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+<title>
+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Book of Khalid, by Ameen Rihani.
+</title>
+
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+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Khalid, by Ameen Rihani
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Book of Khalid
+
+Author: Ameen Rihani
+
+Release Date: June 27, 2009 [EBook #29257]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BOOK OF KHALID ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Todd Fine, Dan Horwood and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
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+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<hr class='pb' />
+<h2>THE BOOK OF KHALID</h2>
+<hr class='pb' />
+<h1>THE<br />
+BOOK OF KHALID</h1>
+
+<h2 style="margin-top:2em;">BY<br />
+AMEEN RIHANI</h2>
+<div class='figcenter'>
+<a name='linki_1' id='linki_1'></a>
+<img src='images/illus-002.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 232px; height: 190px;' /><br />
+</div>
+<h3>NEW YORK<br />
+DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY<br />
+1911</h3>
+<hr class='pb' />
+<p class="tp" style="margin-bottom:0px; font-size:0.7em;"><span style="font-variant:small-caps">Copyright</span>, 1911</p>
+<p class="tp" style="margin-top:0px; font-size:0.7em;"><span style="font-variant:small-caps">By</span> DODD, MEAD &amp; COMPANY</p>
+<p class="tp" style="font-size:0.7em"><i>Published, October</i>, 1911</p>
+<hr class='pb' />
+<h3>CONTENTS</h3>
+<h4>BOOK THE FIRST</h4>
+<h4>IN THE EXCHANGE</h4>
+<table border='0' cellpadding='2' cellspacing='0' summary='Contents' style='margin:1em auto;'>
+<tr>
+ <td align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'><span style='font-size:small;'>CHAPTER</span></td>
+ <td></td>
+ <td align='right'><span style='font-size:small;'>PAGE</span></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'></td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Al-Fatihah</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#ALFATIHAH'>v</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'></td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>To Man</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TO_MAN'>3</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>I</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Probing the Trivial</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_I_PROBING_THE_TRIVIAL'>5</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>II</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The City of Baal</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_II_THE_CITY_OF_BAAL'>14</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>III</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Via Dolorosa</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_III_VIA_DOLOROSA'>25</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IV</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>On the Wharf of Enchantment</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_WHARF_OF_ENCHANTMENT'>34</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>V</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Cellar of the Soul</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_V_THE_CELLAR_OF_THE_SOUL'>46</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VI</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Summer Afternoon of a Sham</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VI_THE_SUMMER_AFTERNOON_OF_A_SHAM'>58</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VII</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>In the Twilight of an Idea</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VII_IN_THE_TWILIGHT_OF_AN_IDEA'>70</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VIII</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>With the Huris</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VIII_WITH_THE_HURIS'>83</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan='3'><h4 style="margin-top:1.5em">BOOK THE SECOND</h4></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan='3'><h4>IN THE TEMPLE</h4></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'></td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>To Nature</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TO_NATURE'>97</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>I</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Dowry of Democracy</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_I_THE_DOWRY_OF_DEMOCRACY'>99</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>II</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Subtranscendental</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_II_SUBTRANSCENDENTAL'>115</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>III</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The False Dawn</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_III_THE_FALSE_DAWN'>125</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IV</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Last Star</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IV_THE_LAST_STAR'>130</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>V</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Priesto-Parental</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_V_PRIESTOPARENTAL'>143</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VI</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Flounces and Ruffles</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VI_FLOUNCES_AND_RUFFLES'>154</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VII</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Howdaj of Falsehood</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VII_THE_HOWDAJ_OF_FALSEHOOD'>167</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VIII</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Kaaba of Solitude</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VIII_THE_KAABA_OF_SOLITUDE'>181</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IX</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Signs of the Hermit</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IX_SIGNS_OF_THE_HERMIT'>192</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>X</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Vineyard in the Kaaba</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_X_THE_VINEYARD_IN_THE_KAABA'>202</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan='3'><h4 style="margin-top:1.5em">BOOK THE THIRD</h4></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+<td colspan='3'><h4>IN KULMAKAN</h4></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'></td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>To God</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#TO_GOD'>217</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>I</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Disentanglement of the Me</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_I_THE_DISENTANGLEMENT_OF_THE_ME'>219</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>II</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Voice of the Dawn</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_II_THE_VOICE_OF_THE_DAWN'>231</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>III</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Self Ecstatic</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_III_THE_SELF_ECSTATIC'>239</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IV</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>On the Open Highway</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_OPEN_HIGHWAY'>249</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>V</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Union and Progress</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_V_UNION_AND_PROGRESS'>274</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VI</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Revolutions Within and Without</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VI_REVOLUTIONS_WITHIN_AND_WITHOUT'>287</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VII</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>A Dream of Empire</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VII_A_DREAM_OF_EMPIRE'>298</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>VIII</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Adumbrations</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_VIII_ADUMBRATIONS'>311</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>IX</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Stoning and Flight</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_IX_THE_STONING_AND_FLIGHT'>325</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'>X</td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>The Desert</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#CHAPTER_X_THE_DESERT'>333</a></td>
+</tr>
+<tr>
+ <td valign='top' align='right' style='padding-right:1em;'></td>
+ <td valign='top' align='left' style='padding-right:4em;'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Al-Khatimah</span>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+ <td valign='bottom' align='right'><a href='#ALKHATIMAH'>341</a></td>
+</tr>
+</table>
+<hr class='pb' />
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_v' name='page_v'></a>v</span>
+<a name='ALFATIHAH' id='ALFATIHAH'></a>
+<h2>AL-FATIHAH</h2>
+</div>
+<p>In the Khedivial Library of Cairo, among the Papyri
+of the Scribe of Amen-Ra and the beautifully
+illuminated copies of the Kor&acirc;n, the modern Arabic
+Manuscript which forms the subject of this Book, was
+found. The present Editor was attracted to it by the
+dedication and the rough drawings on the cover; which,
+indeed, are as curious, if not as mystical, as ancient
+Egyptian symbols. One of these is supposed to represent
+a New York Skyscraper in the shape of a Pyramid,
+the other is a dancing group under which is written:
+&#8220;The Stockbrokers and the Dervishes.&#8221; And around
+these symbols, in Arabic circlewise, these words:&ndash;&ndash;&#8220;<i>And
+this is my Book, the Book of Khalid, which I
+dedicate to my Brother Man, my Mother Nature, and
+my Maker God.</i>&#8221;</p>
+<p>Needless to say we asked at once the Custodian of the
+Library to give us access to this Book of Khalid, and
+after examining it, we hired an amanuensis to make a
+copy for us. Which copy we subsequently used as the
+warp of our material; the woof we shall speak of in
+the following chapter. No, there is nothing in
+this Work which we can call ours, except it be the
+Loom. But the weaving, we assure the Reader, was
+a mortal process; for the material is of such a mixture
+that here and there the raw silk of Syria is often spun
+with the cotton and wool of America. In other words,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_vi' name='page_vi'></a>vi</span>
+the Author dips his antique pen in a modern inkstand,
+and when the ink runs thick, he mixes it with a slabbering
+of slang. But we started to write an Introduction,
+not a Criticism. And lest we end by writing
+neither, we give here what is more to the point than
+anything we can say: namely, Al-Fatihah, or the Opening
+Word of Khalid himself.</p>
+<p>With supreme indifference to the classic Arabic
+proem, he begins by saying that his Book is neither
+a Memoir nor an Autobiography, neither a Journal nor
+a Confession.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Orientals,&#8221; says he, &#8220;seldom adventure into that
+region of fancy and fabrication so alluring to European
+and American writers; for, like the eyes of huris, our
+vanity is soft and demure. This then is a book of
+travels in an impalpable country, an enchanted country,
+from which we have all risen, and towards which we
+are still rising. It is, as it were, the chart and history
+of one little kingdom of the Soul,&ndash;&ndash;the Soul of a philosopher,
+poet and criminal. I am all three, I swear,
+for I have lived both the wild and the social life. And
+I have thirsted in the desert, and I have thirsted in the
+city: the springs of the former were dry; the water
+in the latter was frozen in the pipes. That is why, to
+save my life, I had to be an incendiary at times, and
+at others a footpad. And whether on the streets of
+knowledge, or in the open courts of love, or in the
+parks of freedom, or in the cellars and garrets of
+thought and devotion, the only <i>saki</i> that would give
+me a drink without the asking was he who called himself
+Patience....
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_vii' name='page_vii'></a>vii</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;And so, the Book of Khalid was written. It is
+the only one I wrote in this world, having made, as
+I said, a brief sojourn in its civilised parts. I leave
+it now where I wrote it, and I hope to write other
+books in other worlds. Now understand, Allah keep
+and guide thee, I do not leave it here merely as a certificate
+of birth or death. I do not raise it up as an epitaph,
+a trade-sign, or any other emblem of vainglory or
+lucre; but truly as a propylon through which my race
+and those above and below my race, are invited to pass
+to that higher Temple of mind and spirit. For we are
+all tourists, in a certain sense, and this world is the
+most ancient of monuments. We go through life as
+those pugreed-solar-hatted-Europeans go through
+Egypt. We are pestered and plagued with guides and
+dragomans of every rank and shade;&ndash;&ndash;social and political
+guides, moral and religious dragomans: a Tolstoy
+here, an Ibsen there, a Spencer above, a Nietzche below.
+And there thou art left in perpetual confusion
+and despair. Where wilt thou go? Whom wilt thou
+follow?</p>
+<p>&#8220;Or wilt thou tarry to see the work of redemption
+accomplished? For Society must be redeemed, and
+many are the redeemers. The Cross, however, is out
+of fashion, and so is the Dona Dulcinea motive. Howbeit,
+what an array of Masters and Knights have we,
+and what a variety! The work can be done, and
+speedily, if we could but choose. Wagner can do it
+with music; Bakunin, with dynamite; Karl Marx,
+with the levelling rod; Haeckel, with an injection
+of protoplasmic logic; the Pope, with a pinch of salt
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_viii' name='page_viii'></a>viii</span>
+and chrism; and the Packer-Kings of America, with
+pork and beef. What wilt thou have? Whom wilt
+thou employ? Many are the applicants, many are
+the guides. But if they are all going the way of
+Juhannam, the Beef-packer I would choose. For verily,
+a gobbet of beef on the way were better than
+canned protoplasmic logic or bottled salt and
+chrism....</p>
+<p>&#8220;No; travel not on a Cook&#8217;s ticket; avoid the guides.
+Take up thy staff and foot it slowly and leisurely;
+tarry wherever thy heart would tarry. There is no
+need of hurrying, O my Brother, whether eternal
+Juhannam or eternal Jannat await us yonder. Come;
+if thou hast not a staff, I have two. And what I
+have in my Scrip I will share with thee. But turn
+thy back to the guides; for verily we see more of them
+than of the ruins and monuments. Verily, we get
+more of the Dragomans than of the Show. Why then
+continue to move and remove at their command?&ndash;&ndash;Take
+thy guidebook in hand and I will tell thee what
+is in it.</p>
+<p>&#8220;No; the time will come, I tell thee, when every
+one will be his own guide and dragoman. The
+time will come when it will not be necessary to write
+books for others, or to legislate for others, or to make
+religions for others: the time will come when every
+one will write his own Book in the Life he lives, and
+that Book will be his code and his creed;&ndash;&ndash;that Life-Book
+will be the palace and cathedral of his Soul in
+all the Worlds.&#8221;</p>
+<hr class='major' />
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<p class="h2" >BOOK THE FIRST</p>
+<p class="h2" >IN THE EXCHANGE</p>
+</div>
+<div class='figcenter'>
+<a name='linki_2' id='linki_2'></a>
+<img src='images/illus-012.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 462px; height: 346px;' /><br />
+</div>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<a name='TO_MAN' id='TO_MAN'></a>
+<h2>TO MAN</h2>
+</div>
+<p><i>No matter how good thou art, O my Brother,
+or how bad thou art, no matter how high or how
+low in the scale of being thou art, I still would believe
+in thee, and have faith in thee, and love thee.
+For do I not know what clings to thee, and what
+beckons to thee? The claws of the one and the wings
+of the other, have I not felt and seen? Look up,
+therefore, and behold this World-Temple, which, to
+us, shall be a resting-place, and not a goal. On the
+border-line of the Orient and Occident it is built, on
+the mountain-heights overlooking both. No false gods
+are worshipped in it,&ndash;&ndash;no philosophic, theologic, or
+anthropomorphic gods. Yea, and the god of the
+priests and prophets is buried beneath the Fountain,
+which is the altar of the Temple, and from which
+flows the eternal spirit of our Maker&ndash;&ndash;our Maker
+who blinketh when the Claws are deep in our flesh,
+and smileth when the Wings spring from our Wounds.
+Verily, we are the children of the God of Humour,
+and the Fountain in His Temple is ever flowing.
+Tarry, and refresh thyself, O my Brother, tarry, and
+refresh thyself.</i></p>
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:right'><span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Khalid</span>.<br /></p>
+<hr class='major' />
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5' name='page_5'></a>5</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_I_PROBING_THE_TRIVIAL' id='CHAPTER_I_PROBING_THE_TRIVIAL'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>
+<h3>PROBING THE TRIVIAL</h3>
+</div>
+<p>The most important in the history of nations and
+individuals was once the most trivial, and vice
+versa. The plebeian, who is called to-day the man-in-the-street,
+can never see and understand the significance
+of the hidden seed of things, which in time
+must develop or die. A garter dropt in the ballroom
+of Royalty gives birth to an Order of Knighthood;
+a movement to reform the spelling of the English
+language, initiated by one of the presidents of a great
+Republic, becomes eventually an object of ridicule.
+Only two instances to illustrate our point, which is
+applicable also to time-honoured truths and moralities.
+But no matter how important or trivial these, he who
+would give utterance to them must do so in cap and
+bells, if he would be heard nowadays. Indeed, the
+play is always the thing; the frivolous is the most
+essential, if only as a disguise.&ndash;&ndash;For look you, are
+we not too prosperous to consider seriously your ponderous
+preachment? And when you bring it to us
+in book form, do you expect us to take it into our
+homes and take you into our hearts to boot?&ndash;&ndash;Which
+argument is convincing even to the man in the barn.</p>
+<p>But the Author of the Khedivial Library Manuscript
+can make his Genius dance the dance of the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6' name='page_6'></a>6</span>
+seven veils, if you but knew. It is to be regretted,
+however, that he has not mastered the most subtle of
+arts, the art of writing about one&#8217;s self. He seldom
+brushes his wings against the dust or lingers among
+the humble flowers close to the dust: he does not
+follow the masters in their entertaining trivialities and
+fatuities. We remember that even Gibbon interrupts
+the turgid flow of his spirit to tell us in his Autobiography
+that he really could, and often did, enjoy
+a game of cards in the evening. And Rousseau, in
+a suppurative passion, whispers to us in his Confessions
+that he even kissed the linen of Madame de Warens&#8217;
+bed when he was alone in her room. And Spencer
+devotes whole pages in his dull and ponderous history
+of himself to narrate the all-important narration of
+his constant indisposition,&ndash;&ndash;to assure us that his ill
+health more than once threatened the mighty task he
+had in hand. These, to be sure, are most important
+revelations. But Khalid here misses his cue. Inspiration
+does not seem to come to him in firefly-fashion.</p>
+<p>He would have done well, indeed, had he studied
+the method of the professional writers of Memoirs,
+especially those of France. For might he not then
+have discoursed delectably on The Romance of my
+Stick Pin, The Tragedy of my Sombrero, The Scandal
+of my Red Flannel, The Conquest of my Silk Socks,
+The Adventures of my Tuxedo, and such like? But
+Khalid is modest only in the things that pertain to the
+outward self. He wrote of other Romances and other
+Tragedies. And when his Genius is not dancing the
+dance of the seven veils, she is either flirting with the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7' name='page_7'></a>7</span>
+monks of the Lebanon hills or setting fire to something
+in New York. But this is not altogether satisfactory
+to the present Editor, who, unlike the Author of the
+Khedivial Library MS., must keep the reader in mind.
+&#8217;Tis very well to endeavour to unfold a few of the mysteries
+of one&#8217;s palingenesis, but why conceal from us his
+origin? For is it not important, is it not the fashion
+at least, that one writing his own history should first
+expatiate on the humble origin of his ancestors and the
+distant obscure source of his genius? And having
+done this, should he not then tell us how he behaved
+in his boyhood; whether or not he made anklets of
+his mother&#8217;s dough for his little sister; whether he did
+not kindle the fire with his father&#8217;s Kor&acirc;n; whether
+he did not walk under the rainbow and try to reach
+the end of it on the hill-top; and whether he did not
+write verse when he was but five years of age. About
+these essentialities Khalid is silent. We only know
+from him that he is a descendant of the brave sea-daring
+Ph&oelig;nicians&ndash;&ndash;a title which might be claimed with
+justice even by the aborigines of Yucatan&ndash;&ndash;and that
+he was born in the city of Baalbek, in the shadow of
+the great Heliopolis, a little way from the mountain-road
+to the Cedars of Lebanon. All else in this direction
+is obscure.</p>
+<p>And the K. L. MS. which we kept under our pillow
+for thirteen days and nights, was beginning to
+worry us. After all, might it not be a literary hoax,
+we thought, and might not this Khalid be a myth.
+And yet, he does not seem to have sought any material
+or worldly good from the writing of his Book.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8' name='page_8'></a>8</span>
+Why, then, should he resort to deception? Still, we
+doubted. And one evening we were detained by the
+sandomancer, or sand-diviner, who was sitting cross-legged
+on the sidewalk in front of the mosque. &#8220;I
+know your mind,&#8221; said he, before we had made up our
+mind to consult him. And mumbling his &#8220;abracadabra&#8221;
+over the sand spread on a cloth before him,
+he took up his bamboo-stick and wrote therein&ndash;&ndash;Khalid!
+This was amazing. &#8220;And I know more,&#8221;
+said he. But after scouring the heaven, he shook his
+head regretfully and wrote in the sand the name of
+one of the hasheesh-dens of Cairo. &#8220;Go thither; and
+come to see me again to-morrow evening.&#8221; Saying
+which, he folded his sand-book of magic, pocketed his
+fee, and walked away.</p>
+<p>In that hasheesh-den,&ndash;&ndash;the reekiest, dingiest of the
+row in the Red Quarter,&ndash;&ndash;where the etiolated intellectualities
+of Cairo flock after midnight, the name
+of Khalid evokes much resounding wit, and sarcasm,
+and laughter.</p>
+<p>&#8220;You mean the new Muhdi,&#8221; said one, offering us
+his chobok of hasheesh; &#8220;smoke to his health and prosperity.
+Ha, ha, ha.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And the chorus of laughter, which is part and parcel
+of a hasheesh jag, was tremendous. Every one thereupon
+had something to say on the subject. The contagion
+could not be checked. And Khalid was called
+&#8220;the dervish of science&#8221; by one; &#8220;the rope-dancer
+of nature&#8221; by another.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Our Prophet lived in a cave in the wilderness
+of New York for five years,&#8221; remarked a third.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9' name='page_9'></a>9</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;And he sold his camel yesterday and bought a
+bicycle instead.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;The Young Turks can not catch him now.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Ah, but wait till England gets after our new
+Muhdi.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Wait till his new phthisic-stricken wife dies.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Whom will our Prophet marry, if among all
+the virgins of Egypt we can not find a consumptive
+for him?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And when he pulls down the pyramids to build
+American Skyscrapers with their stones, where shall
+we bury then our Muhdi?&#8221;</p>
+<p>All of which, although mystifying to us, and depressing,
+was none the less reassuring. For Khalid,
+it seems, is not a myth. No; we can even see him,
+we are told, and touch him, and hear him speak.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Shakib the poet, his most intimate friend and
+disciple, will bring you into the sacred presence.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;You can not miss him, for he is the drummer of
+our new Muhdi, ha, ha, ha!&#8221;</p>
+<p>And this Shakib was then suspended and stoned.
+But their humour, like the odor and smoke of gunjah,
+(hasheesh) was become stifling. So, we lay our chobok
+down; and, thanking them for the entertainment,
+we struggle through the rolling reek and fling to the
+open air.</p>
+<p>In the grill-room of the Mena House we meet the
+poet Shakib, who was then drawing his inspiration
+from a glass of whiskey and soda. Nay, he was
+drowning his sorrows therein, for his Master, alas!
+has mysteriously disappeared.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10' name='page_10'></a>10</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;I have not seen him for ten days,&#8221; said the Poet;
+&#8220;and I know not where he is.&ndash;&ndash;If I did? Ah, my
+friend, you would not then see me here. Indeed, I
+should be with him, and though he be in the trap of
+the Young Turks.&#8221; And some real tears flowed
+down the cheeks of the Poet, as he spoke.</p>
+<p>The Mena House, a charming little Branch of Civilisation
+at the gate of the desert, stands, like man himself,
+in the shadow of two terrible immensities, the
+Sphinx and the Pyramid, the Origin and the End.
+And in the grill-room, over a glass of whiskey and soda,
+we presume to solve in few words the eternal mystery.
+But that is not what we came for. And to
+avoid the bewildering depths into which we were led,
+we suggested a stroll on the sands. Here the Poet
+waxed more eloquent, and shed more tears.</p>
+<p>&#8220;This is our favourite haunt,&#8221; said he; &#8220;here is
+where we ramble, here is where we loaf. And Khalid
+once said to me, &#8216;In loafing here, I work as hard as
+did the masons and hod-carriers who laboured on these
+pyramids.&#8217; And I believe him. For is not a book
+greater than a pyramid? Is not a mosque or a palace
+better than a tomb? An object is great in proportion
+to its power of resistance to time and the elements.
+That is why we think the pyramids are great. But
+see, the desert is greater than the pyramids, and the sea
+is greater than the desert, and the heavens are greater
+than the sea. And yet, there is not in all these that
+immortal intelligence, that living, palpitating soul,
+which you find in a great book. A man who conceives
+and writes a great book, my friend, has done
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11' name='page_11'></a>11</span>
+more work than all the helots that laboured on these
+pyramidal futilities. That is why I find no exaggeration
+in Khalid&#8217;s words. For when he loafs, he
+does so in good earnest. Not like the camel-driver
+there or the camel, but after the manner of the great
+thinkers and mystics: like Al-Fared and Jelal&#8217;ud-Deen
+Rumy, like Socrates and St. Francis of Assisi, Khalid
+loafs. For can you escape being reproached for idleness
+by merely working? Are you going to waste
+your time and power in useless unproductive labour,
+carrying dates to Hajar (or coals to Newcastle, which
+is the English equivalent), that you might not be
+called an idler, a loafer?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Indeed not,&#8221; we reply; &#8220;for the Poet taking in the
+sea, or the woods, or the starry-night, the poet who
+might be just sharing the sunshine with the salamander,
+is as much a labourer as the stoker or the bricklayer.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And with a few more such remarks, we showed our
+friend that, not being of india-rubber, we could not
+but expand under the heat of his grandiosity.</p>
+<p>We then make our purpose known, and Shakib is
+overjoyed. He offers to kiss us for the noble thought.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Yes, Europe should know Khalid better, and
+only through you and me can this be done. For you
+can not properly understand him, unless you read the
+<i>Histoire Intime</i>, which I have just finished. That
+will give you <i>les dessous de cartes</i> of his character.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;<i>Les <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'dessous'">dessons</ins></i>&#8221;&ndash;&ndash;and the Poet who intersperses
+his Arabic with fancy French, explains.&ndash;&ndash;&#8220;The lining,
+the ligaments.&#8221;&ndash;&ndash;&#8220;Ah, that is exactly what we want.&#8221;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12' name='page_12'></a>12</span></p>
+<p>And he offers to let us have the use of his Manuscript,
+if we link his name with that of his illustrious
+Master in this Book. To which we cheerfully agree.
+For after all, what&#8217;s in a name?</p>
+<p>On the following day, lugging an enormous bundle
+under each arm, the Poet came. We were stunned as
+he stood in the door; we felt as if he had struck us in
+the head with them.</p>
+<p>&#8220;This is the <i>Histoire Intime</i>,&#8221; said he, laying it
+gently on the table.</p>
+<p>And we laid our hand upon it, fetching a deep sigh.
+Our misgivings, however, were lighted with a happy
+idea. We will hire a few boys to read it, we thought,
+and mark out the passages which please them most.
+That will be just what an editor wants.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And this,&#8221; continued the Poet, laying down the
+other bundle, &#8220;is the original manuscript of my forthcoming
+Book of Poems.&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>Sweet of him, we thought, to present it to us.</p>
+<p>&#8220;It will be issued next Autumn in Cairo.&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>Fortunate City!</p>
+<p>&#8220;And if you will get to work on it at once,&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>Mercy!</p>
+<p>&#8220;You can get out an English Translation in three
+month, I am sure&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>We sink in our chair in breathless amazement.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The Book will then appear simultaneously both in
+London and Cairo.&#8221;</p>
+<p>We sit up, revived with another happy idea, and
+assure the Poet that his Work will be translated into a
+universal language, and that very soon. For which
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13' name='page_13'></a>13</span>
+assurance he kisses us again and again, and goes away
+hugging his Muse.</p>
+<p>The idea! A Book of Poems to translate into
+the English language! As if the English language
+has not enough of its own troubles! Translate it,
+O Fire, into your language! Which work the Fire
+did in two minutes. And the dancing, leaping, singing
+flames, the white and blue and amber flames, were
+more beautiful, we thought, than anything the Ms.
+might contain.</p>
+<p>As for the <i>Histoire Intime</i>, we split it into three
+parts and got our boys working on it. The result
+was most satisfying. For now we can show, and
+though he is a native of Asia, the land of the Prophets,
+and though he conceals from us his origin after the
+manner of the Prophets, that he was born and bred
+and fed, and even thwacked, like all his fellows there,
+this Khalid.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14' name='page_14'></a>14</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_II_THE_CITY_OF_BAAL' id='CHAPTER_II_THE_CITY_OF_BAAL'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>
+<h3>THE CITY OF BAAL</h3>
+</div>
+<p>The City of Baal, or Baalbek, is between the
+desert and the deep sea. It lies at the foot of
+Anti-Libanus, in the sunny plains of Coele-Syria, a
+day&#8217;s march from either Damascus or Beirut. It
+is a city with a past as romantic as Rome&#8217;s, as
+wicked as Babel&#8217;s; its ruins testify both to its glory
+and its shame. It is a city with a future as brilliant
+as any New-World city; the railroad at its gate, the
+modern agricultural implements in its fields, and the
+porcelain bath-tubs in its hotels, can testify to this.
+It is a city that enticed and still entices the mighty
+of the earth; Roman Emperors in the past came to
+appease the wrath of its gods, a German Emperor to-day
+comes to pilfer its temples. For the Acropolis in
+the poplar grove is a mine of ruins. The porphyry pillars,
+the statues, the tablets, the exquisite friezes, the
+palimpsests, the bas-reliefs,&ndash;&ndash;Time and the Turks
+have spared a few of these. And when the German
+Emperor came, Abd&#8217;ul-Hamid blinked, and the Berlin
+Museum is now the richer for it.</p>
+<p>Of the Temple of Jupiter, however, only six standing
+columns remain; of the Temple of Bacchus only
+the god and the Bacchantes are missing. And why
+was the one destroyed, the other preserved, only the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15' name='page_15'></a>15</span>
+six columns, had they a tongue, could tell. Indeed,
+how many blustering vandals have <i>they</i> conquered,
+how many savage attacks have they resisted, what
+wonders and what orgies have they beheld! These
+six giants of antiquity, looking over Anti-Lebanon
+in the East, and down upon the meandering Leontes
+in the South, and across the Syrian steppes in the
+North, still hold their own against Time and the
+Elements. They are the dominating feature of the
+ruins; they tower above them as the Acropolis towers
+above the surrounding poplars. And around their
+base, and through the fissures, flows the perennial grace
+of the seasons. The sun pays tribute to them in gold;
+the rain, in mosses and ferns; the Spring, in
+lupine flowers. And the swallows, nesting in the
+portico of the Temple of Bacchus, above the curious
+frieze of egg-decoration,&ndash;&ndash;as curious, too, <i>their</i> art of
+egg-making,&ndash;&ndash;pour around the colossal columns their
+silvery notes. Surely, these swallows and ferns and
+lupine flowers are more ancient than the Acropolis.
+And the marvels of extinct nations can not hold a
+candle to the marvels of Nature.</p>
+<p>Here, under the decaying beauty of Roman art,
+lies buried the monumental boldness of the Ph&oelig;nicians,
+or of a race of giants whose extinction even Homer
+deplores, and whose name even the Ph&oelig;nicians could
+not decipher. For might they not, too, have stood
+here wondering, guessing, even as we moderns guess
+and wonder? Might not the Ph&oelig;nicians have asked
+the same questions that we ask to-day: Who were the
+builders? and with what tools? In one of the walls
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16' name='page_16'></a>16</span>
+of the Acropolis are stones which a hundred bricklayers
+can not raise an inch from the ground; and
+among the ruins of the Temple of Zeus are porphyry
+pillars, monoliths, which fifty horses could barely
+move, and the quarry of which is beyond the Syrian
+desert. There, now, solve the problem for yourself.</p>
+<p>Hidden in the grove of silver-tufted poplars is the
+little Temple of Venus, doomed to keep company with
+a Mosque. But it is a joy to stand on the bridge
+above the stream that flows between them, and listen
+to the muazzen in the minaret and the bulbuls in the
+Temple. Mohammad calling to Venus, Venus calling
+to Mohammad&ndash;&ndash;what a romance! We leave the
+subject to the poet that wants it. Another Laus
+Veneris to another Swinburne might suggest itself.</p>
+<p>An Arab Prophet with the goddess, this time&ndash;&ndash;but
+the River flows between the Temple and the Mosque.
+In the city, life is one such picturesque languid stream.
+The shop-keepers sit on their rugs in their stalls, counting
+their beads, smoking their narghilahs, waiting indifferently
+for Allah&#8217;s bounties. And the hawkers
+shuffle along crying their wares in beautiful poetic
+illusions,&ndash;&ndash;the flower-seller singing, &#8220;Reconcile your
+mother-in-law! Perfume your spirit! Buy a jasmine
+for your soul!&#8221; the seller of loaves, his tray on his
+head, his arms swinging to a measured step, intoning
+in pious thankfulness, &#8220;O thou Eternal, O thou
+Bountiful!&#8221; The <i>sakka</i> of licorice-juice, clicking his
+brass cups calls out to the thirsty one, &#8220;Come, drink
+and live! Come, drink and live!&#8221; And ere you exclaim,
+How quaint! How picturesque! a train of
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17' name='page_17'></a>17</span>
+laden camels drives you to the wall, rudely shaking
+your illusion. And the mules and donkeys, tottering
+under their heavy burdens, upsetting a tray of <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'sweet-meats' across lines">sweetmeats</ins>
+here, a counter of spices there, must share the
+narrow street with you and compel you to move
+along slowly, languidly like themselves. They seem
+to take Time by the sleeve and say to it, &#8220;What&#8217;s
+your hurry?&#8221; &#8220;These donkeys,&#8221; Shakib writes, quoting
+Khalid, &#8220;can teach the strenuous Europeans and
+hustling Americans a lesson.&#8221;</p>
+<p>In the City Square, as we issue from the congested
+windings of the Bazaar, we are greeted by one of
+those scrub monuments that are found in almost every
+city of the Ottoman Empire. And in most cases,
+they are erected to commemorate the benevolence and
+public zeal of some wali or pasha who must have made
+a handsome fortune in the promotion of a public enterprise.
+Be this as it may. It is not our business here to
+probe the corruption of any particular Government.
+But we observe that this miserable botch of a monument
+is to the ruins of the Acropolis, what this modern
+absolutism, this effete Turkey is to the magnificent
+tyrannies of yore. Indeed, nothing is duller, more
+stupid, more prosaic than a modern absolutism as
+compared with an ancient one. But why concern
+ourselves with like comparisons? The world is better
+to-day in spite of its public monuments. These little
+flights or frights in marble are as snug in their little
+squares, in front of their little halls, as are the majestic
+ruins in their poplar groves. In both instances,
+Nature and Circumstance have harmonised between
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18' name='page_18'></a>18</span>
+the subject and the background. Come along. And
+let the rhymsters chisel on the monument whatever
+they like about sculptures and the wali. To condemn
+in this case is to praise.</p>
+<p>We issue from the Square into the drive leading
+to the spring at the foot of the mountain. On the
+meadows near the stream, is always to be found a
+group of Baalbekians bibbing <i>arak</i> and swaying languidly
+to the mellow strains of the lute and the monotonous
+melancholy of Arabic song. Among such, one
+occasionally meets with a native who, failing as <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'pedler'">peddler</ins>
+or merchant in America, returns to his native town,
+and, utilising the chips of English he picked up in the
+streets of the New-World cities, becomes a dragoman
+and guide to English and American tourists.</p>
+<p>Now, under this sky, between Anti-Libanus rising
+near the spring, Rasulain, and the Acropolis towering
+above the poplars, around these majestic ruins, amidst
+these fascinating scenes of Nature, Khalid spent the
+halcyon days of his boyhood. Here he trolled his favourite
+ditties beating the hoof behind his donkey. For
+he preferred to be a donkey-boy than to be called a
+donkey at school. The pedagogue with his drivel and
+discipline, he could not learn to love. The company of
+muleteers was much more to his liking. The open
+air was his school; and everything that riots and rejoices
+in the open air, he loved. Bulbuls and beetles
+and butterflies, oxen and donkeys and mules,&ndash;&ndash;these
+were his playmates and friends. And when he becomes
+a muleteer, he reaches in his first venture, we are told,
+the top round of the ladder. This progressive scale
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19' name='page_19'></a>19</span>
+in his trading, we observe. Husbanding his resources,
+he was soon after, by selling his donkey,
+able to buy a sumpter-mule; a year later he sells his
+mule and buys a camel; and finally he sells the camel
+and buys a fine Arab mare, which he gives to a tourist
+for a hundred pieces of English gold. This is what
+is called success. And with the tangible symbol of it,
+the price of his mare, he emigrates to America. But
+that is to come.</p>
+<p>Let us now turn our &#8220;stereopticon on the screen
+of reminiscence,&#8221; using the pictures furnished by Shakib.
+But before they can be used to advantage, they
+must undergo a process of retroussage. Many of the
+lines need be softened, some of the shades modified,
+and not a few of the etchings, absolutely worthless, we
+consign to the flames. Who of us, for instance, was
+not feruled and bastinadoed by the town pedagogue?
+Who did not run away from school, whimpering,
+snivelling, and cursing in his heart and in his
+sleep the black-board and the horn-book? Nor can
+we see the significance of the fact that Khalid once
+smashed the icon of the Holy Virgin for whetting not
+his wits, for hearing not his prayers. It may be he
+was learning then the use of the sling, and instead
+of killing his neighbour&#8217;s laying-hen, he broke the sacred
+effigy. No, we are not warranted to draw from these
+trivialities the grand results which send Shakib in
+ecstasies about his Master&#8217;s genius. Nor do we for a
+moment believe that the waywardness of a genius or
+a prophet in boyhood is always a significant adumbration.
+Shakespeare started as a deer-poacher, and
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20' name='page_20'></a>20</span>
+Rousseau as a thief. Yet, neither the one nor the
+other, as far as we know, was a plagiarist. This,
+however, does not disprove the contrary proposition,
+that he who begins as a thief or an iconoclast is likely
+to end as such. But the actuating motive has nothing
+to do with what we, in our retrospective analysis, are
+pleased to prove. Not so far forth are we willing to
+piddle among the knicknacks of Shakib&#8217;s <i>Histoire Intime</i>
+of his Master.</p>
+<p>Furthermore, how can we interest ourselves in his
+fiction of history concerning Baalbek? What have
+we to do with the fact or fable that Seth the Prophet
+lived in this City; that Noah is buried in its vicinity;
+that Solomon built the Temple of the Sun for the
+Queen of Sheba; that this Prince and Poet used to
+lunch in Baalbek and dine at Istachre in Afghanistan;
+that the chariot of Nimrod drawn by four ph&oelig;nixes
+from the Tower of Babel, lighted on Mt. Hermon
+to give said Nimrod a chance to rebuild the said Temple
+of the Sun? How can we bring any of these
+fascinating fables to bear upon our subject? It is
+<ins class="trchange" title="Was 'neverthelesss'">nevertheless</ins> significant to remark that the City of
+Baal, from the Ph&oelig;nicians and Moabites down to the
+Arabs and Turks, has ever been noted for its sanctuaries
+of carnal lust. The higher religion, too,
+found good soil here; for Baalbek gave the world many
+a saint and martyr along with its harlots and poets
+and philosophers. St. Minius, St. Cyril and St. Theodosius,
+are the foremost among its holy children; Ste.
+Odicksyia, a Magdalene, is one of its noted daughters.
+These were as famous in their days as Ashtarout or
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21' name='page_21'></a>21</span>
+Jupiter-Ammon. As famous too is Al-Iman ul-Ouzaai
+the scholar; al-Makrizi the historian; Kallinichus
+the chemist, who invented the Greek fire; Kosta ibn
+Luka, a doctor and philosopher, who wrote among
+much miscellaneous rubbish a treaty entitled, On the
+Difference Between the Mind and the Soul; and
+finally the Muazzen of Baalbek to whom &#8220;even the
+beasts would stop to listen.&#8221; Ay, Shakib relates
+quoting al-Makrizi, who in his turn relates, quoting
+one of the octogenarian Drivellers, <i>Muhaddetheen</i>
+(these men are the chief sources of Arabic History)
+that he was told by an eye and ear witness that
+when this celebrated Muazzen was once calling the
+Faithful to prayer, the camels at the creek craned their
+necks to listen to the sonorous music of his voice. And
+such was their delight that they forgot they were
+thirsty. This, by the way of a specimen of the
+<i>Muhaddetheen</i>. Now, about these historical worthies
+of Baalbek, whom we have but named, Shakib writes
+whole pages, and concludes&ndash;&ndash;and here is the point&ndash;&ndash;that
+Khalid might be a descendant of any or all of
+them! For in him, our Scribe seriously believes, are
+lusty strains of many varied and opposing humours.
+And although he had not yet seen the sea, he longed
+when a boy for a long sea voyage, and he would sail
+little paper boats down the stream to prove the fact.
+In truth, that is what Shakib would prove. The devil
+and such logic had a charm for us once, but no more.</p>
+<p>Here is another bubble of retrospective analysis to
+which we apply the needle. It is asserted as a basis
+for another astounding deduction that Khalid used to
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22' name='page_22'></a>22</span>
+sleep in the ruined Temple of Zeus. As if ruined
+temples had anything to do with the formation or deformation
+of the brain-cells or the soul-afflatus! The
+devil and such logic, we repeat, had once a charm for
+us. But this, in brief, is how it came about. Khalid
+hated the pedagogue to whom he had to pay a visit of
+courtesy every day, and loved his cousin Najma whom
+he was not permitted to see. And when he runs away
+from the bastinado, breaking in revenge the icon of the
+Holy Virgin, his father turns him away from home.
+Complaining not, whimpering not, he goes. And hearing
+the bulbuls calling in the direction of Najma&#8217;s
+house that evening, he repairs thither. But the crabbed,
+cruel uncle turns him away also, and bolts the door.
+Whereupon Khalid, who was then in the first of his
+teens, takes a big scabrous rock and sends it flying
+against that door. The crabbed uncle rushes out,
+blustering, cursing; the nephew takes up another of
+those scabrous missiles and sends it whizzing across his
+shoulder. The second one brushes his ear. The third
+sends the blood from his temple. And this, while
+beating a retreat and cursing his father and his uncle
+and their ancestors back to fifty generations. He is
+now safe in the poplar grove, and his uncle gives up
+the charge. With a broken noddle he returns home,
+and Khalid with a broken heart wends his way to the
+Acropolis, the only shelter in sight. In relating this
+story, Shakib mentions &#8220;the horrible old moon, who
+was wickedly smiling over the town that night.&#8221; A
+broken icon, a broken door, a broken pate,&ndash;&ndash;a big
+price this, the crabbed uncle and the cruel father had
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23' name='page_23'></a>23</span>
+to pay for thwarting the will of little Khalid. &#8220;But
+he entered the Acropolis a conqueror,&#8221; says our
+Scribe; &#8220;he won the battle.&#8221; And he slept in the
+temple, in the portico thereof, as sound as a muleteer.
