Rev. Mgr. his devil's brief in Khalid's case. It has already been\nexplained that this Pamphlet was fathered on Khalid by the Jesuits.\nFor if they can not punish the Voice which is still pursuing them--and\nin their heart of hearts they must have recognised its thunder, even\nin a Translation--they will make the man smart for it who first\nmentioned Carlyle in this connection.\n\n\"And besides this pernicious booklet,\" says the Adjutant-Bird, \"the\nyoung man's heretical opinions are notorious. He was banished from\nhome on that account. And now, after corrupting and deluding his\ncousin, he is going to marry her despite the ban of the Church.\nSomething, Monseigneur, ought to be done, and quickly, to protect the\ncommunity against the poison of this wretch.\" And Monseigneur, nodding\nhis accord, orders his Secretary to write a note to the Patriarch,\nenclosing the aforesaid devil's brief, and showing the propriety, nay,\nthe necessity of excommunicating Khalid the Baalbekian. The\nAdjutant-Bird, with the Legate's letter in his pocket, skips over to\nthe Patriarch on the other hill-top below, and after a brief\ninterview--our dear good Ancient of the Maronites must willy-nilly\nobey Rome--the fate of Khalid the Baalbekian is sealed.\n\nIndeed, the upshot of these Jesuitic machinations is this: on the very\nday when Khalid's mother and cousin are pleading before the parish\npriest for justice, for mercy,--offering the prescribed alms,\nbeseeching that the ban be revoked, the marriage solemnised,--a\nmessenger from the Bishop of the Diocese enters, kisses his\nReverence's hand, and delivers an imposing envelope. The priest\nunseals it, unfolds the heavy foolscap sheet therein, reads it with a\nknitting of the brow, a shaking of the beard, and, clapping one hand\nupon the other, tells the poor pleaders to go home.\n\n\"It is all finished. There is no more hope for you and your cousin.\"\nAnd he shows the Patriarchal Bull, and explains.\n\nWhereupon, Najma and Khalid's mother go out weeping, wailing, beating\ntheir breasts and cheeks, calling upon Allah to witness their sorrow\nand the outrageous tyranny of the priests.\n\n\"What has my son done to be excommunicated? Hear it, ye people, hear\nit. And be just to me and my son. What has he done to deserve the\nanathema of the Church? What has he done?\" And thus frantic, mad, she\nruns through the main street of the town, making wild gestures and\nclamours,--publishing, as it were, the Patriarchal Bull, before it was\nread by the priest on the following day, and tacked on the door of the\nChurch.\n\nOf this Bull, tricked with the stock phrases of the Church of the\nMiddle Ages, such as \"anathema be he,\" or \"banned be he,\" who\nspeaks with, deals with, and so forth, we have a copy before us.\nBut our readers will not pardon us, we fear, if further space and\nconsideration be here given to its contents. Suffice it to say,\nhowever, that Khalid comes to church on that fatal day, takes the\nfoolscap sheet down from the door, and, going with it to the\ntown-square, burns it there before the multitudes.\n\nAnd it came to pass, when the Bull is burned in the town-square of\nBaalbek, in the last year of the reign of Abd'ul-Hamid, some among the\nmultitudes shout loud shouts of joy, and some cast stones.\n\nThen, foul, vehement speaking falleth between the friends and the\nenemies of him who wrought evil in the sight of the Lord;\n\nAnd every one thereupon brandisheth a stick or taketh up a stone and\nthe battle ensueth.\n\nNow, the mighty troops of the Sultan of the Ottomans come forth like\nthe Yaman wind and stand in the town-square like rocks;\n\nAnd the battle rageth still, and the troops who are come forth to part\nthe fighting multitudes, having gorged themselves at the last meal,\ncan not as much as speak their part:\n\nAnd it came to pass, when the clubs and spades are veiled and the\nbattle subsideth of itself, the good people return to their respective\ncallings and trades;\n\nBut the perverse recalcitrants which remain--and Khalid the Baalbekian\nis among them--are taken by the aforesaid overfed troops to the City\nHall and thence to the _velayet_ prison in Damascus.\n\nAnd here endeth our stichometrics of the Battle of the Bull.\n\nNow, Shakib may wear out his shoes this time, his tongue, too, and his\npurse, but to no purpose. Behold, your friend the _kaimkam_ is gloomy\nand impassive as a camel; what can you do? Whisper in his ear? The\nPadres have done that before you. Slip a purse into his pocket? They\nhave done that, too, and overdone it long since. Yes, the City Hall of\nevery city in the Empire is an epitome of Yildiz Kiosk. And your\n_kaimkams_, and _valis_, and _viziers_, have all been taught in the\nsame Text-Book, at the same Political School, and by the same\nProfessor. Let Khalid rest, therefore and ponder these matters in\nsilence. For in the City Hall and during the month he passes in the\nprison of Damascus, we are told, he does not utter a word. His\npartisans in prison ask to be taught his creed, and among these are\nsome Mohammadans: \"We'll burn the priests and their church yet and\nfollow you. By our Prophet Mohammad we will ...\" Khalid makes no\nreply. Even Shakib, when he comes to visit him, finds him dumb as a\nstone, slain by adversity and disease. Nothing can be done now. The\ngiant excommunicated, incommunicative soul, struggling in a prison of\nsore flesh, we must leave, alas, with his friends and partisans to\npass his thirty days and nights in the second prison of stone.\n\nNow, let us return to the Jesuits, who, having worsted Khalid, or the\nDevil in Khalid, as they charitably put it, will also endeavour to do\nsomewhat in the interest of his intended bride. For the Padres, in\naddition to their many crafts and trades, are matrimonial brokers of\nhonourable repute. And in their meddling and making, their baiting and\nmating, they are as serviceable as the Column Personal of an American\nnewspaper. Whoso is matrimonially disposed shall whisper his mind at\nthe Confessional or drop his advertisement in the pocket of the\nvisiting Columns of their Bride-Dealer, and he shall prosper. She as\nwell as he shall prosper.\n\nNow, Father Farouche is commissioned to come all the way from Zahleh\nto visit the brother of Abu-Khalid their porter, and bespeak him in\nthe interest of his daughter. All their faculties of persuasion shall\nbe exerted in behalf of Najma. She must be saved at any cost. Hence\nthey volunteer their services. And while Khalid is lingering in prison\nat Damascus, they avail themselves of the opportunity to further the\nsuit of their pickle-herring candidate for Najma's love.\n\nThe Reverend Farouche, therefore, holds a secret conference with her\nfather.\n\n\"No,\" says he, \"God would never have forgiven you for giving your\ndaughter to one utterly destitute of morality, religion, money, and\nhealth. But praise Allah! the Church has come to her rescue. She shall\nbe saved, wrested from the hands of Iblis. Yes, Holy Church, through\nus, will guide her to find a god-fearing life-companion; one worthy of\nher charms, her virtues, her fine qualities of heart and mind. The\nyoung man we recommend is rich, respected in the community; is an\nofficial of the Government with a third-class Medjidi decoration and\nthe title of Bey; and is free from all diseases. Moreover, he is a\ngood Catholic. Consider these advantages. A relation this, which no\nfather would reject, if he loves his daughter and is solicitous of her\nfuture well-being. Speak to her, therefore, and let us know soon your\nmind.\"\n\nAnd our Scribe, in relating of this, loses his temper.--\"An Official\nof the Government, a Bey with a third-class Medjidi decoration\nfrom the Sultan! As if Officialdom could not boast of a single\nscoundrel--as if any rogue in the Empire, with a few gold coins in his\npurse, were not eligible to the Hamidian decorations! And a\nthird-class decoration! Why, I have it on good authority that\nthese Medjidi Orders were given to a certain Patriarch in a bushel to\ndistribute among his minions....\"\n\nBut to our subject. Abu-Najma does not look upon it in this light. A\ndecorated and titled son-in-law were a great honour devoutly to be\nwished. And some days after the first conference, the Padre Farouche\ncomes again, bringing along his Excellency the third-class Medjidi\nBey; but Najma, as they enter and salaam, goes out on the terrace roof\nto weep. The third time the third-class Medjidi Dodo comes alone. And\nNajma, as soon as she catches a glimpse of him, takes up her earthen\njar and hies her to the spring.\n\n\"O the hinny! I'll rope noose her (hang her) to-night,\" murmurs the\nfather. But here is his Excellency with his Sultan's green button in\nhis lapel. Abu-Najma bows low, rubs his hands well, offers a large\ncushion, brings a _masnad_ (leaning pillow), and blubbers out many\nunnecessary apologies.\n\n\"This honour is great, your Excellency--overlook our shortcomings--our\n_beit_ (one room house) can not contain our shame--it is not becoming\nyour Excellency's high rank--overlook--you have condescended to honour\nus, condescend too to be indulgent.--My daughter? yes, presently. She\nis gone to church, to mass, but she'll return soon.\"\n\nBut Najma is long gone; returns not; and the third-class Dodo\nwill call again to-morrow. Now, Abu-Najma brings out his rope,\nsoaps it well, nooses and suspends it from the rafter in the\nceiling. And when his daughter returns from the spring, he takes\nher by the arm, shows her the rope, and tells her laconically\nto choose between his Excellency and this. Poor Najma has not\nthe courage to die, and so soon. Her cousin Khalid is in prison,\nis excommunicated--what can she do? Run away? The Church will\nfollow her--punish her. There's something satanic in Khalid--the\nChurch said so--the Church knows. Najma rolls these things in her\nmind, looks at her father beseechingly. Her father points to the\nnoose. Najma falls to weeping. The noose serves well its purpose.\n\nFor hereafter, when the Dodo comes decorated, SHE has to offer him the\ncushion, bring him the _masnad_, make for him the coffee. And\neventually, as the visits accumulate, she goes with him to the\ndress-maker in Beirut. The bridal gown shall be of the conventional\nsilk this time; for his Excellency is travelled, and knows and\nreverences the fashion. But why prolong these painful details?\n\n\"Allah, in the mysterious working of his Providence,\" says Shakib,\n\"preordained it thus: Khalid, having served his turn in prison, Najma\nbegins her own; for a few days after he was set free, she was placed\nin bonds forged for her by the Jesuits. Now, when Khalid returned from\nDamascus, he came straightway to me and asked that we go to see Najma\nand try to prevail upon her, to persuade her to go with him, to run\naway. They would leave on the night-train to Hama this time, and\nthence set forth towards Palmyra. I myself did not know what had\nhappened, and so I approved of his plan. But alas! as we were coming\ndown the main Street to Najma's house, we heard the sound of tomtoms\nin the distance and the shrill ulluluing of women. We continued apace\nuntil we reached the by-way through which we had to pass, and lo, we\nfind it choked by the _zeffah_ (wedding procession) of none but she\nand the third-class Medjidi....\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut we'll no more of this! Too tragic, too much like fiction it\nsounds, that here abruptly we must end this Chapter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nTHE KAABA OF SOLITUDE\n\n\nDisappointed, distraught, diseased,--worsted by the Jesuits,\nexcommunicated, crossed in love,--but with an eternal glint of\nsunshine in his breast to open and light up new paths before him,\nKhalid, after the fatal episode, makes away from Baalbek. He suddenly\ndisappears. But where he lays his staff, where he spends his months of\nsolitude, neither Shakib nor our old friend the sandomancer can say.\nSomewhither he still is, indeed; for though he fell in a swoon as he\nsaw Najma on her caparisoned palfrey and the decorated Excellency\ncoming up along side of her, he was revived soon after and persuaded\nto return home. But on the following morning, our Scribe tells us,\ncoming up to the booth, he finds neither Khalid there, nor any of his\nfew worldly belongings. We, however, have formed a theory of our own,\nbased on certain of his writings in the K. L. MS., about his\nmysterious levitation; and we believe he is now somewhither whittling\narrows for a coming combat. In the Lebanon mountains perhaps. But we\nmust not dog him like the Jesuits. Rather let us reverence the privacy\nof man, the sacredness of his religious retreat. For no matter where\nhe is in the flesh, we are metaphysically certain of his existence.\nAnd instead of filling up this Chapter with the bitter bickerings of\nlife and the wickedness and machination of those in power, let us\nconsecrate it to the divine peace and beauty of Nature. Of a number of\nChapters in the Book of Khalid on this subject, we choose the one\nentitled, My Native Terraces, or Spring in Syria, symbolising the\nnatural succession to Khalid's Winter of destiny. In it are signal\nmanifestations of the triumph of the soul over the diseases and\nadversities and sorrows of mortal life. Indeed, here is an example of\nfaith and power and love which we reckon sublime.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"The inhabitants of my terraces and terrace walls,\" we translate,\n\"dressed in their Sunday best, are in the doorways lounging or peeping\nidly through their windows. And why not? It is Spring, and to these\ndelicate, sweet little creatures, Spring is the one Sunday of the\nyear. Have they not hugged the damp, dark earth long enough? Hidden\nfrom the wrath of Winter, have they not squatted patiently round the\nprimitive, smokeless fire of the mystic depths? And now, the rain\nhaving partly extinguished the inner, hidden flame, they come out to\nbask in the sun, and drink deeply of the ambrosial air. They come,\nalmost slain with thirst, to the Mother Fountain. They come out to\nworship at the shrine of the sweet-souled, God-absorbed Rabia of\nAttar. In their bright, glowing faces what a delectable message from\nthe under world of romance and enchantment! Their lips are red with\nthe kisses of love, in whose alembics, intangible, unseen, the dark\nand damp of the earth are translated into warmth and colour and shade.\nAy, these dear little children, unfolding their soft green scrolls and\nreading aloud such odes on Modesty and Beauty, are as inspiring as the\nstar-crowned night. And every chink in my terrace walls seems to\nbreathe a message of sweetness and light and love.\n\n\"Know you not the anecdote about the enchanting Goddess Rabia, as\nrelated by Attar in his _Biographies of Sufi Mystics and Saints_? Here\nit is. Rabia was asked if she hated the devil, and she replied, 'No.'\nAsked again why, she said, 'Being absorbed in love, I have no time to\nhate.' Now, all the inhabitants of my terraces and fields seem to echo\nthis sublime sentiment of their Goddess. The air and sunshine, nay,\nthe very rocks are imbued with it. See, how the fissures in the\nboulders yonder seem to sympathise with the gaps in the terrace walls:\nthe cyclamen leaves in the one are salaaming the cyclamen flowers in\nthe other. O, these terraces would have delighted the heart of the\nAmerican naturalist Thoreau. He could not have desired stone walls\nwith more gaps in them. But mind you, these are not dark, ugly,\nhollow, hopeless chinks. Behind every one of them lurks a mystery. Far\nback in the niches I can see the busts of the poets who wrote the\npoems which these beautiful wild flowers are reading to me. Yes, the\nauthors are dead, and what I behold now are the flowers of their\namours. These are the offspring of their embraces, the crystallised\ndew of their love. Yes, this one single, simple act of love brings\nforth an infinite variety of flowers to celebrate the death of the\nfinite outward shape and the eternal essence of life perennial. In\ncomplete surrender lies the divineness of things eternal. This is the\nkey-note of the Oriental mystic poets. And I incline to the belief\nthat they of all bards have sung best the song of love. In rambling\nthrough the fields with these beautiful children of the terraces, I\nknow not what draws me to Al-Fared, the one erotic-mystic poet of\nArabia, whose interminable rhymes have a perennial charm. Perhaps such\nlines as these,--\n\n    'All that is fair is fairer when she rises,\n       All that is sweet is sweeter when she is here;\n     And every form of beauty she surprises\n       With one brief word she whispers in its ear:\n\n    'Thy wondrous charms, O let them not deceive thee;\n       They are but borrowed from her for a while;\n     Thine outward guise and loveliness would grieve thee,\n       If in thine inmost soul she did not smile.\n\n    'All colours, forms, into each other merging,\n       Are woven on her Loom of Unity;\n     For she alone is One in All diverging,\n       And she alone is absolute and free.'\n\n\"Now, I will bring you to a scene most curiously suggestive. Behold\nthat little knot of daisies pressing around the alone anemone beneath\nthe spreading leaves of the colocasia. Here is a rout at the Countess\nCasiacole's, and these are the d\u00e9butantes crowding around the\nCelebrity of the day. But would they do so if they were sensible of\ntheir own worth, if they knew that their idol, flaunting the crimson\ncrown of popularity, had no more, and perhaps less, of the pure\nessence of life than any of them? But let Celebrity stand there and\nenjoy her hour; to-morrow the Ploughman will come.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"The sage, with its spikes of greyish blue flowers, its fibrous,\nvelvety leaves, its strong, pungent perfume, which is not squandered\nor repressed, is the stoic of my native terraces. It responds\ngenerously to the personal touch, and serves the Lebanonese, rich and\npoor alike, with a little luxury. Ay, who of us, wandering on foreign\nstrands, does not remember the warm foot-bath, perfumed with sage\nleaves, his mother used to give him before going to bed? Our dear\nmothers!\"--And here, Khalid goes in raptures and tears about his sorry\nexperience in Baalbek and the anguish and sorrow of his poor mother.\n\"But while I stand,\" he continues, \"let me be like the sage, a\nlive-oak among shrubs, indifferent as the oak or pine to the winds and\nstorms. And as the sun is setting, find you no solace in the thought,\nO Khalid, that some angel herb-gatherer will preserve the perfume in\nyour leaves, to refresh therewith in other worlds your dear poor\nmother?\n\n\"My native terraces are rich with faith and love, luxuriant with the\nlife divine and the wondrous symbols thereof. And the grass here is\nnot cut and trimmed as in the artificial gardens and the cold dull\nlawns of city folk, whose love for Nature is either an experiment, a\nsport, a business, or a fad. 'A dilettantism in Nature is barren and\nunworthy,' says Emerson. But of all the lovers of Nature, the children\nare the least dilettanteish. And every day here I see a proof of this.\nBehold them wading to their knees in that lusty grass, hunting the\nclassic lotus with which to deck their olive branches for the high\nmass and ceremony of Palm Sunday. But alas, my lusty grass and my\nbeautiful wild flowers do not enjoy the morning of Spring. Here, the\nploughman comes, carrying his long plough and goad on his shoulder,\nand with him his wife lugging the yoke and his boy leading the oxen.\nAlas, the sun shall not set on these bright, glowing, green terraces,\nwhose walls are very ramparts of flowers. There, the boy with his\nscythe is paving the way for his father's plough; the grass is mowed\nand given to the oxen as a bribe to do the ugly business. And all for\nthe sake of the ugly mulberries, which are cultivated for the ugly\nsilk-worms. Come, let us to the heath, where the hiss of the scythe\nand the 'ho-back' and 'oho' of the ploughman are not heard.\n\n\"But let us swing from the road. Come, the hedges of Nature are not as\nimpassable as the hedges of man. Through these scrub oaks and wild\npears, between this tangle of thickets, over the clematis and\nblackberry bush,--and here we are under the pines, the lofty and\nmajestic pines. How different are these natural hedges, growing in\nwild disorder, from the ugly cactus fences with which my neighbours\nchoose to shut in their homes, and even their souls. But my business\nnow is not with them. There are my friends the children again\ngathering the pine-needles of last summer for lighting the fire of the\nsilk-worm nursery. And down that narrow foot-path, meandering around\nthe boulders and disappearing among the thickets, see what big loads\nof brushwood are moving towards us. Beneath them my swarthy and hardy\npeasants are plodding up the hill asweat and athirst. When I first\ndescended to the wadi, one such load of brushwood emerging suddenly\nfrom behind a cliff surprised and frightened me. But soon I was\nreminded of the moving forest in Macbeth. The man bowed beneath the\nload was hidden from view, and the boy directly behind was sweating\nunder a load as big as that of his father. '_Awafy!_' (Allah give you\nstrength), I said, greeting them. 'And increase of health to you,'\nthey replied. I then asked the boy how far down do they have to go for\ntheir brushwood, and laying down his load on a stone to rest, he\npoints below, saying, 'Here, near the river.' But this 'Here, near the\nriver' is more than four hours' walk from the village.--Allah preserve\nyou in your strength, my Brothers. And they pass along, plodding\nslowly under their overshadowing burdens. A hard-hearted Naturalist,\nwho goes so deep into Nature as to be far from the vital core even as\nthe dilettante, might not have any sympathy to throw away on such\noccasions. But of what good is the love of Nature that consists only\nin classification and dissection? I carry no note-book with me when I\ngo down the wadi or out into the fields. I am content if I bring back\na few impressions of some reassuring instance of faith, a few\npictures, and an armful of wild flowers and odoriferous shrubs. Let\nthe learned manual maker concern himself with the facts; he is content\nwith jotting down in his note-book the names and lineage of every\ninsect and every herb.\n\n\"But Man? What is he to these scientific Naturalists? If they meet a\nstranger on the road, they pass him by, their eyes intent on the\nbreviary of Nature, somewhat after the fashion of my priests, who are\nfond of praying in the open-air at sundown. No, I do not have to prove\nto my Brothers that my love of Nature is but second to my love of\nlife. I am interested in my fellow men as in my fellow trees and\nflowers. 'The beauty of Nature,' Emerson again, 'must always seem\nunreal and mocking until the landscape has human figures, that are as\ngood as itself.' And 'tis well, if they are but half as good. To me,\nthe discovery of a woodman in the wadi were as pleasing as the\ndiscovery of a woodchuck or a woodswallow or a woodbine. For in the\nsoul of the woodman is a song, I muse, as sweet as the rhythmic\nstrains of the goldfinch, if it could be evoked. But the soul plodding\nup the hill under its heavy overshadowing burden, what breath has it\nleft for song? The man bowed beneath the load, the soul bowed beneath\nthe man! Alas, I seem to behold but moving burdens in my country. And\nyet, my swarthy and shrunken, but firm-fibred people plod along,\ncontent, patient, meek; and when they reach the summit of the hill\nwith their crushing burdens, they still have breath enough to troll a\nfavourite ditty or serenade the night.\n\n    'I come to thee, O Night,\n       I'm at thy feet;\n     I can not see, O Night,\n       But thy breath is sweet.'\n\n\"And so is the breath of the pines. Here, the air is surcharged with\nperfume. In it floats the aromatic soul of many a flower. But the\nperfume-soul of the pines seems to tower over all others, just as its\nmaterial shape lifts its artistic head over the oak, the cercis, and\nthe terabinth. And though tall and stately, my native pines are not\nforbidding. They are so pruned that the snags serve as a most\nconvenient ladder. Such was my pleasure mounting for the green cones,\nthe salted pinons of which are delicious. But I confess they seem to\nstick in the stomach as the pitch of the cones sticks on the hands.\nThis, however, though it remains for days, works no evil; but the\npinons in the stomach, and the stomach on the nerves,--that is a\ndifferent question.\n\n\"The only pines I have seen in the United States are those in front of\nEmerson's house in Concord; but compared with my native trees, they\nare scrubby and mean. These pine parasols under which I lay me,\nforgiving and forgetting, are fit for the gods. And although closely\nplanted, they grow and flourish without much ado. I have seen spots\nnot exceeding a few hundred square feet holding over thirty trees, and\nwithal stout and lusty and towering. Indeed, the floor of the Tent\nseems too narrow at times for its crowded guests; but beneath the\nsurface there is room for every root, and over it, the sky is broad\nenough for all.\n\n\"Ah, the bewildering vistas through the variegated pillars, taking in\na strip of sea here, a mountain peak there, have an air of enchantment\nfrom which no human formula can release a pilgrim-soul. They remind\nme--no; they can not remind me of anything more imposing. But when I\nwas visiting the great Mosques of Cairo I was reminded of them. Yes,\nthe pine forests are the great mosques of Nature. And for art-lovers,\nwhat perennial beauty of an antique art is here. These majestic\npillars arched with foliage, propping a light-green ceiling, from\nwhich cones hang in pairs and in clusters, and through which curiously\nshaped clouds can be seen moving in a cerulean sky; and at night,\ninstead of the clouds, the stars--the distant, twinkling, white and\nblue stars--what to these are the decorations in the ancient mosques?\nThere, the baroques, the arabesques, the colourings gorgeous, are\ndead, at least inanimate; here, they palpitate with life. The moving,\nswelling, flaming, flowing life is mystically interwoven in the\nevergreen ceiling and the stately colonnades. Ay, even the horizon\nyonder, with its planets and constellations rising and setting ever,\nis a part of the ceiling decoration.\n\n\"Here in this grand Mosque of Nature, I read my own Kor\u00e2n. I, Khalid,\na Beduin in the desert of life, a vagabond on the highway of thought,\nI come to this glorious Mosque, the only place of worship open to me,\nto heal my broken soul in the perfumed atmosphere of its celestial\nvistas. The mihrabs here are not in this direction nor in that. But\nwhereso one turns there are niches in which the living spirit of\nAllah is ever present. Here, then, I prostrate me and read a few\nChapters of MY Holy Book. After which I resign myself to my eternal\nMother and the soft western breezes lull me asleep. Yea, and even like\nmy poor brother Moslem sleeping on his hair-mat in a dark corner of\nhis airy Mosque, I dream my dream of contentment and resignation and\nlove.\n\n\"See the ploughman strutting home, his goad in his hand, his plough on\nhis shoulder, as if he had done his duty. Allah be praised, the\nflowers in the terrace-walls are secure. That is why, I believe, my\nAmerican brother Thoreau liked walls with many gaps in them. The sweet\nwild daughters of Spring can live therein their natural life without\nbeing molested by the scythe or the plough. Allah be praised a hundred\ntimes and one.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nSIGNS OF THE HERMIT\n\n\nAlthough we claim some knowledge of the Lebanon mountains, having\nlanded there in our journey earthward, and having since then, our\nlimbs waxing firm and strong, made many a journey through them, we\ncould not, after developing, through many readings, Khalid's spiritual\nfilms, identify them with the vicinage which he made his Kaaba. On\nwhat hill, in what wadi, under what pines did he ruminate and\nextravagate, we could not from these idealised pictures ascertain. For\na spiritual film is other than a photographic one. A poet's lens is\nendowed with a seeing eye, an insight, and a faculty to choose and\ncompose. Hence the difficulty in tracing the footsteps of Fancy--in\nlocating its cave, its nest, or its Kaaba. His pine-mosque we could\nfind anywhere, at any altitude; his vineyards, too, and his glades;\nfor our mountain scenery, its beauty alternating between the placid\nand the rugged--the tame terrace soil and the wild, forbidding\nmajesty--is allwhere almost the same. But where in these rocky and\ncavernous recesses of the world can we to-day find the ancient Lebanon\ntroglodyte, whom Khalid has seen, and visited in his hut, and even\ntalked with? It is this that forces us to seek his diggings, to trace,\nif possible, his footsteps.\n\nIn the K. L. MS., as we have once remarked and more than once hinted,\nwe find much that is unduly inflated, truly Oriental; much that is\nplatitudinous, ludicrous, which we have suppressed. But never could we\nquestion the Author's veracity and sincerity of purpose. Whether he\ncrawled like a zo\u00f6phyte, soared like an eagle, or fought, like Ali,\nthe giants of the lower world, he is genuine, and oft-times amusingly\ntruthful. But the many questionable pages on this curious subject of\nthe eremite, what are we to do with them? If they are imaginary, there\nis too much in this Book against quackery to daunt us. And yet, if\nKhalid has found the troglodyte, whom we thought to be an extinct\nspecies, he should have left us a few legends about it.\n\nWe have visited the ancient caverns of the Lebanon troglodytes in the\ncliffs overhanging the river of Wadi Kadeesha, and found nothing there\nbut blind bats, and mosses, and dreary vacuity. No, not a vestage of\nthe fossil is there, not a skull, not a shinbone. We have also\ninquired in the monasteries near the Cedars, and we were frankly told\nthat no monk to-day fancies such a life. And if he did, he would not\ngive his brother monks the trouble of carrying his daily bread to a\ncave in those forbidden cliffs. And yet, Simeon Stylites, he of the\nPillar, who remained for thirty years perched on the top of it, was a\nSyrian shepherd. But who of his descendants to-day would as much as\npass one night on the top of that pillar? Curious eleemosynary phases\nof our monkish system, these modern times reveal.\n\nOn our way from a journey to the Cedars, while engaged in the present\nWork, we passed through a pine forest, in which were some tangled\nbushes of the clematis. The muleteer stops near one of these and\nstoops to reach something he had seen therein. No treasure-trove,\nalas, as he supposed; but merely a book for which he lacerated his\nhands and which he cursed and handed to us, saying, \"This must be the\nbreviary of some monk.\"\n\nNo, it was an English book, and of American origin, and of a kind\nquite rare in America. Indeed, here were a find and surprise as\nagreeable as Khalid's sweetbrier bush. Henry Thoreau's _Week_! What a\nmiracle of chance. Whose this mutilated copy of the _Week_, we\nthought? Who in these mountains, having been in America, took more\ninterest in the Dreamer of Walden Woods than in peddling and trading?\nWe walk our mule, looking about in vague, restless surprise, as if\nseeking in the woods a lost companion, and lo, we reach a monarch pine\non which is carved the name of--Khalid! This book, then, must be his;\nthe name on the pine tree is surely his own; we know his hand as well\nas his turn of mind. But who can say if this be his Kaaba, this his\npine-mosque? Might he not only have passed through these glades to\nother parts? Signs, indeed, are here of his feet and hands, if not of\nhis tent-pegs. And what signifies his stay? No matter how long he\nmight have put up here, it is but a passage, deeply considered: like\nThoreau's passage through Walden woods, like Mohammad's through the\ndesert.\n\nThis leisure hour is the nipple of the soul. And fortunate they who\nare not artificially suckled, who know this hour no matter how brief,\nwho get their nipple at the right time. If they do not, no pabulum\never after, will their indurated tissues assimilate. Do you wonder why\nthe world is full of crusty souls? and why to them this infant\nhour, this suckling while, is so repugnant? But we must not intrude\nmore of such remarks about mankind. Whether rightly suckled or not,\nwe manage to live; but whether we do so marmot-like or Maronite-like,\nis not the question here to be considered. To pray for your bread\nor to burrow in the earth for it, is it not the same with most people?\nGiven a missionary with a Bible in his hip-pocket or a peasant with\na load of brushwood on his back and the same gastric coefficient, and\nyou will have in either case a resulting expansion for six feet of\ncoffin ground and a fraction of Allah's mercy. Our poor missionary,\nis it worth while to cross the seas for this? Marmot-like or\nMaronite-like--but soft you know! Here is our peasant with his\novershadowing load of brushwood. And there is another, and another.\nThey are carrying fuel to the lime-pit ahead of us yonder. What\nbrow-sweat, what time, what fire, what suffering and patient toil,\nthe lime-washing, or mere liming, of our houses and sepulchres,\nrequires. That cone structure there, that artificial volcano, with its\ncrackling, flaming bowels and its fuliginous, coruscating crater,\nmust our hardy peasants feed continually for twenty days and nights.\n\nBut the book and the name on the pine, we would know more of these\nsigns, if possible. And so, we visit the labourers of the kiln. They\nare y\u00f6dling, the while they work, and jesting and laughing. The\nstokers, with flaming, swollen eyes, their tawny complexion waxing a\nbrilliant bronze, their sweat making golden furrows therein, with\ntheir pikes and pitchforks busy, are terribly magnificent to behold.\nHere be men who would destroy Bastilles for you, if it were nominated\nin the bond. And there is the monk-foreman--the kiln is of the\nmonastery's estate--reading his breviary while the lime is in making.\nIndeed, these sodalities of the Lebanons are not what their vows and\nascetic theologies would make them. No lean-jowled, hungry-looking\ndevotees, living in exiguity and droning in exinanition their\nprayers,--not by any means. Their flesh-pots are not a few, and\ntheir table is a marvel of ascetism! And why not, if their fat\nestates--three-quarter of the lands here is held in mortmain by the\nclergy--can yield anything, from silk cocoons to lime-pits? They\nwill clothe you in silk at least; they will lime-wash your homes and\nsepulchres, if they cannot lime-wash anything else. Thanks to them\nso long as they keep some reminiscence of business in their heads\nto keep the Devil out of it.\n\nThe monk-foreman is reading with one eye and watching with the other.\n\"Work,\" cries he, \"every minute wasted is stolen from the abbey. And\nwhoso steals, look in the pit: its fire is nothing compared with\nJuhannam.\" And the argument serves its purpose. The labourers hurry\nhither and thither, bringing brushwood near; the first stoker pitches\nto the second, the second to the third, and he feeds the flaming,\nsmoking, coruscating volcano. \"_Yallah!_\" (Keep it up) exclaims the\nmonk-foreman. \"Burn the devil's creed,\" cries one. \"Burn hell,\" cries\nanother. And thus jesting in earnest, mightily working and enduring,\nthey burn the mountains into lime, they make the very rocks yield\nsomewhat.--Strength and blessings, brothers.\n\nAfter the usual inquiry of whence and whither, his monkship offers the\nsnuff-box. \"No? roll you, then, a cigarette,\" taking out a plush pouch\ncontaining a mixture of the choicest native roots. These, we were\ntold, are grown on the monastery's estate. We speak of the cocoon\nproducts of the season.\n\n\"Beshrew the mulberries!\" exclaims the monk. \"We are turning all our\nestates into fruit orchards and orangeries. The cultivation of the\nsilk-worm is in itself an abomination. And while its income to-day is\nnot as much as it was ten years ago, the expenditure has risen\ntwofold. America is ruining our agriculture; and soon, I suppose, we\nhave to send to China for labourers. Why, those who do not emigrate\ndemand twice as much to-day for half the work they used to do five\nyears ago; and those who return from America strut about like country\ngentlemen deploring the barrenness of their native soil.\"\n\nAnd one subject leading to another, for our monk is a glib talker, we\ncome to the cheese-makers, the goatherds. \"Even these honest rustics,\"\nsays he, \"are becoming sophisticated (_mafsudin_). Their cheese is no\nlonger what it was, nor is their faith. For Civilisation, passing by\ntheir huts in some shape or other, whispers in their ears something\nabout cleverness and adulteration. And mistaking the one for the\nother, they abstract the butter from the milk and leave the verdigris\nin the utensils. This lust of gain is one of the diseases which come\nfrom Europe and America,--it is a plague which even the goatherd\ncannot escape. Why, do you know, wherever the cheese-monger goes these\ndays ptomaine poison is certain to follow.\"\n\n\"And why does not the Government interfere?\" we ask.\n\n\"Because the Government,\" replies our monk in a dry, droll air and\ngesture, \"does not eat cheese.\"\n\nAnd the monks, we learned, do not have to buy it. For this, as well as\ntheir butter, olive oil, and wine, is made on their own estates, under\ntheir own supervision.\n\n\"Yes,\" he resumes, placing his breviary in his pocket and taking out\nthe snuff-box; \"not long ago one who lived in these parts--a young man\nfrom Baalbek he was, and he had his booth in the pine forest\nyonder--bought some cheese from one of these muleteer cheese-mongers,\nand after he had eaten of it fell sick. It chanced that I was passing\nby on my way to the abbey, when he was groaning and retching beneath\nthat pine tree. It was the first time I saw that young man, and were I\nnot passing by I know not what would have become of him. I helped him\nto the abbey, where he was ministered to by our physician, and he\nremained with us three days. He ate of our cheese and drank of our\nwine, and seemed to like both very much. And ever since, while he was\nhere, he would come to the abbey with a basket or a tray of his own\nmake--he occupied himself in making wicker-baskets and trays--and ask\nin exchange some of our cheese and olive oil. He was very intelligent,\nthis fellow; his eyes sometimes were like the mouth of this pit, full\nof fire and smoke. But he was queer. The clock in him was not wound\nright--he was always ahead or behind time, always complaining that we\nmonks did not reckon time as he did. Nevertheless, I liked him much,\nand often would I bring him some of our cookery. But he never accepted\nanything without giving something in exchange.\"\n\nUnmistakable signs.\n\n\"And his black turban,\" continues the monk, \"over his long flowing\nhair made him look like our hermit.\" (Strange coincidence!) \"On your\nway here have you not stopped to visit the hermit? Not far from the\nabbey, on your right hand coming here, is the Hermitage.\"\n\nWe remember passing a pretty cottage surrounded by a vineyard in that\nrocky wilderness; but who would mistake that for a troglodyte's cave?\n\"And this young man from Baalbek,\" we ask, \"how did he live in this\nforest?\"\n\n\"Yonder,\" points the monk, \"he cleared and cleaned for himself a\nlittle space which he made his workshop. And up in the pines he\nconstructed a platform, which he walled and covered with boughs. And\nwhen he was not working or walking, he would be there among the\nbranches, either singing or asleep. I used to envy him that nest in\nthe pines.\"\n\n\"And did he ever go to church?\"\n\n\"He attended mass twice in our chapel, on Good Friday and on Easter\nSunday, I think.\"\n\n\"And did he visit the abbey often?\"\n\n\"Only when he wanted cheese or olive oil.\" (Shame, O Khalid!) \"But he\noften repaired to the Hermitage. I went with him once to listen to his\nconversation with the Hermit. They often disagreed, but never\nquarrelled. I like that young man in spite of his oddities of thought,\nwhich savoured at times of infidelity. But he is honest, believe me;\nnever tells a lie; and in a certain sense he is as pious as our\nHermit, I think. Roll another cigarette.\"\n\n\"Thank you. And the Hermit, what is your opinion of him?\"\n\n\"Well, h'm--h'm--go visit him. A good man he is, but very simple. And\nbetween us, he likes money too much. H'm, h'm, go visit him. If I were\nnot engaged at present, I would accompany you thither.\"\n\nWe thank our good monk and retrace our steps to the Hermitage, rolling\nmeanwhile in our mind that awful remark about the Hermit's love of\nmoney. Blindness and Plague! even the troglodyte loves and worships\nthee, thou silver Demiurge! We can not believe it. The grudges of\nmonks against each other often reach darker and more fatal depths.\nAlas, if the faith of the cheese-monger is become adulterated, what\nshall we say of the faith of our monkhood? If the salt of the\nearth--but not to the nunnery nor to the monkery, we go. Rather let us\nto the Hermitage, Reader, and with an honest heart; in earnest, not in\nsport.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE VINEYARD IN THE KAABA\n\n\nThis, then, is the cave of our troglodyte! Allah be praised, even the\nhermits of the Lebanon mountains, like the prophets of America and\nother electric-age species, are subject to the laws of evolution. A\ncottage and chapel set in a vineyard, the most beautiful we have yet\nseen, looms up in this rocky wilderness like an oasis in a desert. For\nmany miles around, the vicinage presents a volcanic aspect, wild,\nbarren, howlingly dreary. At the foot of Mt. Sanneen in the east,\nbeyond many ravines, are villages and verdure; and from the last\nterrace in the vineyard one overlooks the deep chasm which can boast\nof a rivulet in winter. But in the summer its nakedness is appalling.\nThe sun turns its pocket inside out, so to speak, exposing its\nboulders, its little windrows of sands, and its dry ditches full of\ndead fish spawn. And the cold, rocky horizon, rising so high and near,\nshuts out the sea and hides from the Hermit the glory of the sundown.\nBut we can behold its effects on Mt. Sanneen, on the clouds above us,\non the glass casements in the villages far away. The mountains in the\neast are mantled with etherial lilac alternating with mauve; the\nclouds are touched with purple and gold; the casements in the distance\nare scintillating with mystical carbuncles: the sun is setting in the\nMediterranean,--he is waving his farewell to the hills.\n\nWe reach the first gate of the Hermitage; and the odour peculiar to\nmonks and monkeries, a mixed smell of mould and incense and burning\noil, greets us as we enter into a small open space in the centre of\nwhich is a Persian lilac tree. To the right is a barbed-wire fence\nshutting in the vineyard; directly opposite is the door of the chapel;\nand near it is a wicket before which stands a withered old woman.\nAgainst the wall is a stone bench where another woman is seated. As we\nenter, we hear her, standing at the wicket, talking to some one behind\nthe scene. \"Yes, that is the name of my husband,\" says she. \"Allah\nhave mercy on his soul,\" sighs an exiguous voice within; \"pray for\nhim, pray for him.\" And the woman, taking to weeping, blubbers out,\n\"Will thirty masses do, think your Reverence?\" \"Yes, that will cheer\nhis soul,\" replies the oracle.\n\nThe old woman thereupon enters the chapel, pays the priest or\nserving-monk therein, one hundred piasters for thirty masses, and\ngoes away in tears. The next woman rises to the gate. \"I am the\nmother of--,\" she says. \"Ah, the mother of--,\" repeats the exiguous\nvoice. \"How are you? (She must be an old customer.) How is your\nhusband? How are your children? And those in America, are they\nwell, are they prosperous? Yes, yes, your deceased son. Well,\nh'm--h'm--you must come again. I can not tell you anything yet.\nCome again next week.\" And she, too, visits the chapel, counts out\nsome money to the serving-monk, and leaves the Hermitage, drying\nher tears.\n\nThe Reader, who must have recognised the squeaking, snuffling,\nexiguous voice, knows not perhaps that the Hermit, in certain moments\nof _inkhitaf_ (abstraction, levitation) has glimpses into the\nspirit-world and can tell while in this otherworldliness how the\nChristian souls are faring, and how many masses those in Purgatory\nneed before they can rejoin the bosom of Father Abraham. And those who\nseek consolation and guidance through his occult ministrations are\nmostly women. But the money collected for masses, let it here be said,\nas well as the income of the vineyard, the Hermit touches not. The\nmonks are the owners of the occult establishment, and they know better\nthan he what to do with the revenue. But how far this ancient\nreligious Medium can go in the spirit-world, and how honest he might\nbe in his otherworldliness, let those say who have experience in\nspookery and table-rapping.\n\nNow, the women having done and gone, the wicket is open, and the\nserving-monk ushers us through the dark and stivy corridor to the\nrear, where a few boxes marked \"Made in America\"--petroleum boxes,\nthese--are offered us as seats. Before the door of the last cell are a\nfew potsherds in which sweet basil plants are withering from thirst.\nPresently, the door squeaks, and one, not drooping like the plants,\ncomes out to greet us. This is Father Abd'ul-Messiah (Servitor of the\nChrist), as the Hermit is called. Here, indeed, is an up-to-date\nhermit, not an antique troglodyte. Lean and lathy, he is, but not\nhungry-looking; quick of eye and gesture; quick of step, too. He seems\nalways on the alert, as if surrounded continually with spirits. He is\nyoung, withal, or keeps so, at least, through the grace and\nministration of Allah and the Virgin. His long unkempt hair and beard\nare innocent of a single white line. And his health? \"Through my five\nand twenty years of seclusion,\" said he, \"I have not known any\ndisease, except, now and then, in the spring season, when the sap\nbegins to flow, I am visited by Allah with chills and fever.--No; I\neat but one meal a day.--Yes; I am happy, Allah be praised, quite\nhappy, very happy.\"\n\nAnd he lifts his eyes heavenward, and sighs and rubs his hands in\njoyful satisfaction. To us, this Servitor of the Christ seemed not to\nhave passed the climacteric. But truly, as he avowed, he was entering\nthe fifth lustrum beyond it. Such are the advantages of the ascetic\nlife, and of such ascetics the Kingdom of Heaven. A man of sixty can\ncarry twenty years in his pocket, and seem all honesty, and youth, and\nhealth, and happiness.\n\nWe then venture a question about the sack-cloth, a trace of which was\nseen under his tunic sleeve. And fetching a deep sigh, he gazes on the\ndrooping sweet basils in silence. No, he likes not to speak of these\nmortifications of the flesh. After some meditation he tells us,\nhowever, that the sack-cloth on the first month is annoying,\ntorturing. \"But the flesh,\" he continues na\u00efvely, \"is inured to it,\nas the pile, in the course of time, is broken and softened down.\" And\nwith an honest look in his eyes, he smiled and sighs his assurance.\nFor his Reverence always punctuates his speech with these sweet sighs\nof joy. The serving-monk now comes to whisper a word in his ear, and\nwe are asked to \"scent the air\" a while in the vineyard.\n\nThis lovely patch of terrace-ground the Hermit tills and cultivates\nalone. And so thoroughly the work is done that hardly a stone can be\nseen in the soil. And so even and regular are the terrace walls that\none would think they were built with line and plummet. The vines are\nhandsomely trimmed and trellised, and here and there, to break the\nmonotony of the rows, a fig, an apricot, an almond, or an olive,\nspreads its umbrageous boughs. Indeed, it is most cheering in the\nwilderness, most refreshing to the senses, this lovely vineyard, the\nloveliest we have seen.\n\nFather Abd'ul-Messiah might be a descendant of Simeon of the Pillar\nfor all we know; but instead of perching on the top of it, he breaks\nit down and builds with its stones a wall of his vineyard. Here he\ncomes with his serving-monk, and we resume the conversation under the\nalmond tree.\n\n\"You should come in the grape season to taste of my fruits,\" says he.\n\n\"And do you like the grape?\" we ask.\n\n\"Yes, but I prefer to cultivate it.\"\n\n\"Throughout the season,\" the serving-monk puts in, \"and though the\ngrapes be so plentiful, he tastes them not.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\nThe Hermit is silent; for, as we have said, he is reluctant in making\nsuch confessions. Virtue, once bragged about, once you pride yourself\nupon it, ceases to be such.\n\nIn his vineyard the Hermit is most thorough, even scientific. One\nwould think that he believed only in work. No; he does not sprinkle\nthe vines with holy water to keep the grubs away. Herein he has sense\nenough to know that only in _kabrit_ (sulphur) is the phylactery which\ndestroys the phylloxera.\n\n\"And what do you do when you are not working in your vineyard or\npraying?\"\n\n\"I have always somewhat to do, always. For to be idle is to open the\ndoor for Iblis. I might walk up and down this corridor, counting the\nslabs therein, and consider my time well spent.\" Saying which he rises\nand points to the sky. The purple fringes of the clouds are gone to\nsable; the lilac tints on the mountains are waxing grey; and the\nsombre twilight with his torch--the evening star had risen--is\nfollowing in the wake of day; 'tis the hour of prayer.\n\nBut before we leave him to his devotion, we ask to be permitted to see\nhis cell. Ah, that is against the monastic rules. We insist. And with\na h'm, h'm, and a shake of the head, he rubs his hands caressingly and\nopens the door. Yes, the Reader shall peep into this eight by six\ncell, which is littered all around with rubbish, sacred and profane.\nIn the corner is a broken stove with a broken pipe attached,--broken\nto let some of the smoke into the room, we are told. \"For smoke,\"\nquoth the Hermit, quoting the Doctor, \"destroys the microbes--and\nkeeps the room warm after the fire goes out.\"\n\nIn the corner opposite the stove is a little altar with the\nconventional icons and gewgaws and a number of prayer books lying\npell-mell around. Nearby is an old pair of shoes, in which are stuck a\nfew candles and St. Anthony's Book of Contemplations. In the corner\nbehind the door is a large cage, a pantry, suspended middleway between\nthe floor and ceiling, containing a few earthen pots, an oil lamp, and\na jar, covered with a cloth. Between the pantry and the altar, on a\nhair-mat spread on the floor, sleeps his Reverence. And his bed is not\nso hard as you might suppose, Reader; for, to serve your curiosity, we\nhave been rude enough to lift up a corner of the cloth, and we found\nunderneath a substantial mattress! On the bed is his book of accounts,\nwhich, being opened, when we entered, he hastened to close.\n\n\"You keep accounts, too, Reverence?\"\n\n\"Indeed, so. That is a duty devolved on every one with mortal\nmemory.\"\n\nLet it not be supposed, however, that he has charge of the crops. In\nhis journal he keeps the accounts of his masses? And here be evil\nsufficient for the day.\n\nThis, then, is the inventory of Abd'ul-Messiah's cell. And we do\nnot think we have omitted much of importance. Yes; in the fourth\ncorner, which we have not mentioned, are three or four petroleum cans\ncontaining provisions. From one of these he brings out a handful of\ndried figs, from another a pinch of incense, which he gives us as a\ntoken of his love and blessing. One thing we fain would emphasise,\nbefore we conclude our account. The money part of this eremitic\nbusiness need not be harshly judged; for we must bear in mind that\nthis honest Servitor of Christ is strong enough not to have his\nwill in the matter. And remember, too, that the abbey's bills of\nexpenses run high. If one of the monks, therefore, is blessed with a\ntalent for solitude and seclusion, his brother monks shall profit\nby it. Indeed, we were told, that the income of the Hermitage, that\nis, the sum total in gold of the occult and the agricultural\nendeavours of Abd'ul-Messiah, is enough to defray the yearly\nexpenditures of the monkery. Further, we have nothing to say on the\nsubject. But Khalid has. And of his lengthy lucubration on _The Uses\nof Solitude_, we cull the following:\n\n\"Every one's life at certain times,\" writes he, \"is either a Temple, a\nHermitage, or a Vineyard: every one, in order to flee the momentary\nafflictions of Destiny, takes refuge either in God, or in Solitude, or\nin Work. And of a truth, work is the balm of the sore mind of the\nworld. God and Solitude are luxuries which only a few among us\nnowadays can afford. But he who lives in the three, though his life be\nthat of a silk larva in its cocoon, is he not individually considered\na good man? Is he not a mystic, though uncreative, centre of goodness?\nSurely, his influence, his Me alone considered, is living and benign,\nand though it is not life-giving. He is a flickering taper under a\nbushel; and this, _billah_, were better than the pissasphaltum-souls\nwhich bushels of quackery and pretence can not hide. But alas, that a\ngood man by nature should be so weak as to surrender himself entirely\nto a lot of bad men. For the monks, my brother Hermit, being a silk\nworm in its cocoon, will asphyxiate the larva after its work is done,\nand utilise the silk. Ay, after the Larva dies, they pickle and\npreserve it in their chapel for the benefit of those who sought its\noracles in life. Let the beef-packers of America take notice; the\nmonks of my country are in the market with 'canned hermits!'\n\n\"And this Larva, be it remembered, is not subject to decay; a saint\ndoes not decompose in the flesh like mortal sinners. One of these, I\nhave been told, dead fifty years ago and now canonised, can be seen\nyet in one of the monasteries of North Lebanon, keeping well his flesh\nand bones together--divinely embalmed. It has been truly said that the\nwork of a good man never dies; and these leathery hermits continue in\ndeath as in life to counsel and console the Faithful.\n\n\"In the past, these Larv\u00e6, not being cultivated for the market,\ncontinued their natural course of development and issued out of their\nsilk prisons full fledged moths. But those who cultivate them to-day\nare in sore need. They have masses and indulgences to sell; they have\nbig bills to pay. But whether left to grow their wings or not, their\nsolitude is that of a cocoon larva, narrow, stale, unprofitable to the\nworld. While that of a philosopher, a Thoreau, for instance, might be\ncalled Nature's filter; and one, issuing therefrom benefited in every\nsense, morally, physically, spiritually, can be said to have been\nfiltered through Solitude.\"\n\n\"The study of life at a distance is inutile; the study of it at close\nrange is defective. The only method left, therefore, and perhaps the\ntrue one, is that of the artist at his canvas. He works at his picture\nan hour or two, and retires a little to study and criticise it from a\ndistance. It is impossible to withdraw entirely from life and pretend\nto take an interest in it. Either like my brother Hermit in these\nparts, a spiritual larva in its cocoon, or like a Thoreau, who during\nhis period of seclusion, peeped every fortnight into the village to\nkeep up at least his practice of human speech. Else what is the use of\nsolitude? A life of fantasy, I muse, is nearer to the heart of Nature\nand Truth than a life in sack-cloth and ashes....\n\n\"And yet, deeply considered, this eremitic business presents another\naspect. For does not the eremite through his art of prayer and\ndevotion, seek an ideal? Is he not a transcendentalist, at least in\nthe German sense of the word? Is not his philosophy above all the\nsenses, as the term implies, and common sense included? For through\nMother Church, and with closed eyes, he will attain the ideal, of\nwhich my German philosopher, through the logic-mill, and with eyes\nopen, hardly gets a glimpse.\n\n\"The devout and poetic souls, and though they walk among the crowd,\nlive most of their lives in solitude. Through Mother Sorrow, or Mother\nFancy, or Mother Church, they are ever seeking the ideal, which to\nthem is otherwise unattainable. And whether a howler of Turabu or a\nmember of the French Academy, man, in this penumbra of faith and\ndoubt, of superstition and imagination, is much the same. 'The higher\npowers in us,' says Novalis, 'which one day, as Genii, shall fulfil\nour will, are for the present, Muses, which refresh us on our toilsome\ncourse with sweet remembrances.' And the jinn, the fairies, the\nangels, the muses, are as young and vivacious to-day as they were in\nthe Arabian and Gaelic Ages of Romance.\n\n\"But whether Mother Church or Poetry or Philosophy or Music be the\nmagic-medium, the result is much the same if the motive be not\nreligiously sincere, sincerely religious, piously pure, lofty, and\nhumane. Ay, my Larva-Hermit, with all his bigotry and straitness of\nsoul, stands higher than most of your artists and poets and musicians\nof the present day. For a life sincerely spent between the Temple and\nthe Vineyard, between devotion and honest labour, producing to one man\nof all mankind some positive good, is not to be compared with the life\nwhich oscillates continuously between egoism and vanity, quackery and\ncowardice, selfishness and pretence, and which never rises, do what it\nmay, above the larva state....\n\n\"Let every one cultivate with pious sincerity some such vineyard\nas my Hermit's and the world will not further need reform. For\nthrough all the vapour and mist of his ascetic theology, through the\ntortuous chasm of his eremitic logic, through the bigotry and crass\nsuperstition of his soul, I can always see the Vineyard on the one\nside of his cell, and the Church on the other, and say to myself:\nHere be a man who is never idle; here be one who loves the leisure\npraised by Socrates, and hates the sluggishness which Iblis decks and\ntitivates. And if he crawls between his Church and his Vineyard, and\nburrows in both for a solution of life, nay, spins in both the cocoon\nof his ideal, he ought not to be judged from on high. Come thou near\nhim; descend; descend a little and see: has he not a task, and\nthough it be of the taper-under-the-bushel kind? Has he not a faith\nand a sincerity which in a Worm of the Earth ought to be reckoned\nsublime? 'If there were sorrow in heaven,' he once said to me, 'how\nmany there would continuously lament the time they wasted in this\nworld?'\n\n\"O my Brothers, build your Temples and have your Vineyards, even\nthough it be in the rocky wilderness.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nBOOK THE THIRD\n\nIN KULMAKAN\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTO GOD[1]\n\n_In the religious systems of mankind, I sought thee, O God, in\nvain; in their machine-made dogmas and theologies, I sought thee in\nvain; in their churches and temples and mosques, I sought thee long,\nand long in vain; but in the Sacred Books of the World, what have I\nfound? A letter of thy name, O God, I have deciphered in the Vedas,\nanother in the Zend-Avesta, another in the Bible, another in the\nKor\u00e2n. Ay, even in the Book of the Royal Society and in the Records of\nthe Society for Psychical Research, have I found the diacritical signs\nwhich the infant races of this Planet Earth have not yet learned to\napply to the consonants of thy name. The lisping infant races of this\nEarth, when will they learn to pronounce thy name entire? Who shall\nsupply the Vowels which shall unite the Gutturals of the Sacred Books?\nWho shall point out the dashes which compound the opposite loadstars\nin the various regions of thy Heaven? On the veil of the eternal\nmystery are palimpsests of which every race has deciphered a\nconsonant. And through the diacritical marks which the seers and\npaleologists of the future shall furnish, the various dissonances in\nthy name shall be reduced, for the sake of the infant races of the\nEarth, to perfect harmony._--KHALID.\n\n-----\n\n [1] Arabic Symbol.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE DISENTANGLEMENT OF THE ME\n\n\n\"Why this exaggerated sense of thine importance,\" Khalid asks himself\nin the K. L. MS., \"when a little ptomaine in thy cheese can poison the\nsource of thy lofty contemplations? Why this inflated conception of\nthy Me, when an infusion of poppy seeds might lull it to sleep, even\nto stupefaction? What avails thy logic when a little of the Mandragora\ncan melt the material universe into golden, unfolding infinities of\ndreams? Why take thyself so seriously when a leaf of henbane, taken by\nmistake in thy salad, can destroy thee? But the soul is not dependent\non health or disease. The soul is the source of both health and\ndisease. And life, therefore, is either a healthy or a diseased state\nof the soul.\n\n\"One day, when I was rolling these questions in my mind, and working\non a reed basket to present to my friend the Hermit as a farewell\nmemento, his serving-monk brings me some dried figs in a blue kerchief\nand says, 'My Master greets thee and prays thee come to him.' I do so\nthe following morning, bringing with me the finished basket, and as I\nenter the Hermitage court, I find him repairing a stone wall in the\nvineyard. As he sees me, he hastens to put on his cloak that I might\nnot remark the sack-cloth he wore, and with a pious smile of\nassurance and thankfulness, welcomes and embraces me, as is his wont.\nWe sit down in the corridor before the chapel door. The odorous vapor\nof what was still burning in the censer within hung above us. The holy\natmosphere mantled the dread silence of the place. And the slow,\ninsinuating smell of incense, like the fumes of gunga, weighed heavy\non my eyelids and seemed to brush from my memory the cobwebs of time.\nA drowsiness possessed me; I felt like one awaking from a dream. I\nasked for the water jug, which the Hermit hastened to bring. And\nlooking through the door of the chapel, I saw on the altar a burning\ncresset flickering like the planet Mercury on a December morning. How\noften did I light such a cresset when a boy, I mused. Yes, I was an\nacolyte once. I swang the censer and drank deep of the incense fumes\nas I chanted in Syriac the service. And I remember when I made a\nmistake one day in reading the Epistle of Paul, the priest, who was of\nan irascible humour, took me by the ear and made me spell the words I\ncould not pronounce. And the boys in the congregation tittered\ngleefully. In my mortification was honey for them. Such was my pride,\nnevertheless, such the joy I felt, when, of all the boys that gathered\nround the lectern at vespers, I was called upon to read in the\n_sinksar_ (hagiography) the Life of the Saint of the day.\n\n\"I knew then that to steal, for instance, is a sin; and yet, I emptied\nthe box of wafers every morning after mass and shared them with the\nvery boys who laughed at my mistakes. One day, in the purest\nintention, I offered one of these wafers to my donkey and he would\nnot eat it. I felt insulted, and never after did I pilfer a wafer.\nNow, as I muse on these sallies of boyish waywardness I am impressed\nwith the idea that the certainty and daring of Ignorance, or might I\nsay Innocence, are great. Indeed, to the pure everything is pure. But\nstrange to relate that as I sat in the corridor of the Hermitage and\nsaw the light flickering on the altar, I hankered for a wafer, and was\ntempted to go into the chapel and filch one. What prevented me? Alas,\nknowledge makes sceptics and cowards of us all. And the pursuit of\nknowledge, according to my Hermit, nay, the noblest pursuit, even the\nserving of God, ceases to be a virtue the moment we begin to enjoy\nit.