+And the swallows in the niches above heard him sleep.</p>
+<p>In the morning he girds his loins with a firm resolution.
+No longer will he darken his father&#8217;s door.
+He becomes a muleteer and accomplishes the success of
+which we have spoken. His first beau id&eacute;al was to
+own the best horse in Baalbek; and to be able to ride
+to the camp of the Arabs and be mistaken for one of
+them, was his first great ambition. Which he realises
+sooner than he thought he would. For thrift, grit
+and perseverance, are a few of the rough grains in his
+character. But no sooner he is possessed of his ideal
+than he begins to loosen his hold upon it. He sold
+his mare to the tourist, and was glad he did not attain
+the same success in his first love. For he loved his
+mare, and he could not have loved his cousin Najma
+more. &#8220;The realisation is a terrible thing,&#8221; writes
+our Scribe, quoting his Master. But when this fine
+piece of wisdom was uttered, whether when he was
+sailing paper boats in Baalbek, or unfurling his sails in
+New York, we can not say.</p>
+<p>And now, warming himself on the fire of his first
+ideal, Khalid will seek the shore and launch into unknown
+seas towards unknown lands. From the City
+of Baal to the City of Demiurgic Dollar is not in fact
+a far cry. It has been remarked that he always
+dreamt of adventures, of long journeys across the
+desert or across the sea. He never was satisfied with
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24' name='page_24'></a>24</span>
+the seen horizon, we are told, no matter how vast and
+beautiful. His soul always yearned for what was beyond,
+above or below, the visible line. And had not
+the European tourist alienated from him the love of
+his mare and corrupted his heart with the love of gold,
+we might have heard of him in Mecca, in India, or in
+Dahomey. But Shakib prevails upon him to turn his
+face toward the West. One day, following some
+tourists to the Cedars, they behold from Dahr&#8217;ul-Qadhib
+the sun setting in the Mediterranean and
+make up their minds to follow it too. &#8220;For the sundown,&#8221;
+writes Shakib, &#8220;was more appealing to us
+than the sunrise, ay, more beautiful. The one was so
+near, the other so far away. Yes, we beheld the Hesperian
+light that day, and praised Allah. It was the
+New World&#8217;s bonfire of hospitality: the sun called to
+us, and we obeyed.&#8221;</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25' name='page_25'></a>25</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_III_VIA_DOLOROSA' id='CHAPTER_III_VIA_DOLOROSA'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>
+<h3>VIA DOLOROSA</h3>
+</div>
+<p>In their baggy, lapping trousers and crimson caps, each
+carrying a bundle and a rug under his arm, Shakib
+and Khalid are smuggled through the port of Beirut
+at night, and safely rowed to the steamer. Indeed,
+we are in a country where one can not travel without
+a passport, or a password, or a little pass-money.
+And the boatmen and officials of the Ottoman Empire
+can better read a gold piece than a passport. So,
+Shakib and Khalid, not having the latter, slip in a few
+of the former, and are smuggled through. One more
+longing, lingering glance behind, and the dusky peaks
+of the Lebanons, beyond which their native City of
+Baal is sleeping in peace, recede from view. On the
+high sea of hope and joy they sail; &#8220;under the Favonian
+wind of enthusiasm, on the friendly billows of
+boyish dreams,&#8221; they roll. Ay, and they sing for joy.
+On and on, to the gold-swept shores of distant lands,
+to the generous cities and the bounteous fields of the
+West, to the Paradise of the World&ndash;&ndash;to America.</p>
+<p>We need not dwell too much with our Scribe, on
+the repulsive details of the story of the voyage. We
+ourselves have known a little of the suffering and
+misery which emigrants must undergo, before they
+reach that Western Paradise of the Oriental imagination.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26' name='page_26'></a>26</span>
+How they are huddled like sheep on deck from
+Beirut to Marseilles; and like cattle transported
+under hatches across the Atlantic; and bullied and
+browbeaten by rough disdainful stewards; and made
+to pay for a leathery gobbet of beef and a slice of
+black flint-like bread: all this we know. But that
+New World paradise is well worth these passing privations.</p>
+<p>The second day at sea, when the two Baalbekian
+lads are snug on deck, their rugs spread out not far
+from the stalls in which Syrian cattle are shipped to
+Egypt and Arab horses to Europe or America, they
+rummage in their bags&ndash;&ndash;and behold, a treat! Shakib
+takes out his favourite poet Al-Mutanabbi, and Khalid,
+his favourite bottle, the choicest of the Ksarah distillery
+of the Jesuits. For this whilom donkey-boy will begin
+by drinking the wine of these good Fathers and
+then their&ndash;&ndash;blood! His lute is also with him; and
+he will continue to practise the few lessons which the
+bulbuls of the poplar groves have taught him. No, he
+cares not for books. And so, he uncorks the bottle,
+hands it to Shakib his senior, then takes a nip himself,
+and, thrumming his lute strings, trolls a few
+doleful pieces of Arabic song. &#8220;In these,&#8221; he would
+say to Shakib, pointing to the bottle and the lute, &#8220;is
+real poetry, and not in that book with which you
+would kill me.&#8221; And Shakib, in stingless sarcasm,
+would insist that the music in Al-Mutanabbi&#8217;s lines
+is just a little more musical than Khalid&#8217;s thrumming.
+They quarrel about this. And in justice to both, we
+give the following from the <i>Histoire Intime</i>.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27' name='page_27'></a>27</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;When we left our native land,&#8221; Shakib writes,
+&#8220;my literary bent was not shared in the least by
+Khalid. I had gone through the higher studies which,
+in our hedge-schools and clerical institutions, do not
+reach a very remarkable height. Enough of French
+to understand the authors tabooed by our Jesuit professors,&ndash;&ndash;the
+Voltaires, the Rousseaus, the Diderots;
+enough of Arabic to enable one to parse and analyse
+the verse of Al-Mutanabbi; enough of Church History
+to show us, not how the Church wielded the sword
+of persecution, but how she was persecuted herself by
+the pagans and barbarians of the earth;&ndash;&ndash;of these
+and such like consists the edifying curriculum. Now,
+of this high phase of education, Khalid was thoroughly
+immune. But his intuitive sagacity was often remarkable,
+and his humour, sweet and pathetic. Once when
+I was reading aloud some of the Homeric effusions of
+Al-Mutanabbi, he said to me, as he was playing his
+lute, &#8216;In the heart of this,&#8217; pointing to the lute, &#8216;and
+in the heart of me, there be more poetry than in that
+book with which you would kill me.&#8217; And one day,
+after wandering clandestinely through the steamer, he
+comes to me with a gesture of surprise and this: &#8216;Do
+you know, there are passengers who sleep in bunks below,
+over and across each other? I saw them,
+billah! And I was told they pay more than we do
+for such a low passage&ndash;&ndash;the fools! Think on it. I
+peeped into a little room, a dingy, smelling box, which
+had in it six berths placed across and above each other
+like the shelves of the reed manchons we build for our
+silk-worms at home. I wouldn&#8217;t sleep in one of them,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28' name='page_28'></a>28</span>
+billah! even though they bribe me. This bovine fragrance,
+the sight of these fine horses, the rioting of the
+wind above us, should make us forget the brutality
+of the stewards. Indeed, I am as content, as
+comfortable here, as are their Excellencies in what is
+called the Salon. Surely, we are above them&ndash;&ndash;at
+least, in the night. What matters it, then, if ours is
+called the Fourth Class and theirs the Primo.
+Wherever one is happy, Shakib, there is the Primo.&#8217;&#8221;</p>
+<p>But this happy humour is assailed at Marseilles. His
+placidity and stolid indifference are rudely shaken by
+the sharpers, who differ only from the boatmen of Beirut
+in that they wear pantaloons and intersperse their
+Arabic with a jargon of French. These brokers, like
+rapacious bats, hover around the emigrant and before
+his purse is opened for the fourth time, the trick is
+done. And with what ceremony, you shall see.
+From the steamer the emigrant is led to a dealer in
+frippery, where he is required to doff his baggy
+trousers and crimson cap, and put on a suit of linsey-woolsey
+and a hat of hispid felt: end of First Act;
+open the purse. From the dealer of frippery, spick
+and span from top to toe, he is taken to the hostelry,
+where he is detained a fortnight, sometimes a
+month, on the pretext of having to wait for the best
+steamer: end of Second Act; open the purse.
+From the hostelry at last to the steamship agent,
+where they secure for him a third-class passage on a
+fourth-class ship across the Atlantic: end of Third Act;
+open the purse. And now that the purse is almost
+empty, the poor emigrant is permitted to leave. They
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29' name='page_29'></a>29</span>
+send him to New York with much gratitude in his
+heart and a little trachoma in his eyes. The result being
+that a month later they have to look into such eyes
+again. But the purse of the distressed emigrant now
+being empty,&ndash;&ndash;empty as his hopes and dreams,&ndash;&ndash;the
+rapacious bats hover not around him, and the door of
+the verminous hostelry is shut in his face. He is left
+to starve on the western shore of the Mediterranean.</p>
+<p>Ay, even the droll humour and stolidity of Khalid,
+are shaken, aroused, by the ghoulish greed, the fell inhumanity
+of these sharpers. And Shakib from his
+cage of fancy lets loose upon them his hyenas of satire.
+In a squib describing the bats and the voyage he says:
+&#8220;The voyage to America is the Via Dolorosa of the
+emigrant; and the Port of Beirut, the verminous
+hostelries of Marseilles, the Island of Ellis in New
+York, are the three stations thereof. And if your hopes
+are not crucified at the third and last station, you pass
+into the Paradise of your dreams. If they are crucified,
+alas! The gates of the said Paradise will be shut
+against you; the doors of the hostelries will be slammed
+in your face; and with a consolation and a vengeance
+you will throw yourself at the feet of the sea in whose
+bosom some charitable Jonah will carry you to your
+native strands.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And when the emigrant has a surplus of gold, when
+his capital is such as can not be dissipated on a suit of
+shoddy, a fortnight&#8217;s lodging, and a passage across the
+Atlantic, the ingenious ones proceed with the Fourth
+Act of <i>Open Thy Purse</i>. &#8220;Instead of starting in
+New York as a peddler,&#8221; they say, unfolding before
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30' name='page_30'></a>30</span>
+him one of their alluring schemes, &#8220;why not do so
+as a merchant?&#8221; And the emigrant opens his purse
+for the fourth time in the office of some French manufacturer,
+where he purchases a few boxes of trinketry,&ndash;&ndash;scapulars,
+prayer-beads, crosses, jewelry, gewgaws,
+and such like,&ndash;&ndash;all said to be made in the Holy
+Land. These he brings over with him as his stock in
+trade.</p>
+<p>Now, Khalid and Shakib, after passing a fortnight
+in Marseilles, and going through the Fourth Act of
+the Sorry Show, find their dignity as merchants rudely
+crushed beneath the hatches of the Atlantic steamer.
+For here, even the pleasure of sleeping on deck is
+denied them. The Atlantic Ocean would not permit
+of it. Indeed, everybody has to slide into their stivy
+bunks to save themselves from its rising wrath. A
+fortnight of such unutterable misery is quite supportable,
+however, if one continues to cherish the Paradise
+already mentioned. But in this dark, dingy
+smelling hole of the steerage, even the poets cease to
+dream. The boatmen of Beirut and the sharpers of
+Marseilles we could forget; but in this grave among
+a hundred and more of its kind, set over and across
+each other, neither the lute nor the little that remained
+in that Ksarah bottle, could bring us any solace.</p>
+<p>We are told that Khalid took up his lute but once
+throughout the voyage. And this when they were
+permitted one night to sleep on deck. We are also
+informed that Khalid had a remarkable dream, which,
+to our Scribe at least, is not meaningless. And who
+of us, thou silly Scribe, did not in his boyhood tell his
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31' name='page_31'></a>31</span>
+dreams to his mother, who would turn them in her
+interpretation inside out? But Khalid, we are
+assured, continued to cherish the belief, even in
+his riper days, that when you dream you are in Jannat,
+for instance, you must be prepared to go through
+Juhannam the following day. A method of interpretation
+as ancient as Joseph, to be sure. But we quote
+the dream to show that Khalid should not have followed
+the setting sun. He should have turned his
+face toward the desert.</p>
+<p>They slept on deck that night. They drank the
+wine of the Jesuits, repeated, to the mellow strains of
+the lute, the song of the bulbuls, intoned the verses of
+Al-Mutanabbi, and, wrapping themselves in their
+rugs, fell asleep. But in the morning they were
+rudely jostled from their dreams by a spurt from the
+hose of the sailors washing the deck. Complaining
+not, they straggle down to their bunks to change their
+clothes. And Khalid, as he is doing this, implores
+Shakib not to mention to him any more that New-World
+paradise. &#8220;For I have dreamt last night,&#8221;
+he continues, &#8220;that, in the multicoloured robes of
+an Arab amir, on a caparisoned dromedary, at the
+head of an immense multitude of people, I was riding
+through the desert. Whereto and wherefrom, I know
+not. But those who followed me seemed to know;
+for they cried, &#8216;Long have we waited for thee, now
+we shall enter in peace.&#8217; And at every oasis we
+passed, the people came to the gate to meet us, and,
+prostrating themselves before me, kissed the fringe of
+my garment. Even the women would touch my boots
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32' name='page_32'></a>32</span>
+and kiss their hands, exclaiming, &#8216;<i>Allahu akbar!</i>&#8217;
+And the palm trees, billah! I could see bending
+towards us that we might eat of their fruits, and the
+springs seemed to flow with us into the desert that we
+might never thirst. Ay, thus in triumph we marched
+from one camp to another, from one oasis to the next,
+until we reached the City on the Hills of the Cedar
+Groves. Outside the gate, we were met by the most
+beautiful of its tawny women, and four of these surrounded
+my camel and took the reins from my hand.
+I was then escorted through the gates, into the City,
+up to the citadel, where I was awaited by their Princess.
+And she, taking a necklace of cowries from a bag
+that hung on her breast, placed it on my head, saying,
+&#8216;I crown thee King of&ndash;&ndash;&#8217; But I could not
+hear the rest, which was drowned by the cheering of
+the multitudes. And the cheering, O Shakib, was
+drowned by the hose of the sailors. Oh, that hose! Is
+it not made in the paradise you harp upon, the paradise
+we are coming to? Never, therefore, mention
+it to me more.&#8221;</p>
+<p>This is the dream, at once simple and symbolic,
+which begins to worry Khalid. &#8220;For in the evening
+of the day he related it to me,&#8221; writes Shakib, &#8220;I
+found him sitting on the edge of his bunk brooding
+over I know not what. It was the first time he had
+the blues. Nay, it was the first time he looked pensive
+and profound. And upon asking him the reason
+for this, he said, &#8216;I am thinking of the paper-boats
+which I used to sail down the stream in Baalbek, and
+that makes me <ins class="trchange" title="Added closing double-quote">sad.&#8217;&#8221;</ins>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33' name='page_33'></a>33</span></p>
+<p>How strange! And yet, this first event recorded by
+our Scribe, in which Khalid is seen struggling with
+the mysterious and unknown, is most significant.
+Another instance, showing a latent phase, hitherto dormant,
+in his character, we note. Among the steerage
+passengers is a Syrian girl who much resembles his
+cousin Najma. She was sea-sick throughout the voyage,
+and when she comes out to breathe of the fresh
+air, a few hours before they enter the harbour of New
+York, Khalid sees her, and Shakib swears that he saw
+a tear in Khalid&#8217;s eye as he stood there gazing upon
+her. Poor Khalid! For though we are approaching
+the last station of the Via Dolorosa, though we are
+nearing the enchanted domes of the wonder-working,
+wealth-worshipping City, he is inexplicably sad.</p>
+<p>And Shakib, directly after swearing that he saw a
+tear in his eye, writes the following: &#8220;Up to this time
+I observed in my friend only the dominating traits of
+a hard-headed, hard-hearted boy, stubborn, impetuous,
+intractable. But from the time he related to me his
+dream, a change in his character was become manifest.
+In fact a new phase was being gradually unfolded.
+Three things I must emphasise in this connection:
+namely, the first dream he dreamt in a foreign land, the
+first time he looked pensive and profound, and the first
+tear he shed before we entered New York. These are
+keys to the secret chamber of one&#8217;s soul.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And now, that the doors, by virtue of our Scribe&#8217;s
+open-sesames, are thrown open, we enter, <i>bismillah</i>.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34' name='page_34'></a>34</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_WHARF_OF_ENCHANTMENT' id='CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_WHARF_OF_ENCHANTMENT'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2>
+<h3>ON THE WHARF OF ENCHANTMENT</h3>
+</div>
+<p>Not in our make-up, to be sure,&ndash;&ndash;not in the pose
+which is preceded by the tantaras of a trumpet,&ndash;&ndash;do
+the essential traits in our character first reveal
+themselves. But truly in the little things the real self
+is exteriorised. Shakib observes closely the rapid
+changes in his co-adventurer&#8217;s humour, the shadowy
+traits which at that time he little understood. And
+now, by applying his palm to his front, he illumines
+those chambers of which he speaks, and also the niches
+therein. He helps us to understand the insignificant
+points which mark the rapid undercurrents of the seemingly
+sluggish soul of Khalid. Not in vain, therefore,
+does he crystallise for us that first tear he shed in the
+harbour of Manhattan. But his gush about the recondite
+beauty of this pearl of melancholy, shall not be
+intended upon the gustatory nerves of the Reader.
+This then we note&ndash;&ndash;his description of New York harbour.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And is this the gate of Paradise,&#8221; he asks, &#8220;or
+the port of some subterrestrial city guarded by the
+Jinn? What a marvel of enchantment is everything
+around us! What manifestations of industrial
+strength, what monstrosities of wealth and power, are
+here! These vessels proudly putting to sea; these tenders
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35' name='page_35'></a>35</span>
+scurrying to meet the Atlantic greyhound which
+is majestically moving up the bay; these barges loading
+and unloading schooners from every strand, distant
+and near; these huge lighters carrying even railroads
+over the water; these fire-boats scudding
+through the harbour shrilling their sirens; these careworn,
+grim, strenuous multitudes ferried across from
+one enchanted shore to another; these giant structures
+tickling heaven&#8217;s sides; these cable bridges, spanning
+rivers, uniting cities; and this superterrestrial goddess,
+torch in hand&ndash;&ndash;wake up, Khalid, and behold these
+wonders. Salaam, this enchanted City! There is the
+Brooklyn Bridge, and here is the Statue of Liberty
+which people speak of, and which are as famous as
+the Cedars of Lebanon.&#8221;</p>
+<p>But Khalid is as impassive as the bronze goddess
+herself. He leans over the rail, his hand supporting
+his cheek, and gazes into the ooze. The stolidity of
+his expression is appalling. With his mouth open as
+usual, his lips relaxed, his tongue sticking out through
+the set teeth,&ndash;&ndash;he looks as if his head were in a noose.
+But suddenly he braces up, runs down for his lute, and
+begins to serenade&ndash;&ndash;Greater New York?</p>
+<div class="poem">
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">&#8220;</span>On thee be Allah&#8217;s grace,<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Who hath the well-loved face!&#8221;</span><br /></p>
+</div>
+<p>No; not toward this City does his heart flap its
+wings of song. He is on another sea, in another harbour.
+Indeed, what are these wonders as compared
+with those of the City of Love? The Statue of
+Eros there is more imposing than the Statue of
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36' name='page_36'></a>36</span>
+Liberty here. And the bridges are not of iron and
+concrete, but of rainbows and&ndash;&ndash;moonshine! Indeed,
+both these lads are now on the wharf of enchantment;
+the one on the palpable, the sensuous, the other on the
+impalpable and unseen. But both, alas, are suddenly,
+but temporarily, disenchanted as they are jostled out of
+the steamer into the barge which brings them to the
+Juhannam of Ellis Island. Here, the unhappy children
+of the steerage are dumped into the Bureau of
+Emigration as&ndash;&ndash;such stuff! For even in the land of
+equal rights and freedom, we have a right to expect
+from others the courtesy and decency which we ourselves
+do not have to show, or do not know.</p>
+<p>These are sturdy and adventurous foreigners whom
+the grumpy officers jostle and hustle about. For
+neither poverty, nor oppression, nor both together can
+drive a man out of his country, unless the soul within
+him awaken. Indeed, many a misventurous cowering
+peasant continues to live on bread and olives in
+his little village, chained in the fear of dying of hunger
+in a foreign land. Only the brave and daring
+spirits hearken to the voice of discontent within them.
+They give themselves up to the higher aspirations of
+the soul, no matter how limited such aspirations might
+be, regardless of the dangers and hardship of a long
+sea voyage, and the precariousness of their plans and
+hopes. There may be nothing noble in renouncing
+one&#8217;s country, in abandoning one&#8217;s home, in forsaking
+one&#8217;s people; but is there not something remarkable in
+this great move one makes? Whether for better or
+for worse, does not the emigrant place himself above
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37' name='page_37'></a>37</span>
+his country, his people and his Government, when he
+turns away from them, when he goes forth propelled
+by that inner self which demands of him a new life?</p>
+<p>And might it not be a better, a cleaner, a higher
+life? What say our Masters of the Island of Ellis?
+Are not these straggling, smelling, downcast emigrants
+almost as clean inwardly, and as pure, as the
+grumpy officers who harass and humiliate them? Is
+not that spirit of discontent which they cherish, and
+for which they carry the cross, so to speak, across the
+sea, deserving of a little consideration, a little civility,
+a little kindness?</p>
+<p>Even louder than this Shakib cries out, while Khalid
+open-mouthed sucks his tongue. Here at the last station,
+where the odours of disinfectants are worse than
+the stench of the steerage, they await behind the bars
+their turn; stived with Italian and Hungarian fellow
+sufferers, uttering such whimpers of expectancy, exchanging
+such gestures of hope. Soon they shall be
+brought forward to be examined by the doctor and the
+interpreting officer; the one shall pry their purses, the
+other their eyes. For in this United States of
+America we want clear-sighted citizens at least. And
+no cold-purses, if the matter can be helped. But
+neither the eyes, alas, nor the purses of our two emigrants
+are conformable to the Law; the former are
+filled with granulations of trachoma, the latter have
+been emptied by the sharpers of Marseilles. Which
+means that they shall be detained for the present; and
+if within a fortnight nothing turns up in their favour,
+they shall certainly be deported.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38' name='page_38'></a>38</span></p>
+<p>Trachoma! a little granulation on the inner surface
+of the eyelids, what additional misery does it bring
+upon the poor deported emigrant? We are asked to
+shed a tear for him, to weep with him over his blasted
+hopes, his strangled aspirations, his estate in the mother
+country sold or mortgaged,&ndash;&ndash;in either case lost,&ndash;&ndash;and
+his seed of a new life crushed in its cotyledon by
+the physician who might be short-sighted himself, or
+even blind. But the law must be enforced for the
+sake of the clear-sighted citizens of the Republic. We
+will have nothing to do with these poor blear-eyed foreigners.</p>
+<p>And thus our grievous Scribe would continue, if we
+did not exercise the prerogative of our Editorial Divan.
+Rather let us pursue our narration. Khalid is now in
+the hospital, awaiting further development in his case.
+But in Shakib&#8217;s, whose eyes are far gone in trachoma,
+the decision of the Board of Emigration is final, irrevokable.
+And so, after being detained a week in the
+Emigration pen, the unfortunate Syrian must turn
+his face again toward the East. Not out into the
+City, but out upon the sea, he shall be turned adrift.
+The grumpy officer shall grumpishly enforce the decision
+of the Board by handing our Scribe to the Captain
+of the first steamer returning to Europe&ndash;&ndash;if our
+Scribe can be found! For this flyaway son of a
+Ph&oelig;nician did not seem to wait for the decision of the
+polyglot Judges of the Emigration Board.</p>
+<p>And that he did escape, we are assured. For one
+morning he eludes the grumpy officer, and sidles out
+among his Italian neighbours who were permitted to
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39' name='page_39'></a>39</span>
+land. See him genuflecting now, to kiss the <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'curb-stone' across lines">curbstone</ins>
+and thank Allah that he is free. But before he
+can enjoy his freedom, before he can sit down and
+chuckle over the success of his escapade, he must bethink
+him of Khalid. He will not leave him to the
+mercy of the honourable Agents of the Law, if he can
+help it. Trachoma, he knows, is a hard case to cure.
+And in ten days, under the care of the doctors, it
+might become worse. Straightway, therefore, he puts
+himself to the dark task. A few visits to the Hospital
+where Khalid is detained&ndash;&ndash;the patients in those days
+were not held at Ellis Island&ndash;&ndash;and the intrigue is
+afoot. On the third or fourth visit, we can not make
+out which, a note in Arabic is slipt into Khalid&#8217;s
+pocket, and with a significant Arabic sign, Shakib takes
+himself off.</p>
+<p>The evening of that very day, the trachoma-afflicted
+Syrian was absent from the ward. He was
+carried off by Iblis,&ndash;&ndash;the porter and a few Greenbacks
+assisting. Yes, even Shakib, who knew only
+a few English monosyllables, could here make himself
+understood. For money is one of the two universal
+languages of the world, the other being love.
+Indeed, money and love are as eloquent in Turkey and
+Dahomey as they are in Paris or New York.</p>
+<p>And here we reach one of those hedges in the
+<i>Histoire Intime</i> which we must go through in spite of
+the warning-signs. Between two paragraphs, to be
+plain, in the one of which we are told how the two
+Syrians established themselves as merchants in New
+York, in the other, how and wherefor they shouldered
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40' name='page_40'></a>40</span>
+the peddling-box and took to the road, there is a
+crossed paragraph containing a most significant revelation.
+It seems that after giving the matter some
+serious thought, our Scribe came to the conclusion that
+it is not proper to incriminate his illustrious Master.
+But here is a confession which a hundred crosses can
+not efface. And if he did not want to bring the matter
+to our immediate cognisance, why, we ask, did he
+not re-write the page? Why did he not cover well
+that said paragraph with crosses and arabesques? We
+do suspect him here of chicanery; for by this plausible
+recantation he would shift the responsibility to the
+shoulders of the Editor, if the secret is divulged.
+Be this as it may, no red crosses can conceal from us
+the astounding confession, which we now give out.
+For the two young Syrians, who were smuggled out
+of their country by the boatmen of Beirut, and who
+smuggled themselves into the city of New York (we
+beg the critic&#8217;s pardon; for, being foreigners ourselves,
+we ought to be permitted to stretch this term, smuggle,
+to cover an Arabic metaphor, or to smuggle into it a
+foreign meaning), these two Syrians, we say, became,
+in their capacity of merchants, smugglers of the most
+ingenious and most evasive type.</p>
+<p>We now note the following, which pertains to their
+business. We learn that they settled in the Syrian
+Quarter directly after clearing their merchandise.
+And before they entered their cellar, we are assured,
+they washed their hands of all intrigues and were
+shrived of their sins by the Maronite priest of the Colony.
+For they were pious in those days, and right
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41' name='page_41'></a>41</span>
+Catholics. &#8217;Tis further set down in the <i>Histoire Intime</i>:</p>
+<p>&#8220;We rented a cellar, as deep and dark and damp as
+could be found. And our landlord was a Teague,
+nay, a kind-hearted old Irishman, who helped us put
+up the shelves, and never called for the rent in the
+dawn of the first day of the month. In the front
+part of this cellar we had our shop; in the rear, our
+home. On the floor we laid our mattresses, on the
+shelves, our goods. And never did we stop to think
+who in this case was better off. The safety of our
+merchandise before our own. But ten days after we
+had settled down, the water issued forth from the floor
+and inundated our shop and home. It rose so high
+that it destroyed half of our capital stock and almost
+all our furniture. And yet, we continued to live in
+the cellar, because, perhaps, every one of our compatriot-merchants
+did so. We were all alike subject to
+these inundations in the winter season. I remember
+when the water first rose in our store, Khalid was so
+hard set and in such a pucker that he ran out capless
+and in his shirt sleeves to discover in the next street
+the source of the flood. And one day, when we were
+pumping out the water he asked me if I thought
+this was easier than rolling our roofs in Baalbek.
+For truly, the paving-roller is child&#8217;s play to this
+pump. And a leaky roof is better than an inundated
+cellar.&#8221;</p>
+<p>However, this is not the time for brooding. They
+have to pump ahead to save what remained of their
+capital stock. But Khalid, nevertheless, would brood
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42' name='page_42'></a>42</span>
+and jabber. And what an inundation of ideas, and
+what questions!</p>
+<p>&#8220;Think you,&#8221; he asks, &#8220;that the inhabitants of this
+New World are better off than those of the Old?&ndash;&ndash;Can
+you imagine mankind living in a huge cellar of a
+world and you and I pumping the water out of its bottom?&ndash;&ndash;I
+can see the palaces on which you waste your
+rhymes, but mankind live in them only in the flesh.
+The soul I tell you, still occupies the basement, even
+the sub-cellar. And an inundated cellar at that.
+The soul, Shakib, is kept below, although the high
+places are vacant.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And his partner sputters out his despair; for instead
+of helping to pump out the water, Khalid stands
+there gazing into it, as if by some miracle he would
+draw it out with his eyes or with his breath. And the
+poor Poet cries out, &#8220;Pump! the water is gaining
+on us, and our shop is going to ruin. Pump!&#8221;
+Whereupon the lazy, absent-minded one resumes
+pumping, while yearning all the while for the plashing
+stone-rollers and the purling eaves of his home in
+Baalbek. And once in a pinch,&ndash;&ndash;they are labouring
+under a peltering rain,&ndash;&ndash;he stops as is his wont to
+remind Shakib of the Arabic saying, &#8220;From the
+dripping ceiling to the running gargoyle.&#8221; He is
+labouring again under a hurricane of ideas. And
+again he asks, &#8220;Are you sure we are better off here?&#8221;</p>
+<p>And our poor Scribe, knee-deep in the water below,
+blusters out curses, which Khalid heeds not. &#8220;I am
+tired of this job,&#8221; he growls; &#8220;the stone-roller never
+drew so much on my strength, nor did muleteering.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43' name='page_43'></a>43</span>
+Ah, for my dripping ceiling again, for are we not now
+under the running gargoyle?&#8221; And he reverts into a
+stupor, leaving the world to the poet and the pump.</p>
+<p>For five years and more they lead such a life in the
+cellar. And they do not move out of it, lest they excite
+the envy of their compatriots. But instead of
+sleeping on the floor, they stretch themselves on the
+counters. The rising tide teaches them this little
+wisdom, which keeps the doctor and Izr&auml;il away.
+Their merchandise, however,&ndash;&ndash;their crosses, and
+scapulars and prayer-beads,&ndash;&ndash;are beyond hope of recovery.
+For what the rising tide spares, the rascally
+flyaway peddlers carry away. That is why they
+themselves shoulder the box and take to the road.
+And the pious old dames of the suburbs, we are told,
+receive them with such exclamations of joy and wonder,
+and almost tear their coats to get from them a
+sacred token. For you must remember, they are from
+the Holy Land. Unlike their goods, they at least are
+genuine. And every Saturday night, after beating the
+hoof in the country and making such fabulous profits
+on their false Holy-Land gewgaws, they return to
+their cellar happy and content.</p>
+<p>&#8220;In three years,&#8221; writes our Scribe, &#8220;Khalid and
+I acquired what I still consider a handsome fortune.
+Each of us had a bank account, and a check book
+which we seldom used.... In spite of which, we
+continued to shoulder the peddling box and tramp
+along.... And Khalid would say to me, &#8216;A
+peddler is superior to a merchant; we travel and earn
+money; our compatriots the merchants rust in their
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44' name='page_44'></a>44</span>
+cellars and lose it.&#8217; To be sure, peddling in the
+good old days was most attractive. For the exercise,
+the gain, the experience&ndash;&ndash;these are rich acquirements.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And both Shakib and Khalid, we apprehend, have
+been hitherto most moderate in their habits. The fact
+that they seldom use their check books, testifies to
+this. They have now a peddleress, Im-Hanna by
+name, who occupies their cellar in their absence, and
+keeps what little they have in order. And when they
+return every Saturday night from their peddling trip,
+they find the old woman as ready to serve them as a
+mother. She cooks <i>mojadderah</i> for them, and sews
+the bed-linen on the quilts as is done in the mother
+country.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The linen,&#8221; says Shakib, &#8220;was always as white as
+a dove&#8217;s wing, when Im-Hanna was with us.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And in the Khedivial Library Manuscript we find
+this curious note upon that popular Syrian dish of
+lentils and olive oil.</p>
+<p>&#8220;<i>Mojadderah</i>,&#8221; writes Khalid, &#8220;has a marvellous
+effect upon my humour and nerves. There are certain
+dishes, I confess, which give me the blues. Of
+these, fried eggplants and cabbage boiled with corn-beef
+on the American system of boiling, that is to say,
+cooking, I abominate the most. But <i>mojadderah</i> has
+such a soothing effect on the nerves; it conduces to
+cheerfulness, especially when the raw onion or the
+leek is taken with it. After a good round pewter
+platter of this delicious dish and a dozen leeks, I feel
+as if I could do the work of all mankind. And I am
+then in such a beatific state of mind that I would share
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45' name='page_45'></a>45</span>
+with all mankind my sack of lentils and my pipkin of
+olive oil. I wonder not at Esau&#8217;s extravagance, when
+he saw a steaming mess of it. For what is a birthright
+in comparison?&#8221;</p>
+<p>That Shakib also shared this beatific mood, the
+following quaint picture of their Saturday nights in
+the cellar, will show.</p>
+<p>&#8220;A bank account,&#8221; he writes, &#8220;a good round dish
+of <i>mojadderah</i>, the lute for Khalid, Al-Mutanabbi for
+me,&ndash;&ndash;neither of us could forego his hobby,&ndash;&ndash;and Im-Hanna,
+affectionate, devoted as our mothers,&ndash;&ndash;these
+were the joys of our Saturday nights in our underground
+diggings. We were absolutely happy. And
+we never tried to measure our happiness in those days,
+or gauge it, or flay it to see if it be dead or alive, false
+or real. Ah, the blessedness of that supreme unconsciousness
+which wrapped us as a mother would her
+babe, warming and caressing our hearts. We did not
+know then that happiness was a thing to be sought.
+We only knew that peddling is a pleasure, that a bank
+account is a supreme joy, that a dish of <i>mojadderah</i>
+cooked by Im-Hanna is a royal delight, that our dour
+dark cellar is a palace of its kind, and that happiness,
+like a bride, issues from all these, and, touching the
+strings of Khalid&#8217;s lute, mantles us with song.&#8221;</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46' name='page_46'></a>46</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_V_THE_CELLAR_OF_THE_SOUL' id='CHAPTER_V_THE_CELLAR_OF_THE_SOUL'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>
+<h3>THE CELLAR OF THE SOUL</h3>
+</div>
+<p>Heretofore, Khalid and Shakib have been
+inseparable as the Pointers. They always appeared
+together, went the rounds of their peddling
+orbit together, and together were subject to the same
+conditions and restraints. Which restraints are a sort
+of sacrifice they make on the altar of friendship. One,
+for instance, would never permit himself an advantage
+which the other could not enjoy, or a pleasure in
+which the other could not share. They even slept
+under the same blanket, we learn, ate from the same
+plate, puffed at the same narghilah, which Shakib
+brought with him from Baalbek, and collaborated in
+writing to one lady-love! A condition of unexampled
+friendship this, of complete oneness. They had both
+cut themselves garments from the same cloth, as the
+Arabic saying goes. And on Sunday afternoon, in
+garments spick and span, they would take the air in
+Battery Park, where the one would invoke the Statue
+of Liberty for a thought, or the gilded domes of Broadway
+for a metaphor, while the other would be scouring
+the horizon for the Nothingness, which is called,
+in the recondite cant of the sophisticated, a vague
+something.</p>
+<p>In the Khedivial Library MS. we find nothing
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47' name='page_47'></a>47</span>
+which this Battery Park might have inspired. And
+yet, we can not believe that Khalid here was only attracted
+by that vague something which, in his spiritual
+enceinteship, he seemed to relish. Nothing? Not
+even the does and kangaroos that adorn the Park distracted
+or detained him? We doubt it; and Khalid&#8217;s
+lute sustains us in our doubt. Ay, and so does our
+Scribe; for in his <i>Histoire Intime</i> we read the following,
+which we faithfully transcribe.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Of the many attractions of Battery Park, the girls
+and the sea were my favourite. For the girls in a
+crowd have for me a fascination which only the girls at
+the bath can surpass. I love to lose myself in a
+crowd, to buffet, so to speak, its waves, to nestle under
+their feathery crests. For the rolling waves of
+life, the tumbling waves of the sea, and the fiery waves
+of Al-Mutanabbi&#8217;s poetry have always been my delight.
+In Battery Park I took especial pleasure in
+reading aloud my verses to Khalid, or in fact to the
+sea, for Khalid never would listen.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Once I composed a few stanzas to the Milkmaid
+who stood in her wagon near the lawn, rattling out
+milk-punches to the boys. A winsome lass she was,
+fresh in her sororiation, with fair blue eyes, a celestial
+flow of auburn hair, and cheeks that suggested the
+milk and cherry in the glass she rattled out to me. I
+was reading aloud the stanzas which she inspired,
+when Khalid, who was not listening, pointed out to me
+a woman whose figure and the curves thereof were
+remarkable. &#8216;Is it not strange,&#8217; said he, &#8216;how the
+women here indraw their stomachs and outdraw their
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48' name='page_48'></a>48</span>
+hips? And is not this the opposite of the shape which
+our women cultivate?&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Yes, with the Lebanon women, the convex curve
+beneath the waist is frontward, not hindward. But
+that is a matter of taste, I thought, and man is partly
+responsible for either convexity. I have often wondered,
+however, why the women of my country cultivate
+that shape. And why do they in America cultivate
+the reverse of it? Needless to say that both are
+pruriently titillating,&ndash;&ndash;both distentions are damnably
+suggestive, quite killing. The American woman,
+from a fine sense of modesty, I am told, never or seldom
+ventures abroad, when big with child. But in
+the kangaroo figure, the burden is slightly shifted and
+naught is amiss. Ah, such haunches as are here exhibited
+suggest the <i>aliats</i> of our Asiatic sheep.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And what he says about the pruriently titillating
+convexities, whether frontward or hindward, suggests
+a little prudery. For in his rhymes he betrays both his
+comrade and himself. Battery Park and the attractions
+thereof prove fatal. Elsewhere, therefore, they
+must go, and begin to draw on their bank accounts.
+Which does not mean, however, that they are far
+from the snare. No; for when a young man begins to
+suffer from what the doctors call hebephrenia, the farther
+he draws away from such snares the nearer he
+gets to them. And these lusty Syrians could not repel
+the magnetic attraction of the polypiosis of what Shakib
+likens to the <i>aliat</i> (fattail) of our Asiatic sheep.
+Surely, there be more devils under such an <i>aliat</i> than
+under the hat of a Jesuit. And Khalid is the first
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49' name='page_49'></a>49</span>
+to discover this. Both have been ensnared, however,
+and both, when in the snare, have been infernally inspired.