\n\n\"'It is necessary to conquer, not only our instincts,' he continued,\n'but our intellectual and our spiritual passions as well. To force our\nwill in the obedience of a higher will, to leave behind all our\nmundane desires in the pursuit of the one great desire, herein lies\nthe essence of true virtue. St. Anthony would snatch his hours of\ndevotion from the Devil. Even prayer to him was a struggle, an effort\nnot to feel the joy of it. Yes, we must always disobey our impulses,\nand resist the tyranny of our desires. When I have a strong desire to\npray, I go out into the vineyard and work. When I begin to enjoy my\nwork in the vineyard, I cease to do it well. Therefore, I take up my\nbreviary. Do that which you must not do, when you are suffering, and\nyou will not want to do it again, when you are happy. The other day,\none who visited the Hermitage, spoke to me of you, O Khalid. He said\nyou were what is called an anarchist. And after explaining to me what\nis meant by this--I never heard of such a religion before--I\ndiscovered to my surprise that I, too, am an anarchist. But there is\nthis difference between us: I obey only God and the authority of God,\nand you obey your instincts and what is called the authority of\nreason. Yours, O Khalid, is a narrow conception of anarchy. In truth,\nyou should try to be an anarchist like me: subordinate your\npersonality, your will and mind and soul, to a higher will and\nintelligence, and resist with all your power everything else. Why do\nyou not come to the Hermitage for a few days and make me your\nconfessor?'\n\n\"'I do not confess in private, and I can not sleep within doors.'\n\n\"'You do not have to do so; the booth under the almond tree is at your\ndisposal. Come for a spiritual exercise of one week only.'\n\n\"'I have been going through such an exercise for a year, and soon I\nshall leave my cloister in the pines.'\n\n\"'What say you? You are leaving our neighbourhood? No, no; remain\nhere, O Khalid. Come, live with me in the Hermitage. Come back to\nMother Church; return not to the wicked world. O Khalid, we must\ninherit the Kingdom of Allah, and we can not do so by being anarchist\nlike the prowlers of the forest. Meditate on the insignificance and\nevanescence of human life.'\n\n\"'But it lies within us, O my Brother, to make it significant and\neternal.'\n\n\"'Yes, truly, in the bosom of Mother Church. Come back to your\nMother--come to the Hermitage--let us pass this life together.'\n\n\"'And what will you do, if in the end you discover that I am in the\nright?'\n\n\"Here he paused a moment, and, casting on me a benignant glance, makes\nthis reply: 'Then, I will rejoice, rejoice,' he gasped; 'for we shall\nboth be in the right. You will become an anarchist like me and not\nagainst the wretched authorities of the world, but against your real\nenemies, Instinct and Reason.'\n\n\"And thus, now and then, he would salt his argument with a pinch of\ncasuistic wit. Once he was hard set, and, to escape the alternatives\nof the situation, he condescended to tell me the story of his first\nand only love.\n\n\"'In my youth,' said the Hermit, 'I was a shoemaker, and not a little\nfastidious as a craftsman. In fact, I am, and always have been, an\nextremist, a purist. I can not tolerate the cobblings of life. Either\ndo your work skilfully, devotedly, earnestly, or do it not. So, as a\nshoemaker, I succeeded very well. Truth to tell, my work was as good,\nas neat, as elegant as that of the best craftsman in Beirut. And you\nknow, Beirut is noted for its shoemakers. Yes, I was successful as any\nof them, and I counted among my customers the bishop of the diocese\nhimself. One day, forgive me, Allah! a young girl, the daughter of a\npeasant neighbour, comes into the shop to order a pair of shoes. In\ntaking the measure of her foot--but I must not linger on these\ndetails. A shoemaker can not fail to notice the shape of his\ncustomer's foot. Well, I measured, too, her ankle--ah, forgive me,\nAllah!\n\n\"'In brief, when the shoes were finished--I spent a whole day in the\nfinishing touches--I made her a present of them. And she, in\nrecognition of my favor, made a plush tobacco bag, on which my name\nwas worked in gold threads, and sent it to me, wrapped in a silk\nhandkerchief, with her brother. Now, that is the opening chapter. I\nwill abruptly come to the last, skipping the intermediate parts, for\nthey are too silly, all of them. I will only say that I was as\nearnest, as sincere, as devoted in this affair of love as I was in my\ncraft. Of a truth, I was mad about both.\n\n\"'Now the closing chapter. One day I went to see her--we were\nengaged--and found she had gone to the spring for water. I follow her\nthere and find her talking to a young man, a shoemaker like myself.\nNo, he was but a cobbler. On the following day, going again to see\nher, I find this cobbler there. I remonstrate with her, but in vain.\nAnd what is worse, she had sent to him the shoes I made, to be\nrepaired. He was patching my own work! I swallowed my ire and went\nback to my shop. A week later, to be brief, I went there again, and\nwhat I beheld made my body shiver. She, the wench. Forgive me, Allah!\nhad her hands around his neck and her lips--yes, her lying lips, on\nhis cheek! No, no; even then I did not utter a word. I could but cry\nin the depth of my heart. How can woman be so faithless, so\ntreacherous--in my heart I cried.\n\n\"'It was a terrible shock; and from it I lay in bed for days with\nchills and fever. Now, when I recovered, I was determined on pursuing\na new course of life. No longer would I measure women's feet. I sold\nmy stock, closed my shop, and entered the monastery. I heard\nafterwards that she married that young cobbler; emigrated with him to\nAmerica; deserted him there; returned to her native village; married\nagain, and fled with her second husband to South Africa. Allah be\npraised! even He appreciates the difference between a shoemaker and a\ncobbler; and the bad woman He gives to the bad craftsman. That is why\nI say, Never be a cobbler, whatever you do.\n\n\"'But in the monastery--draw near, I will speak freely--in the\nmonastery, too, there are cobblers and shoemakers. There, too, is much\nungodliness, much treachery, much cobbling. Ah me, I must not speak\nthus. Forgive me, Allah! But I promised to tell you the whole story.\nTherefore, I will speak freely. After passing some years in the\nmonastery, years of probation and grief they were, I fell sick with a\nvirulent fever. The abbot, seeing that there was little chance of my\nrecovery, would not send for the physician. And so, I languished for\nweeks, suffering from thirst and burning pains and hunger. I raved and\nchattered in my delirium. I betrayed myself, too, they told me. The\nmonks my brothers, even during my suffering, made a scandal of the\nlove affair I related. They said that I exposed my wounds and my\nbroken heart before the Virgin, that I sinned in thought and word on\nmy death-bed. Allah forgive them. It may be, however; for I know not\nwhat I said and what I did. But when I recovered, I was determined not\nto remain in the monastery, and not to return to the world. The wicked\nworld, I disentangled myself absolutely from its poisoned meshes. I\ncame to the Hermitage, to this place. And never, since I made my\nsecond remove until now, have I known disease, or sorrow, nor\ntreachery, which is worse than both. Allah be praised! One's people,\none's brothers, one's lovers and friends, are a hindrance and\nbotheration. We are nothing, nothing: God is everything. God is the\nonly reality. And in God alone is my refuge. That is my story in\nbrief. If I did not like you, I would not have told it, and so freely.\nMeditate upon it, and on the insignificance and evanescence of human\nlife. The world is a snare, and a bad snare, at that. For it can not\nhold us long enough in it to learn to like it. It is a cobbler's\nsnare. The world is full of cobblers, O Khalid. Come away from it; be\nan ideal craftsman--be an extremist--be a purist--come live with me.\nLet us join our souls in devotion, and our hearts in love. Come, let\nus till and cultivate this vineyard together.'\n\n\"And taking me by the hand, he shows me a cell furnished with a\nhair-mat, a _masnad_ (leaning pillow), and a chair. 'This cell,' says\nhe, 'was occupied by the Bishop when he came here for a spiritual\nexercise of three weeks. It shall be yours if you come; it's the best\ncell in the Hermitage. Now, let us visit the chapel.' I go in with\nhim, and as we are coming out, I ask him child-like for a wafer. He\nbrings the box straightway, begs me to take as much as I desire, and\nplacing his hand on my shoulder, encircles me with one of his\nbenignant glances, saying, 'Allah illumine thy heart, O Khalid.'\n'Allah hear thy prayer,' I reply. And we part in tears.\"\n\nHere Khalid bursts in ecstasy about the higher spiritual kingdom, and\nchops a little logic about the I and the not-I, the Reality and the\nnon-Reality.--\"God,\" says the Hermit. \"Thought,\" says the Idealist,\n\"that is the only Reality.\" And what is Thought, and what is God, and\nwhat is Matter, and what is Spirit? They are the mysterious vessels of\nLife, which are always being filled by Love and emptied by Logic. \"The\nexternal world,\" says the Materialist--\"Does not exist,\" says the\nIdealist. \"'Tis immaterial if it does or not,\" says the Hermit. And\nwhat if the three are wrong? The Universe, knowable and unknowable,\nwill it be affected a whit by it? If the German Professor's Chair of\nLogic and Philosophy were set up in the Hermitage, would anything be\ngained or lost? Let the _I_ deny the stars, and they will nevertheless\nroll in silence above it. Let the not-I crush this I, this \"thinking\nreed,\" and the higher universal I, rising above the stars and flooding\nthe sidereal heavens with light, will warm, remold, and regenerate the\nworld.\n\n\"I can conceive of a power,\" writes Khalid in that vexing Manuscript,\n\"which can create a beautiful parti-colored sun-flower of the\nshattered fragments of Idealism, Materialism, and my Hermit's\ntheology. Why not, if in the New World--\" And here, of a sudden, to\nsurprise and bewilder us, he drags in Mrs. Eddy and the Prophet Dowie\nyoked under the yoke of Whitman. He marks the _Key to Scripture_ with\nblades from _Leaves of Grass_, and such fuel as he gathers from both,\nhe lights with an ember borrowed from the chariot to Elijah. And thus,\nfor ten whole pages, beating continually, now in the dark of\nMetaphysics, now in the dusk of Science; losing himself in the tangled\nbushes of English Materialism, and German Mysticism, and Arabic\nSufism; calling now to Berkeley, now to Hackel; meeting with Spencer\nhere, with Al-Gazzaly there; and endeavoring to extricate himself in\nthe end with some such efforts as \"the Natural being Negativity, the\nSpiritual must be the opposite of that, and both united in God form\nthe Absolute,\" etc., etc. But we shall not give ourselves further pain\nin laying before the English reader the like heavy and unwieldy\nlumber. Whoever relishes such stuff, and can digest it, need not apply\nto Khalid; for, in this case, he is but a poor third-hand caterer.\nBetter go to the Manufacturers direct; they are within reach of every\none in this Age of Machinery and Popular Editions. But there are\npassages here, of which Khalid can say, 'The Mortar at least is mine.'\nAnd in this Mortar he mixes and titrates with his Neighbour's Pestle\nsome of his fantasy and insight. Of these we offer a sample:\n\n\"I say with psychologists, as the organism, so is the personality.\nThe revelation of the Me is perfect in proportion to the sound state\nof the Medium. But according to the Arabic proverb, the jar oozes of\nits contents. If these be of a putridinous mixture, therefore, no\nmatter how sound the jar, the ooze is not going to smell of ambergris\nand musk. So, it all depends on the contents with which the Potter\nfills his jugs and pipkins, I assure you. And if the contents are\ngood and the jar is sound, we get such excellence of soul as is rare\namong mortals. If the contents are excellent and the jar is cracked,\nthe objective influence will then predominate, and putrescence,\nsoon or late, will set in. Now, the Me in the majority of mankind\ncomes to this world in a cracked pipkin, and it oozes out entirely as\nsoon as it liquifies in youth. The pipkin, therefore, goes through\nlife empty and cracked, ever sounding flat and false. While in\nothers the Me is enclosed in a sealed straw-covered flask and can\nonly be awakened by either evaporation or decapitation, in other\nwords, by a spiritual revolution. And in the very few among mortals,\nit emerges out of the iron calyx of a flower of red-hot steel, or\nflows from the transparent, odoriferous bosom of a rose of light. In\nthe first we have a C\u00e6sar, an Alexander, a Napoleon; in the second,\na Buddha, a Socrates, a Christ.\n\n\"But consider that Science, in the course of psychological analysis,\nspeaks of Christ, Napoleon, and Shakespeare, as patients. Such exalted\nstates of the soul, such activity of the mind, such exuberance of\nspiritual strength, are but the results of the transformation of the\nMe in the subject, we are told, and this transformation has its roots\nin the organism. But why, I ask, should there be such a gulf between\nindividuals, such a difference in their Mes, when a difference in the\norganism is a trifle in comparison? How account for the ebb and flow\nin the souls, or let us say, in the expression of the individualities,\nof Mohammad the Prophet, for instance, and Mohammad the camel-herd?\nAnd why is it in psychological states that are similar, the\nconsciousness of the one is like a mountain peak, so to speak, and\nthat of the other like a cave?\n\n\"A soldier is severely wounded in battle and a change takes place in\nhis nervous organism, by reason of which he loses his organic\nconsciousness; or, to speak in the phraseology of the psychologist, he\nloses the sense of his own body, of his physical personality. The\ncause of this change is probably the wound received; but the nature of\nthe change can be explained only by hypotheses, which are become\nmatters of choice and taste--and sometimes of personal interest among\nscientists. Now, when the question is resolved by hypothesis, is not\neven a layman free to offer one? If I say the Glass is shattered and\nthe Me within is sadly reflected, or in a more tragic instance the\nlight of the Me runs out, would I not be offering thee a solution as\ndear and tenable as that of the professor of psychology?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE VOICE OF THE DAWN\n\n\nBreathless but scathless, we emerge from the mazes of metaphysics and\npsychology where man and the soul are ever playing hide-and-seek; and\nwhere Khalid was pleased to display a little of his killing skill in\nfencing. To those mazes, we promise the Reader, we shall not return\nagain. In our present sojourn, however, it is necessary to go through\nthe swamps and Jordans as well as the mountains and plains. Otherwise,\nwe would not have lingered a breathing while in the lowlands of\nmystery. But now we know how far Khalid went in seeking health, and\nhow deep in seeking the Me, which he would disentangle from the meshes\nof philosophy and anchoretism, and bring back to life, triumphant,\nloving, joyous, free. And how far he succeeded in this, we shall soon\nknow.\n\nOn the morning of his last day in the pines, meanwhile, we behold him\nin the chariot of Apollo serenading the stars. He no longer would\nthrust a poker down his windpipe; for he breathes as freely as the\nmountain bears and chirps as joyously as the swallows. And his lungs?\nThe lungs of the pines are not as sound. And his eyes? Well, he can\ngaze at the rising sun without adverting the head or squinting or\nshedding a tear. Now, as a sign of this healthy state of body and\nmind, and his healthier resolve to return to the world, to live\nopposite his friend the Hermit on the other antipode of life, and\nfurthermore, as a relief from the exhausting tortuosities of thought\nin the last Chapter, we give here a piece of description notably\nsymbolical.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"I slept very early last night; the lights in the chapel of the abbey\nwere still flickering, and the monks were chanting the complines. The\nmellow music of a drizzle seemed to respond sombrely to the melancholy\necho of the choir. About midnight the rain beat heavily on the pine\nroof of the forest, and the thunder must have struck very near,\nbetween me and the monks. But rising very early this morning to\ncommune for the last time with the pensive silence of dawn in the\npines, I am greeted, as I peep out of my booth, by a knot of ogling\nstars. But where is the opaque breath of the storm, where are the\nclouds? None seem to hang on the horizon, and the sky is as limpid and\nclear as the dawn of a new life. Glorious, this interval between night\nand dawn. Delicious, the flavour of the forest after a storm.\nIntoxicating, the odours of the earth, refreshed and satisfied.\nDivine, the whispers of the morning air, divine!\n\n\"But where is the rain, and where are the thunderbolts of last night?\nThe forest and the atmosphere retain but the sweet and scented\nmemories of their storming passion. Such a December morning in these\nmountain heights is a marvel of enduring freshness and ardour. All\nround one gets a vivid illusion of Spring. The soft breezes caressing\nthe pines shake from their boughs the only evidence of last night's\nstorm. And these are more like the dew of Summer than the lees of the\ncopious tears of parting Autumn. A glorious morning, too glorious to\nbe enjoyed by a solitary soul. But near the rivulet yonder stands a\nfox sniffing the morning air. Welcome, my friend. Welcome to my\ncoffee, too.\n\n\"I gather my mulberry sticks, kindle them with a handful of dried pine\nneedles, roast my coffee beans, and grind them while the water boils\nin the pot. In half an hour I am qualified to go about my business.\nThe cups and coffee utensils I wash and restore to the chest--and what\nelse have I to do to-day? Pack up? Allah be praised, I have little\npacking to do. I would pack up, if I could, a ton of the pine air and\nthe forest perfume, a strip of this limpid sky, and a cluster of those\nstars. Never at such an hour and in this season of the year did I\nenjoy such transporting limpidity in the atmosphere and such\nreassuring expansiveness on the horizon. Why, even the stars, the\nconstellations, and the planets, are all here to enjoy this with me.\nNot one of them, I think, is absent.\n\n\"The mountains are lost in the heavens. They are seeking, as it were,\nthe sisters of the little flowers sleeping at their feet. The moon,\nresembling a crushed orange, is sinking in the Mediterranean. The\noutlines of earth and sky all round are vague, indistinct. Were not\nthe sky so clear and the atmosphere so rare, thus affording the\nplanets and the constellations to shed their modicum of light, the\ndusk of this hour would have deprived the scene of much of its pensive\nbeauty of colour and shade. But there is Pegasus, Andromeda,\nAldebaran, not to mention Venus and Jupiter and Saturn,--these alone\ncan conquer the right wing of darkness. And there is Mercury, like a\nlighted cresset shaken by the winds, flapping his violet wings above\nthe Northeastern horizon; and Mars, like a piece of gold held out by\nthe trembling hand of a miser, is sinking in the blue of the sea with\nNeptune; the Pleiades are stepping on the trail of the blushing moon;\nthe Balance lingers behind to weigh the destinies of the heroes who\nare to contend with the dawn; while Venus, peeping from her tower over\nMt. Sanneen, is sending love vibrations to all. I would tell thee more\nif I knew. But I swear to thee I never read through the hornbook of\nthe heavens. But if I can not name and locate more of the stars, I can\ntell thee this about them all: they are the embers of certainty\neternally glowing in the ashes of doubt.\n\n\"The Eastern horizon is yet lost in the dusk; the false dawn is\nspreading the figments of its illusion; the trees in the distance seem\nlike rain-clouds; and the amorphous shadows of the monasteries on the\nmountain heights and hilltops all around, have not yet developed into\nsilhouettes. Everything, except the river in the wadi below, is yet\nasleep. Not even the swallows are astir. Ah, but my neighbour yonder\nis; the light in the loophole of his hut sends a struggling ray\nthrough the mulberries, and the tintinnabulations of his daughter's\nloom are like so many stones thrown into this sleeping pond of\nsilence. The loom-girl in these parts is never too early at her\nharness and shuttle. I know a family here whose loom and spinning\nwheel are never idle: the wife works at the loom in the day and her\nboy at the wheel; while in the night, her husband and his old mother\nkeep up the game. And this hardly secures for them their flour and\nlentils the year round. But I concern not myself now with questions of\neconomy.\n\n\"There, another of my neighbours is awake; and the hinges of his door,\nshrieking terribly, fiendishly, startle the swallows from their sleep.\nAnd here are the muleteers, yodling, as they pass by, their\n\n    'Dhome, Dhome, Dhome,\n       O mother, he is come;\n     Hide me, hide me quickly,\n       And say I am not home.'\n\n\"Lo, the horizon is disentangling itself from the meshes of darkness.\nThe dust of haze and dusk on the scalloped edges of the mountains, is\nblown away by the first breath of dawn. The lighter grey of the\nhorizon is mirrored in the clearer blue of the sea. But the darkness\nseems to gather on the breast of the sloping hills. Conquered on the\nheights, it retreats into the wadi. Ay, the darkest hour is nearest\nthe dawn.\n\n\"Now the light grey is become a lavender; the outlines of earth and sky\nare become more distinct; the mountain peaks, the dusky veil being\nrent, are separating themselves from the heaven's embrace; the trees\nin the distance no longer seem like rain-clouds; and the silhouettes\nof the monasteries are casting off the cloak of night. The lavender is\nmelting now into heliotrope, and the heliotrope is bursting here and\nthere in pink; the stars are waning, the constellations are dying out,\nand the planets are following in their wake. The darkness, too, which\nhas not yet retreated from the wadi, must soon follow; for the front\nguard of the dawn is near. Behold the shimmer of their steel! And\nsee, in the dust of the retreating darkness, the ochre veins of the\nlime cliffs are now perceptible. And that huge pillar, which looked\nlike the standard-bearer of Night, is transformed into a belfry; and a\nmonk can be seen peeping through the ogive beneath it. Mt. Sanneen, its\nblack and ochre scales thrown in relief on a coat of grey, is like a\nhuge panther sleeping over the many-throated ravine of Kisrawan. Ah,\nthe pink flower of dawn is bursting in golden glory, thrilling in\norange and saffron, flaming with the ardency of love and hope. The\ndawn! The glow and glamour of the Eastern dawn!...\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"The dawn of a new life, of a better, purer, healthier, higher\nspiritual kingdom. I would have its temples and those of the vast\nempire of wealth and material well-being, stand side by side. Ay, I\nwould even rear an altar to the Soul in the temple of Materialism, and\nan altar to Materialism in the temple of the Soul. Each shall have\nits due, each shall glory in the sacred purity and strength of life;\neach shall develop and expand, but never at the expense of the other.\nI will have neither the renunciation which ends in a kind of idiocy\ndignified with a philosophic or a theologic name, nor the worldliness\nwhich ends in bestiality. I am a citizen of two worlds--a citizen of\nthe Universe; I owe allegiance to two kingdoms. In my heart are those\nstars and that sun, and the LIGHT of those stars and that sun.\n\n\"Yes, I am equally devoted both to the material and the spiritual. And\nwhen the two in me are opposed to each other, conflicting, inimical,\nobdurate, my attitude towards them is neither that of my friend the\nHermit nor that of my European superman. I sit down, shut my eyes,\ncompose myself, and concentrate my mind on the mobility of things. If\nthe clouds are moving, why, I have but to sit down and let them move\naway. I let my No-will, in this case, dominate my will, and that\nserves my purpose well. To be sure, every question tormenting us would\nresolve itself favourably, or at least indifferently, if we did not\nalways rush in, wildly, madly, and arrogate to ourselves such claims\nof authority and knowledge as would make Olympus shake with laughter.\nThe resignation and passiveness of the spirit should always alternate\nequitably with the terrible strivings of the will. For the dervish who\nwhirls himself into a foaming ecstasy of devotion and the strenuous\nAmerican who works himself up to a sweating ecstasy of gain, are the\ntwo poles of the same absurdity, the two ends of one evil. Indeed, to\nmy way of thinking, the man on the Stock Exchange and the demagogue on\nthe stump, for instance, are brothers to the blatant corybant.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE SELF ECSTATIC\n\n\nTo graft the strenuosity of Europe and America upon the ease of the\nOrient, the materialism of the West upon the spirituality of the\nEast,--this to us seems to be the principal aim of Khalid. But often\nin his wanderings and divagations of thought does he give us fresh\nproof of the truism that no two opposing elements meet and fuse\nwithout both losing their original identity. You may place the bit of\ncontentment in the mouth of ambition, so to speak, and jog along in\nyour sterile course between the vast wheat fields groaning under\nthe thousand-toothed plough and the gardens of delight swooning\nwith devotion and sensuality. But cross ambition with contentment and\nyou get the hinny of indifference or the monster of fatalism. We do\nnot say that indifference at certain passes of life, and certain\nstages, is not healthy, and fatalism not powerful; but both we\nbelieve are factors as potent in commerce and trade as pertinacity and\ncalculation. \"But is there not room in the garden of delight for a\nwheat field?\" asks Khalid. \"Can we not apply the bow to the\ntelegraph wires of the world and make them the vehicle of music as of\nstock quotations? Can we not simplify life as we are simplifying the\nmachinery of industry? Can we not consecrate its Temple to the\nTrinity of Devotion, Art, and Work, or Religion, Romance, and Trade?\"\n\nThis seems to be the gist of Khalid's gospel. This, through the\nlabyrinths of doubt and contradiction, is the pinnacle of faith he\nwould reach. And often in this labyrinthic gloom, where a gleam of\nlight from some recess of thought or fancy reveals here a Hermit in\nhis cloister, there an Artist in his studio, below a Nawab in his\norgies, above a Broker on the Stock Exchange, we have paused to ask a\nquestion about these glaring contrarieties in his life and thought.\nAnd always would he make this reply: \"I have frequently moved and\nremoved between extremes; I have often worked and slept in opposing\ncamps. So, do not expect from me anything like the consistency with\nwhich the majority of mankind solder and shape their life. Deep\nthought seems often, if not always, inconsistent at the first blush.\nThe intensity and passiveness of the spirit are as natural in their\nattraction and repulsion as the elements, whose harmony is only patent\non the surface. Consistency is superficial, narrow, one-sided. I am\nboth ambitious, therefore, and contented. My ambition is that of the\nearth, the ever producing and resuscitating earth, doing the will of\nGod, combatting the rasure of time; and my contentment is that of the\nmajestic pines, faring alike in shade and sunshine, in calm and storm,\nin winter as in spring. Ambition and Contentment are the night and day\nof my life-journey. The day makes room for the fruits of solacement\nwhich the night brings; and the night gives a cup of the cordial of\ncontentment to make good the promise of day to day.\n\n\"Ay, while sweating in the tortuous path, I never cease to cherish the\nfeeling in which I was nourished; the West for me means ambition, the\nEast, contentment: my heart is ever in the one, my soul, in the other.\nAnd I care not for the freedom which does not free both; I seek not\nthe welfare of the one without the other. But unlike my Phoenician\nancestors, the spiritual with me shall not be limited by the natural;\nit shall go far above it, beyond or below it, saturating, sustaining,\npurifying what in external nature is but a symbol of the invisible.\nNor is my idea of the spiritual developed in opposition to nature, and\nin a manner inimical to its laws and claims, as in Judaism and\nChristianity.\n\n\"The spiritual and natural are so united, so inextricably entwined\naround each other, that I can not conceive of them separately,\nindependently. And both in the abstract sense are purportless and\nineffectual without Consciousness. They are blind, dumb forces,\nbeautiful, barbaric pageants, careering without aim or design through\nthe immensities of No-where and No-time, if they are not impregnated\nand nourished with Thought, that is to say, with Consciousness,\nvitalised and purified. You may impregnate them with philosophy,\nnourish them with art; they both emanate from them, and remain as\nskidding clouds, as shining mirages, as wandering dust, until they\nfind their exponent in Man.\n\n\"I tell thee then that Man, that is to say Consciousness, vitalised\nand purified, in other words Thought--that alone is real and eternal.\nAnd Man is supreme, only when he is the proper exponent of Nature, and\nspirit, and God: the three divine sources from which he issues, in\nwhich he is sustained, and to which he must return. Nature and the\nspiritual, without this embodied intelligence, this somatic being,\ncalled man or angel or ape, are as ermine on a wax figure. The human\nfactor, the exponent intelligence, the intellective and sensuous\nfaculties, these, my Brothers, are whole, sublime, holy, only when, in\na state of continuous expansion, the harmony among themselves and the\naffirmative ties between them and Nature, are perfect and pure. No,\nthe spiritual ought not and can not be free from the sensuous, even\nthe sensual. The true life, the full life, the life, pure, robust,\nsublime, is that in which all the nobler and higher aspirations of the\nsoul AND THE BODY are given free and unlimited scope, with the view of\ndeveloping the divine strain in Man, and realising to some extent the\nromantic as well as the material hopes of the race. God, Nature,\nSpirit, Passion--Passion, Spirit, Nature, God--in some such panorama\nwould I paint the life of a highly developed being. Any of these\nelements lacking, and the life is wanting, defective, impure.\n\n\"I have no faith in men who were conceived in a perfunctory manner,\non a pragmatical system, so to speak; the wife receiving her\nhusband in bed as she would a tedious guest at an afternoon tea.\nOnly two flames uniting produce a third; but a flame and a name,\nor a flame and a spunge, produce a hiff and nothing. Oh, that the\nchildren of the race are all born phoenix-like in the fire of noble\nand sacred passion, in the purgatory, as it were, of Love. What a\nrace, what a race we should have. What men, what women! Yes, that is\nhow the children of the earth should be conceived, not on a\npragmatical system, in an I-don't-care-about-the-issue manner. I\nbelieve in evoking the spirit, in dreaming a little about the gods\nof Olympus, and a little, too, about the gods of the abysmal depths,\nbefore the bodily communion. And in earnest, O my Brother, let us do\nthis, despite what old Socrates says about the propriety and\nwisdom of approaching your wife with prudence and gravity....\"\n\nAnd thus, if we did not often halloo, Khalid, like a huntsman pursuing\nhis game, would lose himself in the pathless, lugubrious damp of the\nforest. If we did not prevent him at times, holding firmly to his\ncoat-tail, he would desperately pursue the ghost of his thoughts even\non such precipitous paths to those very depths in which Socrates and\nMontaigne always felt at home. But he, a feverish, clamorous,\nobstreperous stripling of a Beduin, what chance has he in extricating\nhis barbaric instincts from such thorny hedges of philosophy? And had\nhe not quoted Socrates in that last paragraph, it would have been\nexpunged. No, we are not utterly lost to the fine sense of propriety\nof this chaste and demure age. But no matter how etiolated and sickly\nthe thought, it regains its colour and health when it breathes the\nliterary air. Prudery can not but relish the tang of lubricity when\nflavoured with the classical. Moreover, if Socrates and Montaigne\nspeak freely of these midnight matters, why not Khalid, if he has\nanything new to say, any good advice to offer. But how good and how\nnew are his views let the Reader judge.\n\n'Tis very well to speak \"of evoking the spirit before the bodily\ncommunion,\" but those who can boast of a deeper experience in such\nmatters will find in Socrates' dictum, quoted by Montaigne, the very\ngist of reason and wisdom. Those wise ones were as far-sighted as they\nwere far gone. And moderation, as it was justly said once, is the\nrespiration of the philosopher. But Khalid, though always invoking the\ndistant luminary of transcendentalism for light, can not arrogate to\nhimself this high title. The expansion of all the faculties, and the\nreduction of the demands of society and the individual to the lowest\nterm;--this, as we understand it, is the aim of transcendentalism. And\nKhalid's distance from the orbit of this grand luminary seems to vary\nwith his moods; and these vary with the librations and revolutions of\nthe moon. Hallucinated, moonstruck Khalid, your harmonising and\naffinitative efforts do not always succeed. That is our opinion of the\nmatter. And the Reader, who is no respecter of editors, might quarrel\nwith it, for all we know.\n\nOnly by standing firmly in the centre can one preserve the equilibrium\nof one's thoughts. But Khalid seldom speaks of equilibrium: he cares\nnot how he fares in falling on either side of the fence, so he knows\nwhat lies behind. Howbeit, we can not conceive of how the affinity of\nthe mind and soul with the senses, and the harmony between these and\nnature, are possible, if not exteriorised in that very superman whom\nKhalid so much dreads, and on whom he often casts a lingering glance\nof admiration. So there you are. We must either rise to a higher\nconsciousness on the ruins of a lower one, of no-consciousness,\nrather, or go on seeming and simulating, aspiring, perspiring, and\nsuffering, until our turn comes. Death denies no one. Meanwhile,\nKhalid's rhapsodies on his way back to the city, we shall heed and try\nto echo.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"On the high road of the universal spirit,\" he sings, \"the world, the\nwhole world before me, thrilling and radiating, chanting of freedom,\nfaith, hope, health and power, and joy. Back to the City, O\nKhalid,--the City where Truth, and Faith, and Honesty, and Wisdom, are\never suffering, ever struggling, ever triumphing. No, it matters not\nwith me if the spirit of intelligence and power, of freedom and\nculture, which must go the rounds of the earth, is always dominated by\nthe instinct of self-interest. That must be; that is inevitable. But\nthe instinct of self-interest, O my Brother, goes with the flesh; the\nbody-politic dies; nations rise and fall; and the eternal Spirit, the\nprogenitor of all ideals, passes to better or worse hands, still\nchastening and strengthening itself in the process.\n\n\"The Orient and Occident, the male and female of the Spirit, the two\ngreat streams in which the body and soul of man are refreshed,\ninvigorated, purified--of both I sing, in both I glory, to both I\nconsecrate my life, for both I shall work and suffer and die. My\nBrothers, the most highly developed being is neither European nor\nOriental; but rather he who partakes of the finer qualities of both\nthe European genius and the Asiatic prophet.\n\n\"Give me, ye mighty nations of the West, the material comforts of\nlife; and thou, my East, let me partake of thy spiritual heritage.\nGive me, America, thy hand; and thou, too, Asia. Thou land of\norigination, where Light and Spirit first arose, disdain not the\ngifts which the nations of the West bring thee; and thou land of\norganisation and power, where Science and Freedom reign supreme,\ndisdain not the bounties of the sunrise.\n\n\"If the discoveries and attainments of Science will make the body of\nman cleaner, healthier, stronger, happier, the inexhaustible Oriental\nsource of romantic and spiritual beauty will never cease to give the\nsoul of man the restfulness and solacement it is ever craving. And\nremember, Europa, remember, Asia, that foreign culture is as necessary\nto the spirit of a nation as is foreign commerce to its industries.\nElsewise, thy materialism, Europa, or thy spiritualism, Asia, no\nmatter how trenchant and impregnable, no matter how deep the\nfoundation, how broad the superstructure thereof, is vulgar, narrow,\nmean--is nothing, in a word, but parochialism.\n\n\"I swear that neither religious nor industrial slavery shall forever\nhold the world in political servitude. No; the world shall be free of\nthe authority, absolute, blind, tyrannical, of both the Captains of\nIndustry and the High Priests of the Temple. And who shall help to\nfree it? Science alone can not do it; Science and Faith must do it.\n\n\"I say with thee, O Goethe, 'Light, more light!' I say with thee, O\nTolstoi, 'Love, more love!' I say with thee, O Ibsen, 'Will, more\nwill!' Light, Love, and Will--the one is as necessary as the other;\nthe one is dangerous without the others. Light, Love, and Will, are\nthe three eternal, vital sources of the higher, truer, purer cosmic\nlife.\n\n\"Light, Love, and Will--with corals and pearls from their seas would I\ncrown thee, O my City. In these streams would I baptise thy children,\nO my City. The mind, and the heart, and the soul of man I would\nbaptise in this mountain lake, this high Jordan of Truth, on the\nflourishing and odoriferous banks of Science and Religion, under the\nsacred _sidr_ of Reason and Faith.\n\n\"Ay, in the Lakes of Light, Love, and Will, I would baptise all\nmankind. For in this alone is power and glory, O my European Brothers;\nin this alone is faith and joy, O my Brothers of Asia.\n\n\"The Hudson, the Mississippi, the Amazon, the Thames, the Seine, the\nRhine, the Danube, the Euphrates, the Ganges--every one of these great\nstreams shall be such a Jordan in the future. In every one of them\nshall flow the confluent Rivers of Light, Love, and Will. In every\none of them shall sail the barks of the higher aspirations and hopes\nof mankind.\n\n\"I come now to be baptised, O my City. I come to slake my thirst in\nthy Jordan. I come to launch my little skiff, to do my little work, to\npay my little debt.\n\n\"In thy public-squares, O my City, I would raise monuments to Nature;\nin thy theatres to Poesy and Thought; in thy bazaars to Art; in thy\nhomes, to Health; in thy temples of worship, to universal Goodwill; in\nthy courts, to Power and Mercy; in thy schools, to Simplicity; in thy\nhospitals, to Faith; and in thy public-halls to Freedom and Culture.\nAnd all these, without Light, Love, and Will, are but hollow affairs,\nhigh-sounding inanities. Without Light, Love, and Will, even thy\nNabobs in the end shall curse thee; and with these, thy hammals under\ntheir burdens shall thank the heavens under which thy domes and\nturrets and minarets arise.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nON THE OPEN HIGHWAY\n\n\nAnd Khalid, packing his few worldly belongings in one of his reed\nbaskets, gives the rest to his neighbours, leaves his booth in the\npines to the swallows, and bids the monks and his friend the Hermit\nfarewell. The joy of the wayfaring! Now, where is the jubbah, the\nblack jubbah of coarse wool, which we bought from one of the monks? He\nwraps himself in it, tightens well his shoe-strings, draws his fur cap\nover his ears, carries his basket on his back, takes up his staff,\nlights his cigarette, and resolutely sets forth. The joy of the\nwayfaring! We accompany him on the open highway, through the rocky\nwilderness, down to the fertile plains, back to the city. For the\naccount he gives us of his journey enables us to fill up the lacuna in\nShakib's _Histoire Intime_, before we can have recourse to it again.\n\n\"From the cliffs 'neath which the lily blooms,\" he muses as he issues\nout of the forest and reaches the top of the mountain, \"to the cliffs\nround which the eagles flit,--what a glorious promontory! What a\ncontrast at this height, in this immensity, between the arid rocky\nhaunts of the mountain bear and eagle and the spreading, vivifying\nverdure surrounding the haunts of man. On one side are the sylvan\nvalleys, the thick grown ravines, the meandering rivulets, the\nfertile plains, the silent villages, and on the distant horizon, the\nsea, rising like a blue wall, standing like a stage scene; on the\nother, a howling immensity of boulders and prickly shrubs and plants,\nan arid wilderness--the haunt of the eagle, the mountain bear, and the\ngoatherd. One step in this direction, and the entire panorama of\nverdant hills and valleys is lost to view. Its spreading, riant beauty\nis hidden behind that little cliff. I penetrate through this forest of\nrocks, where the brigands, I am told, lie in ambush for the caravans\ntraveling between the valley of the Leontes and the villages of the\nlowland. But the brigands can not harm a dervish; my penury is my\namulet--my salvation.\n\n\"The horizon, as I proceed, shrinks to a distance of ten minutes' walk\nacross. And thus, from one circle of rocks to another, I pass through\nten of them before I hear again the friendly voice of the rill, and\nbehold again the comforting countenance of the sylvan slopes. I reach\na little grove of slender poplars, under the brow of a little hill,\nfrom which issues a little limpid stream and runs gurgling through the\nlittle ferns and bushes down the heath. I swing from the road and\nfollow this gentle rill; I can not find a better companion now. But\nthe wanton lures me to a village far from the road on the other side\nof the gorge. Now, I must either retrace my steps to get to it by a\nlong detour, or cross the gorge, descending to the deep bottom and\nascending in a tangled and tortuous path to reach the main road on the\nbreast of the opposite escarpment. Here is a short-cut which is long\nand weary. It lures me as the stream; it cheats me with a name. And\nwhen I am again on the open road, I look back with a sigh of relief on\nthe dangers I had passed. I can forgive the luring rill, which still\nsmiles to me innocently from afar, but not the deluding, ensnaring\nravine. The muleteer who saw me struggling through the tangled bushes\nup the pathless, hopeless steep, assures me that my mother is a pious\nwoman, else I would have slipped and gone into an hundred pieces among\nthe rocks below. 'Her prayers have saved thee,' quoth he; 'thank thy\nGod.'\n\n\"And walking together a pace, he points to the dizzy precipice around\nwhich I climbed and adds: 'Thou seest that rock? I hallooed to thee\nwhen thou wert creeping around it, but thou didst not hear me. From\nthat same rock a woodman fell last week, and, falling, looked like a\npotted bird. He must have died before he reached the ground. His bones\nare scattered among those rocks. Thank thy God and thy mother. Her\nprayers have saved thee.'\n\n\"My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how long since I thought\nof thee. My loving mother, even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer\ncan see in the unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as\nthine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming as through the\ntrumpet of revelation to rebuke me, sink deep in my heart and draw\ntears from mine eyes. For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous\nson, and for his salvation? How many beads each night dost thou tell,\nhow many hours dost thou prostrate thyself before the Virgin,\nsobbing, obsecrating, beating thy breast? And all for one, who until\nnow, ever since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.--Let me kiss\nthee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let me kiss thee for\nreminding me of my mother.--No, I can not further with thee; I am\nwaygone; I must sit me a spell beneath this pine--and weep. O Khalid,\nwretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of this muleteer be\nbetter than thine? Can there be a sounder intuitiveness, a healthier\nsense of love, a grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than\nthere is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in ignominy\nand shame, when a stranger thinks of thy mother, and reverently, ere\nthou dost? No matter how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no\nmatter how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are always with\nthee. If she can not rise to thee on the ladder of reason, she can\nsoar on the wings of affection. Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this\npine, bury my forehead in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh,\nI am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined thee, O\nKhalid.--\n\n\"There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to the lowland. The\nsky is overcast; there is a lull in the wind. Hark, I hear the piping\nof the shepherd and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his\nflock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful reed. I am\nalmost slain with thirst. I go to him, and cheerfully does he milk for\nme. I do not think Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham's\nservant's eyes than was this wight in mine. 'Where dost thou sleep?'\nI ask, 'Under this rock,' he replies. And he shows me into the cave\nbeneath it, which is furnished with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a\nlittle altar for the picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an\noil lamp, ever burning, I am told. 'And this altar,' quoth the\nshepherd, 'was my mother's. When she died she bequeathed it to me. I\ncarry it with me in the wilderness, and keep the oil burning in her\nmemory.' Saying which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid,\nis sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume my march.\n\n\"At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another, I reach a\nvillage of no mean size. It occupies a broad deep steep, in which the\nwalnut and poplar relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the\nmulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I hate worms, and\nthough they be of the silk-making kind. I hate them the more, because\nthe Lebanon peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which he tends\nand cultivates better than he does his children.\n\n\"When I stood on the top of the steep, the village glittering with a\nthousand lights lay beneath like a strip of the sidereal sky. It made\nme feel I was above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled\nhouses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters and half-circles,\nform here an aigrette, as it were, on the sylvan head of the mountain,\nthere a necklace on its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an\nhundred lights. I descend into the village and stop before the first\nhouse I reach. The door is wide open; and the little girl who sees me\nenter runs in fright to tell her mother. Straightway, the woman and\nher son, a comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand\nmanner, and, as they see me, stand abashed, amazed. The young man who\nwore a robe-de-chambre and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns my\nsalaam courteously and invites me up to the divan. There is a spark of\nintelligence in his eyes, and an alien affectation in his speech. I\nforesaw that he had been in America. He does not ask me the\nconventional questions about my religious persuasion; but after his\ninquiries of whence and whither, he offers me an Egyptian cigarette,\nand goes in to order the coffee. It did not occur to him that I was\nhis guest for the night.--\n\n\"Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a cushion, and a rug under\nmy feet seems like a sheet of ice. But with my dust and mud I seem\nlike Diogenes trampling upon Plato's pride. I survey the hall, which\nbreathes of rural culture and well-being, and in which is more\nevidence of what I foresaw. On the wall hung various photographs and\noil prints, among which I noticed those of the King and Queen of\nEngland, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon by an American\nartist, an autographed copy of an English Duke's, and a large\nphotograph of a banquet of one of the political Clubs of New York. On\nthe table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card album, and a\ngramophone! Yes, mine host was more than once in the United States.\nAnd knowing that I, too, had been there, he is anxious to display\nsomewhat of his broken English. His father, he tells me, speaks\nEnglish even as good as he does, having been a dragoman for forty\nyears.\n\n\"After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds for my entertainment\nthat horrible instrument of torture.\" Khalid did not seem to mind it;\nbut he was anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in\nthe bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I Wish I Had a Pal Like\nYou, Tickle Me, Timothy, and such like ragtime horrors come all the\nway from America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty of the\nLebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid. And he excuses himself,\nsaying, \"I am waygone from the day's wayfaring.\" The instrument of\ntorture is stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where a\nmattress is spread for him on the floor.\n\n\"In the morning,\" he continues, \"mine host accompanies me through the\npopulous village, which is noted for its industries. Of all the\nLebanon towns, this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries,\nand its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people cultivate\nlittle of the silk worm; they are mostly artisans. American cotton\nthey spin, and dye, and weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron\nthey melt and cast into bells; and from their native soil they dig the\nclay which they mould into earthenware. The tintinnabulations of the\nloom can be heard in other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else\ncan the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife, a pipkin\nfor her oil, or the priest, a bell for his church. The sound of these\nfoundries' anvils, translated into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching\nmusic, can be heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria.\n\n\"We descend to the potteries below, not on the carriage road which\nserpentines through the village, and which is its only street, but\nsheer down a steep path, between the noise of the loom and spinning\nwheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments. And here is the\nreal potter and his clay, not the symbol thereof. And here is the\npottery which is illustrated in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if\nwe except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians, nothing, above\nground at least, can be more ancient and primitive. Such a pitcher, I\nmuse, did Rebekah carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder\ndid Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such vessels did the widow,\nby Elijah's miracle, multiply her jug of oil.\n\n\"The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did not care to visit;\nfor truly I can not tolerate the smell of asphyxiated larvas and\nboiling cocoons. 'But the proprietor,' quoth mine host, 'is very\nhonourable, and of a fine wit.' As honourable as a sweater can be, I\nthought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a piece. I know\npersonally one of them, who is a Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched\nhim one day buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust any of\nhis employees at the scales; they do not know how to press their hand\nover the weights in the pan. Ay, that little pressure of his chubby\nhand on the weights makes a difference in his favour of more than ten\nper cent. of what he buys. That little pressure of his hand is five\nor six piasters out of the peasant's pocket, who, with five or six\npiasters, remember, can satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and\npulverised thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the\ncocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private chapel--he prays at\nhome like the Lebanon Amirs of old, this khawaja--tells me many\nedifying things. Of these, I give out the most curious and least\ninjurious. As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is generous; as the\noperator of a silk-reeling factory, he is grasping, niggardly, mean.\nFor, to misgovern well, one must open his purse as often as he forces\nthe purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage this great\nkhawaja, when we were coming out of the pottery. And of a truth, his\npaunch and double chin and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the\npriest told me about his usurious propensities.\n\n\"What a contrast between him and the swarthy, leathery, hungry-looking\npotters. I can not think that Nature has aught to do with these naked\ninequalities. I can not believe that, to produce one roseate\ncomplexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I can not see how, in\ndrinking from the same gushing spring, and breathing the same mountain\nair, and basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a double\nchin and the peasant a double curse. But his collops and his ruddiness\nare due to the fact that he misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his\nSultan. He battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery,\non extortion, on usury. His tree is better manured, so to speak;\nmanured by the widows and tended by the orphans of his little\nkingdom. In a word, this great khawaja is what I call a political\ncoprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre and lustiness.\n\n\"But he is not the only example in the village of this superabundance\nof health; the priests are many more. For I must not fail to mention\nthat, in addition to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed\nwith a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe, has its church\nand priests; and consequently, its feuds with all the others. It is a\nmarvel how the people, in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and\ndissension, can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye swarthy\npeople! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries! Were it not for\nthe khawaja who misgoverns thee, and the priests who sow their\niniquity in thee, thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back,\nas I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as beautiful in the\nday as thou art in the night. Thy pink gables under a December sky\nseem not as garish as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes,\nclustered with thy white-stone homes, peeping here through the\nmulberries, standing there under the walnuts and poplars, rising\nyonder in a group like a mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope,\nwhereon thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel, throwing\nthe shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering withal in the mud of\nstrife and dissension, this beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from\nthis distance, like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee\nmore; farewell.\n\n\"I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the ancients; and\ncrossing the stone-bridge, an hour's ascent brings me to one of the\nvillages of Kisrawan. On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze\nStatue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal, and looking,\nfrom this distance, like a candle in a bronze candle-stick. That\nStatue, fifty years hence, the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise\nas the Statue of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it her\nmace. But whether these sacred mountains will be happier and more\nprosperous under its r\u00e9gime, I can not say. The Masons and the\nPatriarch of the Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I\nknow, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary the Virgin shall\nhold her own. For though the name be changed, and the alm-box thrown\ninto the sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The Statue\nof the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called, and the Jesuits and\npriests can go a-begging. Meanwhile, the Patriarch will issue his\nallocutions, and the Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism,\natheism, masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed Virgin,\nand point them out as enemies of Abd'ul-Hamid. 'Tis curious how the\nSultan of the Ottomans can serve the cause of the Virgin!\n\n\"I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and mounting to the\ntop of the pedestal, I look up and behold my mother before me. The\nspectre of her, standing before the monument, looks down upon me,\nreproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down at the feet\nof the Virgin Mary and bury my face in my hands and weep. I love\nwhat thou lovest, O my mother, but I can see no more what thou seest.\nFor thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For thy love, I\nstand here like a child, and look up to this inanimate figure as I\ndid when I was an acolyte. My intellect, O my mother, I would\ndrown in my tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses. Only\nthus is reconciliation possible.\n\n\"Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross many wadis, descend\nand ascend many hills, pass through many villages, until I reach, at\nGhina and Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients. At\nGhina are ruins and monuments, of which Time has spared enough to\nengage the interest of arch\u00e6ologists. Let the P\u00e8res Jesuit,\nBourquenoud and Roz, make boast of their discoveries and scholarship;\nI can only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship are\nthe same to-day as they were in the days of my Phoenician ancestors.\nWhich, indeed, speaks well for THEM. This tablet, representing an\narmed figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death of\nTammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman near it is probably that\nof Ashtaroth. Other figures there are; but nothing short of the\nscholarship of Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble mystery.\n\n\"At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are ruins of an ancient\ntemple in which can still be seen a few Corinthian columns. This, too,\nwe are told, was consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women\nof Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god. Isis and Osiris,\nTammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and Adonis,--these, I believe, are one and\nthe same. Their myth borrowed from the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, and\nthe Romans, from either of the two. But the Venus of Rome is cheerful,\njoyous, that of the Phoenicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology\ntriumphs in its evolution.\n\n\"Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality, devotion, and\ngrief, where the ardency of the women of Byblus flamed on the altar of\nTammuz, on this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance with\ntheir dust, I build my _athafa_ (little kitchen), Arab-like, and cook\nmy noonday meal. On the three stones, forming two right angles, I\nplace my skillet, kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet\noil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village. I abominate the\nidea of frying eggs in water as the Americans do.[1] I had as lief fry\nthem in vinegar or syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is\nobtainable. But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity of it! Why not,\nmy friend, take them boiled and drink a little hot water after them?\nThis savours of originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not\nmore. Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate over a\nslice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break a few boiled eggs in\na cup of hot water and call them fried. Be this as it may. The\nAmericans will be solesistically simple even in their kitchen.\n\n\"Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out of my basket a cake\nof cheese, a few olives, an onion, and three paper-like loaves, rather\nleaves, of bread, and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But\nlet it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on the bank of the\nRiver Adonis, in the shadow of the great wall surrounding the ruins of\nthe temple of Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the reign\nof Abd'ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods--who, however, were\ncontent in being present and applauding the devouring skill of the\npeptic host and toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would\ngive away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for such a skillet\nof eggs in such an enchanted scene. But for it, alas! such wild and\nsimple joy is a sealed book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone\nthrough the fruit course--and is not the olive a fruit?--I fill my jug\nat the River to make my coffee. And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or\nWaldorf or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert, can one get a\nbetter cup of coffee than this, which Khalid makes for himself? The\ngods be praised, before and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and\ndishes I praise the good gods.\n\n\"And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug my basket on my back,\nand again set forth. In three hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a\nhamlet situated in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge\nmountain walls. The most sequestered, the most dreary place, I have\nyet seen. Here, though unwilling, the dusk of the December day having\nset in, I lay down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little\nvillage, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low of the kine.\nThe first villager I meet is an aged woman, who stands in her door\nbefore which is a pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my\nsalaam graciously, and invites me, saying, 'Be kind to tarry\novernight.' But can one be kinder than such an hostess? Seeing that I\nlaid down my burden, she calls to her daughter to light the seraj\n(naphtha lamp) and bring some water for the stranger. 'Methinks thou\nwouldst wash thy feet,' quoth she. Indeed, that is as essential and\nrefreshing, after a day's walk, as washing one's face. I sit me down,\ntherefore, under the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and\nthe little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass, pours to me\nfrom the pitcher. I try to take it from her; but she would not, she\nsaid, be deprived of the pleasure of serving the stranger. Having\ndone, I put on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket near the\ndoor, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely but neatly furnished. The\nusual straw mats are spread on the winter side, behind the door; in\nthe corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of beautiful\nhand-made lace, the work of the little girl; and nearby are a few\nsquare cushions on the floor and a crude chair. The seraj, giving out\nmore smoke and smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached\nto the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a bench for the\nwater jars, and in the other corner are the mattresses and quilts,\nand the earthen tub containing the round leaves of bread. Of these\nconsist the furniture and provision of mine hostess.