+What Khalid wrote, when he was under the
+influence of feminine curves, was preserved by Shakib,
+who remarks that one evening, after returning from
+the Park, Khalid said to him, &#8216;I am going to write a
+poem.&#8217; A fortnight later, he hands him the following,
+which he jealously kept among his papers.</p>
+<div class="poem">
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'>
+<span class="hang">I dreamt I was a donkey-boy again.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">Out on the sun-swept roads of Baalbek, I tramp behind my burro, trolling my <i>mulayiah</i>.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">At noon, I pass by a garden redolent of mystic scents and tarry awhile.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">Under an orange tree, on the soft green grass, I stretch my limbs.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">The daisies, the anemones, and the cyclamens are round me pressing:<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">The anemone buds hold out to me their precious rubies; the daisies kiss me in the eyes and lips; and the cyclamens shake their powder in my hair.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">On the wall, the roses are nodding, smiling; above me the orange blossoms surrender themselves to the wooing breeze; and on yonder rock the salamander sits, complacent and serene.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">I take a daisy, and, boy as boys go, question its petals:<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">Married man or monk, I ask, plucking them off one by one,<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">And the last petal says, Monk.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">I perfume my fingers with crumpled cyclamens, cover my face with the dark-eyed anemones, and fall asleep.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">And my burro sleeps beneath the wall, in the shadow of nodding roses.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">And the black-birds too are dozing, and the bulbuls flitting by whisper with their wings, &#8216;salaam.&#8217;<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">Peace and salaam!<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">The bulbul, the black-bird, the salamander, the burro, and the burro-boy, are to each other shades of noon-day sun:<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">Happy, loving, generous, and free;&ndash;&ndash;<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">As happy as each other, and as free.<br /></span>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor' style="text-indent:0em"><a id='page_50' name='page_50'></a>50</span>
+<span class="hang">We do what we please in Nature&#8217;s realm, go where we please;<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">No one&#8217;s offended, no one ever wronged.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">No sentinels hath Nature, no police.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">But lo, a goblin as I sleep comes forth;&ndash;&ndash;<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">A goblin taller than the tallest poplar, who carries me upon his neck to the Park in far New York.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">Here women, light-heeled, heavy-haunched, pace up and down the flags in graceful gait.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">My roses these, I cry, and my orange blossoms.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">But the goblin placed his hand upon my mouth, and I was dumb.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">The cyclamens, the anemones, the daisies, I saw them, but I could not speak to them.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">The goblin placed his hand upon my mouth, and I was dumb.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">O take me back to my own groves, I cried, or let me speak.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">But he threw me off his shoulders in a huff, among the daisies and the cyclamens.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">Alone among them, but I could not speak.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">He had tied my tongue, the goblin, and left me there alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">And in front of me, and towards me, and beside me,<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">Walked Allah&#8217;s fairest cyclamens and anemones.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">I smell them, and the tears flow down my cheeks;<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">I can not even like the noon-day bulbul<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">Whisper with my wings, salaam!<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">I sit me on a bench and weep.<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">And in my heart I sing<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">O, let me be a burro-boy again;<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">O, let me sleep among the cyclamens<br /></span>
+<span class="hang">Of my own land.<br /></span>
+</p>
+</div>
+<p>Shades of Whitman! But Whitman, thou Donkey,
+never weeps. Whitman, if that goblin tried to silence
+him, would have wrung his neck, after he had ridden
+upon it. The above, nevertheless, deserves the space
+we give it here, as it shadows forth one of the essential
+elements of Khalid&#8217;s spiritual make-up. But this
+slight symptom of that disease we named, this morbidness
+incident to adolescence, is eventually overcome by
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51' name='page_51'></a>51</span>
+a dictionary and a grammar. Ay, Khalid henceforth
+shall cease to scour the horizon for that vague something
+of his dreams; he has become far-sighted enough
+by the process to see the necessity of pursuing in
+America something more spiritual than peddling
+crosses and scapulars. Especially in this America,
+where the alphabet is spread broadcast, and free of
+charge. And so, he sets himself to the task of self-education.
+He feels the embryo stir within him, and
+in the squeamishness of enceinteship, he asks but for a
+few of the fruits of knowledge. Ah, but he becomes
+voracious of a sudden, and the little pocket dictionary
+is devoured entirely in three sittings. Hence his folly
+of treating his thoughts and fancies, as he was treated
+by the goblin. For do not words often rob a fancy of
+its tongue, or a thought of its soul? Many of the
+pieces Khalid wrote when he was devouring dictionaries
+were finally disposed of in a most picturesque
+manner, as we shall relate. And a few were given to
+Shakib, of which that Dream of Cyclamens was preserved.</p>
+<p>And Khalid&#8217;s motto was, &#8220;One book at a time.&#8221;
+He would not encumber himself with books any more
+than he would with shoes. But that the mind might
+not go barefoot, he always bought a new book before
+destroying the one in hand. Destroying? Yes; for
+after reading or studying a book, he warms his hands
+upon its flames, this Khalid, or makes it serve to cook
+a pot of <i>mojadderah</i>. In this extraordinary and outrageous
+manner, barbarously capricious, he would baptise
+the ideal in the fire of the real. And thus, glowing
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52' name='page_52'></a>52</span>
+with health and confidence and conceit, he enters
+another Park from which he escapes in the end, sad
+and wan and bankrupt. Of a truth, many attractions
+and distractions are here; else he could not forget the
+peddling-box and the light-heeled, heavy-haunched
+women of Battery Park. Here are swings for the
+mind; toboggan-chutes for the soul; merry-go-rounds
+for the fancy; and many devious and alluring paths
+where one can lose himself for years. A sanitarium
+this for the hebephreniac. And like all sanitariums,
+you go into it with one disease and come out of it with
+ten. Had Shakib been forewarned of Khalid&#8217;s mind,
+had he even seen him at the gate before he entered, he
+would have given him a few hints about the cross-signs
+and barbed-cordons therein. But should he not
+have divined that Khalid soon or late was coming?
+Did <i>he</i> not call enough to him, and aloud? &#8220;Get
+thee behind me on this dromedary,&#8221; our Scribe, reading
+his Al-Mutanabbi, would often say to his comrade,
+&#8220;and come from this desert of barren gold, if but
+for a day,&ndash;&ndash;come out with me to the oasis of poesy.&#8221;</p>
+<p>But Khalid would only ride alone. And so,
+he begins his course of self-education. But how
+he shall manage it, in this cart-before-the-horse
+fashion, the reader shall know. Words before rules,
+ideas before systems, epigrams before texts,&ndash;&ndash;that is
+Khalid&#8217;s fancy. And that seems feasible, though not
+logical; it will prove effectual, too, if one finally
+brushed the text and glanced at the rules. For an
+epigram, when it takes possession of one, goes farther
+in influencing his thoughts and actions than whole
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53' name='page_53'></a>53</span>
+tomes of ethical culture science. You know perhaps
+how the Arabs conquered the best half of the world
+with an epigram, a word. And Khalid loves a fine-sounding,
+easy-flowing word; a word of supple joints,
+so to speak; a word that you can twist and roll out,
+flexible as a bamboo switch, resilient as a fine steel
+rapier. But once Shakib, after reading one of Khalid&#8217;s
+first attempts, gets up in the night when his
+friend is asleep, takes from the bottom drawer of the
+peddling-box the evil-working dictionary, and places
+therein a grammar. This touch of delicacy, this fine
+piece of criticism, brief and neat, without words
+withal, Khalid this time is not slow to grasp and
+appreciate. He plunges, therefore, headlong into the
+grammar, turns a few somersaults in the mazes of
+Sibawai and Naftawai, and coming out with a broken
+noddle, writes on the door the following: &#8220;What do
+I care about your theories of nouns and verbs?
+Whether the one be derived from the other, concerns
+not me. But this I know, after stumbling once or
+twice in your labyrinths, one comes out parsing the
+verb, to run. Indeed, verbs are more essential than
+nouns and adjectives. A noun can be represented pictorially;
+but how, pictorially, can you represent a
+noun in motion,&ndash;&ndash;Khalid, for instance, running out of
+your labyrinths? Even an abstract state can be represented
+in a picture, but a transitive state never. The
+richest language, therefore, is not the one which can
+boast of a thousand names for the lion or two thousand
+for the camel, but the one whose verbs have a
+complete and perfect gamut of moods and tenses.&#8221;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54' name='page_54'></a>54</span></p>
+<p>That is why, although writing in Arabic, Khalid
+prefers English. For the Arabic verb is confined to
+three tenses, the primary ones only; and to break
+through any of these in any degree, requires such
+crowbars as only auxiliaries and other verbs can
+furnish. For this and many other reasons Khalid
+stops short in the mazes of Sibawai, runs out of them
+exasperated, depressed, and never for a long time after
+looks in that direction. He is now curious to know if
+the English language have its Sibawais and Naftawais.
+And so, he buys him a grammar, and there
+finds the way somewhat devious, too, but not enough
+to constitute a maze. The men who wrote these
+grammars must have had plenty of time to do a little
+useful work. They do not seem to have walked leisurely
+in flowing robes disserting a life-long dissertation
+on the origin and descent of a preposition. One
+day Shakib is amazed by finding the grammars page
+by page tacked on the walls of the cellar and Khalid
+pacing around leisurely lingering a moment before
+each page, as if he were in an art gallery. That is
+how he tackled his subject. And that is why he and
+Shakib begin to quarrel. The idea! That a fledgling
+should presume to pick flaws. To Shakib, who
+is textual to a hair, this is intolerable. And that state
+of oneness between them shall be subject hereafter to
+&#8220;the corrosive action of various unfriendly agents.&#8221;
+For Khalid, who has never yet been snaffled, turns
+restively from the bit which his friend, for his own
+sake, would put in his mouth. The rupture follows.
+The two for a while wend their way in opposite directions.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55' name='page_55'></a>55</span>
+Shakib still cherishing and cultivating his bank
+account, shoulders his peddling-box and jogs along with
+his inspiring demon, under whose auspices, he tells us,
+he continues to write verse and gull with his brummagems
+the pious dames of the suburbs. And Khalid
+sits on his peddling-box for hours pondering on the
+necessity of disposing of it somehow. For now he
+scarcely makes more than a few peddling-trips each
+month, and when he returns, he does not go to the
+bank to add to his balance, but to draw from it. That
+is why the accounts of the two Syrians do not fare
+alike; Shakib&#8217;s is gaining in weight, Khalid&#8217;s is wasting
+away.</p>
+<p>Yes, the strenuous spirit is a long time dead in
+Khalid. He is gradually reverting to the Oriental
+instinct. And when he is not loafing in Battery
+Park, carving his name on the bench, he is burrowing
+in the shelves of some second-hand book-shop
+or dreaming in the dome of some Broadway skyscraper.
+Does not this seem inevitable, however, considering
+the palingenetic burden within him? And is
+not loafing a necessary prelude to the travail?
+Khalid, of course, felt the necessity of this, not knowing
+the why and wherefor. And from the vast world
+of paper-bound souls, for he relished but pamphlets at
+the start&ndash;&ndash;they do not make much smoke in the fire,
+he would say&ndash;&ndash;from that vast world he could command
+the greatest of the great to help him support the
+loafing while. And as by a miracle, he came out of
+that chaos of contending spirits without a scratch.
+He enjoyed the belligerency of pamphleteers as an
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56' name='page_56'></a>56</span>
+American would enjoy a prize fight. But he sided
+with no one; he took from every one his best and consigned
+him to Im-Hanna&#8217;s kitchen. Torquemada
+could not have done better; but Khalid, it is hoped,
+will yet atone for his crimes.</p>
+<p>Monsieur Pascal, with whom he quarrels before he
+burns, had a particular influence upon him. He could
+not rest after reading his &#8220;Thoughts&#8221; until he read
+the Bible. And of the Prophets of the Old Testament
+he had an especial liking for Jeremiah and Isaiah.
+And once he bought a cheap print of Jeremiah which
+he tacked on the wall of his cellar. From the Khedivial
+Library MS. we give two excerpts relating to
+Pascal and this Prophet.</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>&#8220;O Monsieur Pascal,</p>
+<p>&#8220;I tried hard to hate and detest myself, as you advise, and
+I found that I could not by so doing love God. &#8217;Tis in
+loving the divine in Man, in me, in you, that we rise to
+the love of our Maker. And in giving your proofs of the
+true religion, you speak of the surprising measures of the
+Christian Faith, enjoining man to acknowledge himself vile,
+base, abominable, and obliging him at the same time to aspire
+towards a resemblance of his Maker. Now, I see in
+this a foreshadowing of the theory of evolution, nay a divine
+warrant for it. Nor is it the Christian religion alone which
+unfolds to man the twofold mystery of his nature; others
+are as dark and as bright on either side of the pole. And
+Philosophy conspiring with Biology will not consent to the
+apotheosis of Man, unless he wear on his breast a symbol of
+his tail.... <i>Au-revoir</i>, Monsieur Pascal, Remember
+me to St. Augustine.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;O Jeremiah,</p>
+<p>&#8220;Thy picture, sitting among the ruins of the City of Zion,
+appeals to my soul. Why, I know not. It may be because
+I myself once sat in that posture among the ruins of my native
+City of Baal. But the ruins did not grieve me as did
+the uncle who slammed the door in my face that night.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57' name='page_57'></a>57</span>
+True, I wept in the ruins, but not over them. Something
+else had punctured the bladderets of my tears. And who
+knows who punctured thine, O Jeremiah? Perhaps a daughter
+of Tamar had stuck a bodkin in thine eye, and in lamenting
+thine own fate&ndash;&ndash;Pardon me, O Jeremiah. Melikes not
+all these tears of thine. Nor did Zion and her children in
+Juhannam, I am sure.... Instead of a scroll in thy
+hand, I would have thee hold a harp. Since King David,
+Allah has not thought of endowing his prophets with musical
+talent. Why, think what an honest prophet could accomplish
+if his message were put into music. And withal,
+if he himself could sing it. Yes, our modern Jeremiahs
+should all take music lessons; for no matter how deep and
+poignant our sorrows, we can always rise from them, harp
+in hand, to an ecstasy, joyous and divine.&#8221;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Now, connect with this the following from the
+<i>Histoire Intime</i>, and you have the complete history of
+this Prophet in Khalid&#8217;s cellar. For Khalid himself
+never gives us the facts in the case. Our Scribe, however,
+comes not short in this.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The picture of the Prophet Jeremiah,&#8221; writes he,
+&#8220;Khalid hung on the wall, above his bed. And
+every night he would look up to it invokingly, muttering
+I know not what. One evening, while in this
+posture, he took up his lute and trolled a favourite
+ditty. For three days and three nights that picture
+hung on the wall. And on the morning of the fourth
+day&ndash;&ndash;it was a cold December morning, I remember&ndash;&ndash;he
+took it down and lighted the fire with it. The
+Pamphlet he had read a few days since, he also threw
+into the fire, and thereupon called to me saying, &#8216;Come,
+Shakib, and warm yourself.&#8217;&#8221;</p>
+<p>And the Pamphlet, we learn, which was thus baptised
+in the same fire with the Prophet&#8217;s picture, was
+Tom Paine&#8217;s <i>Age of Reason</i>.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58' name='page_58'></a>58</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_VI_THE_SUMMER_AFTERNOON_OF_A_SHAM' id='CHAPTER_VI_THE_SUMMER_AFTERNOON_OF_A_SHAM'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2>
+<h3>THE SUMMER AFTERNOON OF A SHAM</h3>
+</div>
+<p>For two years and more Khalid&#8217;s young mind
+went leaping from one swing to another, from
+one carousel or toboggan-chute to the next, without
+having any special object in view, without knowing
+why and wherefor. He even entered such mazes of
+philosophy, such labyrinths of mysticism as put those
+of the Arabian grammaticasters in the shade. To
+him, education was a sport, pursued in a free spirit
+after his own fancy, without method or discipline.
+For two years and more he did little but ramble thus,
+drawing meanwhile on his account in the bank, and
+burning pamphlets.</p>
+<p>One day he passes by a second-hand book-shop,
+which is in the financial hive of the city, hard by a
+church and within a stone&#8217;s throw from the Stock
+Exchange. The owner, a shabby venerable, standing
+there, pipe in mouth, between piles of pamphlets and
+little pyramids of books, attracts Khalid. He too
+occupies a cellar. And withal he resembles the
+Prophet in the picture which was burned with Tom
+Paine&#8217;s <i>Age of Reason</i>. Nothing in the face at least
+is amiss. A flowing, serrated, milky beard, with a
+touch of gold around the mouth; an aquiline nose;
+deep set blue eyes canopied with shaggy brows; a forehead
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59' name='page_59'></a>59</span>
+broad and high; a dome a little frowsy but not
+guilty of a hair&ndash;&ndash;the Prophet Jeremiah! Only one
+thing, a clay pipe which he seldom took out of his
+mouth except to empty and refill, seemed to take from
+the prophetic solemnity of the face. Otherwise, he is
+as grim and sullen as the Prophet. In his voice,
+however, there is a supple sweetness which the hard
+lines in his face do not express. Khalid nicknames
+him second-hand Jerry, makes to him professions of
+friendship, and for many months comes every day to
+see him. He comes with his bucket, as he would say,
+to Jerry&#8217;s well. For the two, the young man and the
+old man of the cellar, the neophite and the master,
+would chat about literature and the makers of it for
+hours. And what a sea of information is therein under
+that frowsy dome. Withal, second-hand Jerry is
+a man of ideals and abstractions, exhibiting now and
+then an heretical twist which is as agreeable as the
+vermiculations in a mahogany. &#8220;We moderns,&#8221;
+said he once to Khalid, &#8220;are absolutely one-sided.
+Here, for instance, is my book-shop, there
+is the Church, and yonder is the Stock Exchange.
+Now, the men who frequent them, and though their
+elbows touch, are as foreign to each other as is a jerboa
+to a polar bear. Those who go to Church do not go
+to the Stock Exchange; those who spend their days on
+the Stock Exchange seldom go to Church; and those
+who frequent my cellar go neither to the one nor the
+other. That is why our civilisation produces so many
+bigots, so many philistines, so many pedants and prigs.
+The Stock Exchange is as necessary to Society as the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60' name='page_60'></a>60</span>
+Church, and the Church is as vital, as essential to its
+spiritual well-being as my book-shop. And not until
+man develops his mental, spiritual and physical faculties
+to what Matthew Arnold calls &#8216;a harmonious perfection,&#8217;
+will he be able to reach the heights from which
+Idealism is waving to him.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Thus would the master discourse, and the neophite,
+sitting on the steps of the cellar, smoking his cigarette,
+listens, admiring, pondering. And every time
+he comes with his bucket, Jerry would be standing
+there, between his little pyramids of books, pipe in
+mouth, hands in pockets, ready for the discourse. He
+would also conduct through his underworld any one
+who had the leisure and inclination. But fortunately
+for Khalid, the people of this district are either too
+rich to buy second-hand books, or too snobbish to
+stop before this curiosity shop of literature. Hence
+the master is never too busy; he is always ready to
+deliver the discourse.</p>
+<p>One day Khalid is conducted into the labyrinthine
+gloom and mould of the cellar. Through the narrow
+isles, under a low ceiling, papered, as it were, with
+pamphlets, between ramparts and mounds of books,
+old Jerry, his head bowed, his lighted taper in hand,
+proceeds. And Khalid follows directly behind, listening
+to his guide who points out the objects and places
+of interest. And thus, through the alleys and by-ways,
+through the nooks and labyrinths of these underground
+temple-ruins, we get to the rear, where the
+ramparts and mounds crumble to a mighty heap, rising
+pell-mell to the ceiling. Here, one is likely to get a
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61' name='page_61'></a>61</span>
+glimpse into such enchanted worlds as the name of a
+Dickens or a Balzac might suggest. Here, too, is
+Shakespeare in lamentable state; there is Carlyle in
+rags, still crying, as it were, against the filth and beastliness
+of this underworld. And look at my lord Tennyson
+shivering in his nakedness and doomed to keep
+company with the meanest of poetasters. Observe
+how Emerson is wriggled and ruffled in this crushing
+crowd. Does he not seem to be still sighing for a
+little solitude? But here, too, are spots of the rarest
+literary interest. Close to the vilest of dime novels is
+an autograph copy of a book which you might not find
+at Brentano&#8217;s. Indeed, the rarities here stand side by
+side with the superfluities&ndash;&ndash;the abominations with the
+blessings of literature&ndash;&ndash;cluttered together, reduced to
+a common level. And all in a condition which bespeaks
+the time when they were held in the affection
+of some one. Now, they lie a-mouldering in these
+mounds, and on these shelves, awaiting a curious eye,
+a kindly hand.</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>&#8220;To me,&#8221; writes Khalid in the K. L. MS., &#8220;there is always
+something pathetic in a second-hand book offered again
+for sale. Why did its first owner part with it? Was it out
+of disgust or surfeit or penury? Did he throw it away, or
+give it away, or sell it? Alas, and is this how to treat a
+friend? Were it not better burned, than sold or thrown
+away? After coming out of the press, how many have
+handled this tattered volume? How many has it entertained,
+enlightened, or perverted? Look at its pages, which evidence
+the hardship of the journey it has made. Here still is
+a pressed flower, more convincing in its shrouded eloquence
+than the philosophy of the pages in which it lies buried. On
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62' name='page_62'></a>62</span>
+the fly-leaf are the names of three successive owners, and on
+the margin are lead pencil notes in which the reader criticises
+the author. Their spirits are now shrouded together
+and entombed in this pile, where the mould never fails and
+the moths never die. They too are fallen a prey to the
+worms of the earth. A second-hand book-shop always reminds
+me of a Necropolis. It is a kind of Serapeum where
+lies buried the kings and princes with the helots and underlings
+of literature. Ay, every book is a mortuary chamber
+containing the remains of some poor literary wretch, or some
+mighty genius.... A book is a friend, my brothers,
+and when it ceases to entertain or instruct or inspire, it is
+dead. And would you sell a dead friend, would you throw
+him away? If you can not keep him embalmed on your
+shelf, is it not the wiser part, and the kinder, to cremate
+him?&#8221;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>And Khalid tells old Jerry, that if every one buying
+and reading books, disposed of them in the end as
+he himself does, second-hand book-shops would no
+longer exist. But old Jerry never despairs of business.
+And the idea of turning his Serapeum into a kiln does
+not appeal to him. Howbeit, Khalid has other ideas
+which the old man admires, and which he would carry
+out if the police would not interfere. &#8220;If I were the
+owner of this shop,&#8221; thus the neophite to the master,
+&#8220;I would advertise it with a bonfire of pamphlets. I
+would take a few hundreds from that mound there
+and give them the match right in front of that
+Church, or better still before the Stock Exchange.
+And I would have two sandwich-men stand about the
+bonfire, as high priests of the Temple, and chant the
+praises of second-hand Jerry and his second-hand book-shop.
+This will be the sacrifice which you will have
+offered to the god of Trade right in front of his sanctuary
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63' name='page_63'></a>63</span>
+that he might soften the induration in the
+breasts of these worthy citizens, your rich neighbours.
+And if he does not, why, shut up shop or burn it up,
+and let us go out peddling together.&#8221;</p>
+<p>We do not know, however, whether old Jerry ever
+adopted Khalid&#8217;s idea. He himself is an Oriental in
+this sense; and the business is good enough to keep up,
+so long as Khalid comes. He is supremely content.
+Indeed, Shakib asseverates in round Arabic, that the
+old man of the cellar got a good portion of Khalid&#8217;s
+balance, while balancing Khalid&#8217;s mind. Nay, firing
+it with free-thought literature. Are we then to consider
+this cellar as Khalid&#8217;s source of spiritual illumination?
+And is this genial old heretic an American
+avatar of the monk Bohaira? For Khalid is gradually
+becoming a man of ideas and crotchets. He is beginning
+to see a purpose in all his literary and spiritual
+rambles. His mental nebulosity is resolving itself into
+something concrete, which shall weigh upon him for
+a while and propel him in the direction of Atheism
+and Demagogy. For old Jerry once visits Khalid in
+his cellar, and after partaking of a dish of <i>mojadderah</i>,
+takes him to a political meeting to hear the popular
+orators of the day.</p>
+<p>And in this is ineffable joy for Khalid. Like every
+young mind he is spellbound by one of those masters
+of spread-eagle oratory, and for some time he does not
+miss a single political meeting in his district. We
+even see him among the crowd before the corner groggery,
+cheering one of the political spouters of the day.</p>
+<p>And once he accompanies Jerry to the Temple of
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64' name='page_64'></a>64</span>
+Atheism to behold its high Priest and hear him chant
+halleluiah to the Nebular Hypothesis. This is wonderful.
+How easy it is to dereligionise the human
+race and banish God from the Universe! But after
+the High Priest had done this, after he had proven to
+the satisfaction of every atheist that God is a myth,
+old Jerry turns around and gives Khalid this warning:
+&#8220;Don&#8217;t believe all he says, for I know that atheist
+well. He is as eloquent as he is insincere.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And so are all atheists. For at bottom, atheism
+is either a fad or a trade or a fatuity. And whether
+the one or the other, it is a sham more pernicious than
+the worst. To the young mind, it is a shibboleth of
+cheap culture; to the shrewd and calculating mind, to
+such orators as Khalid heard, it is a trade most remunerative;
+and to the scientists, or rather monists,
+it is the aliment with which they nourish the perversity
+of their preconceptions. Second-hand Jerry did
+not say these things to our young philosopher; for had
+he done so, Khalid, now become edacious, would not
+have experienced those dyspeptic pangs which almost
+crushed the soul-fetus in him. For we are told that
+he is as sedulous in attending these atheistic lectures
+as he is in flocking with his fellow citizens to hear and
+cheer the idols of the stump. Once he took Shakib to
+the Temple of Atheism, but the Poet seems to prefer
+his <ins class="trchange" title="As originally printed"><i>Al-Mutanabby</i></ins>. In relating of Khalid&#8217;s waywardness
+he says:</p>
+<p>&#8220;Ever since we quarrelled about Sibawai, Khalid and
+I have seldom been together. And he had become so
+opinionated that I was glad it was so. Even on Sunday
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65' name='page_65'></a>65</span>
+I would leave him alone with Im-Hanna, and returning
+in the evening, I would find him either reading
+or burning a pamphlet. Once I consented to accompany
+him to one of the lectures he was so fond of attending.
+And I was really surprised that one had to
+pay money for such masquerades of eloquence as were
+exhibited that night on the platform. Yes, it occurred
+to me that if one had not a dollar one could not become
+an atheist. Billah! I was scandalized. For
+no matter how irreverent one likes to pose, one ought
+to reverence at least his Maker. I am a Christian by
+the grace of Allah, and my ancestors are counted among
+the martyrs of the Church. And thanks to my parents,
+I have been duly baptized and confirmed. For
+which I respect them the more, and love them. Now,
+is it not absurd that I should come here and pay a
+hard dollar to hear this heretical speechifier insult my
+parents and my God? Better the ring of Al-Mutanabbi&#8217;s
+scimitars and spears than the clatter of these
+atheistical bones!&#8221;</p>
+<p>From which we infer that Shakib was not open to
+reason on the subject. He would draw his friend
+away from the verge of the abyss at any cost. &#8220;And
+this,&#8221; continues he, &#8220;did not require much effort.
+For Khalid like myself is constitutionally incapable of
+denying God. We are from the land in which God
+has always spoken to our ancestors.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And the argument between the shrewd verse-maker
+and the foolish philosopher finally hinges on this:
+namely, that these atheists are not honest investigators,
+that in their sweeping generalisations, as in their
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66' name='page_66'></a>66</span>
+speciosity and hypocrisy, they are commercially perverse.
+And Khalid is not long in deciding about the
+matter. He meets with an accident&ndash;&ndash;and accidents
+have always been his touchstones of success&ndash;&ndash;which
+saves his soul and seals the fate of atheism.</p>
+<p>One evening, returning from a ramble in the Park,
+he passes by the Hall where his favourite Mountebank
+was to lecture on the Gospel of Soap. But not having
+the price of admittance that evening, and being anxious
+to hear the orator whom he had idolised, Khalid
+bravely appeals to his generosity in this quaint and
+touching note: &#8220;My pocket,&#8221; he wrote, &#8220;is empty
+and my mind is hungry. Might I come to your
+Table to-night as a beggar?&#8221; And the man at the
+stage door, who carries the note to the orator, returns
+in a trice, and tells Khalid to lift himself off.
+Khalid hesitates, misunderstands; and a heavy hand is
+of a sudden upon him, to say nothing of the heavy
+boot.</p>
+<p>Ay, and that boot decided him. Atheism, bald,
+bold, niggardly, brutal, pretending withal, Khalid
+turns from its door never to look again in that direction,
+Shakib is right. &#8220;These people,&#8221; he growled,
+&#8220;are not free thinkers, but free stinkards. They do
+need soap to wash their hearts and souls.&#8221;</p>
+<p>An idea did not come to Khalid, as it were, by instalments.
+In his puerperal pains of mind he was
+subject to such crises, shaken by such downrushes of
+light, as only the few among mortals experience.
+(We are quoting our Scribe, remember.) And in certain
+moments he had more faith in his instincts than
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67' name='page_67'></a>67</span>
+in his reason. &#8220;Our instincts,&#8221; says he, &#8220;never lie.
+They are honest, and though they be sometimes
+blind.&#8221; And here, he seems to have struck the truth.
+He can be practical too. Honesty in thought, in
+word, in deed&ndash;&ndash;this he would have as the cornerstone
+of his truth. Moral rectitude he places above
+all the cardinal virtues, natural and theological.
+&#8220;Better keep away from the truth, O Khalid,&#8221; he
+writes, &#8220;better remain a stranger to it all thy life, if
+thou must sully it with the slimy fingers of a mercenary
+juggler.&#8221; Now, these brave words, we can not
+in conscience criticise. But we venture to observe that
+Khalid must have had in mind that Gospel of Soap
+and the incident at the stage door.</p>
+<p>And in this, we, too, rejoice. We, too, forgetting
+the dignity of our position, participate of the revelry
+in the cellar on this occasion. For our editorialship,
+dear Reader, is neither American nor English. We
+are not bound, therefore, to maintain in any degree the
+algidity and indifference of our confr&egrave;res&#8217; sublime
+attitude. We rejoice in the spiritual safety of
+Khalid. We rejoice that he and Shakib are now
+reconciled. For the reclaimed runagate is now even
+permitted to draw on the poet&#8217;s balance at the banker.
+Ay, even Khalid can dissimulate when he needs the
+cash. For with the assistance of second-hand Jerry
+and the box-office of the atheistical jugglers, he had
+exhausted his little saving. He would not even go
+out peddling any more. And when Shakib asks him
+one morning to shoulder the box and come out, he replies:
+&#8220;I have a little business with it here.&#8221; For
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68' name='page_68'></a>68</span>
+after having impeached the High Priests of Atheism he
+seems to have turned upon himself. We translate
+from the K. L. MS.</p>
+<p>&#8220;When I was disenchanted with atheism, when I
+saw somewhat of the meanness and selfishness of its
+protagonists, I began to doubt in the honesty of men.
+If these, our supposed teachers, are so vile, so mercenary,
+so false,&ndash;&ndash;why, welcome Juhannam! But the
+more I doubted in the honesty of men, the more did I
+believe that honesty should be the cardinal virtue of
+the soul. I go so far in this, that an honest thief in
+my eyes is more worthy of esteem than a canting materialist
+or a hypocritical free thinker. Still, the voice
+within me asked if Shakib were honest in his dealings,
+if I were honest in my peddling? Have I not misrepresented
+my gewgaws as the atheist misrepresents
+the truth? &#8216;This is made in the Holy Land,&#8217;&ndash;&ndash;&#8216;This
+is from the Holy Sepulchre&#8217;&ndash;&ndash;these lies, O Khalid,
+are upon you. And what is the difference between the
+jewellery you passed off for gold and the arguments of
+the atheist-preacher? Are they not both instruments
+of deception, both designed to catch the dollar? Yes,
+you have been, O Khalid, as mean, as mercenary, as
+dishonest as those canting infidels.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And what are you going to do about it? Will
+you continue, while in the quagmires yourself, to
+point contemptuously at those standing in the gutter?
+Will you, in your dishonesty, dare impeach the honesty
+of men? Are you not going to make a resolution
+now, either to keep silent or to go out of the
+quagmires and rise to the mountain-heights? Be pure
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69' name='page_69'></a>69</span>
+yourself first, O Khalid; then try to spread this purity
+around you at any cost.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Yes; that is why, when Shakib asked me to go out
+peddling one day, I hesitated and finally refused. For
+atheism, in whose false dry light I walked a parasang
+or two, did not only betray itself to me as a sham, but
+also turned my mind and soul to the sham I had
+shouldered for years. From the peddling-box, therefore,
+I turned even as I did from atheism. Praised be
+Allah, who, in his providential care, seemed to kick me
+away from the door of its temple. The sham,
+although effulgent and alluring, was as brief as a summer
+afternoon.&#8221;</p>
+<p>As for the peddling-box, our Scribe will tell of its
+fate in the following Chapter.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70' name='page_70'></a>70</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_VII_IN_THE_TWILIGHT_OF_AN_IDEA' id='CHAPTER_VII_IN_THE_TWILIGHT_OF_AN_IDEA'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2>
+<h3>IN THE TWILIGHT OF AN IDEA</h3>
+</div>
+<p>It is Voltaire, we believe, who says something to
+the effect that one&#8217;s mind should be in accordance
+with one&#8217;s years. That is why an academic education
+nowadays often fails of its purpose. For whether
+one&#8217;s mind runs ahead of one&#8217;s years, or one&#8217;s years
+ahead of one&#8217;s mind, the result is much the same; it
+always goes ill with the mind. True, knowledge is
+power; but in order to feel at home with it, we must
+be constitutionally qualified. And if we are not, it is
+likely to give the soul such a wrenching as to deform
+it forever. Indeed, how many of us go through life
+with a fatal spiritual or intellectual twist which could
+have been avoided in our youth, were we a little less
+wise. The young <i>philosophes</i>, the products of the
+University Machine of to-day, who go about with a
+nosegay of -isms, as it were, in their lapels, and perfume
+their speech with the bottled logic of the College
+Professor,&ndash;&ndash;are not most of them incapable of honestly
+and bravely grappling with the real problems of
+life? And does not a systematic education mean this,
+that a young man must go through life dragging behind
+him his heavy chains of set ideas and stock systems,
+political, social, or religious? (Remember, we
+are translating from the Khedivial Library MS.)
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71' name='page_71'></a>71</span>
+The author continues:</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>&#8220;Whether one devour the knowledge of the world in four
+years or four nights, the process of assimilation is equally
+hindered, if the mind is sealed at the start with the seal of
+authority. Ay, we can not be too careful of dogmatic science
+in our youth; for dogmas often dam certain channels of the
+soul through which we might have reached greater treasures
+and ascended to purer heights. A young man, therefore,
+ought to be let alone. There is an infinite possibility of
+soul-power in every one of us, if it can be developed freely,
+spontaneously, without discipline or restraint. There is, too,
+an infinite possibility of beauty in every soul, if it can be
+evoked at an auspicious moment by the proper word, the
+proper voice, the proper touch. That is why I say, Go thy
+way, O my Brother. Be simple, natural, spontaneous, courageous,
+free. Neither anticipate your years, nor lag child-like
+behind them. For verily, it is as ridiculous to dye the
+hair white as to dye it black. Ah, be foolish while thou art
+young; it is never too late to be wise. Indulge thy fancy,
+follow the bent of thy mind; for in so doing thou canst not
+possibly do thyself more harm than the disciplinarians can
+do thee. Live thine own life; think thine own thoughts;
+keep developing and changing until thou arrive at the truth
+thyself. An ounce of it found by thee were better than a
+ton given to thee <i>gratis</i> by one who would enslave thee. Go
+thy way, O my Brother. And if my words lead thee to
+Juhannam, why, there will be a great surprise for thee.
+There thou wilt behold our Maker sitting on a flaming glacier
+waiting for the like of thee. And he will take thee into
+his arms and poke thee in the ribs, and together you will
+laugh and laugh, until that glacier become a garden and
+thou a flower therein. Go thy way, therefore; be not afraid.
+And no matter how many tears thou sheddest on this side,
+thou wilt surely be poked in the ribs on the other. Go&ndash;&ndash;thy&ndash;&ndash;but&ndash;&ndash;let
+Nature be thy guide; acquaint thyself with one
+or two of her laws ere thou runnest wild.&#8221;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>And to what extent did this fantastic mystic son of
+a Ph&oelig;nician acquaint himself with Nature&#8217;s laws, we
+do not know. But truly, he was already running wild
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72' name='page_72'></a>72</span>
+in the great cosmopolis of New York. From his stivy
+cellar he issues forth into the plashing, plangent currents
+of city life. Before he does this, however, he
+rids himself of all the encumbrances of peddlery which
+hitherto have been his sole means of support. His
+little stock of crosses, rosaries, scapulars, false jewellery,
+mother-of-pearl gewgaws, and such like, which he has
+on the little shelf in the cellar, he takes down one
+morning&ndash;&ndash;but we will let our Scribe tell the story.</p>
+<p>&#8220;My love for Khalid,&#8221; he writes, &#8220;has been
+severely tried. We could no longer agree about anything.
+He had become such a dissenter that often
+would he take the wrong side of a question if only
+for the sake of bucking. True, he ceased to frequent
+the cellar of second-hand Jerry, and the lectures of the
+infidels he no longer attended. We were in accord
+about atheism, therefore, but in riotous discord about
+many other things, chief among which was the propriety,
+the necessity, of doing something to replenish
+his balance at the banker. For he was now impecunious,
+and withal importunate. Of a truth, what I had
+I was always ready to share with him; but for his
+own good I advised him to take up the peddling-box
+again. I reminded him of his saying once, &#8216;Peddling
+is a healthy and profitable business.&#8217; &#8216;Come out,&#8217; I
+insisted, &#8216;and though it be for the exercise. Walking
+is the whetstone of thought.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;One evening we quarrelled about this, and Im-Hanna
+sided with me. She rated Khalid, saying,
+&#8216;You&#8217;re a good-for-nothing loafer; you don&#8217;t deserve
+the <i>mojadderah</i> you eat.&#8217; And I remember how she
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73' name='page_73'></a>73</span>
+took me aside that evening and whispered something
+about books, and Khalid&#8217;s head, and Mar-Kizhayiah.<a name='FNanchor_0001' id='FNanchor_0001'></a><a href='#Footnote_0001' class='fnanchor'>[1]</a>
+Indeed, Im-Hanna seriously believed that Khalid
+should be taken to Mar-Kizhayiah. She did not know
+that New York was full of such institutions.<a name='FNanchor_0002' id='FNanchor_0002'></a><a href='#Footnote_0002' class='fnanchor'>[2]</a> Her
+scolding, however, seemed to have more effect on
+Khalid than my reasoning. And consenting to go out
+with me, he got up the following morning, took down
+his stock from the shelf, every little article of it&ndash;&ndash;he
+left nothing there&ndash;&ndash;and packed all into his peddling-box.
+He then squeezed into the bottom drawer, which
+he had filled with scapulars, the bottle with a little of
+the Stuff in it. For we were in accord about this, that
+in New York whiskey is better than arak. And we
+both took a nip now and then. So I thought the bottle
+was in order. But why he placed his bank book, which
+was no longer worth a straw, into that bottom drawer,
+I could not guess. With these preparations, however,
+we shouldered our boxes, and in an hour we
+were in the suburbs. We foot it along then, until we
+reach a row of cottages not far from the railway station.
+&#8216;Will you knock at one of these doors,&#8217; I asked.
+And he, &#8216;I do not feel like chaffering and bargaining
+this morning.&#8217; &#8216;Why then did you come out,&#8217; I
+urged. And he, in an air of nonchalance, &#8216;Only for
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74' name='page_74'></a>74</span>
+the walk.&#8217; And so, we pursued our way in the Bronx,
+until we reached one of our favourite spots, where a
+sycamore tree seemed to invite us to its ample shade.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Here, Khalid, absent-minded, laid down his box
+and sat upon it, and I stretched my limbs on the grass.
+But of a sudden, he jumped up, opened the bottom
+drawer of his case, and drew from it the bottle. It is
+quite in order now, I mused; but ere I had enjoyed the
+thought, Khalid had placed his box at a little distance,
+and, standing there beside it, bottle in hand, delivered
+himself in a semi-solemn, semi-mocking manner of the
+following: &#8216;This is the oil,&#8217; I remember him saying,
+&#8216;with which I anoint thee&ndash;&ndash;the extreme unction I
+apply to thy soul.&#8217; And he poured the contents of the
+bottle into the bottom drawer and over the box, and
+applied to it a match. The bottle was filled with
+kerosene, and in a jiffy the box was covered with the
+flame. Yes; and so quickly, so neatly it was done,
+that I could not do aught to prevent it. The match
+was applied to what I thought at first was whiskey,
+and I was left in speechless amazement. He would
+not even help me to save a few things from the fire.