\n\n\"Her son, a youth of not more than two score years, returns from his\nday's labour a while after I had arrived. And as he stands in the\ndoor, his pick-axe and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet\nhim, and whispers somewhat about the stranger. Sitting on the\nthreshold, he takes off his spats of cloth and his clouted shoes,\nwhile she gets the pitcher of water. After having washed, he enters,\nsalaams graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then brings a\nwicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting of only bread and\nolives. 'Thou wilt overlook our penury,' she falters out; 'here be all\nwe have.' In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the Lebanon\npeasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her jars of lentils and beans,\nare empty. She lays the tray before her son and invites me to partake\nof the repast. I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the\ntwo cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an apology on the\ntray--the mother, abashed, protests--and we sit down cross-legged in a\ncircle to supper. When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire,\nand they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And the mother, in\ntaking hers, tells me na\u00efvely, and with a sigh, that it is five years\nnow since she had had a cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better\ndays. And 'tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows her cheeks and\nrobs her black eyes of their lustre and spark.\n\n\"She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and rugs, too, and jars\nfull of provision. But now she is a tenant. And her husband, ever\nsince he emigrated to America, did not send a single piaster or even\nwrite a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of usurers; for\nthose Lebanon Moths, of which we saw a specimen in the village of\nbells and potteries, fall mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are\nlocusts rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor. Her home\nwas mortgaged to one such, and failing to meet her obligation, the\nmortgage is closed and he takes possession. Soon after she is evicted,\nher son, the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies.\n\n\"'He could read and write, my son,' quoth she, sobbing; 'of a sharp\nwit he was, and very assiduous in his studies. Once he accompanied the\npriest of the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there a\neulogium of his own composition, for which he received a silver medal.\nThe Patriarch then sent him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest,\nmy son. He wrote a beautiful hand--both Arabic and French; he was of a\nfine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant. Ah, me, but those who are of such\nminds never live!'\n\n\"She then tells me how they lost their last head of cattle. An\nexcellent sheep it was; which one night they forgot outside; and the\nwolf, visiting the village, sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for\njoy, and carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of her\nson; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the village, of her home;\nand the wolf, of her last head of cattle. And this were enough to age\neven a Spartan woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at\nlength of her sorrows, three mattresses--all she had--are laid on the\nstraw mat near each other, and the little girl had to sleep with her\nmother.\n\n\"Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and pass on my way to\nAmsheet, where Henriette Renan, the sister of Ernest, is buried. An\nhour's walk, and the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed\nbehind. I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse; I behold\nagain the emerald stretch of water on the horizon, where the baggalas\nand saics, from this distance, seem like doves basking in the morning\nsun. I cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my journey, and\nlo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath are the orchards and palms\nof Amsheet. Further below is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a\nclutter of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain heights, and\nthe arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile plains, and hopeful strands.\nIn half an hour I reach the immense building--the first or the last of\nthe village, according to your direction--which, from the top of the\nhill, I thought to be a fortress. A huge structure this, still\na-building, and of an architecture altogether different from the\nconventional Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three pointed\narches in the fa\u00e7ade, and a gable of pink tiles; but here are quoins,\noriels, embrasures, segmental arches, and other luxuries of\narchitecture. Out of place in these wilds, altogether out of place.\nHard by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly there as\na rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the age. I go there in the\nhope of buying some cheese and eggs, and behold a lady of severe\nbeauty smoking a narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns\nmy salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in an injured air, after I\nhad made known to her my desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the\nstores.\n\n\"'You may come in for breakfast,' she adds; and clapping for the\nservant, orders him to lay the table for me. I enter the beit, which\nis partitioned into a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the\ntable is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of affluence:\nnamely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green olives. The servant, who is\ncurious to know my name, my religion, my destination, and so forth,\ntells me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam, and the\ncastle, which is building, is their new home.\n\n\"Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about the grave of Renan's\nsister. She pauses amazed, blows her narghilah smoke in my face,\nsurveys me from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions with\nwhich I was tormented by her servant. Indeed, I had answered ten of\nhers, before I got this answer to mine: 'The sister of whom, thou\nsayst? That Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities?\nYes; his sister died and was buried here, but no Christian remembers\nher for good. She must have been a bad one like her brother, who was\nan infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.--What wouldst thou\nsee there? Art like the idiot Franje (Europeans) who come here and\ncarry away from around the grave some stones and dust? Go thou with\nhim--(this to the servant) and show him the vault of the Toubeiyahs,\nwhere she was buried.' This, in a supercilious air, while she drew\nfrom the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish.\n\n\"We come to the cemetery near the church in the centre of the town.\nThe vault where Henriette was laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is\nnot far from an oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow;\nand directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown, make a vain\neffort to kiss its dust. No grass, no flowers around; but much of the\ndust of neglect. And of this I take up a handful, like 'the idiot\nFranje'; but instead of carrying it away, I press therein my lips and\nleave my planted kisses near the vault.--When the mothers and the\nsisters of these sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of\nthese kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred purity\nof thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then we shall have, and what\nsisters!\n\n\"I pass through the village descending on the carriage road to Jbail,\nor Byblus. In these diggings the shrewd antiquary digs for those\nprecious tear-bottles of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are\ntombs in which the arch\u00e6ologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His,\nindeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For\nconsider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did\nnot yield somewhat of nourishment,--a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or\neven an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these\nscholarly grave-diggers because I can not interest myself in their\nwork; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this\nbusiness of 'cashing,' as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes\nand dust, of our ancestors. Arch\u00e6ology for arch\u00e6ology's sake is\npardonable; arch\u00e6ology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable;\nand arch\u00e6ology for lucre is abominable.\n\n\"At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin,\nwhich is occupied by the mudir of the District. Entering the gate,\nnear which is a chapel consecrated to Our Lady of that name, where\nlitigants, when they can not prove their claims, are made to swear to\nthem, we pass through a court between rows of Persian lilac trees,\ninto a dark, stivy arcade on both sides of which are dark, stivy cells\nused as stables. Reaching the citadel proper, we mount a high stairway\nto the loft occupied by the mudir. This, too, is partitioned, but with\ncotton sheeting, into various apartments.\n\n\"The zabtie, in zouave uniform, at the door, would have me wait\nstanding in the corridor outside; for his Excellency is at dinner. And\nExcellency, as affable as his zabtie, hearing the parley without,\ngrowls behind the scene and orders me gruffly to go to the court.\n'This is not the place to make a complaint,' he adds. But the\nstranger at thy door, O gracious Excellency, complains not against\nany one in this world; and if he did, assure thee, he would not\ncomplain to the authorities of this world. This, or some such\nplainness of distemper, the zouave communicates to his superior\nbehind the cotton sheeting, who presently comes out, his anger\nsomewhat abated, and, taking me for a monk--my jubbah is responsible\nfor the deception--invites me to the sitting-room in the enormous\nloophole of the citadel. He himself was beginning to complain of the\nlitigants who pester him at his home, and apologise for his ill\nhumour, when suddenly, disabused on seeing my trousers beneath my\njubbah, he subjects me to the usual cross-examination. I could not\nrefrain from thinking that, not being of the cowled gentry, he\nregretted having honoured me with an apology.\n\n\"But after knowing somewhat of the pilgrim stranger, especially that\nhe had been in America, Excellency tempers the severity of his\nexpression and evinces an agreeable curiosity. He would know many\nthings of that distant country; especially about a Gold-Mining\nSyndicate, or Gold-Mining Fake, in which he invested a few hundred\npounds of his fortune. And I make reply, 'I know nothing about Gold\nMines and Syndicates, Excellency: but methinks if there be gold in\nsuch schemes, the grubbing, grabbing Americans would not let it\ncome to Syria.' 'Indeed, so,' he murmurs, musing; 'indeed, so.' And\nclapping for the serving-zabtie--the mudirs and kaiemkams of the\nLebanon make these zabties, whose duty is to serve papers, serve,\ntoo, in their homes--he orders for me a cup of coffee. And further\ncomplaining to me, he curses America for robbing the country of\nits men and labourers.--'We can no more find tenants for our\nestates, despite the fact that they get more of the income than\nwe do. The shreek (partner), or tenant, is rightly called so. For the\nowner of an estate that yields fifty pounds, for instance, barely\ngets half of it; while the shreek, he who tills and cultivates the\nland, gets away with the other half, sniffing and grumbling\nwithal. Of a truth, land-tenants are not so well-off anywhere. And if\nthe land but yields a considerable portion, any one with a few\ngrains of the energy of those Americans, would prefer to be a\nshreek than a real-estate owner.' Thus, his Excellency, complaining\nof the times, regretting his losses, cursing America and its Gold\nMines; and having done, drops the narghilah tube from his hand and\ndozes on the divan.\n\n\"I muse meanwhile on Time, who sees in a citadel of the ancient\nPhoenicians, after many thousand years, that same propensity for\ngold, that same instinct for trade. The Phoenicians worked gold\nmines in Thrace, and the Syrians, their descendants, are working\ngold mines in America. But are we as daring, as independent, as\nhonest? I am not certain, however, if those Phoenicians had anything\nto do with bubbles. My friend Sanchuniathon writes nothing on the\nsubject. History records not a single instance of a gold-mine\nbubble in Thrace, or a silver ditto in Africa. Apart from this, have\nwe, the descendants of those honest Phoenicians, any of their\ninventive skill and bold initiative? They taught other nations the\nart of ship-building; we can not as much as learn from other\nnations the art of building a gig. They transmitted to the people\nof the West a knowledge of mathematics, weights, and measures; we\ncan not as much as weigh or measure the little good Europe is\ntransmitting to us. They always fought bravely against their\nconquerors, always gave evidence of their love of independence; and we\ndare not raise a finger or whisper a word against the red Tyrant by\nwhom we are degraded and enslaved. We are content in paying tribute\nto a criminal Government for pressing upon our necks the yoke and\nfettering hopelessly our minds and souls--and my brave Phoenicians,\nah, how bravely they thought and fought. What daring deeds they\naccomplished! what mysteries of art and science they unveiled!\n\n\"On these shores they hammered at the door of invention, and,\nentering, showed the world how glass is made; how colours are\nextracted from pigments; how to measure, and count, and communicate\nhuman thought. The swarthy sons of the eternal billows, how shy they\nwere of the mountains, how enamoured of the sea! For the mountains, it\nwas truly said, divide nations, and the seas connect them. And my\nPhoenicians, mind you, were for connection always. Everywhere, they\nlived on the shores, and ever were they ready to set sail.\n\n\"In this mammoth loophole, measuring about ten yards in length,--this\nthe thickness of the wall--I muse of another people skilled in the art\nof building. But between the helots who built the pyramids and the\nfreemen who built this massive citadel, what a contrast! The Egyptian\nmind could only invent fables; the Phoenician was the vehicle of\ncommerce and the useful arts. The Egyptians would protect their dead\nfrom the tyranny of Time; the Phoenicians would protect themselves,\nthe living, from the invading enemy: those based their lives on the\nvagaries of the future; these built it on the solid rock of the\npresent....\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut we have had enough of Khalid's gush about the Phoenicians, and we\nconfess we can not further walk with him on this journey. So, we leave\nhis Excellency the mudir snoring on the divan, groaning under the\nincubus of the Gold Mine Fake, bemoaning his losses in America; pass\nthe zabtie in zouave uniform, who is likewise snoring on the\ndoor-step; and, hurrying down the stairway and out through the stivy\narcade, we say farewell to Our Lady of the Gate, and get into one of\nthe carriages which ply the shore between Junie and Jbail. We reach\nJunie about sundown, and Allah be praised! Even this toy of a train\nbrings us, in thirty minutes, to Beirut.\n\n-----\n\n [1] Khalid would speak here of poached eggs, we believe. And the\n     Americans, to be fair, are not so totally ignorant of the art of\n     frying. They have lard--much worse than water--in which they\n     cook, or poach, or fry--but the change in the name does not\n     change the taste. So, we let Khalid's stricture on fried eggs and\n     boiled cabbage stand.--EDITOR.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nUNION AND PROGRESS\n\n\nHad not Khalid in his retirement touched his philosophic raptures with\na little local colouring, had he not given an account of his tramping\ntour in the Lebanons, the hiatus in Shakib's _Histoire Intime_ could\nnot have been bridged. It would have remained, much to our vexation\nand sorrow, somewhat like the ravine in which Khalid almost lost his\nlife. But now we return, after a year's absence, to our Scribe, who at\nthis time in Baalbek is soldering and hammering out rhymes in praise\nof Niazi and Enver, Abd'ul-Hamid and the Dastur (Constitution).\n\n\"When Khalid, after his cousin's marriage, suddenly disappeared from\nBaalbek,\" writes he, \"I felt that something had struck me violently\non the brow, and everything around me was dark. I could not\nwithhold my tears: I wept like a child, even like Khalid's mother. I\nremember he would often speak of suicide in those days. And on the\nevening of that fatal day we spent many hours discussing the question.\n'Why is not one free to kill himself,' he finally asked, 'if one is\nfree to become a Jesuit?' But I did not believe he was in earnest.\nAlas, he was. For on the morning of the following day, I went up to\nhis tent on the roof and found nothing of Khalid's belongings but\na pamphlet on the subject, 'Is Suicide a Sin?' and right under the\ntitle the monosyllable LA (no) and his signature. The frightfulness\nof his intention stood like a spectre before me. I clapped one hand\nupon the other and wept. I made inquiries in the city and in the\nneighbouring places, but to no purpose. Oh, that dreadful, dismal\nday, when everywhither I went something seemed to whisper in my\nheart, 'Khalid is no more.' It was the first time in my life that I\nfelt the pangs of separation, the sting of death and sorrow. The\ndays and months passed, heartlessly confirming my conjecture, my\nbelief.\n\n\"One evening, when the last glimmer of hope passed away, I sat down\nand composed a threnody in his memory. And I sent it to one of the\nnewspapers of Beirut, in the hope that Khalid, if he still lived,\nmight chance to see it. It was published and quoted by other journals\nhere and in Egypt, who, in their eulogies, spoke of Khalid as the\nyoung Baalbekian philosopher and poet. One of these newspapers, whose\neditor is a dear friend of mine, and of comely ancient virtue, did not\nmention, from a subtle sense of tender regard for my feelings, the\nfact that Khalid committed suicide. 'He died,' the Notice said, 'of a\nsudden and violent defluxion of rheums,[1] which baffled the\nphysician and resisted his skill and physic.' Another journal, whose\neditor's religion is of the Jesuitical pattern, spoke of him as a\nmiserable God-abandoned wretch who was not entitled to the right of\nChristian burial; and fulminated at its contemporaries for eulogising\nthe youthful infidel and moaning his death, thus spreading and\njustifying his evil example.\n\n\"And so, the days passed, and the months, and Khalid was still dead.\nIn the summer of this year, when the Constitution was proclaimed, and\nthe country was rioting in the saturnalia of Freedom and Equality, my\nsorrow was keener, deeper than ever. Not I alone, but the cities and\nthe deserts of Syria and Arabia, missed my loving friend. How\ngloriously he would have filled the tribune of the day, I sadly\nmused.... O Khalid, I can never forgive this crime of thine against\nthe sacred rites of Friendship. Such heartlessness, such inexorable\ncruelty, I have never before observed in thee. No matter how much thou\nhast profited by thy retirement to the mountains, no matter how much\nthy solitude hath given thee of health and power and wisdom, thy cruel\nremissness can not altogether be drowned in my rejoicing. To forget\nthose who love thee above everything else in the world,--thy mother,\nthy cousin, thine affectionate brother--\"\n\nAnd our Scribe goes on, blubbering like a good Syrian his complaint\nand joy, gushing now in verse, now in what is worse, in rhymed prose,\nuntil he reaches the point which is to us of import. Khalid, in the\nwinter of the first year of the Dastur (Constitution) writes to him\nmany letters from Beirut, of which he gives us not less than fifty!\nAnd of these, the following, if not the most piquant and interesting,\nare the most indispensable to our History.\n\nLetter I (As numbered in the Original)\n\n  My loving Brother Shakib:\n\n  To whom, if not to you, before all, should I send the first word\n  of peace, the first sign of the resurrection? To my mother? To\n  my cousin Najma? Well, yes. But if I write to them, my letters\n  will be brought to you to be read and answered. So I write now\n  direct, hoping that you will convey to them these tidings of\n  joy. 'Tis more than a year now since I slinked out of Baalbek,\n  leaving you in the dark about me. Surely, I deserve the\n  chastisement of your bitterest thoughts. But what could I do?\n  Such is the rigour of the sort of life I lived that any\n  communication with the outside world, especially with friends\n  and lovers, would have marred it. So, I had to be silent as the\n  pines in which I put up, until I became as healthy as the\n  swallows, my companions there. When we meet, I shall recount to\n  you the many curious incidents of my solitude and my journey in\n  the sacred hills of Lebanon. To these auspicious mountains, my\n  Brother, I am indebted for the health and joy and wisdom that\n  are now mine; and yours, too, if you consider.\n\n  Strange, is it not, that throughout my journey, and I have\n  passed in many villages, nothing heard I of this great political\n  upheaval in the Empire. Probably the people of the Lebanons\n  cherish not the Revolution. There is so much in common, I find,\n  between them and the Celtic races, who always in such instances\n  have been more royalists than the king. And I think Mt. Lebanon\n  is going to be the Vend\u00e9e of the Turks.\n\n  I have been in Beirut but a few days. And truly, I could not\n  believe my eyes, when in the Place de la Concorde (I hope the\n  Turks are not going to follow in the steps of the French\n  Revolutionists in all things), I could not believe my eyes,\n  when, in this muddy Square, on the holy Stump of Liberty, I\n  beheld my old friend the Spouter dispensing to the turbaned and\n  tarboushed crowd, among which were cameleers and muleteers with\n  their camels and mules, of the blessing of that triple political\n  abracadabra of the France of more than a century passed.\n  Liberty, Fraternity, Equality!--it's a shame that the show has\n  been running for six months now and I did not know it. I begin\n  by applauding the Spouters of Concord Square, the donkey that I\n  am. But how, with my cursed impulsiveness, can I always keep on\n  the sidewalk of reason? I, who have suckled of the milk of\n  freedom and broke the bottle, too, on my Nurse's head, I am not\n  to blame, if from sheer joy, I cheer those who are crowning her\n  on a dung-hill with wreaths of stable straw. It's better,\n  billah, than breaking the bottle on her head, is it not? And so,\n  let the Spouters spout. And let the sheikh and the priest and\n  the rabbi embrace on that very Stump and make up. Live the Era\n  of Concord and peace and love! Live the Dastur! Hurrah for the\n  Union and Progress Heroes! Come down to Beirut and do some\n  shouting with your fellow citizens.\n\nLetter V\n\n  No; I do not approve of your idea of associating with that young\n  Mohammedan editor. You know what is said about the tiger and its\n  spots. Besides, I had another offer from a Christian oldtimer;\n  but you might as well ask me to become a Jesuit as to became a\n  Journalist. I wrote last week a political article, in which I\n  criticised Majesty's Address to the Parliament, and mauled those\n  oleaginous, palavering, mealy-mouthed Representatives, who would\n  not dare point out the lies in it. They hear the Chief Clerk\n  read of \"the efforts made by the Government during the past\n  thirty years in the interest of education,\" and applaud; while\n  at the Royal Banquet they jostle and hustle each other to kiss\n  the edge of Majesty's frock-coat. The abject slaves!\n\n  The article was much quoted and commented upon; I was flouted by\n  many, defended by a few, these asked: \"Was the Government of\n  Abd'ul-Hamid, committing all its crimes in the interest of\n  education, were we being trained by the Censorship and the\n  Bosphorus Terror for the Dastur?\" \"But the person of Majesty,\n  the sacredness of the Khalifate,\" cried the others. And a\n  certain one, in the course of his attack, denies the existence\n  of Khalid, who died, said he, a year ago. And what matters it if\n  a dead man can stir a whole city and blow into the nostrils of\n  its walking spectres a breath of life?\n\n  I spoke last night in one of the music halls and gave the\n  Mohammedans a piece of my mind. The poor Christians!--they\n  feared the Government in the old r\u00e9gime; they cower before the\n  boatmen in this. For the boatmen of Beirut have not lost their\n  prestige and power. They are a sort of commune and are yet\n  supreme. Yes, they are always riding the whirlwind and directing\n  the storm. And who dares say a word against them? Every one of\n  them, in his swagger and bluster, is an Abd'ul-Hamid. Alas,\n  everything is yet in a chaotic state. The boatman's shriek can\n  silence the Press and make the Spouters tremble.\n\n  I am to lecture in the Public Hall of one of the Colleges here\n  on the \"Moral Revolution.\" Believe me, I would not utter a word\n  or write a line if I were not impelled to it. And just as soon\n  as some one comes to the front to champion in this land\n  spiritual and moral freedom, I'll go \"way back and sit down.\"\n  For why should I then give myself the trouble? And the applause\n  of the multitude, mind you, brings me not a single olive.\n\nLetter XXII\n\n  I had made up my mind to go to Cairo, and I was coming up to say\n  farewell to you and mother. For I like not Beirut, where one in\n  winter must go about in top-boots, and in a dust-coat in summer.\n  I wonder what Rousseau, who called Paris the city of mud, would\n  have said of this? Besides, a city ruled by boatmen is not a\n  city for gentlemen to live in. So, I made up my mind to get out\n  of it, and quickly. But yesterday morning, before I had taken my\n  coffee, some one knocked at my door. I open, and lo, a policeman\n  in shabby uniform, makes inquiry about Khalid. What have I done,\n  I thought, to deserve this visit? And before I had time to\n  imagine the worst, he delivers a card from the Deputy to Syria\n  of the Union and Progress Society of Salonique. I am desired in\n  this to come at my earliest convenience to the Club to meet this\n  gentleman. There, I am received by an Army Officer and a certain\n  Ahmed Bey. And after the coffee and the formalities of civility\n  are over, I am asked to accompany them on a tour to the\n  principal cities of upper Syria--to Damascus, Homs, Hama, and\n  Aleppo. The young Army Officer is to speechify in Turkish, I, in\n  Arabic, and Ahmed Bey, who is as oleaginous as a Turk could be,\n  will take up, I think, the collection. Seeing in this a chance\n  to spread the Idea among our people, I accept, and in a\n  fortnight we shall be in Damascus. You must come there, for I am\n  burning to meet and embrace you.\n\nLetter XXV\n\n  Whom do you think I met yesterday? Why, nothing gave me greater\n  pleasure ever since I have been here than this: I was crossing\n  the Square on my way to the Club, when some one plucking at my\n  jubbah angrily greets me. I look back, and behold our dear old\n  Im-Hanna, who has just returned from New York. She stood there\n  waving her hand wildly and rating me for not returning her\n  salaam. \"You know no one any more, O Khalid,\" she said\n  plaintively; \"I call to you three times and you look not, hear\n  not. No matter, O Khalid.\" Thereupon, she embraces me as fondly\n  as my mother. \"And why,\" she inquired, \"do you wear this black\n  jubbah? Are you now a monk? Were it not for that long hair and\n  that cap of yours, I would not have known you. Let me see, isn't\n  that the cap I bought you in New York?\" And she takes it off my\n  head to examine it. \"Yes, that's it. How good of you to keep it.\n  Well, how are you now? Do you cough any more? Are you still\n  crazy about books? I don't think so, for you have rosy cheeks\n  now.\" And sobbing for joy, she embraces me again and again.\n\n  She is neatly dressed, wears a silk fich\u00e9, and is as alert as\n  ever. In the afternoon, I visit her at the Hotel, and she asks\n  me to accompany her to the Bank, where she cashes three bills of\n  exchange for three hundred pounds each! I ask her what she is\n  going to do with all this money, and she tells me that she is\n  going to build a little home for her grandson and send him to\n  the College of the Americans here.\n\n  \"And is there like America in all the world?\" she exclaims. \"Ah,\n  my heart for America!\" And on asking her why she did not remain\n  there: \"Fear not; just as soon as I build my house and place my\n  son in the College I am going back to New York. What, O Khalid,\n  will you return with me?\" She then takes some gold pieces in her\n  hand, and lowering her voice: \"May be you need some money; take,\n  take these.\" Dear old Im-Hanna, I would not refuse her favour,\n  and I would not accept one such. What was I to do? Coming\n  through the Jewellers' bazaar I hit upon an idea, and with the\n  money she slipped into my pocket, I bought a gold watch in one\n  of the stores and charged her to present it to her grandson.\n  \"Say it is from his brother, your other grandson Khalid.\" She\n  protests, scolds, and finally takes the watch, saying, \"Well,\n  nothing is changed in you: still the same crazy Khalid.\"\n\n  To-morrow she is coming to see my room, and to cook for me a\n  dish of _mojadderah_! Ah, the old days in the cellar!\n\nIn the thirtieth Letter, one of considerable length, dated March, is\nan exceedingly titillating divagation on the _gulma_ (oustraation of\nanimals), called forth, we are told, \"by the rut of the d----d cats in\nthe yard.\" Poor Khalid can not sleep. One night he jumps out of bed\nand chases them away with his skillet, saying, \"Why don't I make such\na row, ye wantons?\" They come again the following night, and Khalid on\nthe following morning moves to a Hotel which, by good or ill chance,\nis adjacent to the lupanars of the city. His window opens on another\nyard in which other cats, alas!--of the human species this time--are\ncaterwauling, harrowing the soul of him and the night. He makes a\nsecond remove, but finds himself disturbed this time by the rut of a\ncertain roebuck within. Nature, O Khalid, will not be cheated, no more\nthan she will be abused, without retaliating soon or late. True, you\ngot out of many ruts heretofore; but this you can not get out of\nexcept you go deeper into it. Your anecdotes from Ad-Damiry and your\nquotations from Montaigne shall not help you. And your allusions to\nMarch-cats and March-Khalids are too pitiful to be humorous. Indeed,\nwere not the tang of lubricity in this Letter too strong, we would\nhave given in full the confession it contains.\n\nWe now come to the last of this Series, in which Khalid speaks of a\ncertain American lady, a Mrs. Goodfree, or Gotfry, who is a votary of\nEbbas Effendi, the Pope of Babism at Heifa. Mrs. Gotfry may not be a\nBabist in the strict sense of the word; but she is a votary and\nworshipper of the Bab. To her the personal element in a creed is of\nmore importance than the ism. Hence, her pilgrimage every year to\nHeifa. She comes with presents and gold; and Ebbas Effendi, who is not\nimpervious to the influence of other gods than his own, permits her\ninto the sanctuary, where she shares with him the light of divine\nrevelation and returns to the States, as the Priestess of the Cult, to\nbless and console the Faithful. Khalid was dining with Ahmed Bey at\nthe Grand Hotel--but here is a portion of the Letter.