+I conjured him in the name of Allah, but in vain. I
+clamoured and remonstrated, but to no purpose. And
+when I asked him why he had done this, he asked me
+in reply, &#8216;And why have you not done the same?
+Now, methinks I deserve my <i>mojadderah</i>. And not
+until you do likewise, will you deserve yours, O
+Shakib. Here are the lies, now turned to ashes, which
+brought me my bread and are still bringing you yours.
+Here are our instruments of deception, our poisoned
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75' name='page_75'></a>75</span>
+sources of lucre. I am most happy now, O Shakib.
+And I shall endeavour to keep my blood in circulation
+by better, purer means.&#8217; And he took me thereupon
+by the shoulders, looked into my face, then pushed me
+away, laughing the laugh of the hasheesh-smokers.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Indeed, Im-Hanna was right. Khalid had become
+too odd, too queer to be sane. Needless to say, I was
+not prone to follow his example at that time. Nor am
+I now. <i>Mashallah!</i> Lacking the power and madness
+to set fire to the whole world, it were folly, indeed,
+to begin with one&#8217;s self. I believe I had as much
+right to exaggerate in peddling as I had in writing
+verse. My license to heighten the facts holds good in
+either case. And to some extent, every one, a poet
+be he or a cobbler, enjoys such a license. I told
+Khalid that the logical and most effective course to
+pursue, in view of his rigorous morality, would be to
+pour a gallon of kerosene over his own head and fire
+himself out of existence. For the instruments of deception
+and debasement are not in the peddling-box,
+but rather in his heart. No; I did not think peddling
+was as bad as other trades. Here at least, the means
+of deception were reduced to a minimum. And of a
+truth, if everybody were to judge themselves as strictly
+as Khalid, who would escape burning? So I turned
+from him that day fully convinced that my little stock
+of holy goods was innocent, and my balance at the
+banker&#8217;s was as pure as my rich neighbour&#8217;s. And he
+turned from me fully convinced, I believe, that I was
+an unregenerate rogue. Ay, and when I was knocking
+at the door of one of my customers, he was walking
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76' name='page_76'></a>76</span>
+away briskly, his hands clasped behind his back,
+and his eyes, as usual, scouring the horizon.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And on that horizon are the gilded domes and smoking
+chimneys of the seething city. Leaving his last
+friend and his last burden behind, he will give civilised
+life another trial. Loafer and tramp that he is! For
+even the comforts of the grand cable-railway he spurns,
+and foots it from the Bronx down to his cellar near
+Battery Park, thus cutting the city in half and giving
+one portion to Izr&auml;il and the other to Iblis. But not
+being quite ready himself for either of these winged
+Furies, he keeps to his cellar. He would tarry here a
+while, if but to carry out a resolution he has made.
+True, Khalid very seldom resolves upon anything; but
+when he does make a resolution, he is even willing to
+be carried off by the effort to carry it out. And now,
+he would solve this problem of earning a living in the
+great city by honest means. For in the city, at least,
+success well deserves the compliments which those who
+fail bestow upon it. What Montaigne said of greatness,
+therefore, Khalid must have said of success. If
+we can not attain it, let us denounce it. And in what
+terms does he this, O merciful Allah! We translate
+a portion of the apostrophe in the K. L. MS., and
+not the bitterest, by any means.</p>
+<p>&#8220;O Success,&#8221; the infuriated failure exclaims, &#8220;how
+like the Gorgon of the Arabian Nights thou art! For
+does not every one whom thou favorest undergo a pitiful
+transformation even from the first bedding with
+thee? Does not everything suffer from thy look, thy
+touch, thy breath? The rose loses its perfume, the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77' name='page_77'></a>77</span>
+grape-vine its clusters, the bulbul its wings, the dawn
+its light and glamour. O Success, our lords of power
+to-day are thy slaves, thy helots, our kings of wealth.
+Every one grinds for thee, every one for thee lives and
+dies.... Thy palaces of silver and gold are
+reared on the souls of men. Thy throne is mortised
+with their bones, cemented with their blood. Thou
+ravenous Gorgon, on what bankruptcies thou art fed,
+on what failures, on what sorrows! The railroads
+sweeping across the continents and the steamers ploughing
+through the seas, are laden with sacrifices to thee.
+Ay, and millions of innocent children are torn from
+their homes and from their schools to be offered to
+thee at the sacrificial-stone of the Factories and Mills.
+The cultured, too, and the wise, are counted among
+thy slaves. Even the righteous surrender themselves
+to thee and are willing to undergo that hideous transformation.
+O Success, what an infernal litany thy
+votaries and high-priests are chanting to thee....
+Thou ruthless Gorgon, what crimes thou art committing,
+and what crimes are being committed in thy
+name!&#8221;</p>
+<p>From which it is evident that Khalid does not wish
+for success. Khalid is satisfied if he can maintain his
+hold on the few spare feet he has in the cellar, and continue
+to replenish his little store of lentils and olive oil.
+For he would as lief be a victim of success, he assures
+us, as to forego his <i>mojadderah</i>. And still having this,
+which he considers a luxury, he is willing to turn his
+hand at anything, if he can but preserve inviolate the
+integrity of his soul and the freedom of his mind.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78' name='page_78'></a>78</span>
+These are a few of the pet terms of Khalid. And in
+as much as he can continue to repeat them to himself,
+he is supremely content. He can be a menial, if while
+cringing before his superiors, he were permitted to
+chew on his pet illusions. A few days before he
+burned his peddling-box, he had read Epictetus. And
+the thought that such a great soul maintained its
+purity, its integrity, even in bonds, encouraged and
+consoled him. &#8220;How can they hurt me,&#8221; he asks, &#8220;if
+spiritually I am far from them, far above them?
+They can do no more than place gilt buttons on my
+coat and give me a cap to replace this slouch. Therefore,
+I will serve. I will be a slave, even like Epictetus.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And here we must interpose a little of our skepticism,
+if but to gratify an habitual craving in us. We
+do not doubt that Khalid&#8217;s self-sufficiency is remarkable;
+that his courage&ndash;&ndash;on paper&ndash;&ndash;is quite above the
+common; that the grit and stay he shows are wonderful;
+that his lofty aspirations, so indomitable in their
+onwardness, are great: but we only ask, having thus
+fortified his soul, how is he to fortify his stomach?
+He is going to work, to be a menial, to earn a living
+by honest means? Ah, Khalid, Khalid! Did you not
+often bestow a furtive glance on some one else&#8217;s checkbook?
+Did you not even exercise therein your skill in
+calculation? If the bank, where Shakib deposits his
+little saving, failed, would you be so indomitable, so
+dogged in your resolution? Would you not soften a
+trifle, loosen a whit, if only for the sake of your blood-circulation?
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79' name='page_79'></a>79</span></p>
+<p>Indeed, Shakib has become a patron to Khalid.
+Shakib the poet, who himself should have a patron, is
+always ready to share his last dollar with his loving,
+though cantankerous friend. And this, in spite of
+all the disagreeable features of a friendship which in
+the Syrian Colony was become proverbial. But
+Khalid now takes up the newspapers and scans the
+Want Columns for hours. The result being a clerkship
+in a lawyer&#8217;s office. Nay, an apprenticeship; for
+the legal profession, it seems, had for a while engaged
+his serious thoughts.</p>
+<p>And this of all the professions is the one on which
+he would graft his scion of lofty morality? Surely,
+there be plenty of fuel for a conflagration in a lawyer&#8217;s
+office. Such rows of half-calf tomes, such piles of
+legal documents, all designed to combat dishonesty and
+fraud, &#8220;and all immersed in them, and nourished and
+maintained by them.&#8221; In what a sorry condition will
+your Morality issue out of these bogs! A lawyer&#8217;s
+clerk, we are informed, can not maintain his hold on
+his clerkship, if he does not learn to blink. That is
+why Khalid is not long in serving papers, copying
+summonses, and searching title-deeds. In this lawyer&#8217;s
+office he develops traits altogether foreign to his nature.
+He even becomes a quidnunc, prying now and then
+into the personal affairs of his superiors. Ay, and he
+dares once to suggest to his employer a new method of
+dealing with the criminals among his clients. Withal,
+Khalid is slow, slower than the law itself. If he goes
+out to serve a summons he does not return for a day.
+If he is sent to search title-deeds, he does not show up
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80' name='page_80'></a>80</span>
+in the office for a week. And often he would lose
+himself in the Park surrounding the Register&#8217;s Office,
+pondering on his theory of immanent morality. He
+would sit down on one of those benches, which are the
+anchors of loafers of another type, his batch of papers
+beside him, and watch the mad crowds coming and
+going, running, as it were, between two fires. These
+puckered people are the living, moving chambers of
+sleeping souls.</p>
+<p>Khalid was always glad to come to this Register&#8217;s
+Office. For though the searching of title-deeds be a
+mortal process, the loafing margin of the working hour
+could be extended imperceptibly, and without hazarding
+his or his employer&#8217;s interest. The following
+piece of speculative fantasy and insight must have been
+thought out when he should have been searching title-deeds.</p>
+<p>&#8220;This Register&#8217;s Office,&#8221; it is written in the K. L.
+MS., &#8220;is the very bulwark of Society. It is the foundation
+on which the Trust Companies, the Courts, and
+the Prisons are reared. Your codes are blind without
+the miraculous torches which this Office can light.
+Your judges can not propound the &#8216;laur&#8217;&ndash;&ndash;I beg your
+pardon, the law&ndash;&ndash;without the aid of these musty,
+smelling, dilapidated tomes. Ay, these are the very
+constables of the realm, and without them there can
+be no realm, no legislators, and no judges. Strong,
+club-bearing constables, these Liebers, standing on the
+boundary lines, keeping peace between brothers and
+neighbours.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Here, in these Liebers is an authority which never
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81' name='page_81'></a>81</span>
+fails, never dies&ndash;&ndash;an authority which willy-nilly we
+obey and in which we place unbounded trust. In any
+one of these Registers is a potentiality which can always
+worst the quibbles and quiddities of lawyers and ward
+off the miserable technicalities of the law. Any of
+them, when called upon, can go into court and dictate
+to the litigants and the attorneys, the jury and the
+judge. They are the deceased witnesses come to life.
+And without them, the judges are helpless, the marshals
+and sheriffs too. Ay, and what without them would
+be the state of our real-estate interests? Abolish your
+constabulary force, and your police force, and with
+these muniments of power, these dumb but far-seeing
+agents of authority and intelligence, you could still
+maintain peace and order. But burn you this Register&#8217;s
+Office, and before the last Lieber turn to ashes,
+ere the last flame of the conflagration die out, you will
+have to call forth, not only your fire squads, but your
+police force and even your soldiery, to extinguish other
+fires different in nature, but more devouring&ndash;&ndash;and as
+many of them as there are boundary lines in the land.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And we now come to the gist of the matter.</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>&#8220;What wealth of moral truth,&#8221; he continues, &#8220;do we find
+in these greasy, musty pages. When one deeds a piece of
+property, he deeds with it something more valuable, more
+enduring. He deeds with it an undying human intelligence
+which goes down to posterity, saying, Respect my will; believe
+in me; and convey this respect and this belief to your
+offspring. Ay, the immortal soul breathes in a deed as in a
+great book. And the implicit trust we place in a musty
+parchment, is the mystic outcome of the blind faith, or rather
+the far-seeing faith which our ancestors had in the morality
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82' name='page_82'></a>82</span>
+and intelligence of coming generations. For what avails
+their deeds if they are not respected?... We are indebted
+to our forbears, therefore, not for the miserable piece
+of property they bequeath us, but for the confidence and
+trust, the faith and hope they had in our innate or immanent
+morality and intelligence. The will of the dead is law for
+the living.&#8221;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Are we then to look upon Khalid as having come
+out of that Office with soiled fingers only? Or has
+the young philosopher abated in his clerkship the intensity
+of his moral views? Has he not assisted his
+employer in the legal game of quieting titles? Has he
+not acquired a little of the delusive plausibilities of
+lawyers? Shakib throws no light on these questions.
+We only know that the clerkship or rather apprenticeship
+was only held for a season. Indeed, Khalid must
+have recoiled from the practice. Or in his recklessness,
+not to say obtrusion, he must have been outrageous
+enough to express in the office of the honourable
+attorney, or in the neighbourhood thereof, his views
+about pettifogging and such like, that the said honourable
+attorney was under the painful necessity of asking
+him to stay home. Nay, the young Syrian was discharged.
+Or to put it in a term adequate to the manner
+in which this was done, he was &#8220;fired.&#8221; Now,
+Khalid betakes him back to his cellar, and thrumming
+his lute-strings, lights up the oppressive gloom with
+Arabic song and music.</p>
+<hr class='fn' />
+<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0001' id='Footnote_0001'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0001'><span class='label'>[1]</span></a>
+<p>
+A monastery in Mt. Lebanon, a sort of Bedlam, where
+the exorcising monks beat the devil out of one&#8217;s head with
+clouted shoes.&ndash;&ndash;<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Editor</span>.
+</p></div>
+<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0002' id='Footnote_0002'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0002'><span class='label'>[2]</span></a>
+<p>
+And the doctors here practise in the name of science what
+the exorcising monks practise in the name of religion. The
+poor devil, or patient, in either case is done to death.&ndash;&ndash;<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Editor</span>.
+</p></div>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83' name='page_83'></a>83</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_VIII_WITH_THE_HURIS' id='CHAPTER_VIII_WITH_THE_HURIS'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
+<h3>WITH THE HURIS</h3>
+</div>
+<p>From the house of law the dervish Khalid wends
+his way to that of science, and from the house of
+science he passes on to that of metaphysics. His staff
+in hand, his wallet hung on his shoulder, his silver
+cigarette case in his pocket, patient, confident, content,
+he makes his way from one place to another. Unlike
+his brother dervishes, he is clean and proud of it, too.
+He knocks at this or that door, makes his wish known
+to the servant or the mistress, takes the crumbs given
+him, and not infrequently gives his prod to the dogs.
+In the vestibule of one of the houses of spiritism, he
+tarries a spell and parleys with the servant. The Mistress,
+a fair-looking, fair-spoken dame of seven lustrums
+or more, issues suddenly from her studio, in a
+curiously designed black velvet dressing-gown; she is
+drawn to the door by the accent of the foreigner&#8217;s
+speech and the peculiar cadence of his voice. They
+meet: and magnetic currents from his dark eyes and
+her eyes of blue, flow and fuse. They speak: and the
+lady asks the stranger if he would not serve instead
+of begging. And he protests, &#8220;I am a Dervish at
+the door of Allah.&#8221; &#8220;And I am a Spirit in Allah&#8217;s
+house,&#8221; she rejoins. They enter: and the parley in
+the vestibule is followed by a t&ecirc;te-&agrave;-t&ecirc;te in the parlour
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84' name='page_84'></a>84</span>
+and another in the dining-room. They agree: and the
+stranger is made a member of the Spiritual Household,
+which now consists of her and him, the Medium and
+the Dervish.</p>
+<p>Now, this fair-spoken dame, who dotes on the occult
+and exotic, delights in the aroma of Khalid&#8217;s cigarettes
+and Khalid&#8217;s fancy. And that he might feel at ease,
+she begins by assuring him that they have met and
+communed many times ere now, that they have been
+friends under a preceding and long vanished embodiment.
+Which vagary Khalid seems to countenance by
+referring to the infinite power of Allah, in the compass
+of which nothing is impossible. And with these
+mystical circumlocutions of ceremony, they plunge into
+an intimacy which is bordered by the metaphysical on
+one side, and the physical on the other. For though
+the Medium is at the threshold of her climacteric,
+Khalid afterwards tells Shakib that there be something
+in her eyes and limbs which always seem to be waxing
+young. And of a truth, the American woman, of all
+others, knows best how to preserve her beauty from
+the ravages of sorrow and the years. That is why,
+we presume, in calling him, &#8220;child,&#8221; she does not permit
+him to call her, &#8220;mother.&#8221; Indeed, the Medium
+and the Dervish often jest, and somewhiles mix the
+frivolous with the mysterious.</p>
+<p>We would still follow our Scribe here, were it not
+that his pruriency often reaches the edge. He speaks
+of &#8220;the <i>liaison</i>&#8221; with all the rude simplicity and frankness
+of the Arabian Nights. And though, as the Mohammedans
+say, &#8220;To the pure everything is pure,&#8221; and
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85' name='page_85'></a>85</span>
+again, &#8220;Who quotes a heresy is not guilty of it&#8221;;
+nevertheless, we do not feel warranted in rending the
+veil of the reader&#8217;s prudery, no matter how transparent
+it might be. We believe, however, that the pruriency
+of Orientals, like the prudery of Occidentals, is in fact
+only an appearance. On both sides there is a display
+of what might be called verbal virtue and verbal vice.
+And on both sides, the exaggerations are configured in
+a harmless pose. Be this as it may, we at least, shall
+withhold from Shakib&#8217;s lasciviousness the English
+dress it seeks at our hand.</p>
+<p>We note, however, that Khalid now visits him in
+the cellar only when he craves a dish of <i>mojadderah</i>;
+that he and the Medium are absorbed in the contemplation
+of the Unseen, though not, perhaps, of the Impalpable;
+that they gallivant in the Parks, attend Bohemian
+dinners, and frequent the Don&#8217;t Worry Circles
+of Metaphysical Societies; that they make long expeditions
+together to the Platonic North-pole and back
+to the torrid regions of Swinburne; and that together
+they perform their <i>zikr</i> and drink at the same fountain
+of ecstasy and devotion. Withal, the Dervish, who
+now wears his hair long and grows his finger nails
+like a Brahmin, is beginning to have some manners.</p>
+<p>The Medium, nevertheless, withholds from him
+the secret of her art. If he desires, he can attend the
+s&eacute;ances like every other stranger. Once Khalid, who
+would not leave anything unprobed, insisted, importuned;
+he could not see any reason for her conduct.
+Why should they not work together in Tiptology, as
+in Physiology and Metaphysics? And one morning,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86' name='page_86'></a>86</span>
+dervish-like, he wraps himself in his <i>aba</i>, and, calling
+upon Allah to witness, takes a rose from the vase on
+the table, angrily plucks its petals, and strews them on
+the carpet. Which portentous sign the Medium understands
+and hastens to minister her palliatives.</p>
+<p>&#8220;No, Child, you shall not go,&#8221; she begs and supplicates;
+&#8220;listen to me, are we not together all the time?
+Why not leave me alone then with the spirits? One
+day you shall know all, believe me. Come, sit here,&#8221;
+stroking her palm on her lap, &#8220;and listen. I shall
+give up this tiptology business very soon; you and I
+shall overturn the table. Yes, Child, I am on the
+point of succumbing under an awful something. So,
+don&#8217;t ask me about the spooks any more. Promise not
+to torment me thus any more. And one day we shall
+travel together in the Orient; we shall visit the ruins
+of vanished kingdoms and creeds. Ah, to be in
+Palmyra with you! Do you know, Child, I am destined
+to be a Beduin queen. The throne of Zenobia
+is mine, and yours too, if you will be good. We shall
+resuscitate the glory of the kingdom of the desert.&#8221;</p>
+<p>To all of which Khalid acquiesces by referring as is
+his wont to the infinite wisdom of Allah, in whose all-seeing
+eye nothing is impossible.</p>
+<p>And thus, apparently satisfied, he takes the cigarette
+which she had lighted for him, and lights for her another
+from his own. But the smoke of two cigarettes
+dispels not the threatening cloud; it only conceals it
+from view. For they dine together at a Bohemian
+Club that evening, where Khalid meets a woman of
+rare charms. And she invites him to her studio. The
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87' name='page_87'></a>87</span>
+Medium, who is at first indifferent, finally warns her
+callow child. &#8220;That woman is a writer,&#8221; she explains,
+&#8220;and writers are always in search of what they
+call &#8216;copy.&#8217; She in particular is a huntress of male
+curiosities, <i>originales</i>, whom she takes into her favour
+and ultimately surrenders them to the reading public.
+So be careful.&#8221; But Khalid hearkens not. For the
+writer, whom he afterwards calls a flighter, since she,
+too, &#8220;like the van of the brewer only skims the surface
+of things,&#8221; is, in fact, younger than the Medium. Ay,
+this woman is even beautiful&ndash;&ndash;to behold, at least.
+So the Dervish, a captive of her charms, knocks at the
+door of her studio one evening and enters. Ah, this
+then is a studio! &#8220;I am destined to know everything,
+and to see everything,&#8221; he says to himself, smiling in
+his heart.</p>
+<p>The charming hostess, in a Japanese kimono receives
+him somewhat orientally, offering him the divan,
+which he occupies alone for a spell. He is then laden
+with a huge scrap-book containing press notices and
+reviews of her many novels. These, he is asked to go
+through while she prepares the tea. Which is a mortal
+task for the Dervish in the presence of the Enchantress.
+Alas, the tea is long in the making, and
+when the scrap-book is laid aside, she reinforces him
+with a lot of magazines adorned with stories of the
+short and long and middling size, from her fertile pen.
+&#8220;These are beautiful,&#8221; says he, in glancing over a
+few pages, &#8220;but no matter how you try, you can not
+with your pen surpass your own beauty. The charm
+of your literary style can not hold a candle to the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88' name='page_88'></a>88</span>
+charm of your&ndash;&ndash;permit me to read your hand.&#8221;
+And laying down the magazine, he takes up her hand
+and presses it to his lips. In like manner, he tries to
+read somewhat in the face, but the Enchantress protests
+and smiles. In which case the smile renders the
+protest null and void.</p>
+<p>Henceforth, the situation shall be trying even to
+the Dervish who can eat live coals. He oscillates for
+some while between the Medium and the Enchantress,
+but finds the effort rather straining. The first climax,
+however, is reached, and our Scribe thinks it too sad
+for words. He himself sheds a few rheums with the
+fair-looking, fair-spoken Dame, and dedicates to her a
+few rhymes. Her magnanimity, he tells us, is unexampled,
+and her fatalism pathetic. For when Khalid
+severs himself from the Spiritual Household, she kisses
+him thrice, saying, &#8220;Go, Child; Allah brought you to
+me, and Allah will bring you again.&#8221; Khalid refers,
+as usual, to the infinite wisdom of the Almighty, and,
+taking his handkerchief from his pocket, wipes the
+tears that fell&ndash;&ndash;from her eyes over his. He passes
+out of the vestibule, silent and sad, musing on the
+time he first stood there as a beggar.</p>
+<p>Now, the horizon of the Enchantress is unobstructed.
+Khalid is there alone; and her free love
+can freely pass on from him to another. And such
+messages they exchange! Such evaporations of the insipidities
+of free love! Khalid again takes up with
+Shakib, from whom he does not conceal anything.
+The epistles are read by both, and sometimes replied to
+by both! And she, in an effort to seem Oriental, calls
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89' name='page_89'></a>89</span>
+the Dervish, &#8220;My Syrian Rose,&#8221; &#8220;My Desert
+Flower,&#8221; &#8220;My Beduin Boy,&#8221; et cetera, always closing
+her message with either a strip of Syrian sky
+or a camel load of the narcissus. Ah, but not thus
+will the play close. True, Khalid alone adorns
+her studio for a time, or rather adores in it;
+he alone accompanies her to Bohemia. But the Dervish,
+who was always going wrong in Bohemia,&ndash;&ndash;always
+at the door of the Devil,&ndash;&ndash;ventures one night
+to escort another woman to her studio. Ah, those
+studios! The Enchantress on hearing of the crime
+lights the fire under her cauldron. &#8220;Double, double,
+toil and trouble!&#8221; She then goes to the telephone&ndash;&ndash;g-r-r-r-r
+you swine&ndash;&ndash;you Ph&oelig;nician murex&ndash;&ndash;she
+hangs up the receiver, and stirs the cauldron.
+&#8220;Double, double, toil and trouble!&#8221; But the Dervish
+writes her an extraordinary letter, in which we suspect
+the pen of our Scribe, and from which we can but
+transcribe the following:</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>&#8220;You found in me a vacant heart,&#8221; he pleads, &#8220;and you
+occupied it. The divan therein is yours, yours alone. Nor
+shall I ever permit a chance caller, an intruder, to exasperate
+you.... My breast is a stronghold in which you
+are well fortified. How then can any one disturb you?...
+How can I turn from myself against myself? Somewhat
+of you, the best of you, circulates with my blood; you
+are my breath of life. How can I then overcome you? How
+can I turn to another for the sustenance which you alone can
+give?... If I be thirst personified, you are the living,
+flowing brook, the everlasting fountain. O for a drink&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>And here follows a hectic uprush about pearly
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90' name='page_90'></a>90</span>
+breasts, and honey-sources, and musk-scented arbours,
+closing with &#8220;Your Beduin Boy shall come to-night.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Notwithstanding which, the Enchantress abandons
+the Syrian Dwelling: she no longer fancies the vacant
+Divan of which Khalid speaks. Fortress or no
+fortress, she gives up occupation and withdraws from
+the foreigner her favour. Not only that; but the fire is
+crackling under the cauldron, and the typewriter begins
+to click. Ay, these modern witches can make
+even a typewriter dance around the fire and join in
+the chorus. &#8220;Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire
+burn, and cauldron bubble!&#8221; and the performance
+was transformed from the studio to the magazine
+supplement of one of the Sunday newspapers. There,
+the Dervish is thrown into the cauldron along with the
+magic herbs. Bubble&ndash;&ndash;bubble. The fire-eating
+Dervish, how can he now swallow this double-tongued
+flame of hate and love? The Enchantress
+had wrought her spell, had ministered her poison.
+Now, where can he find an antidote, who can teach
+him a healing formula? Bruno D&#8217;Ast was once bewitched
+by a sorceress, and by causing her to be
+burned he was immediately cured. Ah, that Khalid
+could do this! Like an ordinary pamphlet he would
+consign the Enchantress to the flames, and her scrap-books
+and novels to boot. He does well, however, to
+return to his benevolent friend, the Medium. The
+spell can be counteracted by another, though less potent.
+Ay, even witchcraft has its homeopathic remedies.</p>
+<p>And the Medium, Shakib tells us, is delighted to
+welcome back her prodigal child. She opens to him
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91' name='page_91'></a>91</span>
+her arms, and her heart; she slays the fatted calf. &#8220;I
+knew that Allah will bring you back to me,&#8221; she ejaculates;
+&#8220;my prevision is seldom wrong.&#8221; And kissing
+her hand, Khalid falters, &#8220;Forgiveness is for the sinner,
+and the good are for forgiveness.&#8221; Whereupon,
+they plunge again into the Unseen, and thence to
+Bohemia. The aftermath, however, does not come up
+to the expectations of the good Medium. For the
+rigmarole of the Enchantress about the Dervish in
+New York had already done its evil work. And&ndash;&ndash;double&ndash;&ndash;double&ndash;&ndash;wherever
+the Dervish goes.
+Especially in Bohemia, where many of its daughters
+set their caps for him.</p>
+<p>And here, he is neither shy nor slow nor visionary.
+Nor shall his theory of immanent morality trouble
+him for the while. Reality is met with reality on
+solid, though sometimes slippery, ground. His animalism,
+long leashed and starved, is eager for prey.
+His Ph&oelig;nician passion is awake. And fortunately,
+Khalid finds himself in Bohemia where the poison and
+the antidote are frequently offered together. Here
+the spell of one sorceress can straightway be offset by
+that of her sister. And we have our Scribe&#8217;s word
+for it, that the Dervish went as far and as deep with
+the huris, as the doctors eventually would permit him.
+That is why, we believe, in commenting upon his adventures
+there, he often quotes the couplet,</p>
+<div class="poem">
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">&#8220;</span>In my sublunar paradise<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>There&#8217;s plenty of honey&ndash;&ndash;and plenty of flies.&#8221;</span><br /></p>
+</div>
+<p>The flies in his cup, however, can not be detected
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92' name='page_92'></a>92</span>
+with the naked eye. They are microbes rather&ndash;&ndash;microbes
+which even the physicians can not manage
+with satisfaction. For it must be acknowledged that
+Khalid&#8217;s immanent morality and intellectualism suffered
+an interregnum with the huris. Reckless,
+thoughtless, heartless, he plunges headlong again.
+It is said in Al-Hadith that he who guards
+himself against the three cardinal evils, namely, of
+the tongue (<i>laklaka</i>), of the stomach (<i>kabkaba</i>), and
+of the sex (<i>zabzaba</i>), will have guarded himself
+against all evil. But Khalid reads not in the Hadith
+of the Prophet. And that he became audacious, edacious,
+and loquacious, is evident from such wit and
+flippancy as he here likes to display. &#8220;Some women,&#8221;
+says he, &#8220;might be likened to whiskey, others to
+seltzer water; and many are those who, like myself,
+care neither for the soda or the whiskey straight. A
+&#8216;high-ball&#8217; I will have.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Nay, he even takes to punch; for in his cup of
+amour there is a subtle and multifarious mixture.
+With him, he himself avows, one woman complemented
+another. What the svelte brunette, for instance,
+lacked, the steatopygous blonde amply supplied.
+Delicacy and intensity, effervescence and depth, these
+he would have in a woman, or a hareem, as in anything
+else. But these excellences, though found in a hareem,
+will not fuse, as in a poem or a picture. Even thy
+bones, thou scented high-lacquered Dervish, are likely
+to melt away before they melt into one.</p>
+<p>It is written in the K. L. MS. that women either
+bore, or inspire, or excite. &#8220;The first and the last are
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93' name='page_93'></a>93</span>
+to be met with anywhere; but the second? Ah, well
+you have heard the story of Diogenes. So take up
+your lamp and come along. But remember, when
+you do meet the woman that inspires, you will begin
+to yearn for the woman that excites.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And here, the hospitality of the Dervish does not belie
+his Arab blood. In Bohemia, the bonfire of his
+heart was never extinguished, and the wayfarers stopping
+before his tent, be they of those who bored, or excited,
+or inspired, were welcome guests for at least
+three days and nights. And in this he follows the rule
+of hospitality among his people.</p>
+<div class='figcenter'>
+<a name='linki_3' id='linki_3'></a>
+<img src='images/illus-102.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 380px; height: 211px;' /><br />
+</div>
+<hr class='major' />
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<p class="h2" >BOOK THE SECOND</p>
+<p class="h2" >IN THE TEMPLE</p>
+</div>
+<div class='figcenter'>
+<a name='linki_4' id='linki_4'></a>
+<img src='images/illus-106.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 462px; height: 375px;' /><br />
+</div>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<a name='TO_NATURE' id='TO_NATURE'></a>
+<h2>TO NATURE</h2>
+</div>
+<p><i>O Mother eternal, divine, satanic, all encompassing,
+all-nourishing, all-absorbing, O star-diademed,
+pearl-sandaled Goddess, I am thine forever and ever:
+whether as a child of thy womb, or an embodiment
+of a spirit-wave of thy light, or a dumb blind
+personification of thy smiles and tears, or an ignis-fatuus
+of the intelligence that is in thee or beyond thee,
+I am thine forever and ever: I come to thee, I prostrate
+my face before thee, I surrender myself wholly to
+thee. O touch me with thy wand divine again; stir
+me once more in thy mysterious alembics; remake me
+to suit the majestic silence of thy hills, the supernal
+purity of thy sky, the mystic austerity of thy groves,
+the modesty of thy slow-swelling, soft-rolling streams,
+the imperious pride of thy pines, the wild beauty and
+constancy of thy mountain rivulets. Take me in thine
+arms, and whisper to me of thy secrets; fill my senses
+with thy breath divine; show me the bottom of thy terrible
+spirit; buffet me in thy storms, infusing in me of
+thy ruggedness and strength, thy power and grandeur;
+lull me in thine autumn sun-downs to teach me in the
+arts that enrapture, exalt, supernaturalise. Sing me
+a lullaby, O Mother eternal! Give me to drink of
+thy love, divine and diabolic; thy cruelty and thy
+kindness, I accept both, if thou wilt but whisper to me
+the secret of both. Anoint me with the chrism of
+spontaneity that I may be ever worthy of thee.&ndash;&ndash;Withdraw
+not from me thy hand, lest universal love and
+sympathy die in my breast.&ndash;&ndash;I implore thee, O Mother
+eternal, O sea-throned, heaven-canopied Goddess, I
+prostrate my face before thee, I surrender myself
+wholly to thee. And whether I be to-morrow the
+censer in the hand of thy High Priest, or the incense
+in the censer,&ndash;&ndash;whether I become a star-gem in thy
+cestus or a sun in thy diadem or even a firefly in thy
+fane, I am content. For I am certain that it shall
+be for the best.</i>&ndash;&ndash;<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Khalid.</span></p>
+<hr class='major' />
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99' name='page_99'></a>99</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_I_THE_DOWRY_OF_DEMOCRACY' id='CHAPTER_I_THE_DOWRY_OF_DEMOCRACY'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>
+<h3>THE DOWRY OF DEMOCRACY</h3>
+</div>
+<p>Old Arabic books, printed in <ins class="trchange" title="Added comma">Bulaq,</ins> generally
+have a broad margin wherein a separate work,
+independent of the text, adds gloom to the page. We
+have before us one of these tomes in which the text
+treats of the ethics of life and religion, and the margins
+are darkened with certain adventures which
+Shahrazad might have added to her famous Nights.
+The similarity between Khalid&#8217;s life in its present
+stage and some such book, is evident. Nay, he has
+been so assiduous in writing the marginal Work, that
+ever since he set fire to his peddling-box, we have had
+little in the Text worth transcribing. Nothing, in
+fact; for many pages back are as blank as the evil genius
+of Bohemia could wish them. And how could one
+with that mara upon him, write of the ethics of life
+and religion?</p>
+<p>Al-Hamazani used to say that in Jorajan the man
+from Khorasan must open thrice his purse: first, to pay
+for the rent; second, for the food; and third, for his
+coffin. And so, in Khalid&#8217;s case, at least, is Bohemia.
+For though the purse be not his own, he was paying
+dear, and even in advance, in what is dearer than
+gold, for his experience. &#8220;O, that the Devil did
+not take such interest in the marginal work of our
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100' name='page_100'></a>100</span>
+life! Why should we write it then, and for whom?
+And how will it fare with us when, chapfallen in the
+end and mortified, we stand before the great Task-Master
+like delinquent school boys with a blank text
+in our hands?&#8221; (Thus Shakib, who has caught the
+moralising evil from his Master.) And that we must
+stand, and fall, for thus standing, he is quite certain.
+At least, Khalid is. For he would not return to the
+Text to make up for the blank pages therein, if he were
+not.</p>
+<p>&#8220;When he returned from his last sojourn in Bohemia,&#8221;
+writes our Scribe, &#8220;Khalid was pitiful to behold.
+Even Sindbad, had he seen him, would have
+been struck with wonder. The tears rushed to my
+eyes when we embraced; for instead of Khalid I had in
+my arms a phantom. And I could not but repeat the
+lines of Al-Mutanabbi,</p>
+<div class="poem">
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">&#8220;</span>So phantom-like I am, and though so near,<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>If I spoke not, thou wouldst not know I&#8217;m here.&#8221;</span><br /></p>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;<ins class="trchange" title="Added extra opening double-quote">&#8220;No</ins> more voyages, I trust, O thou Sindbad.&#8221; And
+he replied, &#8220;Yes, one more; but to our dear native land
+this time.&#8221; In fact, I, too, was beginning to suffer
+from nostalgia, and was much desirous of returning
+home.&#8221; But Shakib is in such a business tangle that
+he could not extricate himself in a day. So, they
+tarry another year in New York, the one meanwhile
+unravelling his affairs, settling with his creditors and
+collecting what few debts he had, the other brooding
+over the few blank pages in his Text.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101' name='page_101'></a>101</span></p>
+<p>One day he receives a letter from a fellow traveller,
+a distinguished citizen of Tammany Land, whom he
+had met and befriended in Bohemia, relating to an
+enterprise of great pith and moment. It was election
+time, we learn, and the high post of political canvasser
+of the Syrian District was offered to Khalid for
+a consideration of&ndash;&ndash;but the letter which Shakib happily
+preserved, we give in full.</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>&#8220;Dear Khalid:</p>
+<p>&#8220;I have succeeded in getting Mr. O&#8217;Donohue to appoint
+you a canvasser of the Syrian District. You must stir yourself,
+therefore, and try to do some good work, among the
+Syrian voters, for Democracy&#8217;s Candidate this campaign.
+Here is a chance which, with a little hustling on your part,
+will materialise. And I see no reason why you should not
+try to cash your influence among your people. This is no
+mean position, mind you. And if you will come up to the
+Wigwam to-morrow, I&#8217;ll give you a few suggestions on the
+business of manipulating votes.</p>
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:5.0em; text-align:right'><span style='margin-right: 3.90625em;'>&#8220;Yours truly,</span><br />
+&#8220;<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Patrick Hoolihan</span>.&#8221;<br /></p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>And the said Mr. Hoolihan, the letter shows, is
+Secretary to Mr. O&#8217;Donohue, who is first henchman to
+the Boss. Such a letter, if luckily misunderstood, will
+fire for a while the youthful imagination. No; not
+his Shamrag Majesty&#8217;s Tammany Agent to Syria,
+this Canvassership, you poor phantom-like zany! A
+high post, indeed, you fond and pitiful dreamer, on
+which you must hang the higher aspirations of your
+soul, together with your theory of immanent morality.
+You would not know this at first. You would still
+kiss the official notification of Mr. Hoolihan, and hug
+it fondly to your breast. Very well. At last&ndash;&ndash;and
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102' name='page_102'></a>102</span>
+the gods will not damn thee for musing&ndash;&ndash;you will
+stand in the band-wagon before the corner groggery
+and be the object of the admiration of your fellow citizens&ndash;&ndash;perhaps
+of missiles, too. Very well, Khalid;
+but you must shear that noddle of thine, and straightway,
+for the poets are potted in Tammany Land. We
+say this for your sake.</p>
+<p>The orator-dream of youth, ye gods, shall it be
+realised in this heaven of a dray-cart with its kerosene
+torch and its drum, smelling and sounding rather
+of Juhannam? Surely, from the Table of Bohemia
+to the Stump in Tammany Land, is a far cry. But believe
+us, O Khalid, you will wish you were again in
+the gardens of Proserpine, when the silence and darkness
+extinguish the torch and the drum and the echoes
+of the shouting crowds. The headaches are certain
+to follow this inebriation. You did not believe
+Shakib; you would not be admonished; you would go
+to the Wigwam for your portfolio. &#8220;<i>High post</i>,&#8221;
+&#8220;<i>political canvasser</i>,&#8221; &#8220;<i>manipulation of votes</i>,&#8221; you
+will know the exact meaning of these esoteric terms,
+when, alas, you meet Mr. Hoolihan. For you must
+know that not every one you meet in Bohemia is not a
+Philistine. Indeed, many helots are there, who come
+from Philistia to spy out the Land.</p>
+<p>We read in the <i>Histoire Intime</i> of Shakib that
+Khalid did become a Tammany citizen, that is to say,
+a Tammany dray-horse; that he was much esteemed
+by the Honourable Henchmen, and once in the Wigwam
+he was particularly noticed by his Shamrag
+Majesty Boss O&#8217;Graft; that he was Tammany&#8217;s Agent
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103' name='page_103'></a>103</span>
+to the Editors of the Syrian newspapers of New York,
+whom he enrolled in the service of the Noble Cause
+for a consideration which no eloquence or shrewdness
+could reduce to a minimum; that he also took to the
+stump and dispensed to his fellow citizens, with rhetorical
+gestures at least, of the cut-and-dried logic which
+the Committee of Buncombe on such occasions
+furnishes its squad of talented spouters; and that&ndash;&ndash;the
+most important this&ndash;&ndash;he was subject in the end
+to the ignominy of waiting in the lobby with tuft-hunters
+and political stock-jobbers, until it pleased the
+Committee of Buncombe and the Honourable Treasurer
+thereof to give him&ndash;&ndash;a card of dismissal!</p>
+<p>But what virtue is there in waiting, our cynical
+friend would ask. Why not go home and sleep?
+Because, O cynical friend, the Wigwam now is
+Khalid&#8217;s home. For was he not, in creaking boots
+and a slouch hat, ceremoniously married to Democracy?
+Ay, and after spending their honeymoon
+on the Stump and living another month or two
+with his troll among her People, he returns to his
+cellar to brood, not over the blank pages in his Text,
+nor over the disastrous results of the Campaign, but
+on the weightier matter of divorce. For although
+Politics and Romance, in the History of Human Intrigue,
+have often known and enjoyed the same yoke,
+with Khalid they refused to pull at the plough. They
+were not sensible even to the goad. Either the yoke
+in his case was too loose, or the new yoke-fellow too
+thick-skinned and stubborn.</p>
+<p>Moreover, the promise of a handsome dowry, made
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104' name='page_104'></a>104</span>
+by the Shamrag Father-in-Law or his Brokers materialised
+only in the rotten eggs and tomatoes with which
+the Orator was cordially received on his honeymoon
+trip. Such a marriage, O Mohammad, and such a
+honeymoon, and such a dowry!&ndash;&ndash;is not this enough
+to shake the very sides of the Kaaba with laughter?
+And yet, in the Wigwam this not uncommon affair
+was indifferently considered; for the good and honourable
+Tammanyites marry off their Daughters every
+day to foreigners and natives alike, and with like extraordinary
+picturesque results.</p>
+<p>Were it not wiser, therefore, O Khalid, had you
+consulted your friend the Dictionary before you saw
+exact meaning of canvass and manipulation, before
+you put on your squeaking boots and slouch hat and
+gave your hand and heart to Tammany&#8217;s Daughter
+and her Father-in-Law O&#8217;Graft? But the Dictionary,
+too, often falls short of human experience; and
+even Mr. O&#8217;Donohue could at best but hint at the
+meaning of the esoteric terms of Tammany&#8217;s political
+creed. These you must define for yourself as you go
+along; and change and revise your definitions as you
+rise or descend in the Sacred Order. For canvass here
+might mean eloquence; there it might mean shrewdness;
+lower down, intimidation and coercion; and further
+depthward, human sloth and misery. It is but a
+common deal in horses. Ay, in Tammany Land it is
+essentially a trade honestly conducted on the known
+principle of supply and demand. These truths you
+had to discover for yourself, you say; for neither the
+Dictionary, nor your friend and fellow traveller in
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105' name='page_105'></a>105</span>
+Bohemia, Mr. Hoolihan, could stretch their knowledge
+or their conscience to such a compass. And
+you are not sorry to have made such a discovery?
+Can you think of the Dowry and say that? We are,
+indeed, sorry for you. And we would fain insert in
+letter D of the Dictionary a new definition: namely,
+Dowry, n. (Tammany Land Slang). The odoriferous
+missiles, such as eggs and tomatoes, which are
+showered on an Orator-Groom by the people.</p>
+<p>But see what big profits Khalid draws from these
+small shares in the Reality Stock Company. You remember,
+good Reader, how he was kicked away from
+the door of the Temple of Atheism. The stogies of
+that inspired Doorkeeper were divine, according to his
+way of viewing things, for they were at that particular
+moment God&#8217;s own boots. Ay, it was God, he
+often repeats, who kicked him away from the Temple
+of his enemies. And now, he finds the Dowry of
+Democracy, with all its wonderful revelations, as
+profitable in its results, as divine in its purpose. And
+in proof of this, we give here a copy of his letter to
+Boss O&#8217;Graft, written in that downright manner of
+his contemporaries, the English original of which we
+find in the <i>Histoire Intime</i>.</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:center'>&#8220;From Khalid to Boss O&#8217;Graft.<br /></p>
+<p>&#8220;Right <i>Dis</i>honourable Boss:</p>
+<p>&#8220;I have just received a check from your Treasurer, which
+by no right whatever is due me, having been paid for my
+services by Him who knows better than you and your Treasurer
+what I deserve. The voice of the people, and their
+eggs and tomatoes, too, are, indeed, God&#8217;s. And you should
+know this, you who dare to remunerate me in what is not
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106' name='page_106'></a>106</span>
+half as clean as those missiles. I return not your insult of a
+check, however; but I have tried to do your state some service
+in purchasing the few boxes of soap which I am now
+dispatching to the Wigwam. You need more, I know, you
+and your Honourable Henchmen or Hashmen. And instead
+of canvassing and orating for Democracy&#8217;s illustrious Candidate
+and the Noble Cause, <i>mashallah!</i> one ought to do
+a little canvassing for Honesty and Truth among Democracy&#8217;s
+leaders, tuft-hunters, political stock-jobbers, and such
+like. O, for a higher stump, my Boss, to preach to those
+who are supporting and degrading the stumps and the stump-orators
+of the Republic!&#8221;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>And is it come to this, you poor phantom-like
+dreamer? Think you a Tammany Boss is like your
+atheists and attorneys and women of the studio, at
+whom you could vent your ire without let or hindrance?
+These harmless humans have no constables
+at their command. But his Shamrag Majesty&ndash;&ndash;O
+wretched Khalid, must we bring one of his myrmidons
+to your cellar to prove to you that, even in this
+Tammany Land, you can not with immunity give free
+and honest expression to your thoughts? Now, were
+you not summoned to the Shamrag&#8217;s presence to
+answer for the crime of <i>l&egrave;se-majest&eacute;</i>? And were you
+not, for your audacity, left to brood ten days and
+nights in gaol? And what tedium we have in
+Shakib&#8217;s History about the charge on which he was
+arrested. It is unconscionable that Khalid should
+misappropriate Party funds. Indeed, he never
+even touched or saw any of it, excepting, of course, that
+check which he returned. But the Boss was still in
+power. And what could Shakib do to exonerate his
+friend? He did much, and he tells as much about it.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107' name='page_107'></a>107</span>
+With check-boot in his pocket, he makes his way
+through aldermen, placemen, henchmen, and other questionable
+political species of humanity, up to the Seat of
+Justice&ndash;&ndash;but such detail, though of the veracity of the
+writer nothing doubting, we gladly set aside, since we
+believe with Khalid that his ten days in gaol were akin
+to the Boots and the Dowry in their motive and
+effect.</p>
+<p>But our Scribe, though never remiss when Khalid
+is in a pickle, finds much amiss in Khalid&#8217;s thoughts
+and sentiments. And as a further illustration of the
+limpid shallows of the one and the often opaque
+depths of the other, we give space to the following:</p>
+<p>&#8220;When Khalid was ordered to appear before the
+Boss,&#8221; writes Shakib, &#8220;such curiosity and anxiety as I
+felt at that time made me accompany him. For I was
+anxious about Khalid, and curious to see this great
+Leader of men. We set out, therefore, together, I
+musing on an incident in Baalbek when we went out
+to meet the Pasha of the Lebanons and a droll old
+peasant, having seen him for the first time, cried out,
+&#8216;I thought the Pasha to be a Pasha, but he&#8217;s but a
+man.&#8217; And I am sorry, after having seen the Boss,
+I can not say as much for him.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Here follows a little philosophising, unbecoming of
+our Scribe, on men and names and how they act and
+react upon each other. Also, a page about his misgivings
+and the effort he made to persuade Khalid not
+to appear before the Boss. But skipping over these,
+&#8220;we reach the Tammany Wigwam and are conducted
+by a thick-set, heavy-jowled, heavy-booted citizen
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108' name='page_108'></a>108</span>
+through the long corridor into a little square room
+occupied by a little square-faced clerk. Here we wait
+a half hour and more, during which the young
+gentleman, with his bell before him and his orders to
+minor clerks who come and go, poses as somebody of
+some importance. We are then asked to follow him
+from one room into another, until we reach the one
+adjoining the private office of the Boss. A knock or
+two are executed on the door of Greatness with a
+nauseous sense of awe, and &#8216;Come in,&#8217; Greatness within
+huskily replies. The square-faced clerk enters,
+shuts the door after him, returns in a trice, and conducts
+us into the awful Presence. Ye gods of Baalbek,
+the like of this I never saw before. Here is a
+room sumptuously furnished with sofas and fauteuils,
+and rugs from Ispahan. On the walls are pictures
+of Washington, Jefferson, and the great Boss Tweed;
+and right under the last named, behind that preciously
+carved mahogany desk, in that soft rolling mahogany
+chair, is the squat figure of the big Boss. On the
+desk before him, besides a plethora of documents, lay
+many things pell-mell, among which I noticed a box of
+cigars, the Criminal Code, and, most prominent of all,
+the Boss&#8217; feet, raised there either to bid us welcome,
+or to remind us of his power. And the rich Ispahan
+rug, the cuspidor being small and overfull, receives
+the richly coloured matter which he spurts forth every
+time he takes the cigar out of his mouth. O, the vulgarity,
+the bestiality of it! Think of those poor patient
+Persian weavers who weave the tissues of their
+hearts into such beautiful work, and of this proud and
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109' name='page_109'></a>109</span>
+paltry Boss, whose office should have been furnished
+with straw. Yes, with straw; and the souls of those
+poor artist-weavers will sleep in peace. O, the ignominy
+of having such precious pieces of workmanship
+under the feet and spittle of such vulgar specimens of
+humanity. But if the Boss had purchased these rugs
+himself, with money earned by his own brow-sweat,
+I am sure he would appreciate them better. He would
+then know, if not their intrinsic worth, at least their
+market value. Yes, and they were presented to him
+by some one <i>needing, I suppose, police connivance
+and protection</i>. The first half of this statement I
+had from the Boss himself; the second, I base on
+Khalid&#8217;s knowingness and suspicion. Be this, however,
+as it may.</p>
+<p>&#8220;When we entered this sumptuously furnished office,
+the squat figure in the chair under the picture of
+Boss Tweed, remained as immobile as a fixture and
+did not as much as reply to our <i>salaam</i>. But he
+pointed disdainfully to seats in the corner of the room,
+saying, &#8216;Sit down there,&#8217; in a manner quite in keeping
+with his stogies raised on the desk directly in our face.
+Such freedom, nay, such bestiality, I could never tolerate.
+Indeed, I prefer the suavity and palaver of
+Turkish officials, no matter how crafty and corrupt, to
+the puffing, spitting manners of these come-up-from-the-shamble
+men. But Khalid could sit there as immobile
+as the Boss himself, and he did so, billah! For
+he was thinking all the while, as he told me when we
+came out, not of such matters as grate on the susceptibilities
+of a poet, but on the one sole idea of how such
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110' name='page_110'></a>110</span>
+a bad titman could lead by the nose so many good
+people.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Shakib then proceeds to give us a verbatim report of
+the interview. It begins with the Boss&#8217; question,
+&#8220;What do you mean by writing such a letter?&#8221; and
+ends with this other, &#8220;What do you mean by immanent
+morality?&#8221; The reader, given the head and tail of the
+matter, can supply the missing parts. Or, given its
+two bases, he can construct this triangle of Politics,
+Ethics, and the Constable, with Khalid&#8217;s letter,
+offended Majesty, and a prison cell, as its three turning
+points. We extract from the report, however, the
+concluding advice of the Boss. For when he asked
+Khalid again what he meant by immanent morality, he
+continued in a crescendo of indignation: &#8220;You mean
+the morality of hayseeds, and priests, and philosophical
+fools? That sort of morality will not as much as secure
+a vote during the campaign, nor even help to
+keep the lowest clerk in office. That sort of morality
+is good for your mountain peasants or other barbarous
+tribes. But the free and progressive people of the
+United States must have something better, nobler,
+more practical. You&#8217;d do well, therefore, to get you a
+pair of rings, hang them in your ears, and go preach,
+your immanent morality to the South African Pappoos.
+But before you go, you shall taste of the rigour of our
+law, you insolent, brazen-faced, unmannerly scoundrel!&#8221;</p>
+<p>And we are assured that the Boss did not remain immobile
+as be spurted forth this mixture of wrath and
+wisdom, nor did the stogies; for moved by his own
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111' name='page_111'></a>111</span>
+words, he rose promptly to his feet. &#8220;And what of
+it,&#8221; exclaims our Scribe. &#8220;Surely, I had rather see
+those boots perform any office, high or low, as to behold
+their soles raised like mirrors to my face.&#8221; But
+how high an office they performed when the Boss came
+forward, we are not told. All that our Scribe gives
+out about the matter amounts to this: namely, that he
+walked out of the room, and as he looked back to see
+if Khalid was following, he saw him brushing with his
+hands&ndash;&ndash;his hips! And on that very day Khalid was
+summoned to appear before the Court and give answer
+to the charge of misappropriation of public funds.
+The orator-dream of youth&ndash;&ndash;what a realisation!
+He comes to Court, and after the legal formalities are
+performed, he is delivered unto an officer who escorts
+him across the Bridge of Sighs to gaol. There, for
+ten days and nights,&ndash;&ndash;and it might have been ten
+months were it not for his devoted and steadfast
+friend,&ndash;&ndash;we leave Khalid to brood on Democracy and
+the Dowry of Democracy. A few extracts from the
+Chapter in the K. L. MS. entitled &#8220;In Prison,&#8221; are,
+therefore, appropriate.</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>&#8220;So long as one has faith,&#8221; he writes, &#8220;in the general
+moral summation of the experience of mankind, as the philosophy
+of reason assures us, one should not despair. But
+the material fact of the Present, the dark moment of no-morality,
+consider that, my suffering Brothers. And reflect
+further that in this great City of New York the majority of
+citizens consider it a blessing to have a <i>rojail</i> (titman) for
+their boss and leader.... How often have I mused
+that if Ponce de Leon sought the Fountain of Youth in the
+New World, I, Khalid, sought the Fountain of Truth, and
+both of us have been equally successful!
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112' name='page_112'></a>112</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;But the Americans are neither Pagans&ndash;&ndash;which is consoling&ndash;&ndash;nor
+fetish-worshipping heathens: they are all true
+and honest votaries of Mammon, their great God, their one
+and only God. And is it not natural that the Demiurgic
+Dollar should be the national Deity of America? Have not
+deities been always conceived after man&#8217;s needs and aspirations?
+Thus in Egypt, in a locality where the manufacture
+of pottery was the chief industry, God was represented as a
+potter; in agricultural districts, as a god of harvest; among
+warring tribes as an avenger, a Jehovah. And the more
+needs, the more deities; the higher the aspirations, the better
+the gods. Hence the ugly fetish of a savage tribe, and the
+beautiful mythology of a Greek Civilisation. Change the
+needs and aspirations of the Americans, therefore, and you
+will have changed their worship, their national Deity, and
+even their Government. And believe me, this change is
+coming; people get tired of their gods as of everything else.
+Ay, the time will come, when man in this America shall not
+suffer for not being a seeker and lover and defender of the
+Dollar....</p>
+<p>&#8220;Obedience, like faith, is a divine gift; but only when it
+comes from the heart: only when prompted by love and sincerity
+is it divine. If you can not, however, reverence what
+you obey, then, I say, withhold your obedience. And if you
+prefer to barter your identity or ego for a counterfeit coin
+of ideology, that right is yours. For under a liberal Constitution
+and in a free Government, you are also at liberty
+to sell your soul, to open a bank account for your conscience.
+But don&#8217;t blame God, or Destiny, or Society, when you find
+yourself, after doing this, a brother to the ox. Herein, we
+Orientals differ from Europeans and Americans; we are
+never bribed into obedience. We obey either from reverence
+and love, or from fear. We are either power-worshippers
+or cowards but never, never traders. It might be said
+that the masses in the East are blind slaves, while in Europe
+and America they are become blind rebels. And which is
+the better part of valour, when one is blind&ndash;&ndash;submission or
+revolt?...</p>
+<p>&#8220;No; popular suffrage helps not the suffering individual;
+nor does it conduce to a better and higher morality. Why,
+my Masters, it can not as much as purge its own channels.
+For what is the ballot box, I ask again, but a modern vehicle
+of corruption and debasement? The ballot box, believe
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113' name='page_113'></a>113</span>
+me, can not add a cubit to your frame, nor can it shed
+a modicum of light on the deeper problems of life. Of
+course, it is the exponent of the will of the majority, that is
+to say, the will of the Party that has more money at its disposal.
+The majority, and Iblis, and Juhannam&ndash;&ndash;ah, come
+out with me to the new gods!...&#8221;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>But we must make allowance for these girds and
+gibes at Democracy, of which we have given a specimen.
+Khalid&#8217;s irony bites so deep at times as to get
+at the very bone of truth. And here is the marrow
+of it. We translate the following prophecy with
+which he closes his Chapter &#8220;In Prison,&#8221; and with it,
+too, we close ours.</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>&#8220;But my faith in man,&#8221; he swears, &#8220;is as strong as my
+faith in God. And as strong, too, perhaps, is my faith in
+the future world-ruling destiny of America. To these United
+States shall the Nations of the World turn one day for the
+best model of good Government; in these United States the
+well-springs of the higher aspirations of the soul shall quench
+the thirst of every race-traveller on the highway of emancipation;
+and from these United States the sun and moon of
+a great Faith and a great Art shall rise upon mankind. I
+believe this, billah! and I am willing to go on the witness
+stand to swear to it. Ay, in this New World, the higher
+Superman shall rise. And he shall not be of the tribe of
+Overmen of the present age, of the beautiful blond beast of
+Zarathustra, who would riddle mankind as they would riddle
+wheat or flour; nor of those political moralists who would
+reform the world as they would a parish.</p>
+<p>&#8220;From his transcendental height, the Superman of America
+shall ray forth in every direction the divine light, which
+shall mellow and purify the spirit of Nations and strengthen
+and sweeten the spirit of men, in this New World, I tell
+you, he shall be born, but he shall not be an American in
+the Democratic sense. He shall be nor of the Old World
+nor of the New; he shall be, my Brothers, of both. In him
+shall be reincarnated the Asiatic spirit of origination, of
+Poesy and Prophecy, and the European spirit of Art, and the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114' name='page_114'></a>114</span>
+American spirit of Invention. Ay, the Nation that leads
+the world to-day in material progress shall lead it, too, in
+the future, in the higher things of the mind and soul. And
+when you reach that height, O beloved America, you will
+be far from the majority-rule, and Iblis, and Juhannam.
+And you will then conquer those &#8216;enormous mud Megatheriums&#8217;
+of which Carlyle makes loud mention.&#8221;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115' name='page_115'></a>115</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_II_SUBTRANSCENDENTAL' id='CHAPTER_II_SUBTRANSCENDENTAL'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>
+<h3>SUBTRANSCENDENTAL</h3>
+</div>
+<p>Deficiencies in individuals, as in States, have
+their value and import. Indeed, that sublime
+impulse of perfectibility, always vivacious, always
+working under various forms and with one underlying
+purpose, would be futile without them, and fatuous.
+And what were life without this incessant striving of
+the spirit? What were life without its angles of difficulty
+and defeat, and its apices of triumph and
+power? A banality this, you will say. But need
+we not be reminded of these wholesome truths, when
+the striving after originality nowadays is productive of
+so much quackery? The impulse of perfectibility, we
+repeat, whether at work in a Studio, or in a Factory,
+or in a Prison Cell, is the most noble of all human impulses,
+the most divine.</p>
+<p>Of that Chapter, In Prison, we have given
+what might be called the exogenous bark of the Soul,
+or that which environment creates. And now we
+shall endeavour to show the reader somewhat of the
+ludigenous process, by which the Soul, thrumming its
+own strings or eating its own guts, develops and increases
+its numbers. For Khalid in these gaol-days is
+much like Hamlet&#8217;s player, or even like Hamlet himself&ndash;&ndash;always
+soliloquising, tearing a passion to rags.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116' name='page_116'></a>116</span>
+And what mean these outbursts and objurgations of
+his, you will ask; these suggestions, fugitive, rhapsodical,
+mystical; this furibund allegro about Money,
+Mediums, and Bohemia; these sobs and tears and
+asseverations, in which our Lady of the Studio and
+Shakib are both expunged with great billahs;&ndash;&ndash;the
+force and significance of these subliminal uprushes,
+dear Reader, we confess we are, like yourself, unable
+to understand, without the aid of our Interpreter.
+We shall, therefore, let him speak.</p>
+<p>&#8220;When in prison,&#8221; writes Shakib, &#8220;Khalid was
+subject to spasms and strange hallucinations. One
+day, when I was sweating in the effort to get him out
+of gaol, he sends me word to come and see him. I
+go; and after waiting a while at the Iron gate, I behold
+Khalid rushing down the isle like an angry lion.
+&#8216;What do you want,&#8217; he growled, &#8216;why are you
+here?&#8217; And I, amazed, &#8216;Did you not send for me?&#8217;
+And he snapped up, &#8216;I did; but you should not have
+come. You should withhold from me your favours.&#8217;
+Life of Allah, I was stunned. I feared lest his mind,
+too, had gone in the direction of his health, which
+was already sorrily undermined. I looked at him
+with dim, tearful eyes, and assured him that soon he
+shall be free. &#8216;And what is the use of freedom,&#8217; he
+exclaimed, &#8216;when it drags us to lower and darker
+depths? Don&#8217;t think I am miserable in prison. No;
+I am not&ndash;&ndash;I am happy. I have had strange visions,
+marvellous. O my Brother, if you could behold the
+sloughs, deeper and darker than any prison-cell, into
+which <i>you</i> have thrown me. Yes, <i>you</i>&ndash;&ndash;and another.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117' name='page_117'></a>117</span>
+O, I hate you both. I hate my best lovers. I hate
+You&ndash;&ndash;no&ndash;&ndash;no, no, no.&#8217; And he falls on me, embraces
+me, and bathes my cheeks with his tears. After
+which he falters out beseechingly, &#8216;Promise, promise
+that you will not give me any more money, and
+though starving and in rags you find me crouching at
+your door, promise.&#8217; And of a truth, I acquiesced in
+all he said, seeing how shaken in body and mind he
+was. But not until I had made a promise under oath
+would he be tranquillised. And so, after our farewell
+embrace, he asked me to come again the following day
+and bring him some books to read. This I did, fetching
+with me Rousseau&#8217;s <i>Emile</i> and Carlyle&#8217;s
+<i>Hero-Worship</i>, the only two books he had in
+the cellar. And when he saw them, he exclaimed
+with joy, &#8216;The very books I want! I read them twice
+already, and I shall read them again. O, let me
+kiss you for the thought.&#8217; And in an ecstasy he
+overwhelms me again with suffusing sobs and embraces.</p>
+<p>&#8220;What a difference, I thought, between Khalid of
+yesterday and Khalid of to-day. What a transformation!
+Even I who know the turn and temper of his
+nature had much this time to fear. Surely, an alienist
+would have made a case of him. But I began to
+get an inkling into his cue of passion, when he told
+me that he was going to start a little business again,
+if I lend him the necessary capital. But I reminded
+him that we shall soon be returning home. &#8216;No, not
+I,&#8217; he swore; &#8216;not until I can pay my own passage, at
+least. I told you yesterday I&#8217;ll accept no more money
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118' name='page_118'></a>118</span>
+from you, except, of course, the sum I need to start
+the little business I am contemplating.&#8217; &#8216;And suppose
+you lose this money,&#8217; I asked.&ndash;&ndash;&#8216;Why, then <i>you</i>
+lose <i>me</i>. But no, you shall not. For I know, I believe,
+I am sure, I swear that my scheme this time will
+not be a failure in any sense of the word. I have
+heavenly testimony on that.&#8217;&ndash;&ndash;&#8216;And what was the
+matter with you yesterday? Why were you so queer?&#8217;
+&#8216;O, I had nightmares and visions the night before, and
+you came too early in the morning. See this.&#8217; And
+he holds down his head to show me the back of his
+neck. &#8216;Is there no swelling here? I feel it. Oh, it
+pains me yet. But I shall tell you about it and about
+the vision when I am out.&#8217;&ndash;&ndash;And at this, the gaoler
+comes to inform us that Khalid&#8217;s minutes are spent
+and he must return to his cell.&#8221;</p>
+<p>All of which from our Interpreter is as clear as God
+Save the King. And from which we hope our Reader
+will infer that those outbursts and tears and rhapsodies
+of Khalid did mean somewhat. They did mean,
+even when we first approached his cell, that something
+was going on in him&ndash;&ndash;a revolution, a <i>coup d&#8217;&eacute;tat</i>, so
+to speak, of the spirit. For a Prince in Rags, but not
+in Debts and Dishonour, will throttle the Harpy which
+has hitherto ruled and degraded his soul.</p>
+<p>But the dwelling, too, of that soul is sorely undermined.
+And so, his leal and loving friend Shakib
+takes him later to the best physician in the City, who
+after the tapping and auscultation, shakes his
+head, writes his prescriptions, and advises Khalid to
+keep in the open air as much as possible, or better still,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119' name='page_119'></a>119</span>
+to return to his native country. The last portion of
+the advice, however, Khalid can not follow at present.
+For he will either return home on his own account
+or die in New York. &#8220;If I can not in time save
+enough money for the Steamship Company,&#8221; he said
+to Shakib, &#8220;I can at least leave enough to settle the
+undertaker&#8217;s bill. And in either case, I shall have
+paid my own passage out of this New World. And I
+shall stand before my Maker in a shroud, at least,
+which I can call my own.&#8221;</p>
+<p>To which Shakib replies by going to the druggist
+with the prescriptions. And when he returns to the
+cellar with a package of four or five medicine bottles
+for rubbing and smelling and drinking, he finds Khalid
+sitting near the stove&ndash;&ndash;we are now in the last month
+of Winter&ndash;&ndash;warming his hands on the flames of the
+two last books he read. <i>Emile</i> and <i>Hero-Worship</i> go
+the way of all the rest. And there he sits, meditating
+over Carlyle&#8217;s crepitating fire and Rousseau&#8217;s writhing,
+sibilating flame. And it may be he thought of neither.
+Perhaps he was brooding over the resolution he had
+made, and the ominous shaking of the doctor&#8217;s head.
+Ah, but his tutelar deities are better physicians, he
+thought. And having made his choice, he will pitch
+the medicine bottles into the street, and only follow
+the doctor&#8217;s advice by keeping in the open air.</p>
+<p>Behold him, therefore, with a note in hand, applying
+to Shakib, in a formal and business-like manner, for
+a loan; and see that noble benefactor and friend, after
+gladly giving the money, throw the note into the fire.
+And now, Khalid is neither dervish nor philosopher,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120' name='page_120'></a>120</span>
+but a man of business with a capital of twenty-five
+dollars in his pocket. And with one-fifth of this capital
+he buys a second-hand push-cart from his Greek
+neighbour, wends his way with it to the market-place,
+makes a purchase there of a few boxes of oranges, sorts
+them in his cart into three classes,&ndash;&ndash;&#8220;there is no equality
+in nature,&#8221; he says, while doing this,&ndash;&ndash;sticks a price
+card at the head of each class, and starts, in the name
+of Allah, his business. That is how he will keep in the
+open air twelve hours a day.</p>
+<p>But in the district where he is known he does not
+long remain. The sympathy of his compatriots is to
+him worse than the doctor&#8217;s medicines, and those who
+had often heard him speechifying exchanged significant
+looks when he passed. Moreover, the police would
+not let him set up his stand anywhere. &#8220;There comes
+the push-cart orator,&#8221; they would say to each other;
+and before our poor Syrian stops to breathe, one of
+them grumpishly cries out, &#8220;Move on there! Move
+on!&#8221; Once Khalid ventures to ask, &#8220;But why are
+others allowed to set up their stands here?&#8221; And
+the &#8220;copper&#8221; (we beg the Critic&#8217;s pardon again)
+coming forward twirling his club, lays his hand on
+Khalid&#8217;s shoulder and calmly this: &#8220;Don&#8217;t you think
+I know you? Move on, I say.&#8221; O Khalid, have you
+forgotten that these &#8220;coppers&#8221; are the minions of
+Tammany? Why tarry, therefore, and ask questions?
+Yes, make a big move at once&ndash;&ndash;out of the district
+entirely.</p>
+<p>Now, to the East Side, into the Jewish Quarter,
+Khalid directs his cart. And there, he falls in with
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121' name='page_121'></a>121</span>
+Jewish fellow push-cart peddlers and puts up with
+them in a cellar similar to his in the Syrian Quarter.
+But only for a month could he suffer what the Jew
+has suffered for centuries. Why? There is this difference
+between the cellar of the Semite Syrian and
+that of the Semite Jew: in the first we eat <i>mojadderah</i>,
+in the second, <i>kosher</i> but stinking flesh; in the
+first we read poetry and play the lute, in the
+second we fight about the rent and the division of the
+profits of the day; in the first we sleep in linen &#8220;as
+white as the wings of the dove,&#8221; in the second on pieces
+of smelly blankets; the first is redolent of ottar of
+roses, Shakib&#8217;s favourite perfume, the second is especially
+made insufferable by that stench which is
+peculiar to every Hebrew hive. For these and other
+reasons, Khalid separates himself from his Semite fellow
+peddlers, and makes this time a bigger move than
+the first.</p>
+<p>Ay, even to the Bronx, where often in former days,
+shouldering the peddling-box, he tramped, will he now
+push his orange-cart and his hopes. There, between
+City and Country, nearer to Nature, and not far from
+the traffic of life, he fares better both in health and
+purse. It is much to his liking, this upper end of the
+City. Here the atmosphere is more peaceful and
+soothing, and the police are more agreeable. No, they
+do not nickname and bully him in the Bronx. And
+never was he ordered to move on, even though he set
+up his stand for months at the same corner. &#8220;Ah,
+how much kinder and more humane people become,&#8221;
+he says, &#8220;even when they are not altogether out of the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122' name='page_122'></a>122</span>
+City, but only on the outskirts of the country expanse.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Khalid passes the Spring and Summer in the Bronx
+and keeps in the open air, not only in the day, but
+also in the night. How he does this, is told in a letter
+which he writes to Shakib. But does he sleep at all,
+you ask, and how, and where? Reader, we thank
+you for your anxiety about Khalid&#8217;s health. And we
+would fain show you the Magic Carpet which he carries
+in the lock-box of his push-cart. But see for yourself,
+here be neither Magic Carpet, nor Magic Ring.
+Only his papers, a few towels, a blanket, some underwear,
+and his coffee utensils, are here. For Khalid
+could forego his <i>mojadderah</i>, but never his coffee, the
+Arab that he is. But an Arab on the wayfare, if he
+finds himself at night far from the camp, will dig him
+a ditch in the sands and lie there to sleep under the
+living stars. Khalid could not do thus, neither in the
+City nor out of it. And yet, he did not lodge within
+doors. He hired a place only for his push-cart; and
+this, a small padlock-booth where he deposits his stock
+in trade. But how he lived in the Bronx is described
+in the following letter:</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>&#8220;My loving Brother Shakib,</p>
+<p>&#8220;I have been two months here, in a neighbourhood familiar
+to you. Not far from the place where I sleep is the sycamore
+tree under which I burned my peddling-box. And perhaps I
+shall yet burn there my push-cart too. But for the present,
+all&#8217;s well. My business is good and my health is improving.
+The money-order I am enclosing with this, will cancel the
+note, but not the many debts, I owe you. And I hope to be
+able to join you again soon, to make the voyage to our native
+land together. Meanwhile I am working, and laying up a
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123' name='page_123'></a>123</span>
+little something. I make from two to three dollars a day, of
+which I never spend more than one. And this on one meal
+only; for my lodging and my lunch and breakfast cost next
+to nothing. Yes, I can be a push-cart peddler in the day; I
+can sleep out of doors at night; I can do with coffee and
+oranges for lunch and breakfast; but in the evening I will
+assert my dignity and do justice to my taste: I will dine at
+the Hermitage and permit you to call me a fool. And why
+not, since my purse, like my stomach, is now my own? Why
+not go to the Hermitage since my push-cart income permits
+of it? But the first night I went there my shabbiness attracted
+the discomforting attention of the fashionable diners,
+and made even the waiters offensive. Indeed, one of them
+came to ask if I were looking for somebody. &#8216;No,&#8217; I replied
+with suppressed indignation; &#8216;I&#8217;m looking for a place where
+I can sit down and eat, without being eaten by the eyes of
+the vulgar curious.&#8217; And I pass into an arbor, which from
+that night becomes virtually my own, followed by a waiter
+who from that night, too, became my friend. For every
+evening I go there, I find my table unoccupied and my waiter
+ready to receive and serve me. But don&#8217;t think he does this
+for the sake of my black eyes or my philosophy. That disdainful
+glance of his on the first evening I could never forget,
+billah. And I found that it could be baited and mellowed
+only by a liberal tip. And this I make in advance
+every week for both my comfort and his. Yes, I am a fool,
+I grant you, but I&#8217;m not out of my element there.</p>
+<p>&#8220;After dinner I take a stroll in the Flower Gardens, and
+crossing the rickety wooden bridge over the river, I enter the
+hemlock grove. Here, in a sequestered spot near the river
+bank, I lay me on the grass and sleep for the night. I always
+bring my towels with me; for in the morning I take
+a dip, and at night I use them for a pillow. When the
+weather requires it, I bring my blankets too. And hanging
+one of them over me, tied to the trees by the cords sown to
+its corners, I wrap myself in the other, and praise Allah.</p>
+<p>&#8220;These and the towels, after taking my bath, I leave at the
+Hermitage; my waiter minds them for me. And so, I suspect
+I am happy&ndash;&ndash;if, curse it! I could but breathe better.
+O, come up to see me. I&#8217;ll give you a royal dinner at the
+Hermitage, and a royal bed in the hemlock grove on the
+river-bank. Do come up, the peace of Allah upon thee. Read
+my salaam to Im-Hanna.&#8221;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<div><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124' name='page_124'></a>124</span></div>
+<p>And during his five months in the Bronx he did not
+sleep five nights within doors, we are told, nor did he
+once dine out of the Hermitage. Even his hair, a fantastic
+fatuity behind a push-cart, he did not take the
+trouble to cut or trim. It must have helped his business.
+But this constancy, never before sustained to
+such a degree, must soon cease, having laid up, thanks
+to his push-cart and the people of the Bronx, enough
+to carry him, not only to Baalbek, but to <i>Aymakanenkan</i>.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125' name='page_125'></a>125</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_III_THE_FALSE_DAWN' id='CHAPTER_III_THE_FALSE_DAWN'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>
+<h3>THE FALSE DAWN</h3>
+</div>
+<p>What the Arabs always said of Andalusia, Khalid
+and Shakib said once of America: a most beautiful
+country with one single vice&ndash;&ndash;it makes foreigners
+forget their native land. But now they are both
+suffering from nostalgia, and America, therefore, is
+without a single vice. It is perfect, heavenly, ideal.
+In it one sees only the vices of other races, and the
+ugliness of other nations. America herself is as lovely
+as a dimpled babe, and as innocent. A dimpled babe
+she. But wait until she grows, and she will have
+more than one vice to demand <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'forgetfuless'">forgetfulness</ins>.</p>
+<p>Shakib, however, is not going to wait. He begins
+to hear the call of his own country, now that his bank
+account is big enough to procure for him the Pashalic
+of Syria. And Khalid, though his push-cart had developed
+to a stationary fruit stand,&ndash;&ndash;and perhaps for
+this very reason,&ndash;&ndash;is now desirous of leaving America
+anon. He is afraid of success overtaking him.
+Moreover, the Bronx Park has awakened in him his
+long dormant love of Nature. For while warming
+himself on the flames of knowledge in the cellar, or
+rioting with the Bassarides of Bohemia, or canvassing
+and speechifying for Tammany, he little thought of
+what he had deserted in his native country. The
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126' name='page_126'></a>126</span>
+ancient historical rivers flowing through a land made
+sacred by the divine madness of the human spirit; the
+snow-capped mountains at the feet of which the lily
+and the oleander bloom; the pine forests diffusing
+their fragrance even among the downy clouds; the
+peaceful, sun-swept multi-coloured meadows; the trellised
+vines, the fig groves, the quince orchards, the
+orangeries: the absence of these did not disturb his
+serenity in the cellar, his voluptuousness in Bohemia,
+his enthusiasm in Tammany Land.</p>
+<p>And we must not forget to mention that, besides the
+divine voice of Nature and native soil, he long since
+has heard and still hears the still sweet voice of one
+who might be dearer to him than all. For Khalid,
+after his return from Bohemia, continued to curse the
+huris in his dreams. And he little did taste of the
+blessings of &#8220;sore labour&#8217;s bath, balm of hurt minds.&#8221;
+Ay, when he was not racked and harrowed by
+nightmares, he was either disturbed by the angels
+of his visions or the succubi of his dreams. And so, he
+determines to go to Syria for a night&#8217;s sleep, at least,
+of the innocent and just. His cousin Najma is there,
+and that is enough. Once he sees her, the huris are
+no more.</p>
+<p>Now Shakib, who is more faithful in his narration
+than we first thought&ndash;&ndash;who speaks of Khalid as he
+is, extenuating nothing&ndash;&ndash;gives us access to a letter
+which he received from the Bronx a month before their
+departure from New York. In these Letters of
+Khalid, which our Scribe happily preserved, we feel
+somewhat relieved of the dogmatism, fantastic, mystical,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127' name='page_127'></a>127</span>
+severe, which we often meet with in the K. L. MS.
+In his Letters, our Syrian peddler and seer is a plain
+blunt man unbosoming himself to his friend. Read
+this, for instance.</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>&#8220;My loving Brother:</p>
+<p>&#8220;It is raining so hard to-night that I must sleep, or in fact
+keep, within doors. Would you believe it, I am no more accustomed
+to the luxuries of a soft spring-bed, and I can not
+even sleep on the floor, where I have moved my mattress. I
+am sore, broken in mind and spirit. Even the hemlock grove
+and the melancholy stillness of the river, are beginning to annoy
+me. Oh, I am tired of everything here, tired even of
+the cocktails, tired of the push-cart, tired of earning as much
+as five dollars a day. Next Sunday is inauguration day for
+my stationary fruit stand; but I don&#8217;t think it&#8217;s going to
+stand there long enough to deserve to be baptized with champagne.
+If you come up, therefore, we&#8217;ll have a couple of
+steins at the Hermitage and call it square.&ndash;&ndash;O, I would
+square myself with the doctors by thrusting a poker down my
+windpipe: I might be able to breathe better then. I pause
+to curse my fate.&ndash;&ndash;Curse it, Juhannam-born, curse it!&ndash;&ndash;</p>
+<p>&#8220;I can not sleep, nor on the spring-bed, nor on the floor.
+It is two hours past midnight now, and I shall try to while
+away the time by scrawling this to you. My brother, I can
+not long support this sort of life, being no more fit for
+rough, ignominious labor. &#8216;But why,&#8217; you will ask, &#8216;did
+you undertake it?&#8217; Yes, why? Strictly speaking, I made a
+mistake. But it&#8217;s a noble mistake, believe me&ndash;&ndash;a mistake
+which everybody in my condition ought to make, if but once
+in their life-time. Is it not something to be able to make an
+honest resolution and carry it out? I have heard strange
+voices in prison; I have hearkened to them; but I find that
+one must have sound lungs, at least, to be able to do the will
+of the immortal gods. And even if he had, I doubt if he
+could do much to suit them in America. O, my greatest
+enemy and benefactor in the whole world is this dumb-hearted
+mother, this America, in whose iron loins I have been
+spiritually conceived. Paradoxical, this? But is it not true?
+Was not the Khalid, now writing to you, born in the cellar?
+Down there, in the very loins of New York? But alas, our
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128' name='page_128'></a>128</span>
+spiritual Mother devours, like a cat, her own children. How
+then can we live with her in the same house?</p>
+<p>&#8220;I need not tell you now that the ignominious task I set my
+hands to, was never to my liking. But the ox under the yoke
+is not asked whether he likes it or not. I have been yoked to
+my push-cart by the immortal gods; and soon my turn and
+trial will end. It must end. For our country is just beginning
+to speak, and I am her chosen voice. I feel that if I
+do not respond, if I do not come to her, she will be dumb
+forever. No; I can not remain here any more. For I can
+not be strenuous enough to be miserably happy; nor stupid
+enough to be contentedly miserable. I confess I have been
+spoiled by those who call themselves spiritual sisters of mine.