\n\nBy a devilish mischance she occupied the seat opposite to mine. And\nin this trap of Iblis was decoy enough for a poor mouse like me. It is\nan age since I beheld such an Oriental gem in an American setting; or\nsuch a strange Southern beauty in an exotic frame. For one would think\nher from the South, or further down from Mexico. Nay, of Andalusian,\nand consequently of Arabian, origin she must be. Her hair and her eyes\nare of the richest jet; her glance, voluptuous, mysterious; her\ncomplexion, neither white nor olive, but partakes of both,--a\ngauze-like shade of heliotrope, as it were, over a pink and straw\nsurface, if you can imagine that; and her expression, a play between\ndevotion and diabolism--now a question mark to love, now an\nexclamation to sorrow, and at times a dash between both. By what\nmysterious medium of romance and adventure did America produce such a\nbeauty, I can not tell. Perhaps she, too, can not. If you saw her, O\nShakib, you'd do nothing for months but dedicate odes to her eyes,--to\nthe deep, dark infinity of their luring, devouring beauty,--which seem\nto drop honey and poison from every arched hair of their fulsome\nlashes. Withal,--another devilish mischance,--she was dressed in black\nand wore a white silk ruffle, like myself. And her age? Well, she can\nnot have passed her sixth lustrum. And really, as the Novelist would\nsay in his Novel, she looks ten years younger.... To say we were\nattracted to each other were presumptuous: but _I was_ taken.... Near\nher sat a Syrian gentleman of my acquaintance, with whom she was\nconversing when we entered. That is the lady whose beauty, when she\nwas sitting, I described to you: but when she got up to leave the\ntable,--alas, and _ay me_, and all the other expressions of regret and\nsorrow. That such a beautiful face should be denied a corresponding\nbeauty of figure. And what is more pitiable about her, she is lame in\nthe right leg. Poor dear Misfortune, I wish it were in my power to add\nan inch of my limb to hers.\n\nAnd Khalid goes on limping, drooling, alassing, to the end. After\ndinner he is introduced to his \"poor dear Misfortune\" by his Syrian\nfriend. But being with Ahmed Bey he can not remain this evening. On\nthe following day, however, he is invited to lunch; and on the terrace\nfacing the sea, they pass the afternoon discussing various subjects.\nMrs. Gotfry is surprised how a Syrian of Khalid's mind can not see the\nbeauties of Babism, or Buhaism, as it is now called, and the lofty\nspirituality of the Bab. But she forgives him his lack of faith, gives\nhim her card, and invites him to her home, if he ever returns to the\nUnited States.\n\nNow, maugre the fact that, in a postscript to this Letter, Khalid\ncloses with these words, \"And what have I to do with priests and\npriestesses?\" we can not but harbour a suspicion that his \"Union and\nProgress\" tour is bound to have more than a political significance. By\nill or good hap those words are beginning to assume a double meaning;\nand maugre all efforts to the contrary, the days must soon unfold the\ntwofold tendency and result of the \"Union and Progress\" ideas of\nKhalid.\n\n-----\n\n [1] In some parts of Syria, as in Arabia, almost every ill and\n     affection is attributed to the rheums, or called so. Rheumatism,\n     for instance, is explained by the Arab quack as a defluxion of\n     rheums, failing to discharge through the upper orifices, progress\n     downward, and settling in the muscles and joints, produce the\n     affection. And might there not be more truth in that than the\n     diagnosis of him who is a Membre de la Facult\u00e9 de Medicine de\n     France?--EDITOR.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nREVOLUTIONS WITHIN AND WITHOUT\n\n\n\"Even Carlyle can be longwinded and short-sighted on occasions. 'Once\nin destroying the False,' says he, 'there was a certain inspiration.'\nAnd always there is, to be sure, my Master. For the world is not\nEurope, and the final decision on Who Is and What Is To Rule, was not\ndelivered by the French Revolution. The Orient, the land of\norigination and prophecy, must yet solve for itself this eternal\nproblem of the Old and New, the False and True. And whether by\nRevolutions, Speculations, or Constitutions, ancient Revelation will\nbe purged and restored to its original pristine purity: the\nsuperannuated lumber that accumulated around it during centuries of\napathy, fatalism, and sloth, must go: the dust and mould and cobwebs\nof the Temple will be swept away. Indeed, 'a war must be eternally\nwaged on evils eternally renewed.' The genius of destruction has done\nits work, you say, O my esteemed Master? and there is nothing more to\ndestroy? The gods might say this of other worlds than ours. In Europe,\nas in Asia, there is to be considered and remembered: if this mass of\nthings we call humanity and civilisation were as healthy as the\neternal powers would have them, the healthiest of the race would not\nbe constantly studying and dissecting our social and political ills.\n\n\"In a certain sense, we are healthier to-day than the Europeans; but\nour health is that of the slave and not the master: it is of more\nbenefit to others than it is to ourselves. We are doomed to be the\ndrudges of neurasthenic, psychopathic, egoistic masters, if we do not\nopen our minds to the light of science and truth. 'Every age has its\nBook,' says the Prophet. But every book, if it aspires to be a guide\nto life, must contain of the eternal truth what was in the one that\npreceded it. We can not afford to let aught of this die. Leave the\nprincipal original altar in the Temple, and destroy all the others.\nLight on that altar the torch of science, which the better mind and\ncleaner hand of Europe are transmitting to us, and place your foot\nupon its false and unspeakable divinities. The gods of wealth, of\negoism, of alcohol, of fornication, we must not acknowledge; nay, we\nmust resist unto death their malign influence and power. But alas,\nwhat are we doing to-day? Instead of looking up to the pure and lofty\nsouls of Europe for guidance, we welter in the mud with the lowest and\nmost degenerate. We are beginning to know and appreciate English\nwhiskey, but not English freedom; we know the French grisettes, but\nnot the French sages; we guzzle German beer, but of German wisdom we\ntaste not a drop.\n\n\"O my Brothers, let us cease rejoicing in the Dastur; for at heart we\nknow no freedom, nor truth, nor order. We elect our representatives to\nParliament, but not unlike the Europeans; we borrow from France what\nthe deeper and higher mind of France no longer believes; we imitate\nEngland in what England has long since discarded; but our Books of\nRevelation, which made France and Germany and England what they are,\nand in which is the divine essence of truth and right and freedom, we\ndo not rightly understand. A thousand falsehoods are cluttered around\nthe truth to conceal it from us. I call you back, O my Brothers, to\nthe good old virtues of our ancestors. Without these the Revolution\nwill miscarry and our Dastur will not be worth a date-stone. Our\nancestors,--they never bowed their proud neck to tyranny, whether\nrepresented in an autocrat or in a body of autocrats; they never\nbetrayed their friends; they never soiled their fingers with the coin\nof usury; they never sacrificed their manhood to fashion; they never\nendangered in the caf\u00e9s and lupanars their health and reason. The\nMosque and the Church, notwithstanding the ignorance and bigotry they\nfoster, are still better than lunatic asylums. And Europe can not have\nenough of these to-day.\n\n\"Continence, purity of heart, fidelity, simplicity, a sense of true\nmanhood, magnanimity of spirit, a healthiness of body and mind,--these\nare the beautiful ancient virtues. These are the supreme truths of the\nBooks of Revelation: in these consists the lofty spirituality of the\nOrient. But through what thick, obscene growths we must pass to-day,\nthrough what cactus hedges and thistle-fields we must penetrate,\nbefore we rise again to those heights.\n\n\"'There can be no Revolution without a Reformation,' says a German\nphilosopher. And truly so. For the fetters which bind us can not be\nshaken off, before the conscience is emancipated. A political\nrevolution must always be preceded by a spiritual one, that it might\nhave some enduring effect. Otherwise, things will revert to their\nprevious state of rottenness as sure as Allah lives. But mind you, I\ndo not say, Cut down the hedges; mow the thistle-fields; uproot the\nobscene plants; no: I only ask you to go through them, and out of\nthem, to return no more. Sell your little estate there, if you have\none; sell it at any price: give it away and let the dead bury their\ndead. Cease to work in those thorny fields, and God and nature will do\nthe rest.\n\n\"I am for a reformation by emigration. And quietly, peacefully, this\ncan be done. Nor fire, nor sword bring I: only this I say: Will and\ndo; resolve and act upon your resolution. The emigration of the mind\nbefore the revolution of the state, my Brothers. The soul must be\nfree, and the mind, before one has a right to be a member of a free\nGovernment, before one can justly enjoy his rights and perform his\nduties as a subject. But a voting slave, O my Brothers, is the\npitifulest spectacle under the sun. And remember that neither the\nDastur, nor the Unionists, nor the Press, can give you this spiritual\nfreedom, if you do not awake and emigrate. Come up to the highlands:\nhere is a patrimony for each of you; here are vineyards to cultivate.\nLeave the thistle-fields and marshes behind; regret nothing. Come out\nof the superstitions of the sheikhs and ulema; of the barren mazes of\nthe sufis; of the deadly swamps of theolougues and priests: emigrate!\nEvery one of us should be a Niazi in this moral struggle, an Enver in\nthis spiritual revolution. A little will-power, a little heroism,\nadded to those virtues I have named, the solid virtues of our\nancestors, and the Orient will no longer be an object of scorn and\ngain to commercial Europe. We shall then stand on an equal footing\nwith the Europeans. Ay, with the legacy of science which we shall\nlearn to invest, and with our spirituality divested of its cobwebs,\nand purified, we shall stand even higher than the Americans and\nEuropeans.\"--\n\nOn the following day Damascus was simmering with excitement--Damascus,\nthe stronghold of the ulema--the learned fanatics--whom Khalid has\nlightly pinched. But they scarcely felt it; they could not believe it.\nNow, the gentry of Islam, the sheikhs and ulema, would hear this\nlack-beard dervish, as he was called. But they disdain to stand with\nthe rabble in the Midan or congregate with the _Mutafarnejin_\n(Europeanised) in the public Halls. Nowhere but at the Mosque,\ntherefore, can they hear what this Khalid has to say. This was\naccordingly decided upon, and, being approved by all parties\nconcerned,--the Mufti, the Vali, the Deputies of the Holy Society and\nthe speaker,--a day was set for the great address at the great Mosque\nof Omaiyah.\n\nMeanwhile, the blatant Officer, the wheedling Politician, and the\nlack-beard Dervish, are feasted by the personages and functionaries of\nDamascus. The Vali, the Mufti, Abdallah Pasha,--he who owns more than\ntwo score villages and has more than five thousand braves at his beck\nand call,--these, and others of less standing, vie with each other in\nhonouring the distinguished visitors. And after the banqueting, while\nAhmed Bey retires to a private room with his host to discuss the\npolitical situation, Khalid, to escape the torturing curiosity of the\nbores and quidnuncs of the evening, goes out to the open court, and\nunder an orange tree, around the gurgling fountain, breathes again of\nquietude and peace. Nay, breathes deeply of the heavy perfume of the\nwhite jasmines of his country, while musing of the scarlet salvias of\na distant land.\n\nAnd what if the salvia, as by a miracle, blossoms on the jasmine? What\nif the former stifles the latter? Indeed, one can escape boredom, but\nnot love. One can flee the quidnuncs of the salon, but not the\nquestioning perplexity of one's heart. A truce now to ambiguities.\n\n'Tis high time that we give a brief account of what took place after\nKhalid took leave of Mrs. Gotfry. Many \"devilish mischances\" have\nsince then conspired against Khalid's peace of mind. For when they\nwere leaving Beirut, only a few minutes before the train started, Mrs.\nGotfry, who was also going to Damascus, steps into the same carriage,\nwhich he and his companions occupied: mischance first. Arriving in\nDamascus they both stay at the same Hotel: mischance second. At table\nthis time he occupies the seat next to hers, and once, rising\nsimultaneously, their limbs touch: mischance third. And the last and\nworst, when he retires to his room, he finds that her own is in the\nsame side-hall opposite to his. Now, who could have ordered it thus,\nof all the earthly powers? And who can say what so many mischances\nmight not produce? True, a thousand thistles do not make a rose; but\nwith destiny this logic does not hold. For every new mischance makes\nus forget the one preceding; and the last and worst is bound to be the\nharbinger of good fortune. Yes, every people, we imagine, has its\naphorisms on the subject: Distress is the key of relief, says the\nArabic proverb; The strait leads to the plain, says the Chinese; The\ndarkest hour is nearest the dawn, says the English.\n\nBut we must not make any stipulations with time, or trust in\naphorisms. We do not know what Mrs. Gotfry's ideas are on the subject.\nNor can we say how she felt in the face of these strange coincidences.\nIn her religious heart, might there not be some shadow of an ancient\nsuperstition, some mystical, instinctive strain, in which the\npreternatural is resolved? That is a question which neither our Scribe\nnor his Master will help us to answer. And we, having been faithful so\nfar in the discharge of our editorial duty, can not at this juncture\nafford to fabricate.\n\nWe know, however, that the Priestess of Buhaism and the beardless,\nlong-haired Dervish have many a conversation together: in the train,\nin the Hotel, in the parks and groves of Damascus, they tap their\nhearts and minds, and drink of each other's wine of thought and\nfancy.\n\n\"I first mistook you for a Mohammedan,\" she said to him once; and he\nassured her that she was not mistaken.\n\n\"Then, you are not a Christian?\"\n\n\"I am a Christian, too.\"\n\nAnd he relates of the Buha when he was on trial in Rhodes. \"Of what\nreligion are you,\" asks the Judge. \"I am neither a Camel-driver nor a\nCarpenter,\" replies the Buha, alluding thereby to Mohammad and\nChrist. \"If you ask me the same question,\" Khalid continues--\"but\nI see you are uncomfortable.\" And he takes up the cushion which\nhad fallen behind the divan, and places it under her arm. He then\nlights a cigarette and holds it up to her inquiringly. Yes? He,\ntherefore, lights another for himself, and continues. \"If you ask me\nthe same question that was asked the Buha, I would not hesitate in\nsaying that I am both a Camel-driver and Carpenter. I might also be\na Buhaist in a certain sense. I renounce falsehood, whatsoever be\nthe guise it assumes; and I embrace truth, wheresoever I find it.\nIndeed, every religion is good and true, if it serves the high\npurpose of its founder. And they are false, all of them, when they\nserve the low purpose of their high priests. Take the lowest of the\nArab tribes, for instance, and you will find in their truculent\nspirit a strain of faith sublime, though it is only evinced at times.\nThe Beduins, rovers and raveners, manslayers and thieves, are in\ntheir house of moe-hair the kindest hosts, the noblest and most\ngenerous of men. They receive the wayfarer, though he be an enemy,\nand he eats and drinks and sleeps with them under the same root, in\nthe assurance of Allah. If a religion makes a savage so good, so kind,\nit has well served its purpose. As for me, I admire the grand\npassion in both the Camel-driver and the Carpenter: the barbaric\ngrandeur, the magnanimity and fidelity of the Arab as well as the\nsublime spirituality, the divine beauty, of the Nazarene, I deeply\nreverence. And in one sense, the one is the complement of the\nother: the two combined are _my_ ideal of a Divinity.\"\n\nAnd now we descend from the chariot of the empyrean where we are\nriding with gods and apostles, and enter into one drawn by mortal\ncoursers. We go out for a drive, and alight from the carriage in the\npoplar grove, to meander in its shades, along its streams. But\ndigressing from one path into another, we enter unaware the eternal\nvista of love. There, on a boulder washed by the murmuring current, in\nthe shade of the silver-tufted poplars, Khalid and Mrs. Gotfry sit\ndown for a rest.\n\n\"Everything in life must always resolve itself into love,\" said\nKhalid, as he stood on the rock holding out his hand to his friend.\n\"Love is the divine solvent. Love is the splendour of God.\"\n\nMrs. Gotfry paused at the last words. She was startled by this image.\nLove, the splendour of God? Why, the Bab, the Buha, is the splendour\nof God. Buha mean splendour. The Buha, therefore, is love. Love is the\nnew religion. It is the old religion, the eternal religion, the only\nreligion. How came he by this, this young Syrian? Would he rival the\nBuha? Rise above him? They are of kindred races--their ancestors,\ntoo, may be mine. Love the splendour of God--God the splendour of\nLove. Have I been all along fooling myself? Did I not know my own\nheart?\n\nThese, and more such, passed through Mrs. Gotfry's mind, as shuttles\nthrough a loom, while Khalid was helping her up to her seat on the\nboulder, which is washed by the murmuring current.\n\n\"If life were such a rock under our feet,\" said he, pressing his lips\nupon her hand, \"the divine currents around it will melt it, soon or\nlate, into love.\"\n\nThey light cigarettes. A fresh breeze is blowing from the city. It is\nfollowing them with the perfume of its gardens. The falling leaves are\nwhispering in the grove to the swaying boughs. The narcissus is\nnodding to the myrtle across the way. And the bulbuls are pouring\ntheir golden splendour of song. Khalid speaks.\n\n\"Beauty either detains, repels, or enchants. The first is purely\nexternal, linear; the second is an imitation of the first, its\nartistic artificial ideal, so to speak; and the third\"--He is silent.\nHis eyes, gazing into hers, take up the cue.\n\nMrs. Gotfry turns from him exhausted. She looks into the water.\n\n\"See the rose-beds in the stream; see the lovely pebbles dancing\naround them.\"\n\n\"I can see everything in your eyes, which are like limpid lakes shaded\nwith weeping-willows. I can even hear bulbuls singing in your\nbrows.--Turn not from me your eyes. They reflect the pearls of your\nsoul and the flowers of your body, even as those crystal waters\nreflect the pebbles and rose-beds beneath.\"\n\n\"Did you not say that love is the splendour of God?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then, why look for it in my eyes?\"\n\n\"And why look for it in the heart of the heavens, in the depths of\nthe sea--in the infinities of everything that is beautiful and\nterrible--in the breath of that little flower, in the song of the\nbulbul, in the whispers of your silken lashes, in--\"\n\n\"Shut your eyes, Khalid; be more spiritual.\"\n\n\"With my eyes open I see but one face; with my eyes closed I see a\nmillion faces: they are all yours. And they are loving, and sweet, and\nkind. But I am content with one, with the carnate symbol of them, with\nyou, and though you be cold and cruel. The divine splendour is here,\nand here and here--\"\n\n\"Why, your ardour is exhausting.\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut on their way back to the Hotel, Khalid gives her this from\nSwedenborg: \"'Do you love me' means 'do you see the same truth that I\nsee?'\"\n\nThere is no use. Khalid is impossible.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nA DREAM OF EMPIRE\n\n\n\"I'm not starving for pleasure,\" Khalid once said to Shakib; \"nor\nfor the light free love of an exquisite caprice. Those little\nflowers that bloom and wither in the blush of dawn are for the\nlittle butterflies. The love that endures, give me that. And it\nmust be of the deepest divine strain,--as deep and divine as\nmaternal love. Man is of Eternity, not of Time; and love, the\nhighest attribute of man, must be likewise. With me it must endure\nthroughout all worlds and immensities; else I would not raise a\nfinger for it. Pleasure, Shakib, is for the child within us; sexual\njoy, for the animal; love, for the god. That is why I say when you\nset your seal to the contract, be sure it is of the kind which all\nthe gods of all the future worlds will raise to their lips in\nreverence.\"\n\nBut Khalid's child-spirit, not to say childishness, is not, as he\nwould have us believe, a thing of the past. Nor are the animal and the\ngod within him always agreed as to what is and what is not a love\ndivine and eternal. In New York, to be sure, he often brushed his\nwings against those flowerets that \"bloom and wither in the blush of\ndawn.\" And he was not a little pleased to find that the dust which\ngathers on the wings adds a charm to the colouring of life. But how\nfalse and trivial it was, after all. The gold dust and the dust of the\nroad, could they withstand a drop of rain? A love dust-deep, as it\nwere, close to the earth; too mean and pitiful to be carried by the\nstorm over terrible abysses to glorious heights. A love, in a word,\nwithout pain, that is to say impure. In Baalbek, on the other hand, he\ndrank deep of the pain, but not of the joy, of love. He and his cousin\nNajma had just lit in the shrine of Venus the candles of the altar of\nthe Virgin, when a villainous hand that of Jesuitry, issuing from the\ndarkness, clapped over them the snuffer and carried his Happiness off.\nHere was a love divine, the promised bliss of which was snatched away\nfrom him.\n\nAnd now in Damascus, he feels, for the first time, the exquisite\npain and joy of a love which he can not yet fathom; a love, which like\nthe storm, is carrying him over terrible abysses to unknown heights.\nThe bitter sting of a Nay he never felt so keenly before. The\nsleep-stifling torture and joy of suspense he did not fully\nexperience until now. But if he can not sleep, he will work. He has\nbut a few days to prepare his address. He can not be too careful of\nwhat he says, and how he says it. To speak at the great Mosque of\nOmaiyah is a great privilege. A word uttered there will reach the\nfurthermost parts of the Mohammedan world. Moreover, all the ulema\nand all the heavy-turbaned fanatics will be there.\n\nBut he can not even work. On the table before him is a pile of\nnewspapers from all parts of Syria and Egypt--even from India--and\nall simmering, as it were, with Khalid's name, and Khalidism, and\nKhalid scandals. He is hailed by some, assailed by others; glorified\nand vilified in tawdry rhyme and ponderous prose by Christians and\nMohammedans alike. \"Our new Muhdi,\" wrote an Egyptian wit (one of\nthose pallid prosers we once met in the hasheesh dens, no doubt), \"our\nnew Muhdi has added to his hareem an American beauty with an Oriental\nleg.\"\n\nWhat he meant by this only the hasheesh smokers know. \"An instrument in\nthe hands of some American speculators, who would build sky-scrapers\non the ruins of our mosques,\" wrote another. \"A lever with which\nEngland is undermining Al-Islam,\" cried a voice in India. \"A base one\nin the service of some European coalition, who, under the pretext of\npreaching the spiritualities, is undoing the work of the Revolution.\nThe gibbet is for ordinary traitors; for him the stake,\" etc., etc.\n\nOn the other hand, he is hailed as the expected one,--the true leader,\nthe real emancipator,--\"who has in him the soul of the East and the\nmind of the West, the builder of a great Asiatic Empire.\" Of course,\nthe foolish Damascene editor who wrote this had to flee the country\nthe following day. But Khalid's eyes lingered on that line. He read it\nand reread it over and over again--forward and backward, too. He\njuggled, so to speak, with its words.\n\nHow often people put us, though unwittingly, on the path we are\nseeking, he thought. How often does a chance word uttered by a\nstranger reveal to us our deepest aims and purposes.\n\nBefore him was ink and paper. He took up the pen. But after scrawling\nand scribbling for ten minutes, the sheet was filled with circles and\narabesques, and the one single word Dowla (Empire).\n\nHe could not think: he could only dream. The soul of the East--The\nmind of the West--the builder of a great Empire. The triumph of the\nIdea, the realisation of a great dream: the rise of a great race who\nhas fallen on evil days; the renaissance of Arabia; the reclaiming of\nher land; the resuscitation of her glory;--and why not? especially if\nbacked with American millions and the love of a great woman. He is\nenraptured. He can neither sleep nor think: he can but dream. He puts\non his jubbah, refills his cigarette box, and walks out of his room.\nHe paces up and down the hall, crowning his dream with wreaths of\nsmoke. But the dim lights seemed to be ogling each other and smiling,\nas he passed. The clocks seemed to be casting pebbles at him. The\nsilence horrified him. He pauses before a door. He knocks--knocks\nagain.\n\nThe occupant of that room was not yet asleep. In fact, she, too, could\nnot sleep. The clock in the hall outside had just struck one, and she\nwas yet reading. After inquiring who it was that knocked, she puts on\na kimono and opens the door. She is surprised.\n\n\"Anything the matter with you?\"\n\n\"No; but I can not sleep.\"\n\n\"That is amusing. And do you take me for a soporific? If you think\nyou can sleep here, stretch yourself on the couch and try.\" Saying\nwhich, she laughed and hurried back to her bed.\n\n\"I did not come to sleep.\"\n\n\"What then? How lovely of you to wake me up so early.--No, no; don't\napologise. For truly, I too, could not sleep. You see, I was still\nreading. Sit on the couch there and talk to me.--Of course, you may\nsmoke.--No, I prefer to sit in bed.\"\n\nKhalid lights another cigarette and sits down. On the table before\nhim are some antique colour prints which Mrs. Gotfry had bought in\nthe Bazaar. These one can only get in Damascus. And--strange\ncoincidence!--they represented some of the heroes of Arabia--Antar,\nAli, Saladin, Har\u00fbn ar-Rashid--done in gorgeous colouring, and in\nthat deliciously ludicrous angular style which is neither Arabic\nnor Egyptian, but a combination perhaps of both. Khalid reads the\npoetry under each of them and translates it into English. Mrs. Gotfry\nis charmed. Khalid is lost in thought. He lays the picture of\nSaladin on the table, lights another cigarette, looks intently upon\nhis friend, his face beaming with his dream.\n\n\"Jamilah.\" It was the first time he called her by her first name--an\nArabic name which, as a Bahaist she had adopted. And she was neither\nsurprised nor displeased.\n\n\"We need another Saladin to-day,--a Saladin of the Idea, who will wage\na crusade, not against Christianity or Mohammedanism, but against\nthose Tataric usurpers who are now toadying to both.\"\n\n\"Whom do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean the Turks. They were given a last chance to rise; they tried\nand failed. They can not rise. They are demoralised; they have no\nstamina, no character; no inborn love for truth and art; no\ninstinctive or acquired sense of right and justice. Whiskey and\ndebauch and high-sounding inanities about fraternity and equality can\nnot regenerate an Empire. The Turk must go: he will go. But out in\nthose deserts is a race which is always young, a race that never\nwithers; a strong, healthy, keen-eyed, quick-witted race; a fighting,\nfanatical race; a race that gave Europe a civilisation, that gave the\nworld a religion; a race with a past as glorious as Rome's; and with a\nfuture, too, if we had an Ali or a Saladin. But He who made those\nheroes will make others like them, better, too. He may have made one\nalready, and that one may be wandering now in the desert. Now think\nwhat can be done in Arabia, think what the Arabs can accomplish, if\nAmerican arms and an up-to-date Kor\u00e2n are spread broadcast among them.\nWith my words and your love and influence, with our powers united, we\ncan build an Arab Empire, we can resuscitate the Arab Empire of the\npast. Abd'ul-Wahhab, you know, is the Luther of Arabia; and Wahhabism\nis not dead. It is only slumbering in Nejd. We will wake it; arm it;\ninfuse into it the living spirit of the Idea. We will begin by\nbuilding a plant for the manufacture of arms on the shore of the\nEuphrates, and a University in Yaman. The Turk must go--at least out\nof Arabia. And the Turk in Europe, Europe will look after. No; the\nArab will never be virtually conquered. Nominally, maybe. And I doubt\nif any of the European Powers can do it. Why? Chiefly because Arabia\nhas a Prophet. She produced one and she will produce more. Cannons can\ndestroy Empires; but only the living voice, the inspired voice can\nbuild them.\"\n\nMrs. Gotfry is silent. In Khalid's vagaries is a big idea, which she\ncan not wholly grasp. And she is moreover devoted to another\ncause--the light of the world--the splendour of God--Buhaism. But why\nnot spread it in Arabia as in America? She will talk to Ebbas Effendi\nabout Khalid. He is young, eloquent, rising to power. And with her\nlove, and influence superadded, what might he not do? what might he\nnot accomplish? These ideas flashed through her mind, while Khalid was\npacing up and down the room, which was already filled with smoke. She\nis absorbed in thought. Khalid comes near her bed, bends over her, and\nburies his face in her wealth of black hair.\n\nMrs. Gotfry is startled as from a dream.\n\n\"I can not see all that you see.\"\n\n\"Then you do not love me.\"\n\n\"Why do you say that? Here, now go sit down. Oh, I am suffocating. The\nsmoke is so thick in the room I can scarcely see you. And it is so\nlate.--No, no. Give me time to think on the subject. Now, come.\"\n\nAnd Mrs. Gotfry opens the door and the window to let out Khalid and\nhis smoke.\n\n\"Go, Khalid, and try to sleep. And if you can not sleep, try to write.\nAnd if you can not write, read. And if you can neither read nor write\nnor sleep, why, then, put on your shoes and go out for a walk. Good\nnight. There. Good night. But don't forget, we must visit Sheikh Taleb\nto-morrow.\"\n\nThe astute Mrs. Gotfry might have added, And if you do not feel like\nwalking, take a dip in the River Barada. But in her words, to be\nsure, were a douche cold enough for Khalid. Now, to be just and\ncomprehensive in our History we must record here that she, too, did\nnot, and could not sleep that night. The thought that Khalid would\nmake a good apostle of Buhaism and incidentally a good companion,\ninsinuated itself between the lines on every page of the book she was\ntrying to read.\n\nOn the following day they visit Sheikh Taleb, who is introduced to us\nby Shakib in these words:\n\n\"A Muslem, like Socrates, who educates not by lesson, but by going\nabout his business. He seldom deigns to write; and yet, his words are\nquoted by every writer of the day, and on every subject sacred and\nprofane. His good is truly magnetic. He is a man who lives after his\nown mind and in his own robes; an Arab who prays after no Imam, but\ndirectly to Allah and his Apostle; a scholar who has more dryasdust\nknowledge on his finger ends than all the ulema of Cairo and Damascus;\na philosopher who would not give an orange peel for the opinion of the\nworld; an ascetic who flees celebrity as he would the plague; a sage\nwho does not disdain to be a pedagogue; an eccentric withal to amuse\neven a Diogenes:--this is the noted Sheikh Taleb of Damascus, whom\nMrs. Gotfry once met at Ebbas Effendy's in Akka, and whom she was\ndesirous of meeting again. When we first went to visit him, this\ncharming lady and Khalid and I, we had to knock at the door until his\nneighbour peered from one of the windows above and told us that the\nSheikh is asleep, and that if we would see him, we must come in the\nevening. I learned afterwards that he, reversing the habitual practice\nof mankind, works at night and sleeps during the day.