+The huris be dam&#8217;d. And if I don&#8217;t leave this country soon,
+I&#8217;ll find myself sharing the damnation again&ndash;&ndash;in Bohemia.&ndash;&ndash;</p>
+<p>&#8220;The power of the soul is doubled by the object of its
+love, or by such labor of love as it undertakes. But, here I
+am, with no work and nobody I can love; nay, chained to a
+task which I now abominate. If a labor of love doubles the
+power of the soul, a labor of hate, to use an antonym term,
+warps it, poisons it, destroys it. Is it not a shame that in
+this great Country,&ndash;&ndash;this Circe with her golden horns of
+plenty,&ndash;&ndash;one can not as much as keep his blood in circulation
+without damning the currents of one&#8217;s soul? O America,
+equally hated and beloved of Khalid, O Mother of prosperity
+and spiritual misery, the time will come when you
+shall see that your gold is but pinchbeck, your gilt-edge
+bonds but death decrees, and your god of wealth a carcase
+enthroned upon a dung-hill. But you can not see this now;
+for you are yet in the false dawn, floundering tumultuously,
+worshipping your mammoth carcase on a dung-hill&ndash;&ndash;and
+devouring your spiritual children. Yes, America is now in
+the false dawn, and as sure as America lives, the true dawn
+must follow.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Pardon, Shakib. I did not mean to end my letter in a
+rhapsody. But I am so wrought, so broken in body, so inflamed
+in spirit. I hope to see you soon. No, I hope to see
+myself with you on board of a Transatlantic steamer.&#8221;</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>And is not Khalid, like his spiritual Mother, floundering,
+too, in the false dawn of life? His love of Nature,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129' name='page_129'></a>129</span>
+which was spontaneous and free, is it not likely
+to become formal and scientific? His love of Country,
+which begins tremulously, fervently in the woods
+and streams, is it not likely to end in Nephelococcygia?
+His determination to work, which was rudely shaken
+at a push-cart, is it not become again a determination
+to loaf? And now, that he has a little money laid up,
+has he not the right to seek in this world the cheapest
+and most suitable place for loafing? And where, if
+not in the Lebanon hills, &#8220;in which it seemed always
+afternoon,&#8221; can he rejoin the Lotus-Eaters of the
+East? This man of visions, this fantastic, rhapsodical&ndash;&ndash;but
+we must not be hard upon him. Remember,
+good Reader, the poker which he would thrust
+down his windpipe to broaden it a little. With
+asthmatic fits and tuberous infiltrations, one is permitted
+to commune with any of Allah&#8217;s ministers of
+grace or spirits of Juhannam. And that divine spark
+of primal, paradisical love, which is rapidly devouring
+all others&ndash;&ndash;let us not forget that. Ay, we mean his
+cousin Najma. Of course, he speaks, too, of his nation,
+his people, awaking, lisping, beginning to speak,
+waiting for him, the chosen Voice! Which reminds
+us of how he was described to us by the hasheesh-smokers
+of Cairo.</p>
+<p>In any event, the Reader will rejoice with us, we
+hope, that Khalid will not turn again toward Bohemia.
+He will agree with us that, whether on account of his
+health, or his love, or his mission, it is well, in his
+present fare of mind and body, that he is returning
+to the land &#8220;in which it seemed always afternoon.&#8221;</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130' name='page_130'></a>130</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_IV_THE_LAST_STAR' id='CHAPTER_IV_THE_LAST_STAR'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2>
+<h3>THE LAST STAR</h3>
+</div>
+<p>Is it not an ethnic phenomenon that a descendant
+of the ancient Ph&oelig;nicians can not understand
+the meaning and purport of the Cash Register in
+America? Is it not strange that this son of Superstition
+and Trade can not find solace in the fact that in
+this Pix of Business is the Host of the Demiurgic Dollar?
+Indeed, the omnipresence and omnipotence of it
+are not without divine significance. For can you not
+see that this Cash Register, this Pix of Trade, is
+prominently set up on the altar of every institution,
+political, moral, social, and religious? Do you not
+meet with it everywhere, and foremost in the sanctuaries
+of the mind and the soul? In the Societies for
+the Diffusion of Knowledge; in the Social Reform
+Propagandas; in the Don&#8217;t Worry Circles of Metaphysical
+Gymnasiums; in Alliances, Philanthropic,
+Educational; in the Board of Foreign Missions; in the
+Sacrarium of Vaticinatress Eddy; in the Church of
+God itself;&ndash;&ndash;is not the Cash Register a divine symbol
+of the <i>credo</i>, the faith, or the idea?</p>
+<p>&#8220;To trade, or not to trade,&#8221; Hamlet-Khalid exclaims,
+&#8220;that is the question: whether &#8217;tis nobler in
+the mind to suffer, etc., or to take arms against the
+Cash Registers of America, and by opposing end&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131' name='page_131'></a>131</span>
+What? Sacrilegious wretch, would you set your face
+against the divinity in the Holy Pix of Trade? And
+what will you end, and how will You end by it?
+An eternal problem, this, of opposing and ending.
+But before you set your face in earnest, we would ask
+you to consider if the vacancy or chaos which is sure
+to follow, be not more pernicious than what you would
+end. If you are sure it is not, go ahead, and we give
+you Godspeed. If you have the least doubt about it&ndash;&ndash;but
+Khalid is incapable now of doubting anything.
+And whether he opposes his theory of immanent morality
+to the Cash Register, or to Democracy, or to
+the ruling powers of Flunkeydom, we hope He will
+end well. Such is the penalty of revolt against the
+dominating spirit of one&#8217;s people and ancestors, that
+only once in a generation is it attempted, and scarcely
+with much success. In fact, the first who revolts must
+perish, the second, too, and the third, and the fourth,
+until, in the course of time and by dint of repetition
+and resistance, the new species of the race can overcome
+the forces of environment and the crushing influence
+of conformity. This, we know, is the biological
+law, and Khalid must suffer under it. For, as
+far as our knowledge extends, he is the first Syrian,
+the ancient Lebanon monks excepted, who revolted
+against the ruling spirit of his people and the dominant
+tendencies of the times, both in his native and his
+adopted Countries.</p>
+<p>Yes, the <i>&ecirc;thos</i> of the Syrians (for once we use Khalid&#8217;s
+philosophic term), like that of the Americans,
+is essentially money-seeking. And whether in Beirut
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132' name='page_132'></a>132</span>
+or in New York, even the moralists and reformers,
+like the hammals and grocers, will ask themselves, before
+they undertake to do anything for you or for their
+country, &#8220;What will this profit us? How much will
+it bring us?&#8221; And that is what Khalid once thought
+to oppose and end. Alas, oppose he might&ndash;&ndash;and
+End He Must. How can an individual, without
+the aid of Time and the Unseen Powers, hope to oppose
+and end, or even change, this monstrous mass of
+things? Yet we must not fail to observe that when
+we revolt against a tendency inimical to our law of
+being, it is for our own sake, and not the race&#8217;s, that
+we do so. And we are glad we are able to infer, if
+not from the K. L, MS., at least from his Letters,
+that Khalid is beginning to realise this truth. Let us
+not, therefore, expatiate further upon it.</p>
+<p>If the reader will accompany us now to the cellar
+to bid our Syrian friends farewell, we promise a few
+things of interest. When we first came here some few
+years ago in Winter, or to another such underground
+dwelling, the water rose ankle-deep over the floor, and
+the mould and stench were enough to knock an ox
+dead. Now, a scent of ottar of roses welcomes us at
+the door and leads us to a platform in the centre,
+furnished with a Turkish rug, which Shakib will present
+to the landlord as a farewell memento.</p>
+<p>And here are our three Syrians making ready for the
+voyage. Shakib is intoning some verses of his while
+packing; Im-Hanna is cooking the last dish of
+<i>mojadderah</i>; and Khalid, with some vague dream in
+his eyes, and a vaguer, far-looming hope in his heart,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133' name='page_133'></a>133</span>
+is sitting on his trunk wondering at the variety of
+things Shakib is cramming into his. For our Scribe,
+we must not fail to remind the Reader, is contemplating
+great things of State, is nourishing a great political
+ambition. He will, therefore, bethink him of those in
+power at home. Hence these costly presents. Ay, besides
+the plated jewellery&ndash;&ndash;the rings, bracelets,
+brooches, necklaces, ear-rings, watches, and chains&ndash;&ndash;of
+which he is bringing enough to supply the peasants
+of three villages, see that beautiful gold-knobbed ebony
+stick, which he will present to the vali, and this
+precious gold cross with a ruby at the heart for the
+Patriarch, and these gold fountain pens for his literary
+friends, and that fine Winchester rifle for the chief of
+the tribe Anezah. These he packs in the bottom of
+his trunk, and with them his precious dilapidated copy
+of Al-Mutanabbi, and&ndash;&ndash;what MS. be this? What,
+a Book of Verse spawned in the cellar? Indeed, the
+very embryo of that printed copy we read in Cairo,
+and which Shakib and his friends would have us translate
+for the benefit of the English reading public.</p>
+<p>For our Scribe is the choragus of the Modern
+School of Arabic poetry. And this particular Diwan
+of his is a sort of rhymed inventory of all the inventions
+and discoveries of modern Science and all the
+wonders of America. He has published other Diwans,
+in which French morbidity is crowned with laurels
+from the Arabian Nights. For this Modern School
+has two opposing wings, moved by two opposing
+forces, Science being the motive power of the one, and
+Byron and De Musset the inspiring geniuses of the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134' name='page_134'></a>134</span>
+other. We would not be faithful to our Editorial
+task and to our Friend, if we did not give here a few
+luminant examples of the Diwan in question. We
+are, indeed, very sorry, for the sake of our readers, that
+space will not allow us to give them a few whole
+qas&iuml;dahs from it. To those who are so fortunate as
+to be able to read and understand the Original, we
+point out the Ode to the Phonograph, beginning thus:</p>
+<div class="poem">
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">&#8220;</span>O Phonograph, thou wonder of our time,<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Thy tongue of wax can sing like me in rhyme.&#8221;</span><br /></p>
+</div>
+<p>And another to the Brooklyn Bridge, of which
+these are the opening lines:</p>
+<div class="poem">
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">&#8220;</span>O Brooklyn Bridge, how oft upon thy back<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>I tramped, and once I crossed thee in a hack.&#8221;</span><br /></p>
+</div>
+<p>And finally, the great Poem entitled, On the Virtue
+and Benefit of Modern Science, of which we remember
+these couplets:</p>
+<div class="poem">
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">&#8220;</span>Balloons and airships, falling from the skies,<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Will be as plenty yet as summer flies.</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 3.5em;'>*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*</span><br />
+<span class="leadquote">&#8220;</span>Electricity and Steam and Compressed Air<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Will carry us to heaven yet, I swear.&#8221;</span><br /></p>
+</div>
+<p>Here be rhymed truth, at least, which can boast of
+not being poetry. Ay, in this MS. which Shakib is
+packing along with Al-Mutanabbi in the bottom of his
+trunk to evade the Basilisk touch of the Port officials of
+Beirut, is packed all the hopes of the Modern School.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135' name='page_135'></a>135</span>
+Pack on, Shakib; for whether at the Mena House, or
+in the hasheesh-dens of Cairo, the Future is drinking
+to thee, and dreaming of thee and thy School its opium
+dreams. And Khalid, the while, sits impassive on his
+trunk, and Im-Hanna is cooking the last dinner of
+<i>mojadderah</i>.</p>
+<p>Emigration has introduced into Syria somewhat of
+the three prominent features of Civilisation: namely, a
+little wealth, a few modern ideas, and many strange
+diseases. And of these three blessings our two Syrians
+together are plentifully endowed. For Shakib is a
+type of the emigrant, who returns home prosperous in
+every sense of the word. A Book of Verse to lure
+Fame, a Letter of Credit to bribe her if necessary, and
+a double chin to praise the gods. This is a complete
+set of the prosperity, which Khalid knows not. But
+he has in his lungs what Shakib the poet can not boast
+of; while in his trunk he carries but a little wearing
+apparel, his papers, and his blankets. And in his
+pocket, he has his ribbed silver cigarette case&ndash;&ndash;the
+only object he can not part with&ndash;&ndash;a heart-shaped
+locket with a little diamond star on its face&ndash;&ndash;the
+only present he is bringing with him home,&ndash;&ndash;and a
+third-class passage across the Atlantic. For Khalid
+will not sleep in a bunk, even though it be furnished
+with eiderdown cushions and tiger skins.</p>
+<p>And since he is determined to pass his nights on
+deck, it matters little whether he travels first class, or
+second or tenth. Shakib, do what he may, cannot prevail
+upon him to accept the first-class passage he had
+bought in his name. &#8220;Let us not quarrel about this,&#8221;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136' name='page_136'></a>136</span>
+says he; &#8220;we shall be together on board the same ship,
+and that settles the question. Indeed, the worse way
+returning home must be ultimately the best. No,
+Shakib, it matters not how I travel, if I but get away
+quickly from this pandemonium of Civilisation.
+Even now, as I sit on this trunk waiting for the hour
+of departure, I have a foretaste of the joy of being
+away from the insidious cries of hawkers, the tormenting
+bells of the rag-man, the incessant howling of children,
+the rumbling of carts and wagons, the malicious
+whir of cable cars, the grum shrieks of ferry boats, and
+the thundering, reverberating, smoking, choking, blinding
+abomination of an elevated railway. A musician
+might extract some harmony from this chaos of noises,
+this jumble of sounds. But I&ndash;&ndash;extract me quickly
+from them!&#8221;</p>
+<p>Ay, quickly please, especially for our sake and the
+Reader&#8217;s. Now, the dinner is finished, the rug is
+folded and presented to our landlord with our salaams,
+the trunks are locked and roped, and our Arabs will
+silently steal away. And peacefully, too, were it not
+that an hour before sailing a capped messenger is come
+to deliver a message to Shakib. There is a pleasant
+dilative sensation in receiving a message on board a
+steamer, especially when the messenger has to seek you
+among the Salon passengers. Now, Shakib dilates with
+pride as he takes the envelope in his hand; but when
+he opens it, and reads on the enclosed card, &#8220;Mr.
+Isaac Goldheimer wishes you a <i>bon voyage</i>,&#8221; he turns
+quickly on his heels and goes on deck to walk his wrath
+away. For this Mr. Goldheimer is the very landlord
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137' name='page_137'></a>137</span>
+who received the Turkish rug. Reflect on this,
+Reader. Father Abraham would have walked with us
+to the frontier to betoken his thanks and gratitude.
+&#8220;But this modern Jew and his miserable card,&#8221; exclaims
+Shakib in his teeth, as he tears and throws it in
+the water,&ndash;&ndash;&#8220;who asked him to send it, and who
+would have sued him if he didn&#8217;t?&#8221;</p>
+<p>But Shakib, who has lived so long in America and
+traded with its people, is yet ignorant of some of the
+fine forms and conventions of Civilisation. He
+does not know that fashionable folk, or those aping
+the dear fashionable folk, have a right to assert their
+superiority at his expense.&ndash;&ndash;I do not care to see you,
+but I will send a messenger and card to do so for me.
+You are not my equal, and I will let you know this,
+even at the hour of your departure, and though I have
+to hire a messenger to do so.&ndash;&ndash;Is there no taste, no
+feeling, no gratitude in this? Don&#8217;t you wish, O
+Shakib,&ndash;&ndash;but compose yourself. And think not so ill
+of your Jewish landlord, whom you wish you could
+wrap in that rug and throw overboard. He certainly
+meant well. That formula of card and messenger is
+so convenient and so cheap. Withal, is he not too
+busy, think you, to come up to the dock for the puerile,
+prosaic purpose of shaking hands and saying ta-ta?
+If you can not consider the matter in this light, try to
+forget it. One must not be too visceral at the hour of
+departure. Behold, your skyscrapers and your Statue
+of Liberty are now receding from view; and your
+landlord and his card and messenger will be further
+from us every while we think of them, until, thanks to
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138' name='page_138'></a>138</span>
+Time and Space and Steam! they will be too far away
+to be remembered.</p>
+<p>Here, then, with our young Seer and our Scribe,
+we bid New York farewell, and earnestly hope that
+we do not have to return to it again, or permit any
+of them to do so. In fact, we shall not hereafter consider,
+with any ulterior material or spiritual motive,
+any more of such disparaging, denigrating matter, in
+the two MSS. before us, as has to pass through our reluctant
+hands &#8220;touchin&#8217; on and appertainin&#8217; to&#8221; the
+great City of Manhattan and its distinguished
+denizens. For our part, we have had enough of this
+painful task. And truly, we have never before undergone
+such trials in sailing between&ndash;&ndash;but that
+Charybdis and Scylla allusion has been done to death.
+Indeed, we love America, and in the course of our
+present task, which we also love, we had to suffer
+Khalid&#8217;s shafts to pass through our ken and sometimes
+really through our heart. But no more of this. Ay,
+we would fain set aside our pen from sheer weariness
+of spirit and bid the Reader, too, farewell. Truly, we
+would end here this Book of Khalid were it not that
+the greater part of the most important material in the
+K. L. MS. is yet intact, and the more interesting portion
+of Shakib&#8217;s History is yet to come. Our readers,
+though we do not think they are sorry for having come
+out with us so far, are at liberty either to continue
+with us, or say good-bye. But for the Editor there is
+no choice. What we have begun we must end, unmindful
+of the influence, good or ill, of the Zodiacal
+Signs under which we work.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139' name='page_139'></a>139</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;Our Ph&oelig;nician ancestors,&#8221; says Khalid, &#8220;never
+left anything they undertook unfinished. Consider
+what they accomplished in their days, and the degree
+of culture they attained. The most beautiful fabrications
+in metals and precious stones were prepared in
+Syria. Here, too, the most important discoveries were
+made: namely, those of glass and purple. As for me,
+I can not understand what the Murex trunculus is;
+and I am not certain if scholars and arch&aelig;ologists, or
+even mariners and fishermen, will ever find a fossil
+of that particular species. But murex or no murex,
+Purple was discovered by my ancestors. Hence the
+purple passion, that is to say the energy and intensity
+which coloured everything they did, everything they
+felt and believed. For whether in bemoaning Tammuz,
+or in making tear-bottles, or in trading with the
+Gauls and Britons, the Ph&oelig;nicians were the same
+superstitious, honest, passionate, energetic people.
+And do not forget, you who are now enjoying the
+privilege of setting down your thoughts in words, that
+on these shores of Syria written language received its
+first development.</p>
+<p>&#8220;It is also said that they discovered and first navigated
+the Atlantic Ocean, my Ph&oelig;nicians; that they
+worked gold mines in the distant isle of Thasos and
+opened silver mines in the South and Southwest of
+Spain. In Africa, we know, they founded the colonies
+of Utica and Carthage. But we are told they went
+farther than this. And according to some historians,
+they rounded the Cape, they circumnavigated Africa.
+And according to recent discoveries made by an
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140' name='page_140'></a>140</span>
+American arch&aelig;ologist, they must have discovered
+America too! For in the ruins of the Aztecs of
+Mexico there are traces of a Ph&oelig;nician language and
+religion. This, about the discovery of America, however,
+I can not verify with anything from Sanchuniathon.
+But might they not have made this discovery
+after the said Sanchuniathon had given up the ghost?
+And if they did, what can We, their worthless descendants
+do for them now? Ah, if we but knew the
+name of their Columbus! No, it is not practical to
+build a monument to a whole race of people. And
+yet, they deserve more than this from us, their descendants.</p>
+<p>&#8220;These dealers in tin and amber, these manufacturers
+of glass and purple, these developers of a written
+language, first gave the impetus to man&#8217;s activity and
+courage and intelligence. And this activity of the industry
+and will is not dead in man. It may be dead
+in us Syrians, but not in the Americans. In their
+strenuous spirit it rises uppermost. After all, I must
+love the Americans, for they are my Ph&oelig;nician ancestors
+incarnate. Ay, there is in the nature of things a
+mysterious recurrence which makes for a continuous,
+everlasting modernity. And I believe that the spirit
+which moved those brave sea-daring navigators of yore,
+is still working lustily, bravely, but alas, not joyously&ndash;&ndash;bitterly,
+rather, selfishly, greedily&ndash;&ndash;behind the
+steam engine, the electric motor, the plough, and in the
+clinic and the studio as in the Stock Exchange. That
+spirit in its real essence, however, is as young, as puissant
+to-day as it was when the native of Byblus first
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141' name='page_141'></a>141</span>
+struck out to explore the seas, to circumnavigate
+Africa, to discover even America!&#8221;</p>
+<p>And what in the end might Khalid discover for us
+or for himself, at least, in his explorations of the
+Spirit-World? What Colony of the chosen sons of
+the young and puissant Spirit, on some distant isle beyond
+the seven seas, might he found? To what far,
+silent, undulating shore, where &#8220;a written language is
+the instrument only of the lofty expressions and aspirations
+of the soul&#8221; might he not bring us? What
+Cape of Truth in the great Sea of Mystery might we
+not be able to circumnavigate, if only this were possible
+of the language of man?</p>
+<p>&#8220;Not with glass,&#8221; he exclaims, &#8220;not with tear-bottles,
+not with purple, not with a written language,
+am I now concerned, but rather with what those in
+Purple and those who make this written language their
+capital, can bring within our reach of the treasures
+of the good, the true, and the beautiful. I would fain
+find a land where the soul of man, and the heart of
+man, and the mind of man, are as the glass of my ancestors&#8217;
+tear-bottles in their enduring quality and
+beauty. My ancestors&#8217; tear-bottles, and though buried
+in the earth ten thousand years, lose not a grain of
+their original purity and transparency, of their soft and
+iridescent colouring. But where is the natural colour
+and beauty of these human souls, buried in bunks under
+hatches? Or of those moving in high-lacquered salons
+above?...</p>
+<p>&#8220;O my Brothers of the clean and unclean species,
+of the scented and smelling kind, of the have and have-not
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142' name='page_142'></a>142</span>
+classes, there is but one star in this vague dusky
+sky above us, for you as for myself. And that star
+is either the last in the eternal darkness, or the first
+in the rising dawn. It is either the first or the last
+star of night. And who shall say which it is? Not
+the Church, surely, nor the State; not Science, nor
+Sociology, nor Philosophy, nor Religion. But the human
+will shall influence that star and make it yield
+its secret and its fire. Each of you, O my Brothers,
+can make it light his own hut, warm his own heart,
+guide his own soul. Never before in the history of
+man did it seem as necessary as it does now that each
+individual should think for himself, will for himself,
+and aspire incessantly for the realisation of his ideals
+and dreams. Yes, we are to-day at a terrible and
+glorious turning point, and it depends upon us whether
+that one star in the vague and dusky sky of modern
+life, shall be the harbinger of Jannat or Juhannam.&#8221;</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143' name='page_143'></a>143</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_V_PRIESTOPARENTAL' id='CHAPTER_V_PRIESTOPARENTAL'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>
+<h3>PRIESTO-PARENTAL</h3>
+</div>
+<p>If we remember that the name of Khalid&#8217;s cousin
+is Najma (Star), the significance to himself of
+the sign spoken of in the last Chapter, is quite evident.
+But what it means to others remains to be seen. His
+one star, however, judging from his month&#8217;s experience
+in Baalbek, is not promising of Jannat. For
+many things, including parental tyranny and priestcraft
+and Jesuitism, will here conspire against the
+single blessedness of him, which is now seeking to
+double itself.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Where one has so many Fathers,&#8221; he writes,
+&#8220;and all are pretending to be the guardians of his
+spiritual and material well-being, one ought to renounce
+them all at once. It was not with a purpose
+to rejoin my folk that I first determined to return to
+my native country. For, while I believe in the
+Family, I hate Familism, which is the curse of the
+human race. And I hate this spiritual Fatherhood
+when it puts on the garb of a priest, the three-cornered
+hat of a Jesuit, the hood of a monk, the gaberdine of a
+rabbi, or the jubbah of a sheikh. The sacredness of
+the Individual, not of the Family or the Church, do
+I proclaim. For Familism, or the propensity to keep
+under the same roof, as a social principle, out of fear,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144' name='page_144'></a>144</span>
+ignorance, cowardice, or dependence, is, I repeat, the
+curse of the world. Your father is he who is friendly
+and reverential to the higher being in you; your
+brothers are those who can appreciate the height and
+depth of your spirit, who hearken to you, and believe
+in you, if you have any truth to announce to them.
+Surely, one&#8217;s value is not in his skin that you should
+touch him. Are there any two individuals more closely
+related than mother and son? And yet, when
+I Khalid embrace my mother, mingling my tears with
+hers, I feel that my soul is as distant from her own
+as is Baalbek from the Dog-star. And so I say, this
+attempt to bind together under the principle of Familism
+conflicting spirits, and be it in the name of love
+or religion or anything else more or less sacred, is in
+itself a very curse, and should straightway end. It
+will end, as far as I am concerned. And thou my
+Brother, whether thou be a son of the Morning or of
+the Noontide or of the Dusk,&ndash;&ndash;whether thou be a
+Japanese or a Syrian or a British man&ndash;&ndash;if thou art
+likewise circumstanced, thou shouldst do the same, not
+only for thine own sake, but for the sake of thy family
+as well.&#8221;</p>
+<p>No; Khalid did not find that wholesome plant of
+domestic peace in his mother&#8217;s Nursery. He found
+noxious weeds, rather, and brambles galore. And
+they were planted there, not by his father or mother,
+but by those who have a lien upon the souls of these
+poor people. For the priest here is no peeled,
+polished affair, but shaggy, scrubby, terrible, forbidding.
+And with a word he can open yet, for
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145' name='page_145'></a>145</span>
+such as Khalid&#8217;s folk, the gate which Peter keeps or
+the other on the opposite side of the Universe.
+Khalid must beware, therefore, how he conducts himself
+at home and abroad, and how, in his native town,
+he delivers his mind on sacred things, and profane.
+In New York, for instance, or in Turabu for that
+matter, he could say in plain forthright speech what
+he thought of Family, Church or State, and no one
+would mind him. But where these Institutions are
+the rottenest existing he will be minded too well, and
+reminded, too, of the fate of those who preceded
+him.</p>
+<p>The case of Habib Ish-Shidiak at Kannubin is not
+yet forgotten. And Habib, be it known, was only a
+poor Protestant neophite who took pleasure in carrying
+a small copy of the Bible in his hip pocket, and
+was just learning to roll his eyes in the pulpit
+and invoke the &#8220;laud.&#8221; But Khalid, everybody out-protesting,
+is such an intractable pro<i>test</i>ant, with,
+neither Bible in his pocket nor pulpit at his service.
+And yet, with a flint on his tongue and a spark in
+his eyes, he will make the neophite Habib smile beside
+him. For the priesthood in Syria is not, as we have
+said, a peeled, polished, pulpy affair. And Khalid&#8217;s
+father has been long enough in their employ to learn
+somewhat of their methods. Bigotry, cruelty, and
+tyranny at home, priestcraft and Jesuitism abroad,&ndash;&ndash;these,
+O Khalid, you will know better by force of
+contact before you end. And you will begin to pine
+again for your iron-loined spiritual Mother. Ay, and
+the scelerate Jesuit will even make capital of your
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146' name='page_146'></a>146</span>
+mass of flowing hair. For in this country, only the
+native priests are privileged to be shaggy and scrubby
+and still be without suspicion. But we will let
+Shakib give us a few not uninteresting details of the
+matter.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Not long after we had rejoined our people,&#8221; he
+writes, &#8220;Khalid comes to me with a sorry tale. In
+truth, a fortnight after our arrival in Baalbek&ndash;&ndash;our
+civility towards new comers seldom enjoys a longer
+lease&ndash;&ndash;the town was alive with rumours and whim-whams
+about my friend. And whereso I went, I was
+not a little annoyed with the tehees and grunts which
+his name seemed to invoke. The women often came to
+his mother to inquire in particular why he grows his
+hair and shaves his mustaches; the men would speak
+to his father about the change in his accent and manners;
+the children teheed and tittered whenever he
+passed through the town-square; and all were of one
+mind that Khalid was a worthless fellow, who had
+brought nothing with him from the Paradise of the
+New World but his cough and his fleece. Such tattle
+and curiosity, however, no matter what degree of
+savage vulgarity they reach, are quite harmless. But
+I felt somewhat uneasy about him, when I heard the
+people asking each other, &#8220;Why does he not come to
+Church like honest folks?&#8221; And soon I discovered
+that my apprehensions were well grounded; for the
+questioning was noised at Khalid&#8217;s door, and the fire
+crackled under the roof within. The father commands;
+the mother begs; the father objurgates,
+threatens, curses his son&#8217;s faith; and the mother, prostrating
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147' name='page_147'></a>147</span>
+herself before the Virgin, weeps, and prays,
+and beats her breast. Alas, and my Khalid? he
+goes out on the terrace to search in the Nursery for
+his favourite Plant. No, he does not find it;
+brambles are there and noxious weeds galore. The
+thorny, bitter reality he must now face, and, by
+reason of his lack of savoir-faire, be ultimately out-faced
+by it. For the upshot of the many quarrels he
+had with his father, the prayers and tears of the
+mother not availing, was nothing more or less than
+banishment. You will either go to Church like myself,
+or get out of this house: this the ultimatum of
+Abu-Khalid. And needless to say which alternative
+the son chose.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I still remember how agitated he was when he
+came to tell me of the fatal breach. His words,
+which drew tears from my eyes, I remember too.
+&#8216;Homeless I am again,&#8217; said he, &#8216;but not friendless.
+For besides Allah, I have you.&ndash;&ndash;Oh, this straitness
+of the chest is going to kill me. I feel that my windpipe
+is getting narrower every day. At least, my
+father is doing his mighty best to make things so hard
+and strait.&ndash;&ndash;Yes, I would have come now to bid you
+farewell, were it not that I still have in this town some
+important business. In the which I ask your help.
+You know what it is. I have often spoken to you
+about my cousin Najma, the one star in my sky.
+And now, I would know what is its significance to
+me. No, I can not leave Baalbek, I can not do anything,
+until that star unfolds the night or the dawn
+of my destiny. And you Shakib&ndash;&ndash;&#8217;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148' name='page_148'></a>148</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;Of course, I promised to do what I could for
+him. I offered him such cheer and comfort as my
+home could boast of, which he would not accept. He
+would have only my terrace roof on which to build
+a booth of pine boughs, and spread in it a few straw
+mats and cushions. But I was disappointed in my
+calculations; for in having him thus near me again,
+I had hoped to prevail upon him for his own good
+to temper his behaviour, to conform a little, to concede
+somewhat, while he is among his people. But
+virtually he did not put up with me. He ate outside;
+he spent his days I know not where; and when
+he did come to his booth, it was late in the night. I
+was informed later that one of the goatherds saw
+him sleeping in the ruined Temple near Ras&#8217;ul-Ain.
+And the muazzen who sleeps in the Mosque adjacent
+to the Temple of Venus gave out that one night he
+saw him with a woman in that very place.&#8221;</p>
+<p>A woman with Khalid, and in the Temple of
+Venus at night? Be not too quick, O Reader, to
+suspect and contemn; for the Venus-worship is not
+reinstated in Baalbek. No tryst this, believe us, but
+a scene pathetic, more sacred. Not Najma this
+questionable companion, but one as dear to Khalid.
+Ay, it is his mother come to seek him here. And she
+begs him, in the name of the Virgin, to return home,
+and try to do the will of his father. She beats her
+breast, weeps, prostrates herself before him, beseeches,
+implores, cries out, &#8216;dakhilak (I am at your
+mercy), come home with me.&#8217; And Khalid, taking her
+up by the arm, embraces her and weeps, but says not a
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149' name='page_149'></a>149</span>
+word. As two statues in the Temple, silent as an
+autumn midnight, they remain thus locked in each
+other&#8217;s arms, sobbing, mingling their sighs and tears.
+The mother then, &#8216;Come, come home with me, O my
+child.&#8217; And Khalid, sitting on one of the steps of
+the Temple, replies, &#8216;Let him move out of the house,
+and I will come. I will live with you, if he will
+keep at the <ins class="trchange" title="Removed closing double-quote">Jesuits.&#8217;</ins></p>
+<p>For Khalid begins to suspect that the Jesuits are
+the cause of his banishment from home, that his
+father&#8217;s religious ferocity is fuelled and fanned by
+these good people. One day, before Khalid was
+banished, Shakib tells us, one of them, Father
+Farouche by name, comes to pay a visit of courtesy,
+and finds Khalid sitting cross-legged on a mat writing
+a letter.</p>
+<p>The Padre is received by Khalid&#8217;s mother who
+takes his hand, kisses it, and offers him the seat
+of honour on the divan. Khalid continues writing.
+And after he had finished, he turns round in his
+cross-legged posture and greets his visitor. Which
+greeting is surely to be followed by a conversation of
+the sword-and-shield kind.</p>
+<p>&#8220;How is your health?&#8221; this from Father Farouche
+in miserable Arabic.</p>
+<p>&#8220;As you see: I breathe with an effort, and can
+hardly speak.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;But the health of the body is nothing compared
+with the health of the soul.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;I know that too well, O Reverend&#8221; (Ya
+Muhtaram).
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150' name='page_150'></a>150</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;And one must have recourse to the physician
+in both instances.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;I do not believe in physicians, O Reverend.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Not even the physician of the soul?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;You said it, O Reverend.&#8221;</p>
+<p>The mother of Khalid serves the coffee, and whispers
+to her son a word. Whereupon Khalid rises
+and sits on the divan near the Padre.</p>
+<p>&#8220;But one must follow the religion of one&#8217;s father,&#8221;
+the Jesuit resumes.</p>
+<p>&#8220;When one&#8217;s father has a religion, yes; but
+when he curses the religion of his son for not being
+ferociously religious like himself&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;But a father must counsel and guide his children.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Let the mother do that. Hers is the purest
+and most disinterested spirit of the two.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Then, why not obey your mother, and&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>Khalid suppresses his anger.</p>
+<p>&#8220;My mother and I can get along without the
+interference of our neighbours.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Yes, truly. But you will find great solace in
+going to Church and ceasing your doubts.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Khalid rises indignant.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I only doubt the Pharisees, O Reverend, and
+their Church I would destroy to-day if I could.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;My child&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Here is your hat, O Reverend, and pardon
+me&ndash;&ndash;you see, I can hardly speak, I can hardly
+breathe. Good day.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And he walks out of the house, leaving Father
+Farouche to digest his ire at his ease, and to wonder,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151' name='page_151'></a>151</span>
+with his three-cornered hat in hand, at the savage demeanour
+of the son of their pious porter. &#8220;Your
+son,&#8221; addressing the mother as he stands under the
+door-lintel, &#8220;is not only an infidel, but he is also
+crazy. And for such wretches there is an asylum
+here and a Juhannam hereafter.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And the poor mother, her face suffused with tears,
+prostrates herself before the Virgin, praying, beating
+her breast, invoking with her tongue and hand and
+heart; while Farouche returns to his coop to hatch
+under his three-cornered hat, the famous Jesuit-egg
+of intrigue. That hat, which can outwit the monk&#8217;s
+hood and the hundred fabled devils under it, that
+hat, with its many gargoyles, a visible symbol of the
+leaky conscience of the Jesuit, that hat, O Khalid,
+which you would have kicked out of your house, has
+eventually succeeded in ousting YOU, and will do
+its mighty best yet to send you to the Bosphorus. Indeed,
+to serve their purpose, these honest servitors of
+Jesus will even act as spies to the criminal Government
+of Abd&#8217;ul-Hamid. Read Shakib&#8217;s account.</p>
+<p>&#8220;About a fortnight after Khalid&#8217;s banishment from
+home,&#8221; he writes, &#8220;a booklet was published in Beirut,
+setting forth the history of Ignatius Loyola and
+the purports and intents of Jesuitism. On the cover
+it was expressly declared that the booklet is translated
+from the English, and the Jesuits, who are noted
+for their scholarly attainments, could have discovered
+this for themselves without the explicit declaration.
+But they did not deem it necessary to make such a
+discovery then. It seemed rather imperative to maintain
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152' name='page_152'></a>152</span>
+the contrary and try to prove it. Now, Khalid
+having received a copy of this booklet from a friend
+in Beirut, reads it and writes back, saying that it
+is not a translation but a mutilation, rather, of one
+of Thomas Carlyle&#8217;s Latter-Day Pamphlets entitled
+<i>Jesuitism</i>. This letter must have reached them
+together with Father Farouche&#8217;s report on Khalid&#8217;s
+infidelity, just about the time the booklet was circulating
+in Baalbek. For in the following Number of
+their <i>Weekly Journal</i> an article, stuffed and padded
+with execrations and anathema, is published against
+the book and its anonymous author. From this I
+quote the following, which is by no means the most
+erring and most poisonous of their shafts.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;Such a Pamphlet,&#8217; exclaims the scholarly Jesuit
+Editor, &#8216;was never written by Thomas Carlyle, as
+some here, from ignorance or malice, assert. For that
+philosopher, of all the thinkers of his day, believed
+in God and in the divinity of Jesus His Son, and
+could never descend to these foul and filthy depths.
+He never soiled his pen in the putrescence of falsehood
+and incendiarism. The author of this blasphemous
+and pernicious Pamphlet, therefore, in trying to
+father his infidelity, his sedition, and his lies, on Carlyle,
+is doubly guilty of a most heinous crime. And
+we suspect, we know, and for the welfare of the community
+we hope to be able soon to point out openly,
+who and where this vile one is. Yes, only an atheist
+and anarchist is capable of such villainous mendacity,
+such unutterable wickedness and treachery. Now,
+we would especially call upon our readers in Baalbek
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153' name='page_153'></a>153</span>
+to be watchful and vigilant, for among them is one,
+recently come back from America, who harbours under
+his bushy hair the atheism and anarchy of decadent
+Europe, etc, etc.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And this is followed by secret orders from their
+Head Office to the Superior of their Branch in Zahleh,
+to go on with the work hinted in the article aforesaid.
+Let it not be supposed that I make this statement
+in jaundice or malice. For the man who was
+instigated to do this foul work subsequently sold the
+secret. And the Kaimkam, my friend, when speaking
+to me of the matter, referred to the article in
+question, and told me that Khalid was denounced to
+the Government by the Jesuits as an anarchist. &#8216;And
+lest I be compelled,&#8217; he continued, &#8216;to execute such
+orders in his case as I might receive any day, I advise
+you to spirit him away at once.&#8217;&#8221;</p>
+<p>But though the Jesuits have succeeded in kicking
+Khalid out of his home, they did not succeed, thanks
+to Shakib, in sending him to the Bosphorus. Meanwhile,
+they sit quiet, hatching another egg.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154' name='page_154'></a>154</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_VI_FLOUNCES_AND_RUFFLES' id='CHAPTER_VI_FLOUNCES_AND_RUFFLES'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2>
+<h3>FLOUNCES AND RUFFLES</h3>
+</div>
+<p>Now, that there is a lull in the machinations of
+Jesuitry, we shall turn a page or two in Shakib&#8217;s
+account of the courting of Khalid. And apparently
+everything is propitious. The fates, at least, in the
+beginning, are not unkind. For the feud between
+Khalid&#8217;s father and uncle shall now help to forward
+Khalid&#8217;s love-affair. Indeed, the father of Najma,
+to spite his brother, opens to the banished nephew his
+door and blinks at the spooning which follows. And
+such an interminable yarn our Scribe spins out about
+it, that Khalid and Najma do seem the silliest
+lackadaisical spoonies under the sun. But what we
+have evolved from the narration might have for our
+readers some curious alien phase of interest.</p>
+<p>Here then are a few beads from Shakib&#8217;s romantic
+string. When Najma cooks <i>mojadderah</i> for her
+father, he tells us, she never fails to come to the booth
+of pine boughs with a platter of it. And this to
+Khalid was very manna. For never, while supping
+on this single dish, would he dream of the mensal
+and kitchen luxuries of the Hermitage in Bronx Park.
+In fact, he never envied the pork-eating Americans,
+the beef-eating English, or the polyphagic French.
+&#8220;Here is a dish of lentils fit for the gods,&#8221; he would
+say....
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155' name='page_155'></a>155</span></p>
+<p>When Najma goes to the spring for water, Khalid
+chancing to meet her, takes the jar from her shoulder,
+saying, &#8220;Return thou home; I will bring thee
+water.&#8221; And straightway to the spring hies he,
+where the women there gathered fill his ears with
+tittering, questioning tattle as he is filling his jar. &#8220;I
+wish I were Najma,&#8221; says one, as he passes by, the
+jar of water on his shoulder. &#8220;Would you cement
+his brain, if you were?&#8221; puts in another. And thus
+would they gibe and joke every time Khalid came to
+the spring with Najma&#8217;s jar....</p>
+<p>One day he comes to his uncle&#8217;s house and finds
+his betrothed ribboning and beading some new lingerie
+for her rich neighbour&#8217;s daughter. He sits
+down and helps her in the work, writing meanwhile,
+between the acts, an alphabetic ideology on Art and
+Life. But as they are beading the vests and skirts
+and other articles of richly laced linen underwear,
+Najma holds up one of these and na&iuml;vely asks, &#8220;Am
+I not to have some such, <i>ya habibi</i> (O my Love)?&#8221;
+And Khalid, affecting like bucolic innocence, replies,
+&#8220;What do we need them for, my heart?&#8221; With
+which counter-question Najma is silenced, convinced.</p>
+<p>Finally, to show to what degree of ecstasy they had
+soared without searing their wings or losing a single
+feather thereof, the following deserves mention. In
+the dusk one day, Khalid visits Najma and finds her
+oiling and lighting the lamp. As she beholds him under
+the door-lintel, the lamp falls from her hands, the
+kerosene blazes on the floor, and the straw mat takes
+fire. They do not heed this&ndash;&ndash;they do not see it&ndash;&ndash;they
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156' name='page_156'></a>156</span>
+are on the wings of an ecstatic embrace. And
+the father, chancing to arrive in the nick of time, with
+a curse and a cuff, saves them and his house from the
+conflagration.</p>
+<p>Aside from these curious and not insignificant instances,
+these radiations of a giddy hidden flame of
+heart-fire, this melting gum of spooning on the bark
+of the tree of love, we turn to a scene in the Temple
+of Venus which unfolds our future plans&ndash;&ndash;our
+hopes and dreams. But we feel that the Reader is
+beginning to hanker for a few pieces of description of
+Najma&#8217;s charms. Gentle Reader, this Work is
+neither a Novel, nor a Passport. And we are exceeding
+sorry we can not tell you anything about the
+colour and size of Najma&#8217;s eyes; the shape and curves
+of her brows and lips; the tints and shades in her
+cheeks; and the exact length of her figure and hair.
+Shakib leaves us in the dark about these essentials,
+and we must needs likewise leave you. Our Scribe
+thinks he has said everything when he speaks of her
+as a huri. But this paradisal title among our Arabic
+writers and verse-makers is become worse than the
+Sultan&#8217;s Medjidi decorations. It is bestowed alike on
+every drab and trollop as on the very few who really
+deserve it. Let us rank it, therefore, with the
+Medjidi decorations and pass on.</p>
+<p>But Khalid, who has seen enough of the fair, would
+not be attracted to Najma, enchanted by her, if she
+were not endowed with such of the celestial treasures
+as rank above the visible lines of beauty. Our Scribe
+speaks of the &#8220;purity and na&iuml;vete of her soul as
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157' name='page_157'></a>157</span>
+purest sources of felicity and inspiration.&#8221; Indeed, if
+she were not constant in love, she would not have
+spurned the many opportunities in the absence of
+Khalid; and had she not a fine discerning sense of
+real worth, she would not have surrendered herself to
+her poor ostracised cousin; and if she were not intuitively,
+preternaturally wise, she would not marry an
+enemy of the Jesuits, a bearer withal of infiltrated
+lungs and a shrunken windpipe. &#8220;There is a great
+advantage in having a sickly husband,&#8221; she once said
+to Shakib, &#8220;it lessons a woman in the heavenly virtues
+of our Virgin Mother, in patient endurance and
+pity, in charity, magnanimity, and pure love.&#8221; What,
+with these sublimities of character, need we know of
+her visible charms, or lack of them? She might deserve
+the title Shakib bestows upon her; she might be
+a real huri, for all we know? In that event, the outward
+charms correspond, and Khalid is a lucky dog&ndash;&ndash;if
+some one can keep the Jesuits away.</p>
+<p>This, then, is our picture of Najma, to whom he is
+now relating, in the Temple of Venus, of the dangers
+he had passed and the felicities of the beduin life he
+has in view. It is evening. The moon struggles
+through the poplars to light the Temple for them, and
+the ambrosial breeze caresses their cheeks.</p>
+<p>&#8220;No,&#8221; says Khalid; &#8220;we can not live here, O my
+Heart, after we are formally married. The curse in
+my breast I must not let you share, and only when I
+am rid of it am I actually your husband. By the life
+of this blessed night, by the light of these stars, I am
+inalterably resolved on this, and I shall abide by my
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158' name='page_158'></a>158</span>
+resolution. We must leave Baalbek as soon as the
+religious formalities are done. And I wish your
+father would have them performed under his roof.
+That is as good as going to Church to be the central
+figures of the mummery of priests. But be this as
+You will. Whether in Church or at home, whether
+by your father or by gibbering Levites the ceremony
+is performed, we must hie us to the desert after it is
+done. I shall hire the camels and prepare the necessary
+set-out for the wayfare a day or two ahead. No,
+I must not be a burden to you, my Heart. I must be
+able to work for you as for myself. And Allah
+alone, through the ministration of his great Handmaid
+Nature, can cure me and enable me to share with you
+the joys of life. No, not before I am cured, can I
+give you my whole self, can I call myself your husband.
+Into the desert, therefore, to some oasis in its
+very heart, we shall ride, and there crouch our camels
+and establish ourselves as husbandmen. I shall even
+build you a little home like your own. And you will
+be to me an aura of health, which I shall breathe with
+the desert air, and the evening breeze. Yes, our love
+shall dwell in a palace of health, not in a hovel of
+disease. Meanwhile, we shall buy with what money
+I have a little patch of ground which we shall cultivate
+together. And we shall own cattle and drink
+camel milk. And we shall doze in the afternoon in
+the cool shade of the palms, and in the evening, wrapt
+in our cloaks, we&#8217;ll sleep on the sands under the living
+stars. Yes, and Najma shall be the harbinger
+of dawn to Khalid.&ndash;&ndash;Out on that little farm in the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159' name='page_159'></a>159</span>
+oasis of our desert, far from the world and the sanctified
+abominations of the world, we shall live near to
+Allah a life of purest joy, of true happiness. We
+shall never worry about the hopes of to-morrow and
+the gone blessings of yesterday. We shall not, while
+labouring, dream of rest, nor shall we give a thought
+to our tasks while drinking of the cup of repose: each
+hour shall be to us an epitome of eternity. The trials
+and troubles of each day shall go with the setting sun,
+never to rise with him again. But I am unkind to
+speak of this. For your glances banish care, and we
+shall ever be together. Ay, my Heart, and when I
+take up the lute in the evening, you&#8217;ll sing <i>mulayiah</i>
+to me, and the stars above us shall dance, and the
+desert breeze shall house us in its whispers of
+love....&#8221;</p>
+<p>And thus interminably, while Najma, understanding
+little of all this, sits beside him on a fallen column
+in the Temple and punctuates his words with assenting
+exclamations, with long eighs of joy and wonder.
+&#8220;But we are not going to live in the desert all the
+time, are we?&#8221; she asks.</p>
+<p>&#8220;No, my Heart. When I am cured of my illness
+we shall return to Baalbek, if you like.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Eigh, good. Now, I want to say&ndash;&ndash;no. I
+shame to speak about such matters.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Speak, <i>ya Gazalty</i> (O my Doe or Dawn or
+both); your words are like the scented breeze, like
+the ethereal moon rays, which enter into this Temple
+without permission. Speak, and light up this ruined
+Temple of thine.&#8221;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160' name='page_160'></a>160</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;How sweet are Your words, but really I
+can not understand them. They are like the <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'sweet-meats' across lines">sweetmeats</ins>
+my father brought with him once from Damascus.
+One eats and exclaims, &#8216;How delicious!&#8217;
+But one never knows how they are made, and what
+they are made of. I wish I could speak like you,
+<i>ya habibi</i>. I would not shame to say then what I
+want.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Say what you wish. My heart is open, and your
+words are silvery moonbeams.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Do not blame me then. I am so simple, you
+know, so foolish. And I would like to know if you
+are going to Church on our wedding day in the
+clothes you have on now.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Not if you object to them, my Heart.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Eigh, good! And must I come in my ordinary
+Sunday dress? It is so plain; it has not a single
+ruffle to it.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And what are ruffles for?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;I never saw a bride in a plain gown; they all
+have ruffles and flounces to them. And when I look
+at your lovely hair&ndash;&ndash;O let people say what they
+like! A gown without ruffles is ugly.&ndash;&ndash;So, you will
+buy me a sky-blue silk dress, <i>ya habibi</i> and a pink one,
+too, with plenty of ruffles on them? Will you not?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Yes, my Heart, you shall have what you desire.
+But in the desert you can not wear these dresses.
+The Arabs will laugh at you. For the women there
+wear only plain muslin dipped in indigo.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Then, I will have but one dress of sky-blue silk
+for the wedding.&#8221;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161' name='page_161'></a>161</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;Certainly, my Heart. And the ruffles shall be
+as many and as long as you desire them.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And while the many-ruffled sky-blue dress is being
+made, Khalid, inspired by Najma&#8217;s remarks on his hair,
+rhapsodises on flounces and ruffles. Of this striking
+piece of fantasy, in which are scintillations of the great
+Truth, we note the following:</p>
+<p>&#8220;What can you do without your flounces? How
+can you live without your ruffles? Ay, how can you,
+without them, think, speak, or work? How can you
+eat, drink, walk, sleep, pray, worship, moralise, sentimentalise,
+or love, without them? Are you not
+ruffled and flounced when you first see the light,
+ruffled and flounced when you last see the darkness?
+The cradle and the tomb, are they not the first and
+last ruffles of Man? And between them what a
+panoramic display of flounces! What clean and attractive
+visible Edges of unclean invisible common
+Skirts! Look at your huge elaborate monuments,
+your fancy sepulchers, what are they but the
+ruffles of your triumphs and defeats? The marble
+flounces, these, of your cemeteries, your Pantheons and
+Westminster Abbeys. And what are your belfries
+and spires and chimes, your altars and reredoses and
+such like, but the sanctified flounces of your churches.
+No, these are not wholly adventitious sanctities; not
+empty, superfluous growths. They are incorporated
+into Life by Time, and they grow in importance as our
+&AElig;sthetics become more inutile, as our Religions begin
+to exude gum and pitch for commerce, instead of bearing
+fruits of Faith and Love and Magnanimity.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162' name='page_162'></a>162</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;The first church was the forest; the first dome, the
+welkin; the first altar, the sun. But that was, when
+man went forth in native buff, brother to the lion,
+not the ox, without ruffles and without faith. His
+spirit, in the course of time, was born; it grew and
+developed zenithward and nadirward, as the cycles
+rolled on. And in spiritual pride, and pride of power
+and wealth as well, it took to ruffling and flouncing
+to such an extent that at certain epochs it disappeared,
+dwindled into nothingness, and only the
+appendages remained. These were significant appendages,
+to be sure; not altogether adscititious. Ruffles
+these, indeed, endowed, as it were, with life, and
+growing on the dead Spirit, as the grass on the grave.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And is it not noteworthy that our life terrene at
+certain epochs seems to be made up wholly of these?
+That as the great Pine falls, the noxious weeds, the
+brambles and thorny bushes around it, grow quicker,
+lustier, luxuriating on the vital stores in the earth
+that were its own&ndash;&ndash;is not this striking and perplexing,
+my rational friends? Surely, Man is neither the
+featherless biped of the Greek Philosopher, nor the
+tool-using animal of the Sage of Chelsea. For animals,
+too, have their tools, and man, in his visible
+flounces, has feathers enough to make even a peacock
+gape. Both my Philosophers have hit wide of the
+mark this time. And Man, to my way of thinking, is
+a flounce-wearing Spirit. Indeed, flounces alone, the
+invisible ones in particular, distinguish us from the
+beasts. For like ourselves they have their fashions in
+clothes; their peculiar speech; their own hidden
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163' name='page_163'></a>163</span>
+means of intellection, and, to some extent, of imagination:
+but flounces they have not, they know not.
+These are luxuries, which Man alone enjoys.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Ah, Man,&ndash;&ndash;thou son and slave of Allah, according
+to my Oriental Prophets of Heaven; thou exalted,
+apotheosised ape, according to my Occidental Prophets
+of Science;&ndash;&ndash;how much thou canst suffer, how much
+thou canst endure, under what pressure and in what
+Juhannam depths thou canst live; but thy flounces
+thou canst not dispense with for a day, nor for a single
+one-twelfth part of a day. Even in thy suffering and
+pain, the agonised spirit is wrapped, bandaged,
+swathed in ruffles. It is assuaged with the flounces
+of thy lady&#8217;s caresses, and the scalloped intonations of
+her soft and soothing voice. It is humbugged into
+health by the malodorous flounces of the apothecary
+and the medicinal ruffles of the doctor.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Ay, we live in a phantasmagoric, cycloramic economy
+of flounces and ruffles. The human Spirit shirks
+nudity as it shirks pain. Even your modern preacher
+of the Simple Life is at best suggesting the moderate
+use of ruffles.... Indeed, we can suffer anything,
+everything, but the naked and ugly reality.
+Alas, have I not listened for years to what I mistook
+to be the strong, pure voice of the naked Truth? And
+have I not discovered, to my astonishment, that the
+supposed scientific Nudity is but an indurated thick
+Crust under which the Lie lies hidden. Why strip
+Man of his fancy appendages, his adventitious sanctities,
+if you are going to give him instead only a few
+yards of shoddy? No, I tell you; this can not be done.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164' name='page_164'></a>164</span>
+Your brambles and thorn hedges will continue to grow
+and luxuriate, will even shut from your view the Temple
+in the Grove, until the great Pine rises again to
+stunt, and ultimately extirpate, them.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Behold, meanwhile, how the world parades in ruffles
+before us. What a bewildering phantasmagoria
+this: a very Dress Ball of the human race. See them
+pass: the Pope of Christendom, in his three hats and
+heavy trailing gowns, blessing the air of heaven; the
+priest, in his alb and chasuble, dispensing of the blessings
+of the Pope; the judge, in his wig and bombazine,
+endeavouring to reconcile divine justice with the law&#8217;s
+mundane majesty; the college doctor, in cap and gown,
+anointing the young princes of knowledge; the buffoon,
+in his cap and bells, dancing to the god of laughter;
+mylady of the pink-tea circle, in her huffing, puffing
+gasoline-car, fleeing the monster of ennui; the bride
+and bridegroom at the altar or before the mayor putting
+on their already heavy-ruffled garments the sacred
+ruffle of law or religion; the babe brought to church by
+his mother and kindred to have the priest-tailor sew on
+his new garment the ruffle of baptism; the soldier in
+his gaudy uniform; the king in his ermine with a crown
+and sceptre appended; the Nabob of Ind in his gorgeous
+and multi-colored robes; and the Papuan with
+horns in his nostrils and rings in his ears: see them all
+pass.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And wilt thou still add to the bewildering variety
+of the pageant? Or wilt have another of the higher
+things of the mind? Lo, the artist this, wearing his
+ruffles of hair over his shoulders; and here, too, is the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165' name='page_165'></a>165</span>
+man of the sombrero and red flannel, which are the
+latest flounces of a certain set of New World poets.
+Directly behind them is Dame Religion with her heavy
+ruffled robes, her beribboned and belaced bodices, her
+ornaments and sacred gewgaws. And billah, she has
+stuffings and paddings, too. And false teeth and foul
+breath! Never mind. Pass on, and let her pass. But
+tarry thou a moment here. Behold this pyrotechnic
+display, these buntings and flags; hear thou this music
+and these shouts and cheers; on yonder stump is an
+orator dispensing to his fellow citizens spread-eagle
+rhetoric as empty as yonder drum: these are the elaborate
+and attractive ruffles of politics. And among
+the crowd are genial and honest citizens who have their
+own way of ruffling your temper with their coarse
+flounces of linsey-woolsey freedom. Wilt thou have
+more?&#8221;</p>
+<p>Decidedly not, we reply. For how can we even
+keep company with Khalid, who has become such a
+maniac on flounces? And was this fantastic, phantasmagoric
+rhapsody all inspired by Najma&#8217;s simple
+remark on his hair? Fruitful is thy word, O woman!</p>
+<p>But being so far away now from the Hermitage in
+the Bronx, what has the &#8220;cherry in the cocktail&#8221; and
+&#8220;the olive in the oyster patty&#8221; to do with all this?
+Howbeit, the following deserves a place as the tail-flounce
+of his Fantasy.</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>&#8220;Your superman and superwoman,&#8221; says he, with
+philosophic calm, &#8220;may go Adam-and-Eve like if
+they choose. But can they, even in that chaste and
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166' name='page_166'></a>166</span>
+splendid nudity, dispense with ruffles and flounces?
+Pray, tell me, did not our first parents spoon and
+sentimentalise in the Paradise, before the Serpent
+appeared? And would they not often whisper unto
+each other, &#8216;Ah, Adam, ah, <ins class="trchange" title="Added closing single-quote">Eve!&#8217;</ins> sighing likewise
+for sweeter things? And what about those fatal
+Apples, those two sour fruits of their Love?&ndash;&ndash;I tell
+thee every new-born babe is the magnificent flesh-flounce
+of a shivering, trembling, nudity. And I
+Khalid, what am I but the visible ruffle of an invisible
+skirt? Verily, I am; and thou, too, my Brother.
+Yea, and this aquaterrestrial globe and these sidereal
+heavens are the divine flounces of the Vesture of
+Allah.&#8221;</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167' name='page_167'></a>167</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_VII_THE_HOWDAJ_OF_FALSEHOOD' id='CHAPTER_VII_THE_HOWDAJ_OF_FALSEHOOD'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2>
+<h3>THE HOWDAJ OF FALSEHOOD</h3>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;Humanity is so feeble in mind,&#8221; says Renan,
+&#8220;that the purest thing has need of the co-operation
+of some impure agent.&#8221; And this, we think,
+is the gist of Khalid&#8217;s rhapsody on flounces and
+ruffles. But how is he to reconcile the fact with
+the truth in his case? For a single sanctified ruffle&ndash;&ndash;a
+line of type in the canon law&ndash;&ndash;is likely to upset
+all his plans. Yes, a priest in alb and chasuble
+not only can dispense with the blessings of his Pope,
+but&ndash;&ndash;and here is the rub&ndash;&ndash;he can also withhold
+such blessings from Khalid. And now, do what he
+may, say what he might, he must either revise his
+creed, or behave, at least, like a Christian.</p>
+<p>Everything is ready, you say? The sky-blue,
+many-ruffled wedding gown; the set-out for the wayfare;
+the camel and donkeys; the little stock of books;
+the coffee utensils; the lentils and sweet oil;&ndash;&ndash;all
+ready? Very well; but you can not set forth to-morrow,
+nor three weeks from to-morrow. Indeed,
+before the priest can give you his blessings&ndash;&ndash;and
+what at this juncture can you do without them?&ndash;&ndash;the
+dispensations of the ban must be performed. In
+other words, your case must now be laid before the
+community. Every Sunday, for three such to come,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168' name='page_168'></a>168</span>
+the intended marriage of Khalid to Najma will be
+published in the Church, and whoso hath any objection
+to make can come forth and make it. Moreover,
+there is that little knot of consanguinity to be considered.
+And your priest is good enough to come and
+explain this to you. Understand him well. &#8220;An
+alm of a few gold pieces,&#8221; says he, &#8220;will remove the
+obstacle; the unlawfulness of your marriage resulting
+from consanguinity will cease on payment of five hundred
+piasters.&#8221;</p>
+<p>All of which startles Khalid, stupefies him. He had
+not, heretofore, thought of such a matter. Indeed, he
+was totally ignorant of these forms, these prohibitions
+and exemptions of the Church. And the father of
+Najma, though assenting, remarks nevertheless that
+the alms demanded are much. &#8220;Why,&#8221; exclaims
+Khalid, &#8220;I can build a house for five hundred
+piasters.&#8221;</p>
+<p>The priest sits down cross-legged on the divan,
+lights the cigarette which Najma had offered with
+the coffee, and tries to explain.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And where have you this, O Reverend, about
+consanguinity, prohibition, and alms!&#8221; Khalid asks.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Why, my child, in the Canons of our Church,
+Catholic and Apostolic. Every one knows that a
+marriage between cousins can not be effected, without
+the sanction of the Bishop.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;But can we not obtain this sanction without paying
+for it?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;You are not paying for it, my child; you
+are only contributing some alms to the Church.&#8221;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169' name='page_169'></a>169</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;You come to us, therefore, as a beggar, not as
+a spiritual father and guide.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;That is not good speaking. You misunderstand
+my purpose.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And pray, tell me, what is the purpose of prohibiting
+a marriage between cousins; what chief good
+is there in such a ban?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Much good for the community.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;But I have nothing to do with the community.
+I&#8217;m going to live with my wife in the desert.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;The good of your souls is chiefly concerned.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Ah, the good of our souls!&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And there are other reasons which can not be
+freely spoken of here.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;You mean the restriction and prohibition of
+sexual knowledge between relatives. That is very
+well. But let us return to what concerns us
+properly: the good of my soul, and the spiritual well-being
+of the community,&ndash;&ndash;what becomes of these,
+when I pay the prescribed alms and obtain the sanction
+of the Bishop?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;No harm then can come to them&ndash;&ndash;they&#8217;ll be
+secure.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Secure, you say? Are they not hazarded, sold
+by your Church for five hundred piasters? If my
+marriage to my cousin be wrong, unlawful, your
+Bishop in sanctioning same is guilty of perpetuating
+this wrong, this unlawfulness, is he not?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;But what the Church binds only the Church can
+loosen.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And what is the use of binding, O Reverend
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170' name='page_170'></a>170</span>
+Father, when a little sum of money can loosen anything
+you bind? It seems to me that these prohibitions
+of the Church are only made for the purpose of
+collecting alms. In other words, you bind for the
+sake of loosening, when a good bait is on the hook, do
+you not? Pardon, O my Reverend Father, pardon. I
+can not, to save my soul and yours, reconcile these
+contradictions. For if Mother Church be certain
+that my marriage to my cousin is contrary to the Law
+of God, is destructive of my spiritual well-being, then
+let her by all means prohibit it. Let her restrain me,
+compel me to obey. Ay, and the police ought to interfere
+in case of disobedience. In her behalf, in
+my behalf, in the behalf of my cousin&#8217;s soul and mine,
+the police ought to do the will of God, if the Church
+knows what it is, and is certain and honest about
+it. Compel me to stop, I conjure you, if you know
+I am going in the way of damnation. O my Father,
+what sort of a mother is she who would sell two of
+her children to the devil for a few hundred piasters?
+No, billah! no. What is unlawful by virtue of the
+Divine Law the wealth of all the Trust-Kings of
+America can not make lawful. And what is so
+by virtue of your Canon Law concerns not me. You
+may angle, you and your Church, as long as you
+please in the murky, muddy waters of Bind-and-Loosen,
+I have nothing to do with you.&#8221;...</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>But the priests, O Khalid, have yet a little to do
+with you. Such arguments about the Divine Law
+and the Canon Law, about alms and spiritual beggars,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171' name='page_171'></a>171</span>
+might cut the Gordian knot with your uncle, but&ndash;&ndash;and
+whether it be good or bad English, we say it&ndash;&ndash;they
+cut no ice with the Church. Yes, Mother
+Church, under whose wings you and your cousin
+were born and bred, and under whose wings you and
+your cousin would be married, can not take off for the
+sweet sake of your black eyes the ruffles and flounces
+of twenty centuries. Think well on it, you who have
+so extravagantly and not unwisely delivered yourself
+on flounces and ruffles. But to think, when in love,
+were, indeed, disastrous. O Love, Love, what
+Camels of wisdom thou canst force to pass through
+the needle&#8217;s eye! What miracles divine are thine!
+Khalid himself says that to be truly, deeply, piously
+in love, one must needs hate himself. How true,
+how inexorably true! For would he be always inviting
+trouble and courting affliction, would he be
+always bucking against the dead wall of a Democracy
+or a Church, if he did not sincerely hate himself&ndash;&ndash;if
+he were not religiously, fanatically in love&ndash;&ndash;in love
+with Najma, if not with Truth?</p>
+<p>Now, on the following Sunday, instead of publishing
+the intended marriage of Khalid and Najma, the
+parish priest places a ban upon it. And in this, ye
+people of Baalbek, is food enough for tattle, and
+cause enough for persecution. Potent are the ruffles
+of the Church! But why, we can almost hear the
+anxious Reader asking, if the camels are ready, why
+the deuce don&#8217;t they get on and get them gone? But
+did we not say once that Khalid is slow, even slower
+than the law itself? Nevertheless, if this were a
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172' name='page_172'></a>172</span>
+Novel, an elopement would be in order, but we must
+repeat, it is not. We are faithful transcribers of the
+truth as we find it set down in Shakib&#8217;s <i>Histoire
+Intime</i>.</p>
+<p>True, Khalid did ask Najma to throw with him
+the handful of dust, to steal out of Baalbek and get
+married on the way, say in Damascus. But poor
+Najma goes over to his mother instead, and mingling
+their tears and prayers, they beseech the Virgin to
+enlighten the soul and mind of Khalid. &#8220;Yes, we
+must be married here, before we go to the desert,&#8221;
+says she, &#8220;for think, O my mother, how far away we
+shall be from the world and the Church if anything
+happens to us.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And they would have succeeded, the mother and
+cousin of Khalid, in persuading the parish priest to
+accept from them the prescribed alms and perform the
+wedding ceremony, had not the Jesuits, in the interest
+of the Faith and the Church, been dogging
+Khalid still. For if they have failed in sending him
+to the Bosphorus, they will succeed in sending him
+elsewhither. And observe how this is done.</p>
+<p>After communicating with the Papal Legate in Mt.
+Lebanon about that fatal Latter Day Pamphlet of
+Thomas Carlyle, the Adjutant-General, or Adjutant-Bird,
+stalks up there one night in person and lays
+before the Rt. Rev. Mgr. his devil&#8217;s brief in Khalid&#8217;s
+case. It has already been explained that this Pamphlet
+was fathered on Khalid by the Jesuits. For if they can
+not punish the Voice which is still pursuing them&ndash;&ndash;and
+in their heart of hearts they must have recognised
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173' name='page_173'></a>173</span>
+its thunder, even in a Translation&ndash;&ndash;they will make
+the man smart for it who first mentioned Carlyle in
+this connection.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And besides this pernicious booklet,&#8221; says the
+Adjutant-Bird, &#8220;the young man&#8217;s heretical opinions
+are notorious. He was banished from home on that
+account. And now, after corrupting and deluding
+his cousin, he is going to marry her despite the ban of
+the Church. Something, Monseigneur, ought to be
+done, and quickly, to protect the community against
+the poison of this wretch.&#8221; And Monseigneur, nodding
+his accord, orders his Secretary to write a note
+to the Patriarch, enclosing the aforesaid devil&#8217;s brief,
+and showing the propriety, nay, the necessity of excommunicating
+Khalid the Baalbekian. The Adjutant-Bird,
+with the Legate&#8217;s letter in his pocket, skips over
+to the Patriarch on the other hill-top below, and after
+a brief interview&ndash;&ndash;our dear good Ancient of the
+Maronites must willy-nilly obey Rome&ndash;&ndash;the fate of
+Khalid the Baalbekian is sealed.</p>
+<p>Indeed, the upshot of these Jesuitic machinations is
+this: on the very day when Khalid&#8217;s mother and cousin
+are pleading before the parish priest for justice, for
+mercy,&ndash;&ndash;offering the prescribed alms, beseeching that
+the ban be revoked, the marriage solemnised,&ndash;&ndash;a
+messenger from the Bishop of the Diocese enters,
+kisses his Reverence&#8217;s hand, and delivers an imposing
+envelope. The priest unseals it, unfolds the heavy
+foolscap sheet therein, reads it with a knitting of the
+brow, a shaking of the beard, and, clapping one hand
+upon the other, tells the poor pleaders to go home.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174' name='page_174'></a>174</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;It is all finished. There is no more hope for you
+and your cousin.&#8221; And he shows the Patriarchal
+Bull, and explains.</p>
+<p>Whereupon, Najma and Khalid&#8217;s mother go out
+weeping, wailing, beating their breasts and cheeks,
+calling upon Allah to witness their sorrow and the outrageous
+tyranny of the priests.</p>
+<p>&#8220;What has my son done to be excommunicated?
+Hear it, ye people, hear it. And be just to me and
+my son. What has he done to deserve the anathema
+of the Church? What has he done?&#8221; And thus
+frantic, mad, she runs through the main street of the
+town, making wild gestures and clamours,&ndash;&ndash;publishing,
+as it were, the Patriarchal Bull, before it was
+read by the priest on the following day, and tacked
+on the door of the Church.</p>
+<p>Of this Bull, tricked with the stock phrases of the
+Church of the Middle Ages, such as &#8220;anathema be
+he,&#8221; or &#8220;banned be he,&#8221; who speaks with, deals with,
+and so forth, we have a copy before us. But our
+readers will not pardon us, we fear, if further space
+and consideration be here given to its contents. Suffice
+it to say, however, that Khalid comes to church
+on that fatal day, takes the foolscap sheet down from
+the door, and, going with it to the town-square, burns
+it there before the multitudes.</p>
+<p>And it came to pass, when the Bull is burned in the
+town-square of Baalbek, in the last year of the reign
+of Abd&#8217;ul-Hamid, some among the multitudes shout
+loud shouts of joy, and some cast stones.</p>
+<p>Then, foul, vehement speaking falleth between the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175' name='page_175'></a>175</span>
+friends and the enemies of him who wrought evil in
+the sight of the Lord;</p>
+<p>And every one thereupon brandisheth a stick or
+taketh up a stone and the battle ensueth.</p>
+<p>Now, the mighty troops of the Sultan of the Ottomans
+come forth like the Yaman wind and stand in
+the town-square like rocks;</p>
+<p>And the battle rageth still, and the troops who are
+come forth to part the fighting multitudes, having
+gorged themselves at the last meal, can not as much
+as speak their part:</p>
+<p>And it came to pass, when the clubs and spades are
+veiled and the battle subsideth of itself, the good
+people return to their respective callings and trades;</p>
+<p>But the perverse recalcitrants which remain&ndash;&ndash;and
+Khalid the Baalbekian is among them&ndash;&ndash;are taken
+by the aforesaid overfed troops to the City Hall and
+thence to the <i>velayet</i> prison in Damascus.</p>
+<p>And here endeth our stichometrics of the Battle of
+the Bull.</p>
+<p>Now, Shakib may wear out his shoes this time, his
+tongue, too, and his purse, but to no purpose. Behold,
+your friend the <i>kaimkam</i> is gloomy and impassive
+as a camel; what can you do? Whisper in his
+ear? The Padres have done that before you. Slip
+a purse into his pocket? They have done that, too,
+and overdone it long since. Yes, the City Hall of
+every city in the Empire is an epitome of Yildiz
+Kiosk. And your <i>kaimkams</i>, and <i>valis</i>, and <i>viziers</i>,
+have all been taught in the same Text-Book, at the
+same Political School, and by the same Professor.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176' name='page_176'></a>176</span>
+Let Khalid rest, therefore and ponder these matters in
+silence. For in the City Hall and during the month
+he passes in the prison of Damascus, we are told, he
+does not utter a word. His partisans in prison ask to
+be taught his creed, and among these are some Mohammadans:
+&#8220;We&#8217;ll burn the priests and their
+church yet and follow you. By our Prophet Mohammad
+we will ...&#8221; Khalid makes no <ins class="trchange" title="Changed ',' to '.'">reply.</ins>
+Even Shakib, when he comes to visit him, finds him
+dumb as a stone, slain by adversity and disease.
+Nothing can be done now. The giant excommunicated,
+incommunicative soul, struggling in a prison of
+sore flesh, we must leave, alas, with his friends and
+partisans to pass his thirty days and nights in the
+second prison of stone.</p>
+<p>Now, let us return to the Jesuits, who, having
+worsted Khalid, or the Devil in Khalid, as they charitably
+put it, will also endeavour to do somewhat in the
+interest of his intended bride. For the Padres, in addition
+to their many crafts and trades, are matrimonial
+brokers of honourable repute. And in their meddling
+and making, their baiting and mating, they are as serviceable
+as the Column Personal of an American newspaper.
+Whoso is matrimonially disposed shall whisper
+his mind at the Confessional or drop his advertisement
+in the pocket of the visiting Columns of their
+Bride-Dealer, and he shall prosper. She as well as
+he shall prosper.</p>
+<p>Now, Father Farouche is commissioned to come all
+the way from Zahleh to visit the brother of Abu-Khalid
+their porter, and bespeak him in the interest of his
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177' name='page_177'></a>177</span>
+daughter. All their faculties of persuasion shall be
+exerted in behalf of Najma. She must be saved at
+any cost. Hence they volunteer their services. And
+while Khalid is lingering in prison at Damascus, they
+avail themselves of the opportunity to further the suit
+of their pickle-herring candidate for Najma&#8217;s love.</p>
+<p>The Reverend Farouche, therefore, holds a secret
+conference with her father.</p>
+<p>&#8220;No,&#8221; says he, &#8220;God would never have forgiven you
+for giving your daughter to one utterly destitute of
+morality, religion, money, and health. But praise Allah!
+the Church has come to her rescue. She shall be
+saved, wrested from the hands of Iblis. Yes, Holy
+Church, through us, will guide her to find a god-fearing
+life-companion; one worthy of her charms, her
+virtues, her fine qualities of heart and mind. The
+young man we recommend is rich, respected in the
+community; is an official of the Government with a
+third-class Medjidi decoration and the title of Bey;
+and is free from all diseases. Moreover, he is a good
+Catholic. Consider these advantages. A relation
+this, which no father would reject, if he loves his
+daughter and is solicitous of her future well-being.
+Speak to her, therefore, and let us know soon your
+mind.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And our Scribe, in relating of this, loses his temper.&ndash;&ndash;&#8220;An
+Official of the Government, a Bey with a third-class
+Medjidi decoration from the Sultan! As if
+Officialdom could not boast of a single scoundrel&ndash;&ndash;as
+if any rogue in the Empire, with a few gold coins
+in his purse, were not eligible to the Hamidian decorations!
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178' name='page_178'></a>178</span>
+And a third-class decoration! Why, I have
+it on good authority that these Medjidi Orders were
+given to a certain Patriarch in a bushel to distribute
+among his minions....&#8221;</p>
+<p>But to our subject. Abu-Najma does not look
+upon it in this light. A decorated and titled son-in-law
+were a great honour devoutly to be wished. And
+some days after the first conference, the Padre
+Farouche comes again, bringing along his Excellency
+the third-class Medjidi Bey; but Najma, as they enter
+and salaam, goes out on the terrace roof to weep.
+The third time the third-class Medjidi Dodo comes
+alone. And Najma, as soon as she catches a glimpse
+of him, takes up her earthen jar and hies her to the
+spring.</p>
+<p>&#8220;O the hinny! I&#8217;ll rope noose her (hang her) to-night,&#8221;
+murmurs the father. But here is his Excellency
+with his Sultan&#8217;s green button in his lapel.
+Abu-Najma bows low, rubs his hands well, offers a
+large cushion, brings a <i>masnad</i> (leaning pillow), and
+blubbers out many unnecessary apologies.</p>
+<p>&#8220;This honour is great, your Excellency&ndash;&ndash;overlook
+our shortcomings&ndash;&ndash;our <i>beit</i> (one room house)
+can not contain our shame&ndash;&ndash;it is not becoming your
+Excellency&#8217;s high rank&ndash;&ndash;overlook&ndash;&ndash;you have condescended
+to honour us, condescend too to be indulgent.&ndash;&ndash;My
+daughter? yes, presently. She is gone to
+church, to mass, but she&#8217;ll return soon.&#8221;</p>
+<p>But Najma is long gone; returns not; and the
+third-class Dodo will call again to-morrow. Now,
+Abu-Najma brings out his rope, soaps it well, nooses
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179' name='page_179'></a>179</span>
+and suspends it from the rafter in the ceiling. And
+when his daughter returns from the spring, he takes
+her by the arm, shows her the rope, and tells her
+laconically to choose between his Excellency and this.
+Poor Najma has not the courage to die, and so soon.
+Her cousin Khalid is in prison, is excommunicated&ndash;&ndash;what
+can she do? Run away? The Church will
+follow her&ndash;&ndash;punish her. There&#8217;s something satanic
+in Khalid&ndash;&ndash;the Church said so&ndash;&ndash;the Church knows.
+Najma rolls these things in her mind, looks at her
+father beseechingly. Her father points to the noose.
+Najma falls to weeping. The noose serves well its
+purpose.</p>
+<p>For hereafter, when the Dodo comes decorated,
+SHE has to offer him the cushion, bring him the
+<i>masnad</i>, make for him the coffee. And eventually, as
+the visits accumulate, she goes with him to the dress-maker
+in Beirut. The bridal gown shall be of the
+conventional silk this time; for his Excellency is
+travelled, and knows and reverences the fashion. But
+why prolong these painful details?</p>
+<p>&#8220;Allah, in the mysterious working of his Providence,&#8221;
+says Shakib, &#8220;preordained it thus: Khalid,
+having served his turn in prison, Najma begins her
+own; for a few days after he was set free, she was
+placed in bonds forged for her by the Jesuits. Now,
+when Khalid returned from Damascus, he came
+straightway to me and asked that we go to see
+Najma and try to prevail upon her, to persuade her
+to go with him, to run away. They would leave on
+the night-train to Hama this time, and thence set
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180' name='page_180'></a>180</span>
+forth towards Palmyra. I myself did not know what
+had happened, and so I approved of his plan. But
+alas! as we were coming down the main Street to
+Najma&#8217;s house, we heard the sound of tomtoms in the
+distance and the shrill ulluluing of women. We continued
+apace until we reached the by-way through
+which we had to pass, and lo, we find it choked by
+the <i>zeffah</i> (wedding <ins class="trchange" title="Removed extra ')'">procession)</ins> of none but she and
+the third-class Medjidi....&#8221;</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>But we&#8217;ll no more of this! Too tragic, too much
+like fiction it sounds, that here abruptly we must end
+this Chapter.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181' name='page_181'></a>181</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_VIII_THE_KAABA_OF_SOLITUDE' id='CHAPTER_VIII_THE_KAABA_OF_SOLITUDE'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
+<h3>THE KAABA OF SOLITUDE</h3>
+</div>
+<p>Disappointed, distraught, diseased,&ndash;&ndash;worsted
+by the Jesuits, excommunicated, crossed in love,&ndash;&ndash;but
+with an eternal glint of sunshine in
+his breast to open and light up new paths before him,
+Khalid, after the fatal episode, makes away from
+Baalbek. He suddenly disappears. But where he
+lays his staff, where he spends his months of solitude,
+neither Shakib nor our old friend the sandomancer can
+say. Somewhither he still is, indeed; for though he
+fell in a swoon as he saw Najma on her caparisoned
+palfrey and the decorated Excellency coming up along
+side of her, he was revived soon after and persuaded
+to return home. But on the following morning, our
+Scribe tells us, coming up to the booth, he finds
+neither Khalid there, nor any of his few worldly belongings.