\n\n\"We return in the evening. And the Sheikh, with a lamp in his hand,\npeers through a small square opening in the door to see who is\nknocking. He knew neither Khalid nor myself; but Mrs. Gotfry--'Eigh!'\nhe mused. And as he beheld her face in the lamplight he exclaimed\n'Marhaba (welcome)! Marhaba!' and hastened to unbolt the door. We are\nshown through a dark, narrow hall, into a small court, up to his\nstudy. Which is a three-walled room--a sort of stage--opening on the\ncourt, and innocent of a divan or a settle or a chair. While he and\nMrs. Gotfry were exchanging greetings in Persian, I was wondering why\nin Damascus, the city of seven rivers and of poetry and song, should\nthere be a court guilty like this one of a dry and dilapidated\nfountain. I learned afterwards, however, that the Sheikh can not\ntolerate the noise of the water; and so, suffering from thirst and\nneglect, the fountain goes to ruin.\n\n\"On the stage, which is the study, is a clutter of old books and\npamphlets; in the corner is the usual straw mat, a cushion, and a sort\nof stool on which are ink and paper. This he clears, places the\ncushion upon it, and offers to Mrs. Gotfry; he himself sits down on\nthe mat; and we are invited to arrange for ourselves some books.\nIndeed, the Sheikh is right; most of these tomes are good for nothing\nelse.\n\n\"Mrs. Gotfry introduces us.\n\n\"'Ah, but thou art young and short of stature,' said he to Khalid;\n'that is ominous. Verily, there is danger in thy path.'\n\n\"'But he will embrace Buhaism,' put in Mrs. Gotfry.\n\n\"'That might save him. Buhaism is the old torch, relighted after many\ncenturies, by Allah.'\n\n\"Meanwhile Khalid was thinking of second-hand Jerry of the second-hand\nbook-shop of New York. The Sheikh reminded him of his old friend.\n\n\"And I was holding in my hand a book on which I chanced while\narranging my seat. It was Debrett's Baronetage, Knightage, and\nCompanionage. How did such a book find its way into the Sheikh's\nrubbish, I wondered. But birds of a feather, thought I.\n\n\"'That book was sent to me,' said he, 'by a merchant friend, who found\nit in the Bazaar. They send me all kinds of books, these simple of\nheart. They think I can read in all languages and discourse on all\nsubjects. Allah forgive them.'\n\n\"And when I tell him, in reply to his inquiry, that the book treats of\nTitles, Orders, and Degrees of Precedence, he utters a sharp whew, and\nwith a quick gesture of weariness and disgust, tells me to take it.\n'I have my head full of our own ansab (pedigrees),' he adds, 'and I\nhave no more respect for a green turban (the colour of the Muslem\nnobility) than I have for this one,' pointing to his, which is white.\n\n\"Mrs. Gotfry then asks the Sheikh what he thinks of Wahhabism.\n\n\"'It is Islam in its pristine purity; it is the Islam of the first\ngreat Khalifs. \"Mohammed is dead; but Allah lives,\" said Abu Bekr to\nthe people on the death of the Prophet. And Wahhabism is a direct\ntelegraph wire between mortal man and his God.\n\n\"'But why should these Wahhabis of Nejd be the most fanatical, when\ntheir doctrines are the most pure?' asked Khalid.\n\n\"'In thy question is the answer to it. They are fanatical _because_ of\ntheir purity of doctrine, and withal because they live in Nejd. If\nthere were a Wahhabi sect in Barr'ush-Sham (Syria), it would not be\nthus, assure thee.'\n\n\"And expressing his liking for Khalid, he advises him to be careful of\nhis utterances in Damascus, if he believes in self-preservation. 'I am\nold,' he continues; 'and the ulema do not think my flesh is good for\nsacrifice. But thou art young, and plump--a tender yearling--ah, be\ncareful sheikh Khalid. Then, I do not talk to the people direct. I\ntalk to them through holy men and dervishes. The people do not believe\nin a philosopher; but the holy man, and though he attack the most\nsacred precepts of the Faith, they will believe. And Damascus is the\nvery hive of turbans, green and otherwise. So guard thee, my child.'\n\n\"Mrs. Gotfry then asks for a minute's privacy with the Sheikh. And\nbefore he withdraws with her to the court, he searches through a heap\nof mouldy tomes, draws from beneath them a few yellow pamphlets on the\nComparative Study of the Semetic Alphabets and on The Rights of the\nKhalifate--such is the scope of his learning--and dusting these on his\nknee, presents them to us, saying, 'Judge us not severely.'\n\n\"This does not mean that he cares much if we do or not. But in our\ncountry, in the Orient, even a Diogenes does not disdain to handle the\ncoin of affability. We are always meekly asked, even by the most\nsupercilious, to overlook shortcomings, and condone.\n\n\"I could not in passing out, however, overlook the string of orange\npeels which hung on a pole in the court. Nor am I sensible of an\nindecorum if I give out that the Sheikh lives on oranges, and\npreserves the peels for kindling the fire. And this, his only article\nof food, he buys at wholesale, like his robes and undergarments. For\nhe never changes or washes anything. A robe is worn continually, worn\nout in the run, and discarded. He no more believes in the efficacy of\nsoap than in the efficacy of a good reputation. 'The good opinion of\nmen,' he says, 'does not wash our hearts and minds. And if these be\nclean, all's clean.'\n\n\"That is why, I think, he struck once with his staff a journalist for\ninserting in his paper a laudatory notice on the Sheikh's system of\nliving and thinking and speaking of him as 'a deep ocean of learning\nand wisdom.' Even in travelling he carries nothing with him but his\nstaff, that he might the quicker flee, or put to flight, the vulgar\ncurious. He puts on a few extra robes, when he is going on a journey,\nand in time, becoming threadbare, sheds them off as the serpent its\nskin....\"\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd we pity our Scribe if he ever goes back to Damascus after this,\nand the good Sheikh chances upon him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nADUMBRATIONS\n\n\n\"In the morning of the eventful day,\" it is set forth in the _Histoire\nIntime_, \"I was in Khalid's room writing a letter, when Ahmed Bey\ncomes in to confer with him. They remain together for some while\nduring which I could hear Khalid growl and Ahmed Bey gently\nwhispering, 'But the Dastur, the Unionists, Mother Society,'--this\nbeing the burden of his song. When he leaves, Khalid, with a scowl on\nhis brow, paces up and down the room, saying, 'They would treat me\nlike a school boy; they would have me speak by rule, and according to\ntheir own dictation. They even espy my words and actions as if I were\nan enemy of the Constitution. No; let them find another. The servile\nspouters in the land are as plenty as summer flies. After I deliver my\naddress to-day, Shakib, we will take the first train for Baalbek. I\nwant to see my mother. No, billah! I can not go any further with these\nTurks. Why, read this.' And he hands me the memorandum, or outline of\nthe speech given to him by Ahmed Bey.\"\n\nAnd this, we learn, is a litany of praises, beginning with Abd'ul-Hamid\nand ending with the ulema of Damascus; which litany the Society\nDeputies would place in the mouth of Khalid for the good of all\nconcerned. Ay, for his good, too, if he but knew. If he but looked\nbehind him, he would have yielded a whit, this Khalid. The deep chasm\nbetween him and the Deputy, however, justifies the conduct of each\non his side: the lack of gumption in the one and the lack of depth in\nthe other render impossible any sort of understanding between them.\nWhile we recommend, therefore, the prudence of the oleaginous Ahmed,\nwe can not with justice condemn the perversity of our fretful Khalid.\nFor he who makes loud boast of spiritual freedom, is, nevertheless, a\nslave of the Idea. And slavery in some shape or shade will clutch at\nthe heart of the most powerful and most developed of mortals. Poor\nKhalid! if Truth commands thee to destroy the memorandum of Ahmed\nBey, Wisdom suggests that thou destroy, too, thine address. And\nWisdom in the person of Sheikh Taleb now knocks at thy door.\n\nThe Sheikh is come to admonish Khalid, not to return his visit. For at\nthis hour of the day he should have been a-bed; but his esteem for\nMrs. Gotfry, billah, his love, too, for her friend Khalid, and his\ndesire to avert a possible danger, banish sleep from his eyes.\n\n\"My spirit is perturbed about thee,\" thus further, \"and I can not feel\nat ease until I have given my friendly counsel. Thou art free to\nfollow it or not to follow it. But for the sake of this beard Sheikh\nKhalid, do not speak at the Mosque to-day. I know the people of this\nCity: they are ignorant, obtuse, fanatical, blind. 'God hath sealed\nup their hearts and their hearing.' They will not hear thee; they can\nnot understand thee. I know them better than thou: I have lived\namongst them for forty years. And what talk have we wasted. They will\nnot hear; they can not see. It's a dog's tail, Sheikh Khalid. And what\nAllah hath twisted, man can not straighten. So, let it be. Let them\nwallow in their ignorance. Or, if thou wilt help them, talk not to\nthem direct. Use the medium of the holy man, like myself. This is my\nadvice to thee. For thine own sake and for the sake of that good\nwoman, thy friend and mine, I give it. Now, I can go and sleep.\nSalaam.\"\n\nAnd the grey beard of Sheikh Taleb and his sharp blue eyes were\nanimated, as he spoke, agitated like his spirit. What he has heard\nabroad and what he suspects, are shadowed forth in his friendly\ncounsel. Let Khalid reflect upon it. Our Scribe, at least, is\npersuaded that Sheikh Taleb spoke as a friend. And he, too, suspects\nthat something is brewing abroad. He would have Khalid hearken,\ntherefore, to the Sheikh.\n\nBut Khalid in silence ponders the matter. And at table, even Mrs.\nGotfry can not induce him to speak. She has just returned from the\nbazaar; she could hardly make her way through the choked arcade\nleading to the Mosque; the crowd is immense and tumultuous; and a\ncompany of the Dragoons is gone forth to open the way and maintain\norder. \"But I don't think they are going to succeed,\" she added.\nSilently, impassively, Khalid hears this. And after going through the\nsecond course, eating as if he were dreaming, he gets up and leaves\nthe table. Mrs. Gotfry, somewhat concerned, orders her last course,\ntakes her thimble-full of coffee at a gulp, and, leaving likewise,\nhurries upstairs and calls Khalid, who was pacing up and down the\nhall, into her room.\n\n\"What is the matter with you?\"\n\n\"Nothing, nothing,\" murmured Khalid absent-mindedly.\n\n\"That's not true. Everything belies your words. Why, your actions,\nyour expression, your silence oppresses me. I know what is disturbing\nyou. And I would prevail upon you, if I could, to give up this\nafternoon's business. Don't go; don't speak. I have a premonition that\nthings are not going to end well. Why, even my dragoman says that the\nMohammedan mob is intent upon some evil business. Be advised. And\nsince you are going to break with your associates, why not do so now.\nThe quicker the better. Come, make up your mind. And we'll not wait\nfor the morning train. We'll leave for Baalbek in a special carriage\nthis afternoon. What say you?\"\n\nJust then the brass band in front of the Hotel struck up the Dastur\nmarch in honour of the Sheikhs who come to escort the Unionist\nDeputies and the speaker to the Mosque.\n\n\"I have made up my mind. I have given my word.\"\n\nAnd being called, Mrs. Gotfry, though loath to let him go, presses his\nhand and wishes him good speed.\n\nAnd here we are in the carriage on the right of the green-turbaned\nSheikh. We look disdainfully on the troops, the brass band, and the\ncrowd of nondescripts that are leading the procession. We cross the\nbridge, pass the Town-Hall, and, winding a narrow street groaning with\nan electric tramway, we come to the grand arcade in which the\nmultitudes on both sides are pressed against the walls and into the\nstalls by the bullying Dragoons. We drive through until we reach the\narch, where some Khalif of the Omayiahs used to take the air. And\ndescending from the carriage, we walk a few paces between two rows of\nbook-shops, and here we are in the court of the grand Mosque Omayiah.\n\nWe elbow our way through the pressing, distressing multitudes,\nfollowing Ahmed Bey into the Mosque, while the Army Officer mounts a\nplatform in the court and dispenses to the crowd there of his Turkish\nblatherskite. We stand in the Mosque near the heavy tapestried square\nwhich is said to be the sarcophagus of St. John. Already a Sheikh is\nin the pulpit preaching on the excellences of liberty, chopping out\ndefinitions of equality, and quoting from Al-Hadith to prove that all\nmen are Allah's children and that the most favoured in Allah's sight\nis he who is most loving to his brother man. He then winds up with an\nencomium on the heroes of the day, curses vehemently the reactionaries\nand those who curse them not (the Mosque resounds with \"Curse the\nreactionists, curse them all!\"), tramples beneath his heel every spy\nand informer of the New Era, invokes the great Allah and his Apostle\nto watch over the patriots and friends of the Ottoman nation, to\nvisit with grievous punishment its enemies, and--descends.\n\nThe silence of expectation ensues. The Mosque is crowded; and the\npress of turbans is such that if a pea were dropt from above it would\nnot reach the floor. From the pulpit the great Mohammedan audience,\nwith its red fezes, its green and white turbans, seemed to Khalid like\na verdant field overgrown with daisies and poppies. \"It is the\nbeginning of Arabia's Spring, the resuscitation of the glory of\nIslam,\" and so forth; thus opening with a flourish of flattery like\nthe spouting tricksters whom he so harshly judges. And what shall we\nsay of him? It were not fair quickly to condemn, to cry him down at\nthe start. Perhaps he was thus inspired by the august assembly;\nperhaps he quailed and thought it wise to follow thus far the advice\nof his friends. \"It was neither this nor that,\" say our Scribe. \"For\nas he stood in the tribune, the picture of the field of daisies and\npoppies suggested the picture of Spring. A speaker is not always\nresponsible for the frolics of his fancy. Indeed, an audience of some\nfive thousand souls, all intent upon this opaque, mysterious Entity in\nthe tribune, is bound to reach the very heart of it; for think what\nfive thousand rays focussed on a sensitive plate can do.\" Thus our\nScribe, apologetically.\n\nBut after the first contact and the vibrations of enthusiasm and\nflattery that followed, Khalid regains his equilibrium and reason, and\nstrikes into his favourite theme. He begins by arraigning the\nutilitarian spirit of Europe, the rank materialism which is invading\nour very temples of worship. God, Truth, Virtue, with them, is no\nlonger esteemed for its own worth, but for what it can yield of the\nnecessities and luxuries of life. And with these cynical materialistic\nabominations they would be supreme even in the East; they would\nextinguish with their dominating spirit of trade every noble virtue of\nthe soul. And yet, they make presumption of introducing civilisation\nby benevolent assimilation, rather dissimulation. For even an\nEnglishman in our country, for instance, is unlike himself in his own.\nThe American, too, who is loud-lunged about democracy and shirt-sleeve\ndiplomacy, wheedles and truckles as good as the wiliest of our pashas.\nAnd further he exclaims:\n\n\"Not to Christian Europe as represented by the State, therefore, or by\nthe industrial powers of wealth, or by the alluring charms of\ndecadence in art and literature, or by missionary and educational\ninstitutions, would I have you turn for light and guidance. No: from\nthese plagues of civilisation protect us, Allah! No: let us have\nnothing to do with that practical Christianity which is become a sort\nof divine key to Colonisation; a mint, as it were, which continually\nreplenishes the treasuries of Christendom. Let us have nothing to do\nwith their propagandas for the propagation of supreme Fakes. No, no.\nNot this Europe, O my Brothers, should we take for our model or\nemulate: not the Europe which is being dereligionised by Material\nScience; disorganised by Communion and Anarchy; befuddled by\nAlcoholism; enervated by Debauch. To another Europe indeed, would I\ndirect you--a Europe, high, noble, healthy, pure, and withal\nprogressive. To the deep and inexhaustible sources of genius there, of\nreason and wisdom and truth, would I have you advert the mind. The\ndivine idealism of German philosophy, the lofty purity of true French\nart, the strength and sterling worth of English freedom,--these we\nshould try to emulate; these we should introduce into the gorgeous\nbesottedness of Oriental life, and literature, and religion....\"\n\nAnd thus, until he reaches the heart of his subject; while the field\nof daisies and poppies before him gently sways as under a soft morning\nbreeze; nods, as it were, its approbation.\n\n\"Truly,\" he continues, \"religion is purely a work of the heart,--the\nhuman heart, and the heart of the world as well. For have not the\nthree monotheistic religions been born in this very heart of the\nworld, in Arabia, Syria, and Palestine? And are not our Books of\nRevelation the truest guides of life hitherto known to man? How then\nare we to keep this Heart pure, to free it, in other words, from the\nplagues I have named? And how, on the other hand, are we to strengthen\nit, to quicken its sluggish blood? In a word, how are we to attain to\nthe pinnacle of health, and religion, and freedom,--of power, and\nlove, and light? By political revolutions, and insurrections, and\nDasturs? By blindly adopting the triple political tradition of France,\nwhich after many years of terror and bloodshed, only gave Europe a new\nYoke, a new Tyranny, a new grinding Machine? No, my Brothers; not by\npolitical nomenclature, not by political revolutions alone, shall the\nnations be emancipated.\"\n\nWhereupon Ahmed Bey begins to knit his brows; Shakib shakes his head,\nbiting his nether lip; and here and there in the audience is heard a\nmurmur about retrogression and reaction. Khalid proceeds with his\nallegory of the Muleteer and the Pack-Mule.\n\n\"See, the panel of the Mule is changed; the load, too; and a few\nshort-cuts are made in the rocky winding road of statecraft and\ntyranny. Ah, the stolid, patient, drudging Mule always exults in a new\nPanel, which, indeed, seems necessary every decade, or so. For the old\none, when, from a sense of economy, or from negligence or stupidity,\nis kept on for a length of time, makes the back sore, and the Mule\nbecomes kickish and resty. Hence, the plasters of conservative\nhomeopathists, the operations suggested by political leeches, the\nradical cures of social quacks, and such like. But the Mule continues\nto kick against the pricks; and the wise Muleteer, these days, when he\nhas not the price of a new Panel, or knows not how to make one, sells\nhim to the first bidder. And the new owner thereupon washes the sores\nand wounds, applies to them a salve of the patent kind, buys his Mule\na new Panel, and makes him do the work. That is what I understand by a\npolitical revolution.... And are the Ottoman people free to-day? Who\nin all Syria and Arabia dare openly criticise the new Owner of the\nMule?\n\n\"Ours in a sense is a theocratic Government. And only by reforming\nthe religion on which it is based, is political reform in any way\npossible and enduring.\" And here he argues that the so-called\nReformation of Islam, of which Jelal ud-D\u00efn el-Afghani and Mohammed\nAbdu are the protagonists, is false. It is based on theological\njuggling and traditional sophisms. Their Al-Gazzali, whom they so much\nprize and quote, is like the St. Augustine of the Christians: each of\nthese theologians finds in his own Book of Revelation a divine\ncriterion for measuring and judging all human knowledge. No; a\nscientific truth can not be measured by a Kor\u00e2nic epigram: the Kor\u00e2n,\na divine guide to life; a work of the heart should not attempt to\njudge a work of the mind or should be judged by it.\n\n\"But I would brush the cobwebs of interpretation and sophism from this\nWork of the heart,\" he cries; \"every spider's web in the Mosque, I\nwould sweep away. The garments of your religion, I would have you\nclean, O my Brothers. Ay, even the threadbare adventitious wrappages,\nI would throw away. From the religiosity and cant of to-day I call you\nback to the religion pure of the heart....\"\n\nBut the Field of poppies and daisies begins to sway as under a gale.\nIt is swelling violently, tumultuously.\n\n\"I would free al-Islam,\" he continues, \"from its degrading customs,\nits stupefying traditions, its enslaving superstitions, its imbruting\ncants.\"\n\nHere several voices in the audience order the speaker to stop.\n\"Innovation! Infidelity!\" they cry.\n\n\"The yearly pestiferous consequences of the Haji\"--But Khalid no\nlonger can be heard. On all sides zealotry raises and shakes a\nprotesting hand; on all sides it shrieks, objurgating, threatening.\nHere it asks, \"We would like to know if the speaker be a Wahhabi.\"\nFrom another part of the Mosque comes the reply: \"Ay, he is a\nWahhabi.\" And the voice of the speaker thundering above the storm:\n\"Only in Wahhabism pure and simple is the reformation of al-Islam\npossible.\"... Finis.\n\nZealotry is set by the ear; the hornet's nest is stirred. Your field\nof poppies and daisies, O Khalid, is miraculously transformed into a\npit of furious grey spectres and howling red spirits. And still you\nwait in the tribune until the storm subside? Fool, fool! Art now in a\ncivilised assembly? Hast thou no eyes to see, no ears to hear?\n\n\"Reactionist! Infidel! Innovator! Wahhabi! Slay him! Kill him!\"--Are\nthese likely to subside the while thou wait? By the tomb of St.\nJohn there, get thee down, and quickly. Bravo, Shakib!--He rushes\nto the tribune, drags him down by the jubbah, and, with the help of\nanother friend, hustles him out of the Mosque. But the thirst for\nblood pursues them. And Khalid receives in the court outside a\nstiletto-thrust in the back and a slash in the forehead above the\nbrow down to the ear. Which, indeed, we consider a part of his good\nfortune. Like the muleteer of his Lebanon tour, we attribute his\nescape with two wounds to the prayers of his good mother. For he is\nnow in the carriage with Shakib, the blood streaming down his back\nand over his face. With difficulty the driver makes his way through\nthe crowds, issues out of the arcade, and--crack the whip! Quickly\nto the Hotel.\n\nThe multitudes behind us, both inside and outside the Mosque, are\nviolently divided; for the real reactionists of Damascus, those who\nare hostile to the Constitution and the statochratic Government, are\nalways watching for an opportunity to give the match to the dry sedges\nof sedition. And so, the liberals, who are also the friends of Khalid,\nand the fanatical mobs of the ulema, will have it out among\nthemselves. They call each other reactionists, plotters, conspirators;\nand thereupon the bludgeons and poniards are brandished; the pistols\nhere and there are fired; the Dragoons hasten to the scene of\nbattle--but we are not writing now the History of the Ottoman\nRevolution. We leave them to have it out among themselves as best they\ncan, and accompany our Khalid to the Hotel.\n\nHere the good Mrs. Gotfry washes the blood from his face, and Shakib,\nafter helping him to bed, hastens to call the surgeon, who, having\ncome straightway, sews and dresses the wounds and assures us that they\nare not dangerous. In the evening a number of Sheikhs of an\nenlightened and generous strain, come to inquire about him. They tell\nus that one of the assailants of Khalid, a noted brigand, and ten of\nthe reactionists, are now in prison. The Society Deputies, however, do\nnot seem much concerned about their wounded friend. Yes, they are\nconcerned, but in another direction and on weightier matters. For the\ntelegraph wires on the following day were kept busy. And in the\nafternoon of the second day after the event, the man who helped Shakib\nto save Khalid from the mob, comes to save Khalid's life. The\nSuperintendent of the Telegraph himself is here to inform us that\nKhalid was accused to the Military Tribunal as a reactionist, and a\ncablegram, in which he is summoned there, is just received.\n\n\"Had I delivered this to the Vali,\" he continues, \"you would have been\nnow in the hands of the police, and to-morrow on your way to\nConstantinople. But I shall not deliver it until you are safe out of\nthe City. And you must fly or abscond to-day, because I can not delay\nthe message until to-morrow.\"\n\nNow Khalid and Shakib and Mrs. Gotfry take counsel together. The one\ntrain for Baalbek leaves in the morning; the carriage road is ruined\nfrom disuse; and only on horseback can we fly. So, Mrs. Gotfry orders\nher dragoman to hire horses for three,--nay, for four, since we must\nhave an extra guide with us,--and a muleteer for the baggage.\n\nAnd here Shakib interposes a suggestion: \"They must not come to the\nHotel. Be with them on the road, near the first bridge, about the\nfirst hour of night.\"\n\nAt the office of the Hotel the dragoman leaves word that they are\nleaving for a friend's house on account of their patient.\n\nAnd after dinner Mrs. Gotfry and Khalid set forth afoot, accompanied\nby Shakib. In five minutes they reach the first bridge; the dragoman\nand the guide, with their horses and lanterns, are there waiting.\nShakib helps Khalid to his horse and bids them farewell. He will leave\nfor Baalbek by the first train, and be there ahead of them.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd now, Reader, were we really romancing, we should here dilate of\nthe lovely ride in the lovely moonlight on the lovely road to Baalbek.\nBut truth to tell, the road is damnable, the welkin starless, the\nnight pitch-black, and our poor Dreamer is suffering from his wounds.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nTHE STONING AND FLIGHT\n\n\n\"And whence the subtle thrill of joy in suffering for the Truth,\" asks\nKhalid. \"Whence the light that flows from the wounds of martyrs?\nWhence the rapture that triumphs over their pain? In the thick of\nnight, through the alcoves of the mountains, over their barren peaks,\ndown through the wadi of oblivion, silently they pass. And they dream.\nThey dream of appearance in disappearance; of triumph in surrender; of\nsunrises in the sunset.\n\n\"A mighty tidal wave leaves high upon the beach a mark which later on\nbecomes the general level of the ocean. And so do the great thinkers\nof the world,--the poets and seers, the wise and strong and\nself-denying, the proclaimers of the Religion of Man. And I am but a\nscrub-oak in this forest of giants, my Brothers. A scrub-oak which you\nmight cut down, but not uproot. Lop off my branches; apply the axe to\nmy trunk; make of my timber charcoal for the censers of your temples\nof worship; but the roots of me are deep, deep in the soil, beyond the\nreach of mortal hands. They are even spreading under your tottering\npalaces and temples....\n\n\"I dream of the awakening of the East; of puissant Orient nations\nrising to glorify the Idea, to build temples to the Universal\nSpirit--to Art, and Love, and Truth, and Faith. What if I am lost in\nthe alcoves of the hills, if I vanish forever in the night? The sun\nthat sets must rise. It is rising and lighting up the dark and distant\ncontinents even when setting. Think of that, ye who gloat over the\nsinking of my mortal self.\n\n\"No; an idea is never too early annunciated. The good seed will grow\namong the rocks, and though the heavens withhold from it the sunshine\nand rain. It is because I will it, nay, because a higher Will than\nmine wills it, that the spirit of Khalid shall yet flow among your\npilgrim caravans, through the fertile deserts of Arabia, down to the\nfountain-head of Faith, to Mecca and Medina,\" et cetera.\n\nThis, perhaps the last of the rhapsodies of Khalid's, the Reader\nconsidering the circumstances under which it was written, will no\ndoubt condone. Further, however, in the K. L. MS. we can not now\nproceed. Certainly the Author is not wanting in the sort of courage\nwhich is loud-lunged behind the writing table; his sufficiency of\nspirit is remarkable, unutterable. But we would he knew that the\nstrong do not exult in their strength, nor the wise in their wisdom.\nFor to fly and philosophize were one thing, and to philosophize in\nprison were another. Khalid this time does not follow closely in the\nway of the Masters. But he would have done so, if we can believe\nShakib in this, had not Mrs. Gotfry persuaded him to the contrary. He\nwould have stood in the Turkish Areopagus at Constantinople, defended\nhimself somewhat Socratic before his judges, and hung out his tung on\na rickety gibbet in the neighborhood of St. Sophia. But Mrs. Gotfry\nspoiled his great chance. She cheated him of the glory of dying for a\nnoble cause.\n\n\"The Turks are not worth the sacrifice,\" Shakib heard her say, when\nKhalid ejaculated somewhat about martyrdom. And when she offered to\naccompany him, the flight did not seem shameful in his eyes. Nay, it\nbecame necessary; and under the circumstances it was, indeed,\ncowardice not to fly. For is it not as noble to surrender one's self\nto Love as to the Turks or any other earthly despotism? Gladly,\nheroically, he adventures forth, therefore, and philosophizes on the\nway about the light that flows from the wounds of persecution. But we\nregret that this celestial stream is not unmixed; it is accompanied by\nblood and pus; by distention and fever, and other inward and outward\nsores.\n\nIn this grievous state, somewhat like Don Quixote after the Battle of\nthe Mill, our Khalid enters Baalbek. If the reader likes the\ncomparison between the two Knights at this juncture, he must work it\nout for himself. We can not be so uncharitable as that; especially\nthat our Knight is a compatriot, and is now, after our weary\njourneyings together, become our friend.--Our poor grievous friend who\nmust submit again to the surgeon's knife.\n\nMrs. Gotfry would not let him go to his mother, for she herself would\nnurse him. So, the doctor is called to the Hotel. And after opening,\ndisinfecting, and dressing the wounds, he orders his patient to keep\nin bed for some days. They will then visit the ruins and resume their\njourneying to Egypt. Khalid no longer would live in Syria,--in a\ncountry forever doomed to be under the Turkish yoke, faring, nay,\nmisfaring alike in the New Era as in the Old.\n\nNow, his mother, tottering with age and sorrow, comes to the Hotel,\nand begs him in a flood of tears to come home; for his father is now\nwith the Jesuits of Beirut and seldom comes to Baalbek. And his cousin\nNajma, with a babe on her arm and a tale of woe in her eyes, comes\nalso to invite her cousin Khalid to her house.\n\nShe is alone; her father died some months ago; her husband,\nafter the dethronement of Abd'ul-Hamid, being implicated in\nthe reaction-movement, fled the country; and his relatives, to\nadd to her affliction, would deprive her of her child. She is\nalone; and sick in the lungs. She coughs, too, the same sharp,\ndry, malignant cough that once plagued Khalid. Ay, the same\ndisease which he buried in the pine forest of Mt. Lebanon, he\nbeholds the ghost of it now, more terrible and heart-rending\nthan anything he has yet seen or experienced. The disease which\nhe conquered is come back in the person of his cousin Najma to\nconquer him. And who can assure Khalid that it did not steal\ninto her breast along with his kisses? And yet, he is not the\nonly one in Baalbek who returned from America with phthisis. O,\nbut that thought is horrifying. Impossible--he can not believe\nit.\n\nBut whether it be from you or from another, O Khalid, there is the\nghost of it beckoning to you. Look at it. Are those the cheeks, those\nthe eyes, this the body which a year ago was a model of rural charm\nand beauty and health? Is this the compensation of love? Is there\nanything like it dreamt of in your philosophy? There she is, who once\nin the ruined Temple of Venus mixed the pomegranate flower of her\ncheeks with the saffron of thy sickly lips. Wasted and dejected broken\nin body and spirit, she sits by your bedside nursing her baby and\ncoughing all the while. And that fixed expression of sadness, so\nhabitual among the Arab women who carry their punks and their children\non their backs and go a-begging, it seems as if it were an hundred\nautumns old, this sadness. But right there, only a year ago, the\ncrimson poppies dallied with the laughing breeze; the melting rubies\ndilated of health and joy.\n\nAnd now, deploring, imploring, she asks: \"Will you not come to me, O\nKhalid? Will you not let me nurse you? Come; and your mother, too,\nwill live with us. I am so lonesome, so miserable. And at night the\nboys cast stones at my door. My husband's relatives put them to it\nbecause I would not give them the child. And they circulate all kinds\nof calumnies about me too.\"\n\nKhalid promises to come, and assures her that she will not long remain\nalone. \"And Allah willing,\" he adds, \"you will recover and be happy\nagain.\"\n\nShe rises to go, when Mrs. Gotfry enters the room. Khalid introduces\nhis cousin as his dead bride. \"What do you mean?\" she inquires. He\npromises to explain. Meanwhile, she goes to her room, brings some\nsweetmeats in a round box inlaid with mother-of-pearl for Khalid's\nguests. And taking the babe in her arms, she fondles and kisses it,\nand gives its mother some advice about suckling. \"Not whenever the\nchild cries, but only at stated times,\" she repeats.\n\nSo much about Khalid's mother and cousin. A few days after, when he is\nable to leave his room, he goes to see them. His cousin Najma he would\ntake with him to Cairo. He would not leave her behind, a prey to the\ncruelty of loneliness and disease. He tells her this. She is\noverjoyed. She is ready to go whenever he says. To-morrow? Please\nAllah, yes. But--\n\nPlease Allah, ill-luck is following. For on his way back to the Hotel,\na knot of boys, lying in wait in one of the side streets, cast stones\nat him. He looks back, and a missile whizzes above his head, another\nhits him in the forehead almost undoing the doctor's work. Alas, that\nwound! Will it ever heal? Khalid takes shelter in one of the shops; a\ncameleer rates the boys and chases them away. The stoning was repeated\nthe following day, and the cause of it, Shakib tells us, is patent.\nFor when it became known in Baalbek that Khalid, the excommunicated\none, is living in the Hotel, and with an American woman! the old\nprejudices against him were aroused, the old enemies were astirring.\nThe priests held up their hands in horror; the women wagged their long\ntongues in the puddle of scandal; and the most fanatical shrieked out,\nexecrating, vituperating, threatening even the respectable Shakib, who\npersists in befriending this muleteer's son. Excommunicated, he now\ncomes with this Americaniyah (American woman) to corrupt the\ncommunity. Horrible! We will even go farther than this boy's play of\nstoning. We present petitions to the kaiemkam demanding the expulsion\nof this Khalid from the Hotel, from the City.\n\nFrom other quarters, however, come heavier charges against Khalid. The\nGovernment of Damascus has not been idle ever since the seditious\nlack-beard Sheikh disappeared. The telegraph wires, in all the\nprincipal cities of Syria, are vibrating with inquiries about him,\nwith orders for his arrest. One such the kaiemkam of Baalbek had just\nreceived when the petition of the \"Guardians of the Morals of the\nCommunity\" was presented to him. To this, the kaiemkam, in a\nperfunctory manner, applies his seal, and assures his petitioners that\nit will promptly be turned over to the proper official. But Turk as\nTurks go, he \"places it under the cushion,\" when they leave. Which\nexpression, translated into English means, he quashes it.\n\nNow, by good chance, this is the same kaiemkam who sent Khalid a year\nago to prison, maugre the efforts and importunities and other\ninducements of Shakib. And this time, he will do him and his friend a\ngood turn. He was thinking of the many misfortunes of this Khalid, and\nnursing a little pity for him, when Shakib entered to offer a written\ncomplaint against a few of the more noted instigators of the\nassailants of his friend. His Excellency puts this in his pocket and\nwithdraws with Shakib into another room. A few minutes after, Shakib\nwas hurrying to the Hotel to confer with his brother Khalid and Mrs.\nGotfry.\n\n\"I saw the Order with these very eyes,\" said Shakib, almost poking his\ntwo forefingers into them. \"The kaiemkam showed it to me.\"\n\nHence, the secret preparations inside the Hotel and out of it for a\nsecond remove, for a final flight. Shakib packs up; Najma is all\nready. And Khalid cuts his hair, doffs his jubbah, and appears again\nin the ordinary attire of civilised mortals. For how else can he get\nout of Beirut and the telegraph wires throughout Syria are flowing\nwith orders for his arrest? In a hat and frock-coat, therefore\n(furnished by Shakib), he enters into the carriage with Mrs. Gotfry\nabout two hours after midnight; and, with their whole retinue, make\nfor Riak, and thence by train for Beirut. Here Shakib obtains\npassports for himself and Najma, and together with Mrs. Gotfry and her\ndragoman, they board in the afternoon the Austrian Liner for\nPort-Said; while, in the evening, walking at the side of one of the\nboatmen, Khalid, passportless, stealthily passes through the port, and\nrejoins his friends.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE DESERT\n\n\nWe remember seeing once a lithographic print representing a Christmas\nlegend of the Middle Ages, in which a detachment of the Heavenly\nHost--big, ugly, wild-looking angels--are pursuing, with sword and\npike, a group of terror-stricken little devils. The idea in the\npicture produced such an impression that one wished to see the\nhelpless, pitiful imps in heaven and the armed winged furies, their\npursuers, in the other place. Now, as we go through the many pages of\nShakib's, in which he dilates of the mischances, the persecutions, and\nthe flights of Khalid, and of which we have given an abstract, very\nbrief but comprehensive, in the preceding Chapters, we are struck with\nthe similarity in one sense between his Dastur-legend, so to speak,\nand that of the Middle Ages to which we have alluded. The devils in\nboth pictures are distressing, pitiful; while the winged persecutors\nare horribly muscular, and withal atrociously armed.\n\nIndeed, this legend of the Turkish angels of Fraternity and Equality,\npursuing the Turkish little devils of reaction, so called, is most\nkilling. But we can not see how the descendants of Yakut and Seljuk\nKhan, whether pursuers or pursued, whether Dastur winged furies they\nbe, or Hamidian devils, are going to hold their own in face of the\nfell Dragon which soon or late must overtake them. That heavy,\nslow-going, slow-thinking Monster--and it makes little difference\nwhether he comes from the North or from the West--will wait until the\ncontending parties exhaust their strength and then--but this is not\nour subject. We would that this pursuing business cease on all sides,\nand that everybody of all parties concerned pursue rather, and\ndestroy, the big strong devil within them. Thus sayeth the preacher.\nAnd thus, for once, we, too. For does not every one of these furious\nangels of Equality, whether in Constantinople, in Berlin, in Paris, in\nLondon, or in New York, sit on his wings and reveal his horns when he\nrises to power? We are tired of wings that are really nothing but\nhorns, misshaped and misplaced.\n\nLook at our French-swearing, whiskey-drinking Tataric angels of the\nDastur! Indeed, we rejoice that our poor little Devil is now beyond\nthe reach of their dripping steel and rickety second-hand gibbets. And\nyet, not very far; for if the British Government consent or blink,\nKhalid and many real reactionists whom Cairo harbours, would have to\nseek an asylum elsewhere. And the third flight might not be as\nsuccessful as the others. But none such is necessary. On the sands of\nthe Libyan desert, not far from Cairo and within wind of Helwan, they\npitch their tents. And Mrs. Gotfry is staying at Al-Hayat, which is a\nstone's throw from their evening fire. She would have Khalid live\nthere too, but he refuses. He will live with his cousin and Shakib\nfor a while. He is captivated, we are told, by that little cherub of a\nbabe. But this does not prevent him from visiting his friend the\nBuhaist Priestess every day and dining often with her at the Hotel.\n\nShe, too, not infrequently comes to the camp. Indeed, finding the\nsolitude agreeable she has a tent pitched near theirs. And as a relief\nfrom the noise and bustle of tourists and the fatiguing formalities of\nHotel life, she repairs thither for a few days every week.\n\nNow, in this austere delicacy of the desert, where allwhere is the\nsoftness of pure sand, Khalid is perfectly happy. Never did he seem so\ncareless, our Scribe asserts, and so jovial and child-like in his\njoys. Far from the noise and strife of politics, far from the\nbewildering tangle of thought, far from the vain hopes and dreams and\nambitions of life, he lives each day as if it were the last of the\nworld. Here are joys manifold for a weary and persecuted spirit: the\njoy of having your dearest friend and comrade with you; the joy of\nnursing and helping to restore to health and happiness the woman\ndearest to your heart; the joy of a Love budding in beauty and\nprofusion; and--this, the rarest and sublimest for Khalid--the joy of\nworshipping at the cradle--of fondling, caressing, and bringing up one\nof the brightest, sweetest, loveliest of babes.\n\nNajib is his name--it were cruel to neutralise such a prodigy--and\nhe is just learning to walk and lisp. Khalid teaches him the first\nstep and the first monosyllable, receiving in return the first\nkiss which his infant lips could voice. With what joy Najib makes his\nfirst ten steps! With what zest would he practise on the soft sands,\nlaughing as he falls, and rising to try again. And thus, does he\nquickly, wonderfully develop, unfolding in the little circle of his\ncaressers--in his mother's lap, in Shakib's arms, on Khalid's back,\non Mrs. Gotfry's knee--the irresistible charm of his precocious\nspirit.\n\nIn two months of desert life, Najib could run on the sands and sit\ndown when tired to rest; in two months he could imitate in voice\nand gesture whatever he heard or saw: the donkey's bray, and with a\ntilt of the head like him; the cry of the cock; the shrill whistle\nof the train; and the howling of donkey boys. His keen sense of\ndiscrimination in sounds is incredible. And one day, seeing a\nMohammedan spreading his rug to pray, he begins to kneel and kiss the\nground in imitation of him. He even went into the tent and brought\nKhalid's jubbah to spread it on the sand likewise for that purpose.\nSo sensitive to outside impressions is this child that he quickly\nresponds to the least suggestion and with the least effort. Early\nin the morning, when the chill of night is still on the sands, he\ntoddles into Khalid's tent cooing and warbling his joy. A walking\njasmine flower, a singing ray of sunshine, Khalid calls him. And the\nmother, on seeing her child thus develop, begins to recuperate. In\nthis little garden of happiness, her hope begins to blossom.\n\nBut Khalid would like to know why Najib, on coming into his tent in\nthe morning and seeing him naked, always pointed with his little\nfinger and with questioning smile, to what protruded under the navel.\nThe like questions Khalid puts with the ease and freedom of a child.\nAnd writes full pages about them, too, in which he only succeeds in\nbamboozling himself and us. For how can we account for everything a\nchild does? Even the psychologist with his reflex-action theory does\nnot solve the whole problem. But Khalid would like to know--and\nperhaps not so innocently does he dwell upon this subject as upon\nothers--he would like to know the significance of Najib's pointed\nfinger and smile. It may be only an accident, Khalid. \"But an\naccident,\" says he, \"occurring again and again in the same manner\nunder stated conditions ceases to be such.\" And might not the child,\nwho is such an early and keen observer, have previously seen his\nmother in native buff, and was surprised to see that appendage in you,\nKhalid?\n\nEven at Al-Hayat Najib is become popular. Khalid often comes here\ncarrying him on his back. And how ready is the child to salaam\neverybody, and with both hands, as he stands on the veranda steps.\n\"Surely,\" says Khalid, \"there is a deeper understanding between man\nand child than between man and man. For who but a child dare act so\nfreely among these polyglots of ceremony in this little world of\nfrills and frocks and feathers? Who but a child dare approach without\nan introduction any one of these solemn-looking tourists? Here then is\nthe divine source of the sweetest and purest joy. Here is that one\ntouch of Nature which makes the whole world kin. For the child, and\nthough he be of the lowest desert tribe, standing on the veranda of a\nfashionable Hotel, can warm and sweeten with the divine flame that is\nin him, the hearts of these sour-seeming, stiff-looking tourists who\nare from all corners of the earth. Is not this a miracle? My professor\nof psychology will say, 'Nay.' But what makes the heart leap in that\ngrave and portly gentleman, who might be from Finland or Iceland, for\nall I know, when Najib's hand is raised to him in salutation? What\nmakes that stately and sombre-looking dame open her arms, when Najib\nplucks a flower and, after smelling it, presents it to her? What makes\nthat reticent, meditative, hard-favoured ancient, who is I believe a\npsychologist, what makes him so interested in observing Najib when he\nstands near the piano pointing anxiously to the keyboard? For the\nchild enjoys not every kind of music: play a march or a melody and he\nwill keep time, listing joyously from side to side and waving his hand\nin an arch like a maestro; play something insipid or chaotic and he\nwill stand there impassive as a statue.\"\n\nAnd \"the reticent hard-favoured ancient,\" who turns out to be an\nAmerican professor of some ology, explains to Khalid why lively music\nmoves children, while soft and subtle tones do not. But Khalid is not\nopen to argument on the subject. He prefers to believe that children,\nespecially when so keenly sensitive as his prodigy, understand as\nmuch, if not more, about music as the average operagoer of to-day.\nBut that is not saying much. The professor furthermore, while\nadmitting the extreme precocity of Najib's mind, tries to simplify by\nscientific analysis what to Khalid and other laymen seemed wonderful,\nalmost miraculous. Here, too, Khalid botches the arguments of the\nlearned gentleman in his effort to give us a summary of them, and\ntells us in the end that never after, so long as that professor was\nthere, did he ever visit Al-Hayat.\n\nHe prefers to frolic and philosophise with his prodigy on the sands.\nHe goes on all four around the tent, carrying Najib on his back; he\ndigs a little ditch in the sand and teaches him how to lie therein.\nFollowing the precept of the Greek philosophers, he would show him\neven so early how to die. And Najib lies in the sand-grave, folds his\nhands on his breast and closes his eyes. Rising therefrom, Khalid\nwould teach him how to dance like a dervish, and Najib whirls and\nwhirls until he falls again in that grave.\n\nWhen Mrs. Gotfry came that day, Khalid asked the child to show her how\nto dance and die, and Najib begins to whirl like a dervish until he\nfalls in the grave; thereupon he folds his arms, closes his eyes, and\nsmiles a pathetic smile. This by far is the masterpiece of all his\nfeats. And one evening, when he was repeating this strange and weird\nantic, which in Khalid's strange mind might be made to symbolise\nsomething stranger than both, he saw, as he lay in the grave, a star\nin the sky. It was the first time he saw a star; and he jumped out of\nhis sand-grave exulting in the discovery he had made. He runs to his\nmother and points the star to her....\n\nAnd thus did Khalid spend his halcyon months in the desert. Here was\nan arcadia, perfect but brief. For his delight in infant worship, and\nin the new Love which was budding in beauty and profusion, and in\ntending his sick cousin who was recovering her health, and in the\nwalks around the ruins in the desert with his dearest comrade and\nfriend,--these, alas, were joys of too pure a nature to endure.\n\n\n\n\nAL-KHATIMAH\n\n\"But I can not see all that you see.\"\n\n\"Then you do not love me.\"\n\n\"Back again to Swedenborg--I told you more than once that he is not my\napostle.\"\n\n\"Nor is he mine. But he has expressed a great truth, Jam\u00eflah. Now, can\nyou love me in the light of that truth?\"\n\n\"You are always asking me that same question, Khalid. You do not\nunderstand me. I do not believe in marriage. I tried it once; I will\nnot try it again. I am married to Buhaism. And you Khalid--remember my\nwords--you will yet be an apostle--the apostle--of Buhaism. And you\nwill find me with you, whether you be in Arabia, in America, or in\nEgypt. I feel this--I know it--I am positive about it. Your star and\nmine are one. We are born under the same star. We are now in the same\norbit, approaching the same nadir. We are ruled by our stars. I\nbelieve this, and you don't. At least, you say you don't. But you do.\nYou don't know your own mind. The trend of the current of your life is\nbeyond your grasp, beyond your comprehension. I know. And you must\nlisten to me. You must follow my advice. If you can not come with me\nnow to the States, you will await me here. I am called on a pressing\nbusiness. And within three months, at the most, I shall return and\nfind you waiting for me right here, in this desert.\"\n\n\"I can not understand you.\"\n\n\"You will yet.\"\n\n\"But why not try to understand me? Can you not find in my ideas the\nvery essence of Buhaism? Can you not come up to my height and behold\nthere the star that you have taken for your guide? My Truth, Jam\u00eflah,\ncan you not see that? Love and Faith, free from all sectarianism and\nall earthly authority,--what is Buhaism or Mohammedanism or\nChristianity beside them? Moreover, I have a mission. And to love me\nyou must believe in _me_, not in the Buha. You laugh at my dream. But\none day it will be realised. A great Arab Empire in the border-land of\nthe Orient and Occident, in this very heart of the world, this Arabia,\nthis Egypt, this Field of the Cloth of Gold, so to speak, where the\nMale and Female of the Spirit shall give birth to a unifying faith, a\nunifying art, a unifying truth--\"\n\n\"Vagaries, chimeras,\" interrupted Mrs. Gotfry. \"Buhaism is established,\nand it needs a great apostle. It needs you; it will have you. I will\nhave you. Your destiny is interwoven with mine. You can not flee it,\ndo what you may. We are ruled by our stars, Khalid. And if you do not\nrealise this now, you will realise it to-morrow. Here, give me your\nhand.\"\n\n\"I can not.\"\n\n\"Very well, then. Good-bye--_au revoir_. In three months you will\nchange your mind. In three months I will return to the East and find\nyou waiting for me, even here in this desert. Think on it, and take\ncare of yourself. _Au revoir._\"\n\nIn this strange, mysterious manner, after pacing for hours on the sand\nin the sheen of the full moon, Mrs. Gotfry says farewell to Khalid.\n\nHe sits on a rock near his tent and ponders for hours. He seeks in the\nstars, as it were, a clue to the love of this woman, which he first\nthought to be unfathomable. There it is, the stars seem to say. And he\nlooks into the sand-grave near him, where little Najib practises how\nto die. Yes; a fitting symbol of the life and love called modern,\nboasting of freedom. They dance their dervish dance, these people,\neven like Khalid's little Najib, and fall into their sand-graves, and\nfold their arms and smile: \"We are in love--or we are out of it.\"\nWhich is the same. No: he'll have none of this. A heart as simple as\nthis desert sand, as deep in affection as this heaven, untainted by\nthe uncertainties and doubts and caprices of modern life,--only in\nsuch a heart is the love that endures, the love divine and eternal.\n\nHe goes into Najma's tent. The mother and her child are sound asleep.\nHe stands between the bed and the cot contemplating the simplicity and\ninnocence and truth, which are more eloquent in Najib's brow than\naught of human speech. His little hand raised above his head seems to\npoint to a star which could be seen through an opening in the canvas.\nWas it his star--the star that he saw in the sand-grave--the star that\nis calling to him?--\n\nBut let us resume our narration.\n\nA fortnight after Mrs. Gotfry's departure Shakib leaves the camp to\nlive in Cairo. He is now become poet-laureate to one of the big\npashas.\n\nKhalid is left alone with Najma and Najib.\n\nAnd one day, when they are playing a game of \"donkey,\"--Khalid carried\nNajib on his back, ran on all four around the tent, and Najma was the\ndonkey-driver,--the child of a sudden utters a shriek and falls on the\nsand. He is in convulsions; and after the relaxation, lo, his right\nhand is palsied, his mouth awry, and his eyes a-squint. Khalid finds a\nyoung doctor at Al-Hayat, and his diagnosis of the case does not\ndisturb the mind. It is infantile paralysis, a disease common with\ndelicate children. And the doctor, who is of a kind and demonstrative\nhumour, discourses at length on the disease, speaks of many worse\ncases of its kind he cured, and assures the mother that within a month\nthe child will recover. For the present he can but prescribe a\npurgative and a massage of the arm and spine. On the third visit, he\nexamines the child's f\u00e6ces and is happy to have discovered the seat\nand cause of the affection. The liver is not performing its function;\nand given such weak nerves as the child's, a torpid liver in certain\ncases will produce paralysis.\n\nBut Khalid is not satisfied with this. He places the doctor's\nprescription in his pocket, and goes down to Cairo for a specialist.\nHe comes, this one, to disturb their peace of mind with his\nindecision. It is not infantile paralysis, and he can not yet say\nwhat it is. Khalid meanwhile is poring over medical books on all the\ndiseases that children are heir to.\n\nOn the fifth day the child falls again in convulsions, and the\nleft arm, too, is paralysed. They take him down to Cairo; and\nMedicine, considering the disease of his mother, guesses a third\ntime--tuberculosis of the spine, it says--and guesses wrong.\nAgain, considering the strabismus, the obliquity of the mouth, the\npalsy in the arms, and the convulsions, we guess closely, but\nominously. Nay, Medicine is positive this time; for a fifth and a\nsixth Guesser confirm the others. Here we have a case of cerebral\nmeningitis. That is certain; that is fatal.\n\nNajib is placed under treatment. They cut his hair, his beautiful flow\nof dark hair; rub his scalp with chloroform; keep the hot bottles\naround his feet, the ice bag on his head; and give him a spoon of\nphysic every hour. \"Make no noise around the room, and admit no light\ninto it,\" further advises the doctor. Thus for two weeks the child\nlanguishes in his mother's arms; and resting from the convulsions and\nthe coma, he would fix on Khalid the hollow, icy glance of death. No;\nthe light and intelligence might never revisit those vacant eyes.\n\nNow Shakib comes to suggest a consultation. The great English\nphysician of Cairo, why not call _him_? It might not be meningitis,\nafter all, and the child might be helped, might be cured.\n\nThe great guesswork Celebrity is called. He examines the patient and\nconfirms the opinion of his confr\u00e8res, rather his disciples.\n\n\"But the whole tissue,\" he continues with glib assurance, \"is not\naffected. The area is local, and to the side of the ear that is sore.\nThe strabismus being to the right, the affection must be to the left.\nAnd the pus accumulating behind the ear, under the bone, and pressing\non the covering of the brain, produces the inflammation. Yes, pus is\nthe cause of this.\" And he repeats the Arabic proverb in broken\nArabic, \"A drop of pus will disable a camel.\" Further, \"Yes, the\nchild's life can be saved by trepanning. It should have been done\nalready, but the time's not passed. Let the surgeon come and make a\nlittle opening--no; a child can stand chloroform better than an adult.\nAnd when the pus is out he will be well.\"\n\nIn a private consultation the disciples beg to observe that there was\nno evidence of pus behind the ear. \"It is beneath the skullbone,\" the\nMaster asserts. And so we decide upon the operation. The Eye and Ear\nspecialist is called, and after weighing the probabilities of the case\nand considering that the great Celebrity had said there was pus,\nalthough there be no evidence of it, he convinces Khalid that if the\nchild is not benefited by the operation he cannot suffer from it more\nthan he is suffering now.\n\nThe surgeon comes with his assistants. Little Najib is laid on the\ntable; the chloroform towel is applied; the scalpels, the cotton, the\nbasins of hot water, and other accessories, are handed over by one\ndoctor to another. The Cutter begins. Shakib is there watching with\nthe rest; Najma is in an adjacent room weeping; and Khalid is pacing\nup and down the hall, his brows moistened with the cold sweat of\nanguish and suspense.\n\nNo pus between the scalp and the bone: the little hammer and chisel\nare handed to the Cutter. One, two, three,--the child utters a faint\ncry; the chloroform towel is applied again;--four, five, six, and the\nseventh stroke of the little hammer opens the skull. The Cutter then\npenetrates with his catheter, searches thoroughly through the\nbrain--here--there--above--below--and finally holds the instrument up\nto his assistants to show them that there is--no pus! \"If there be\nany,\" says he, \"it is beyond the reach of surgery.\" The wound,\ntherefore, is quickly washed, sewn up, and dressed, while everybody is\nwondering how the great Celebrity can be wrong....\n\nLittle Najib remains under the influence of an\u00e6sthetics for two\ndays--for two days he is in a trance. And on the third, the fever\nmounts to the danger line and descends again--only after he had\nstretched his little arm and breathed his last!\n\nAnd Khalid and Najma and Shakib take him out to the desert and bury\nhim in the sand, near the tent round which he used to play. There,\nwhere he stepped his first step, lisped his first syllable, smacked\nhis first kiss, and saw for the first time a star in the heaven, he is\nlaid; he is given to the Night, to the Eternity which Khalid does not\nfear. And yet, what tears, Shakib tells us, he shed over that little\ngrave.\n\nBut about the time the second calamity approaches, when Najma begins\nto decline and waste away from grief, when the relapse sets in and\ncarries her in a fortnight downward to the grave of her child,\nKhalid's eyes are as two pieces of flint stone on a sheet of glass.\nHis tears flow inwardly, as it were, through his cracked heart....\n\nLike the poet Saadi, Khalid once sought to fill his lap with celestial\nflowers for his friends and brothers; and he gathered some; but, alas,\nthe fragrance of them so intoxicated him that the skirt dropt from his\nhand....\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nWe are again at the Mena House, where we first met Shakib. And the\nreader will remember that the tears rushed to his eyes when we\ninquired of him about his Master and Friend. \"He has disappeared some\nten days ago,\" he then said, \"and I know not whither.\" Therefore, ask\nus not, O gentle Reader, what became of him. How can _we_ know? He\nmight have entered a higher spiritual circle or a lower; of a truth,\nhe is not now on the outskirts of the desert: deeper to this side or\nto that he must have passed. And passing he continues to dream of\n\"appearance in the disappearance; of truth in the surrender; of\nsunrises in the sunset.\"\n\nNow, fare _thee_ well in either case, Reader. And whether well or ill\nspent the time we have journeyed together, let us not quarrel about\nit. For our part, we repeat the farewell words of Sheikh Taleb of\nDamascus: \"Judge us not severely.\" And if we did not study to\nentertain thee as other Scribes do, it is because we consider thee,\ndear good Reader, above such entertainment as our poor resources can\nfurnish, _Wassalmu aleik_!\n\n\n           IN . FREIKE . WHICH . IS . IN . MOUNT . LEBANON\n                SYRIA . ON . THE . TWELFTH . DAY . OF\n             JANUARY . 1910 . ANNO . CHRISTI . AND . THE\n             FIRST . DAY . OF . MUHARRAM . 1328 . HEGIRAH\n              THIS . BOOK . OF . KHALID . WAS . FINISHED\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\n    Typographical problems have been changed and are listed below.\n    Author's archaic and variable spelling is preserved.\n    Author's punctuation style is preserved.\n    Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_.\n\nTranscriber Changes:\n\n    \"_Les dessons[** Was 'dessous']_\"--and the Poet who intersperses\n\n    under their heavy burdens, upsetting a tray of sweetmeats[** Was\n          'sweet-meats across lines]\n\n    occasionally meets with a native who, failing as peddler[** Was\n          pedler]\n\n    nevertheless[** Was 'neverthelesss'] significant to remark that\n          the City of\n\n    that makes me sad.'\"[** Added closing double-quote]\n\n    land. See him genuflecting now, to kiss the curbstone[** Was\n          'curb-stone' across lines]\n\n    his _Al-Mutanabby_[** As originally printed]. In relating of\n          Khalid's waywardness\n\n    Old Arabic books, printed in Bulaq,[** Added comma] generally\n\n    \"\"No[** Added extra opening double-quote] more voyages, I trust, O\n          thou Sindbad.' And\n\n    more than one vice to demand forgetfulness[** Was 'forgetfuless'].\n\n    keep at the Jesuits.'[** Removed closing double-quote]\n\n    can not understand them. They are like the sweetmeats[** Was\n          'sweet-meats' across lines]\n\n    each other, 'Ah, Adam, ah, Eve!'[** Added closing single-quote]\n          sighing likewise\n\n    we will ...\" Khalid makes no reply.[** Changed ',' to '.']\n\n    the _zeffah_ (wedding procession)[** Removed extra ')'] of none\n          but she and\n\n    hermit.\"[** Added closing double-quote] (Strange coincidence!) \"On\n          your way here\n\n    out, so to speak, exposing its boulders, its little windrows[**\n          Was 'wind-rows' across lines]\n\n    of the stars, I can tell thee this about them all:[** Original may\n          be ';'] they\n\n    Health; in thy temples of worship, to universal Goodwill;[** Was\n          'Good-will' across lines]\n\n    on the _gulma_ (oustraation of animals)[** Added closing ')'],\n          called forth, we\n\n    regret and sorrow.[** Changed ',' to '.'] That such a beautiful\n          face should\n\n    \"I am a Christian, too.\"[** Added closing double-quote]\n\n    Meanwhile, she goes to her room, brings some sweetmeats[** Was\n          'sweet-meats' across lines]\n\n    as a statue.\"[** Added closing double-quote]","title":"The Book of Khalid","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":90767}