+We, however, have formed a theory of our
+own, based on certain of his writings in the K. L. MS.,
+about his mysterious levitation; and we believe
+he is now somewhither whittling arrows for a coming
+combat. In the Lebanon mountains perhaps. But
+we must not dog him like the Jesuits. Rather let us
+reverence the privacy of man, the sacredness of his
+religious retreat. For no matter where he is in the
+flesh, we are metaphysically certain of his existence.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182' name='page_182'></a>182</span>
+And instead of filling up this Chapter with the bitter
+bickerings of life and the wickedness and machination
+of those in power, let us consecrate it to the divine
+peace and beauty of Nature. Of a number of Chapters
+in the Book of Khalid on this subject, we choose
+the one entitled, My Native Terraces, or Spring in
+Syria, symbolising the natural succession to Khalid&#8217;s
+Winter of destiny. In it are signal manifestations
+of the triumph of the soul over the diseases and
+adversities and sorrows of mortal life. Indeed, here
+is an example of faith and power and love which we
+reckon sublime.</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>&#8220;The inhabitants of my terraces and terrace walls,&#8221;
+we translate, &#8220;dressed in their Sunday best, are in
+the doorways lounging or peeping idly through their
+windows. And why not? It is Spring, and to these
+delicate, sweet little creatures, Spring is the one Sunday
+of the year. Have they not hugged the damp,
+dark earth long enough? Hidden from the wrath of
+Winter, have they not squatted patiently round the
+primitive, smokeless fire of the mystic depths? And
+now, the rain having partly extinguished the inner,
+hidden flame, they come out to bask in the sun, and
+drink deeply of the ambrosial air. They come, almost
+slain with thirst, to the Mother Fountain. They
+come out to worship at the shrine of the sweet-souled,
+God-absorbed Rabia of Attar. In their bright, glowing
+faces what a delectable message from the under
+world of romance and enchantment! Their lips are
+red with the kisses of love, in whose alembics, intangible,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183' name='page_183'></a>183</span>
+unseen, the dark and damp of the earth
+are translated into warmth and colour and shade.
+Ay, these dear little children, unfolding their soft
+green scrolls and reading aloud such odes on Modesty
+and Beauty, are as inspiring as the star-crowned night.
+And every chink in my terrace walls seems to breathe
+a message of sweetness and light and love.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Know you not the anecdote about the enchanting
+Goddess Rabia, as related by Attar in his <i>Biographies
+of Sufi Mystics and Saints</i>? Here it is. Rabia was
+asked if she hated the devil, and she replied, &#8216;No.&#8217;
+Asked again why, she said, &#8216;Being absorbed in love,
+I have no time to hate.&#8217; Now, all the inhabitants of
+my terraces and fields seem to echo this sublime sentiment
+of their Goddess. The air and sunshine, nay,
+the very rocks are imbued with it. See, how the
+fissures in the boulders yonder seem to sympathise
+with the gaps in the terrace walls: the cyclamen leaves
+in the one are salaaming the cyclamen flowers in the
+other. O, these terraces would have delighted the
+heart of the American naturalist Thoreau. He could
+not have desired stone walls with more gaps in them.
+But mind you, these are not dark, ugly, hollow, hopeless
+chinks. Behind every one of them lurks a mystery.
+Far back in the niches I can see the busts of the
+poets who wrote the poems which these beautiful wild
+flowers are reading to me. Yes, the authors are dead,
+and what I behold now are the flowers of their
+amours. These are the offspring of their embraces,
+the crystallised dew of their love. Yes, this one single,
+simple act of love brings forth an infinite variety of
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184' name='page_184'></a>184</span>
+flowers to celebrate the death of the finite outward
+shape and the eternal essence of life perennial. In
+complete surrender lies the divineness of things
+eternal. This is the key-note of the Oriental mystic
+poets. And I incline to the belief that they of all
+bards have sung best the song of love. In rambling
+through the fields with these beautiful children of the
+terraces, I know not what draws me to Al-Fared, the
+one erotic-mystic poet of Arabia, whose interminable
+rhymes have a perennial charm. Perhaps such lines
+as these,&ndash;&ndash;</p>
+<div class="poem">
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">&#8216;</span>All that is fair is fairer when she rises,<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>All that is sweet is sweeter when she is here;</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>And every form of beauty she surprises</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>With one brief word she whispers in its ear:</span><br />
+<br />
+<span class="leadquote">&#8216;</span>Thy wondrous charms, O let them not deceive thee;<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>They are but borrowed from her for a while;</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Thine outward guise and loveliness would grieve thee,</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>If in thine inmost soul she did not smile.</span><br />
+<br />
+<span class="leadquote">&#8216;</span>All colours, forms, into each other merging,<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>Are woven on her Loom of Unity;</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>For she alone is One in All diverging,</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>And she alone is absolute and free.&#8217;</span><br /></p>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;Now, I will bring you to a scene most curiously
+suggestive. Behold that little knot of daisies pressing
+around the alone anemone beneath the spreading
+leaves of the colocasia. Here is a rout at the Countess
+Casiacole&#8217;s, and these are the d&eacute;butantes crowding
+around the Celebrity of the day. But would they do
+so if they were sensible of their own worth, if they
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185' name='page_185'></a>185</span>
+knew that their idol, flaunting the crimson crown of
+popularity, had no more, and perhaps less, of the pure
+essence of life than any of them? But let Celebrity
+stand there and enjoy her hour; to-morrow the
+Ploughman will come.</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>&#8220;The sage, with its spikes of greyish blue flowers,
+its fibrous, velvety leaves, its strong, pungent perfume,
+which is not squandered or repressed, is the stoic of
+my native terraces. It responds generously to the personal
+touch, and serves the Lebanonese, rich and poor
+alike, with a little luxury. Ay, who of us, wandering
+on foreign strands, does not remember the warm
+foot-bath, perfumed with sage leaves, his mother used
+to give him before going to bed? Our dear
+mothers!&#8221;&ndash;&ndash;And here, Khalid goes in raptures and
+tears about his sorry experience in Baalbek and the
+anguish and sorrow of his poor mother. &#8220;But while
+I stand,&#8221; he continues, &#8220;let me be like the sage, a live-oak
+among shrubs, indifferent as the oak or pine to
+the winds and storms. And as the sun is setting, find
+you no solace in the thought, O Khalid, that some
+angel herb-gatherer will preserve the perfume in your
+leaves, to refresh therewith in other worlds your dear
+poor mother?</p>
+<p>&#8220;My native terraces are rich with faith and love,
+luxuriant with the life divine and the wondrous symbols
+thereof. And the grass here is not cut and
+trimmed as in the artificial gardens and the cold dull
+lawns of city folk, whose love for Nature is either
+an experiment, a sport, a business, or a fad. &#8216;A
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186' name='page_186'></a>186</span>
+dilettantism in Nature is barren and unworthy,&#8217; says
+Emerson. But of all the lovers of Nature, the children
+are the least dilettanteish. And every day here
+I see a proof of this. Behold them wading to their
+knees in that lusty grass, hunting the classic lotus
+with which to deck their olive branches for the high
+mass and ceremony of Palm Sunday. But alas, my
+lusty grass and my beautiful wild flowers do not enjoy
+the morning of Spring. Here, the ploughman
+comes, carrying his long plough and goad on his
+shoulder, and with him his wife lugging the yoke and
+his boy leading the oxen. Alas, the sun shall not set on
+these bright, glowing, green terraces, whose walls are
+very ramparts of flowers. There, the boy with his
+scythe is paving the way for his father&#8217;s plough; the
+grass is mowed and given to the oxen as a bribe to
+do the ugly business. And all for the sake of the ugly
+mulberries, which are cultivated for the ugly silk-worms.
+Come, let us to the heath, where the hiss of
+the scythe and the &#8216;ho-back&#8217; and &#8216;oho&#8217; of the ploughman
+are not heard.</p>
+<p>&#8220;But let us swing from the road. Come, the
+hedges of Nature are not as impassable as the hedges
+of man. Through these scrub oaks and wild pears,
+between this tangle of thickets, over the clematis and
+blackberry bush,&ndash;&ndash;and here we are under the pines,
+the lofty and majestic pines. How different are these
+natural hedges, growing in wild disorder, from the
+ugly cactus fences with which my neighbours choose to
+shut in their homes, and even their souls. But my business
+now is not with them. There are my friends
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187' name='page_187'></a>187</span>
+the children again gathering the pine-needles of last
+summer for lighting the fire of the silk-worm nursery.
+And down that narrow foot-path, meandering around
+the boulders and disappearing among the thickets, see
+what big loads of brushwood are moving towards us.
+Beneath them my swarthy and hardy peasants are
+plodding up the hill asweat and athirst. When I first
+descended to the wadi, one such load of brushwood
+emerging suddenly from behind a cliff surprised and
+frightened me. But soon I was reminded of the moving
+forest in Macbeth. The man bowed beneath the
+load was hidden from view, and the boy directly behind
+was sweating under a load as big as that of his
+father. &#8216;<i>Awafy!</i>&#8217; (Allah give you strength), I said,
+greeting them. &#8216;And increase of health to you,&#8217; they
+replied. I then asked the boy how far down do
+they have to go for their brushwood, and laying down
+his load on a stone to rest, he points below, saying,
+&#8216;Here, near the river.&#8217; But this &#8216;Here, near the
+river&#8217; is more than four hours&#8217; walk from the village.&ndash;&ndash;Allah
+preserve you in your strength, my
+Brothers. And they pass along, plodding slowly under
+their overshadowing burdens. A hard-hearted
+Naturalist, who goes so deep into Nature as to be
+far from the vital core even as the dilettante, might
+not have any sympathy to throw away on such occasions.
+But of what good is the love of Nature that
+consists only in classification and dissection? I carry
+no note-book with me when I go down the wadi or
+out into the fields. I am content if I bring back a
+few impressions of some reassuring instance of faith,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188' name='page_188'></a>188</span>
+a few pictures, and an armful of wild flowers and
+odoriferous shrubs. Let the learned manual maker
+concern himself with the facts; he is content with
+jotting down in his note-book the names and lineage
+of every insect and every herb.</p>
+<p>&#8220;But Man? What is he to these scientific Naturalists?
+If they meet a stranger on the road, they
+pass him by, their eyes intent on the breviary of Nature,
+somewhat after the fashion of my priests, who
+are fond of praying in the open-air at sundown.
+No, I do not have to prove to my Brothers that my
+love of Nature is but second to my love of life. I
+am interested in my fellow men as in my fellow trees
+and flowers. &#8216;The beauty of Nature,&#8217; Emerson
+again, &#8216;must always seem unreal and mocking until
+the landscape has human figures, that are as good as
+itself.&#8217; And &#8217;tis well, if they are but half as good.
+To me, the discovery of a woodman in the wadi were
+as pleasing as the discovery of a woodchuck or a woodswallow
+or a woodbine. For in the soul of the woodman
+is a song, I muse, as sweet as the rhythmic strains
+of the goldfinch, if it could be evoked. But the soul
+plodding up the hill under its heavy overshadowing
+burden, what breath has it left for song? The man
+bowed beneath the load, the soul bowed beneath the
+man! Alas, I seem to behold but moving burdens
+in my country. And yet, my swarthy and shrunken,
+but firm-fibred people plod along, content, patient,
+meek; and when they reach the summit of the hill
+with their crushing burdens, they still have breath
+enough to troll a favourite ditty or serenade the night.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189' name='page_189'></a>189</span></p>
+<div class="poem">
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">&#8216;</span>I come to thee, O Night,<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>I&#8217;m at thy feet;</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>I can not see, O Night,</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>But thy breath is sweet.&#8217;</span><br /></p>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;And so is the breath of the pines. Here, the air
+is surcharged with perfume. In it floats the aromatic
+soul of many a flower. But the perfume-soul
+of the pines seems to tower over all others, just as
+its material shape lifts its artistic head over the oak,
+the cercis, and the terabinth. And though tall and
+stately, my native pines are not forbidding. They are
+so pruned that the snags serve as a most convenient
+ladder. Such was my pleasure mounting for the
+green cones, the salted pinons of which are delicious.
+But I confess they seem to stick in the stomach as the
+pitch of the cones sticks on the hands. This, however,
+though it remains for days, works no evil; but
+the pinons in the stomach, and the stomach on the
+nerves,&ndash;&ndash;that is a different question.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The only pines I have seen in the United States
+are those in front of Emerson&#8217;s house in Concord;
+but compared with my native trees, they are scrubby
+and mean. These pine parasols under which I lay
+me, forgiving and forgetting, are fit for the gods.
+And although closely planted, they grow and flourish
+without much ado. I have seen spots not exceeding
+a few hundred square feet holding over thirty trees,
+and withal stout and lusty and towering. Indeed,
+the floor of the Tent seems too narrow at times for
+its crowded guests; but beneath the surface there is
+room for every root, and over it, the sky is broad
+enough for all.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190' name='page_190'></a>190</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;Ah, the bewildering vistas through the variegated
+pillars, taking in a strip of sea here, a mountain peak
+there, have an air of enchantment from which no
+human formula can release a pilgrim-soul. They remind
+me&ndash;&ndash;no; they can not remind me of anything
+more imposing. But when I was visiting the
+great Mosques of Cairo I was reminded of them.
+Yes, the pine forests are the great mosques of Nature.
+And for art-lovers, what perennial beauty of an antique
+art is here. These majestic pillars arched with
+foliage, propping a light-green ceiling, from which
+cones hang in pairs and in clusters, and through which
+curiously shaped clouds can be seen moving in a cerulean
+sky; and at night, instead of the clouds, the
+stars&ndash;&ndash;the distant, twinkling, white and blue stars&ndash;&ndash;what
+to these are the decorations in the ancient
+mosques? There, the baroques, the arabesques, the
+colourings gorgeous, are dead, at least inanimate; here,
+they palpitate with life. The moving, swelling, flaming,
+flowing life is mystically interwoven in the evergreen
+ceiling and the stately colonnades. Ay, even
+the horizon yonder, with its planets and constellations
+rising and setting ever, is a part of the ceiling
+decoration.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Here in this grand Mosque of Nature, I read
+my own Kor&acirc;n. I, Khalid, a Beduin in the desert
+of life, a vagabond on the highway of thought, I come
+to this glorious Mosque, the only place of worship
+open to me, to heal my broken soul in the perfumed
+atmosphere of its celestial vistas. The mihrabs here
+are not in this direction nor in that. But whereso
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191' name='page_191'></a>191</span>
+one turns there are niches in which the living spirit of
+Allah is ever present. Here, then, I prostrate me
+and read a few Chapters of MY Holy Book. After
+which I resign myself to my eternal Mother and the
+soft western breezes lull me asleep. Yea, and even
+like my poor brother Moslem sleeping on his hair-mat
+in a dark corner of his airy Mosque, I dream my
+dream of contentment and resignation and love.</p>
+<p>&#8220;See the ploughman strutting home, his goad in his
+hand, his plough on his shoulder, as if he had done
+his duty. Allah be praised, the flowers in the terrace-walls
+are secure. That is why, I believe, my
+American brother Thoreau liked walls with many
+gaps in them. The sweet wild daughters of Spring
+can live therein their natural life without being
+molested by the scythe or the plough. Allah be
+praised a hundred times and one.&#8221;</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192' name='page_192'></a>192</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_IX_SIGNS_OF_THE_HERMIT' id='CHAPTER_IX_SIGNS_OF_THE_HERMIT'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2>
+<h3>SIGNS OF THE HERMIT</h3>
+</div>
+<p>Although we claim some knowledge of the
+Lebanon mountains, having landed there in our
+journey earthward, and having since then, our limbs
+waxing firm and strong, made many a journey
+through them, we could not, after developing, through
+many readings, Khalid&#8217;s spiritual films, identify them
+with the vicinage which he made his Kaaba. On
+what hill, in what wadi, under what pines did he
+ruminate and extravagate, we could not from these
+idealised pictures ascertain. For a spiritual film is
+other than a photographic one. A poet&#8217;s lens is
+endowed with a seeing eye, an insight, and a faculty
+to choose and compose. Hence the difficulty in tracing
+the footsteps of Fancy&ndash;&ndash;in locating its cave, its
+nest, or its Kaaba. His pine-mosque we could find
+anywhere, at any altitude; his vineyards, too, and his
+glades; for our mountain scenery, its beauty alternating
+between the placid and the rugged&ndash;&ndash;the tame
+terrace soil and the wild, forbidding majesty&ndash;&ndash;is allwhere
+almost the same. But where in these rocky
+and cavernous recesses of the world can we to-day
+find the ancient Lebanon troglodyte, whom Khalid
+has seen, and visited in his hut, and even talked with?
+It is this that forces us to seek his diggings, to trace,
+if possible, his footsteps.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193' name='page_193'></a>193</span></p>
+<p>In the K. L. MS., as we have once remarked and
+more than once hinted, we find much that is unduly
+inflated, truly Oriental; much that is platitudinous,
+ludicrous, which we have suppressed. But never
+could we question the Author&#8217;s veracity and sincerity
+of purpose. Whether he crawled like a zo&ouml;phyte,
+soared like an eagle, or fought, like Ali, the giants
+of the lower world, he is genuine, and oft-times
+amusingly truthful. But the many questionable pages
+on this curious subject of the eremite, what are we
+to do with them? If they are imaginary, there is too
+much in this Book against quackery to daunt us.
+And yet, if Khalid has found the troglodyte, whom
+we thought to be an extinct species, he should have
+left us a few legends about it.</p>
+<p>We have visited the ancient caverns of the Lebanon
+troglodytes in the cliffs overhanging the river
+of Wadi Kadeesha, and found nothing there but
+blind bats, and mosses, and dreary vacuity. No, not
+a vestage of the fossil is there, not a skull, not a shinbone.
+We have also inquired in the monasteries near
+the Cedars, and we were frankly told that no monk
+to-day fancies such a life. And if he did, he would
+not give his brother monks the trouble of carrying
+his daily bread to a cave in those forbidden cliffs.
+And yet, Simeon Stylites, he of the Pillar, who remained
+for thirty years perched on the top of it, was
+a Syrian shepherd. But who of his descendants to-day
+would as much as pass one night on the top of
+that pillar? Curious eleemosynary phases of our
+monkish system, these modern times reveal.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194' name='page_194'></a>194</span></p>
+<p>On our way from a journey to the Cedars, while
+engaged in the present Work, we passed through a
+pine forest, in which were some tangled bushes of the
+clematis. The muleteer stops near one of these and
+stoops to reach something he had seen therein. No
+treasure-trove, alas, as he supposed; but merely a
+book for which he lacerated his hands and which he
+cursed and handed to us, saying, &#8220;This must be the
+breviary of some monk.&#8221;</p>
+<p>No, it was an English book, and of American origin,
+and of a kind quite rare in America. Indeed,
+here were a find and surprise as agreeable as Khalid&#8217;s
+sweetbrier bush. Henry Thoreau&#8217;s <i>Week</i>! What
+a miracle of chance. Whose this mutilated copy of
+the <i>Week</i>, we thought? Who in these mountains,
+having been in America, took more interest in the
+Dreamer of Walden Woods than in peddling and
+trading? We walk our mule, looking about in vague,
+restless surprise, as if seeking in the woods a lost companion,
+and lo, we reach a monarch pine on which is
+carved the name of&ndash;&ndash;Khalid! This book, then,
+must be his; the name on the pine tree is surely his
+own; we know his hand as well as his turn of mind.
+But who can say if this be his Kaaba, this his pine-mosque?
+Might he not only have passed through these
+glades to other parts? Signs, indeed, are here of his
+feet and hands, if not of his tent-pegs. And what
+signifies his stay? No matter how long he might
+have put up here, it is but a passage, deeply considered:
+like Thoreau&#8217;s passage through Walden woods,
+like Mohammad&#8217;s through the desert.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195' name='page_195'></a>195</span></p>
+<p>This leisure hour is the nipple of the soul. And
+fortunate they who are not artificially suckled, who
+know this hour no matter how brief, who get their
+nipple at the right time. If they do not, no pabulum
+ever after, will their indurated tissues assimilate.
+Do you wonder why the world is full of crusty souls?
+and why to them this infant hour, this suckling while,
+is so repugnant? But we must not intrude more of
+such remarks about mankind. Whether rightly suckled
+or not, we manage to live; but whether we do so
+marmot-like or Maronite-like, is not the question here
+to be considered. To pray for your bread or to burrow
+in the earth for it, is it not the same with most
+people? Given a missionary with a Bible in his hip-pocket
+or a peasant with a load of brushwood on his
+back and the same gastric coefficient, and you will
+have in either case a resulting expansion for six feet
+of coffin ground and a fraction of Allah&#8217;s mercy.
+Our poor missionary, is it worth while to cross the
+seas for this? Marmot-like or Maronite-like&ndash;&ndash;but
+soft you know! Here is our peasant with his overshadowing
+load of brushwood. And there is another,
+and another. They are carrying fuel to the lime-pit
+ahead of us yonder. What brow-sweat, what
+time, what fire, what suffering and patient toil, the
+lime-washing, or mere liming, of our houses and sepulchres,
+requires. That cone structure there, that artificial
+volcano, with its crackling, flaming bowels and
+its fuliginous, coruscating crater, must our hardy
+peasants feed continually for twenty days and nights.</p>
+<p>But the book and the name on the pine, we would
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196' name='page_196'></a>196</span>
+know more of these signs, if possible. And so, we
+visit the labourers of the kiln. They are y&ouml;dling, the
+while they work, and jesting and laughing. The
+stokers, with flaming, swollen eyes, their tawny complexion
+waxing a brilliant bronze, their sweat making
+golden furrows therein, with their pikes and pitchforks
+busy, are terribly magnificent to behold. Here
+be men who would destroy Bastilles for you, if it
+were nominated in the bond. And there is the monk-foreman&ndash;&ndash;the
+kiln is of the monastery&#8217;s estate&ndash;&ndash;reading
+his breviary while the lime is in making.
+Indeed, these sodalities of the Lebanons are not what
+their vows and ascetic theologies would make them.
+No lean-jowled, hungry-looking devotees, living in
+exiguity and droning in exinanition their prayers,&ndash;&ndash;not
+by any means. Their flesh-pots are not a few,
+and their table is a marvel of ascetism! And why
+not, if their fat estates&ndash;&ndash;three-quarter of the lands
+here is held in mortmain by the clergy&ndash;&ndash;can yield
+anything, from silk cocoons to lime-pits? They will
+clothe you in silk at least; they will lime-wash your
+homes and sepulchres, if they cannot lime-wash anything
+else. Thanks to them so long as they keep some
+reminiscence of business in their heads to keep the
+Devil out of it.</p>
+<p>The monk-foreman is reading with one eye and
+watching with the other. &#8220;Work,&#8221; cries he, &#8220;every
+minute wasted is stolen from the abbey. And whoso
+steals, look in the pit: its fire is nothing compared
+with Juhannam.&#8221; And the argument serves its purpose.
+The labourers hurry hither and thither, bringing
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197' name='page_197'></a>197</span>
+brushwood near; the first stoker pitches to the
+second, the second to the third, and he feeds the flaming,
+smoking, coruscating volcano. &#8220;<i>Yallah!</i>&#8221;
+(Keep it up) exclaims the monk-foreman. &#8220;Burn
+the devil&#8217;s creed,&#8221; cries one. &#8220;Burn hell,&#8221; cries another.
+And thus jesting in earnest, mightily working
+and enduring, they burn the mountains into lime,
+they make the very rocks yield somewhat.&ndash;&ndash;Strength
+and blessings, brothers.</p>
+<p>After the usual inquiry of whence and whither, his
+monkship offers the snuff-box. &#8220;No? roll you, then,
+a cigarette,&#8221; taking out a plush pouch containing a
+mixture of the choicest native roots. These, we were
+told, are grown on the monastery&#8217;s estate. We
+speak of the cocoon products of the season.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Beshrew the mulberries!&#8221; exclaims the monk.
+&#8220;We are turning all our estates into fruit orchards
+and orangeries. The cultivation of the silk-worm
+is in itself an abomination. And while its income
+to-day is not as much as it was ten years ago, the expenditure
+has risen twofold. America is ruining our
+agriculture; and soon, I suppose, we have to send to
+China for labourers. Why, those who do not emigrate
+demand twice as much to-day for half the work
+they used to do five years ago; and those who return
+from America strut about like country gentlemen deploring
+the barrenness of their native soil.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And one subject leading to another, for our monk
+is a glib talker, we come to the cheese-makers, the
+goatherds. &#8220;Even these honest rustics,&#8221; says he,
+&#8220;are becoming sophisticated (<i>mafsudin</i>). Their
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198' name='page_198'></a>198</span>
+cheese is no longer what it was, nor is their faith.
+For Civilisation, passing by their huts in some shape
+or other, whispers in their ears something about cleverness
+and adulteration. And mistaking the one for
+the other, they abstract the butter from the milk and
+leave the verdigris in the utensils. This lust of gain
+is one of the diseases which come from Europe and
+America,&ndash;&ndash;it is a plague which even the goatherd
+cannot escape. Why, do you know, wherever the
+cheese-monger goes these days ptomaine poison is
+certain to follow.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And why does not the Government interfere?&#8221;
+we ask.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Because the Government,&#8221; replies our monk in
+a dry, droll air and gesture, &#8220;does not eat cheese.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And the monks, we learned, do not have to buy it.
+For this, as well as their butter, olive oil, and wine,
+is made on their own estates, under their own supervision.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Yes,&#8221; he resumes, placing his breviary in his
+pocket and taking out the snuff-box; &#8220;not long ago
+one who lived in these parts&ndash;&ndash;a young man from
+Baalbek he was, and he had his booth in the pine forest
+yonder&ndash;&ndash;bought some cheese from one of these muleteer
+cheese-mongers, and after he had eaten of it fell
+sick. It chanced that I was passing by on my way
+to the abbey, when he was groaning and retching
+beneath that pine tree. It was the first time I saw
+that young man, and were I not passing by I know
+not what would have become of him. I helped him
+to the abbey, where he was ministered to by our physician,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199' name='page_199'></a>199</span>
+and he remained with us three days. He ate
+of our cheese and drank of our wine, and seemed to
+like both very much. And ever since, while he was
+here, he would come to the abbey with a basket or a
+tray of his own make&ndash;&ndash;he occupied himself in making
+wicker-baskets and trays&ndash;&ndash;and ask in exchange
+some of our cheese and olive oil. He was very intelligent,
+this fellow; his eyes sometimes were like
+the mouth of this pit, full of fire and smoke. But
+he was queer. The clock in him was not wound
+right&ndash;&ndash;he was always ahead or behind time, always
+complaining that we monks did not reckon time as he
+did. Nevertheless, I liked him much, and often
+would I bring him some of our cookery. But he
+never accepted anything without giving something in
+exchange.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Unmistakable signs.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And his black turban,&#8221; continues the monk,
+&#8220;over his long flowing hair made him look like our
+<ins class="trchange" title="Added closing double-quote">hermit.&#8221;</ins> (Strange coincidence!) &#8220;On your way here
+have you not stopped to visit the hermit? Not far
+from the abbey, on your right hand coming here, is
+the Hermitage.&#8221;</p>
+<p>We remember passing a pretty cottage surrounded
+by a vineyard in that rocky wilderness; but who
+would mistake that for a troglodyte&#8217;s cave? &#8220;And
+this young man from Baalbek,&#8221; we ask, &#8220;how did
+he live in this forest?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Yonder,&#8221; points the monk, &#8220;he cleared and
+cleaned for himself a little space which he made his
+workshop. And up in the pines he constructed a
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200' name='page_200'></a>200</span>
+platform, which he walled and covered with boughs.
+And when he was not working or walking, he would
+be there among the branches, either singing or asleep.
+I used to envy him that nest in the pines.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And did he ever go to church?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;He attended mass twice in our chapel, on Good
+Friday and on Easter Sunday, I think.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And did he visit the abbey often?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Only when he wanted cheese or olive oil.&#8221;
+(Shame, O Khalid!) &#8220;But he often repaired to
+the Hermitage. I went with him once to listen to
+his conversation with the Hermit. They often disagreed,
+but never quarrelled. I like that young man
+in spite of his oddities of thought, which savoured at
+times of infidelity. But he is honest, believe me;
+never tells a lie; and in a certain sense he is as pious
+as our Hermit, I think. Roll another cigarette.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Thank you. And the Hermit, what is your
+opinion of him?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Well, h&#8217;m&ndash;&ndash;h&#8217;m&ndash;&ndash;go visit him. A good man
+he is, but very simple. And between us, he likes
+money too much. H&#8217;m, h&#8217;m, go visit him. If I
+were not engaged at present, I would accompany you
+thither.&#8221;</p>
+<p>We thank our good monk and retrace our steps
+to the Hermitage, rolling meanwhile in our mind
+that awful remark about the Hermit&#8217;s love of money.
+Blindness and Plague! even the troglodyte loves and
+worships thee, thou silver Demiurge! We can not believe
+it. The grudges of monks against each other
+often reach darker and more fatal depths. Alas, if
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201' name='page_201'></a>201</span>
+the faith of the cheese-monger is become adulterated,
+what shall we say of the faith of our monkhood? If
+the salt of the earth&ndash;&ndash;but not to the nunnery nor
+to the monkery, we go. Rather let us to the Hermitage,
+Reader, and with an honest heart; in earnest,
+not in sport.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202' name='page_202'></a>202</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_X_THE_VINEYARD_IN_THE_KAABA' id='CHAPTER_X_THE_VINEYARD_IN_THE_KAABA'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER X</h2>
+<h3>THE VINEYARD IN THE KAABA</h3>
+</div>
+<p>This, then, is the cave of our troglodyte! Allah
+be praised, even the hermits of the Lebanon
+mountains, like the prophets of America and other
+electric-age species, are subject to the laws of evolution.
+A cottage and chapel set in a vineyard, the most
+beautiful we have yet seen, looms up in this rocky
+wilderness like an oasis in a desert. For many miles
+around, the vicinage presents a volcanic aspect, wild,
+barren, howlingly dreary. At the foot of Mt. Sanneen
+in the east, beyond many ravines, are villages
+and verdure; and from the last terrace in the vineyard
+one overlooks the deep chasm which can boast
+of a rivulet in winter. But in the summer its nakedness
+is appalling. The sun turns its pocket inside
+out, so to speak, exposing its boulders, its little <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'wind-rows' across lines">windrows</ins>
+of sands, and its dry ditches full of dead fish
+spawn. And the cold, rocky horizon, rising so high
+and near, shuts out the sea and hides from the Hermit
+the glory of the sundown. But we can behold
+its effects on Mt. Sanneen, on the clouds above us,
+on the glass casements in the villages far away. The
+mountains in the east are mantled with etherial lilac
+alternating with mauve; the clouds are touched with
+purple and gold; the casements in the distance are
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203' name='page_203'></a>203</span>
+scintillating with mystical carbuncles: the sun is setting
+in the Mediterranean,&ndash;&ndash;he is waving his farewell
+to the hills.</p>
+<p>We reach the first gate of the Hermitage; and the
+odour peculiar to monks and monkeries, a mixed
+smell of mould and incense and burning oil, greets
+us as we enter into a small open space in the centre
+of which is a Persian lilac tree. To the right is a
+barbed-wire fence shutting in the vineyard; directly
+opposite is the door of the chapel; and near it is a
+wicket before which stands a withered old woman.
+Against the wall is a stone bench where another
+woman is seated. As we enter, we hear her, standing
+at the wicket, talking to some one behind the
+scene. &#8220;Yes, that is the name of my husband,&#8221; says
+she. &#8220;Allah have mercy on his soul,&#8221; sighs an exiguous
+voice within; &#8220;pray for him, pray for him.&#8221;
+And the woman, taking to weeping, blubbers out,
+&#8220;Will thirty masses do, think your Reverence?&#8221;
+&#8220;Yes, that will cheer his soul,&#8221; replies the oracle.</p>
+<p>The old woman thereupon enters the chapel, pays
+the priest or serving-monk therein, one hundred piasters
+for thirty masses, and goes away in tears. The
+next woman rises to the gate. &#8220;I am the mother
+of&ndash;&ndash;,&#8221; she says. &#8220;Ah, the mother of&ndash;&ndash;,&#8221; repeats
+the exiguous voice. &#8220;How are you? (She must be
+an old customer.) How is your husband? How are
+your children? And those in America, are they well,
+are they prosperous? Yes, yes, your deceased son.
+Well, h&#8217;m&ndash;&ndash;h&#8217;m&ndash;&ndash;you must come again. I can not
+tell you anything yet. Come again next week.&#8221;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204' name='page_204'></a>204</span>
+And she, too, visits the chapel, counts out some money
+to the serving-monk, and leaves the Hermitage, drying
+her tears.</p>
+<p>The Reader, who must have recognised the squeaking,
+snuffling, exiguous voice, knows not perhaps that
+the Hermit, in certain moments of <i>inkhitaf</i> (abstraction,
+levitation) has glimpses into the spirit-world
+and can tell while in this otherworldliness how the
+Christian souls are faring, and how many masses
+those in Purgatory need before they can rejoin the
+bosom of Father Abraham. And those who seek
+consolation and guidance through his occult ministrations
+are mostly women. But the money collected
+for masses, let it here be said, as well as the income
+of the vineyard, the Hermit touches not. The
+monks are the owners of the occult establishment,
+and they know better than he what to do with the
+revenue. But how far this ancient religious Medium
+can go in the spirit-world, and how honest he might
+be in his otherworldliness, let those say who have experience
+in spookery and table-rapping.</p>
+<p>Now, the women having done and gone, the wicket
+is open, and the serving-monk ushers us through the
+dark and stivy corridor to the rear, where a few
+boxes marked &#8220;Made in America&#8221;&ndash;&ndash;petroleum
+boxes, these&ndash;&ndash;are offered us as seats. Before the
+door of the last cell are a few potsherds in which
+sweet basil plants are withering from thirst. Presently,
+the door squeaks, and one, not drooping like
+the plants, comes out to greet us. This is Father
+Abd&#8217;ul-Messiah (Servitor of the Christ), as the Hermit
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205' name='page_205'></a>205</span>
+is called. Here, indeed, is an up-to-date hermit,
+not an antique troglodyte. Lean and lathy, he is, but
+not hungry-looking; quick of eye and gesture; quick
+of step, too. He seems always on the alert, as if
+surrounded continually with spirits. He is young,
+withal, or keeps so, at least, through the grace and
+ministration of Allah and the Virgin. His long unkempt
+hair and beard are innocent of a single white
+line. And his health? &#8220;Through my five and
+twenty years of seclusion,&#8221; said he, &#8220;I have not
+known any disease, except, now and then, in the
+spring season, when the sap begins to flow, I am
+visited by Allah with chills and fever.&ndash;&ndash;No; I eat
+but one meal a day.&ndash;&ndash;Yes; I am happy, Allah be
+praised, quite happy, very happy.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And he lifts his eyes heavenward, and sighs and
+rubs his hands in joyful satisfaction. To us, this
+Servitor of the Christ seemed not to have passed the
+climacteric. But truly, as he avowed, he was entering
+the fifth lustrum beyond it. Such are the advantages
+of the ascetic life, and of such ascetics the
+Kingdom of Heaven. A man of sixty can carry
+twenty years in his pocket, and seem all honesty, and
+youth, and health, and happiness.</p>
+<p>We then venture a question about the sack-cloth,
+a trace of which was seen under his tunic sleeve.
+And fetching a deep sigh, he gazes on the drooping
+sweet basils in silence. No, he likes not to speak of
+these mortifications of the flesh. After some meditation
+he tells us, however, that the sack-cloth on the
+first month is annoying, torturing. &#8220;But the flesh,&#8221;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206' name='page_206'></a>206</span>
+he continues na&iuml;vely, &#8220;is inured to it, as the pile, in
+the course of time, is broken and softened down.&#8221;
+And with an honest look in his eyes, he smiled and
+sighs his assurance. For his Reverence always punctuates
+his speech with these sweet sighs of joy. The
+serving-monk now comes to whisper a word in his
+ear, and we are asked to &#8220;scent the air&#8221; a while in
+the vineyard.</p>
+<p>This lovely patch of terrace-ground the Hermit
+tills and cultivates alone. And so thoroughly the
+work is done that hardly a stone can be seen in the
+soil. And so even and regular are the terrace walls
+that one would think they were built with line and
+plummet. The vines are handsomely trimmed and
+trellised, and here and there, to break the monotony
+of the rows, a fig, an apricot, an almond, or an olive,
+spreads its umbrageous boughs. Indeed, it is most
+cheering in the wilderness, most refreshing to the
+senses, this lovely vineyard, the loveliest we have
+seen.</p>
+<p>Father Abd&#8217;ul-Messiah might be a descendant of
+Simeon of the Pillar for all we know; but instead
+of perching on the top of it, he breaks it down and
+builds with its stones a wall of his vineyard. Here
+he comes with his serving-monk, and we resume the
+conversation under the almond tree.</p>
+<p>&#8220;You should come in the grape season to taste of
+my fruits,&#8221; says he.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And do you like the grape?&#8221; we ask.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Yes, but I prefer to cultivate it.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Throughout the season,&#8221; the serving-monk puts
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207' name='page_207'></a>207</span>
+in, &#8220;and though the grapes be so plentiful, he tastes
+them not.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;No?&#8221;</p>
+<p>The Hermit is silent; for, as we have said, he is
+reluctant in making such confessions. Virtue, once
+bragged about, once you pride yourself upon it, ceases
+to be such.</p>
+<p>In his vineyard the Hermit is most thorough, even
+scientific. One would think that he believed only in
+work. No; he does not sprinkle the vines with holy
+water to keep the grubs away. Herein he has sense
+enough to know that only in <i>kabrit</i> (sulphur) is
+the phylactery which destroys the phylloxera.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And what do you do when you are not working
+in your vineyard or praying?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;I have always somewhat to do, always. For
+to be idle is to open the door for Iblis. I might
+walk up and down this corridor, counting the slabs
+therein, and consider my time well spent.&#8221; Saying
+which he rises and points to the sky. The purple
+fringes of the clouds are gone to sable; the lilac tints
+on the mountains are waxing grey; and the sombre
+twilight with his torch&ndash;&ndash;the evening star had risen&ndash;&ndash;is
+following in the wake of day; &#8217;tis the hour of
+prayer.</p>
+<p>But before we leave him to his devotion, we ask
+to be permitted to see his cell. Ah, that is against
+the monastic rules. We insist. And with a h&#8217;m,
+h&#8217;m, and a shake of the head, he rubs his hands caressingly
+and opens the door. Yes, the Reader shall
+peep into this eight by six cell, which is littered all
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208' name='page_208'></a>208</span>
+around with rubbish, sacred and profane. In the corner
+is a broken stove with a broken pipe attached,&ndash;&ndash;broken
+to let some of the smoke into the room, we
+are told. &#8220;For smoke,&#8221; quoth the Hermit, quoting
+the Doctor, &#8220;destroys the microbes&ndash;&ndash;and keeps the
+room warm after the fire goes out.&#8221;</p>
+<p>In the corner opposite the stove is a little altar
+with the conventional icons and gewgaws and a number
+of prayer books lying pell-mell around. Nearby
+is an old pair of shoes, in which are stuck a few
+candles and St. Anthony&#8217;s Book of Contemplations.
+In the corner behind the door is a large cage, a pantry,
+suspended middleway between the floor and ceiling,
+containing a few earthen pots, an oil lamp, and
+a jar, covered with a cloth. Between the pantry
+and the altar, on a hair-mat spread on the floor,
+sleeps his Reverence. And his bed is not so hard as
+you might suppose, Reader; for, to serve your curiosity,
+we have been rude enough to lift up a corner
+of the cloth, and we found underneath a substantial
+mattress! On the bed is his book of accounts, which,
+being opened, when we entered, he hastened to close.</p>
+<p>&#8220;You keep accounts, too, Reverence?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Indeed, so. That is a duty devolved on every
+one with mortal memory.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Let it not be supposed, however, that he has charge
+of the crops. In his journal he keeps the accounts
+of his masses? And here be evil sufficient for the
+day.</p>
+<p>This, then, is the inventory of Abd&#8217;ul-Messiah&#8217;s
+cell. And we do not think we have omitted much
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209' name='page_209'></a>209</span>
+of importance. Yes; in the fourth corner, which
+we have not mentioned, are three or four petroleum
+cans containing provisions. From one of these he
+brings out a handful of dried figs, from another a
+pinch of incense, which he gives us as a token of his
+love and blessing. One thing we fain would emphasise,
+before we conclude our account. The
+money part of this eremitic business need not be
+harshly judged; for we must bear in mind that this
+honest Servitor of Christ is strong enough not to
+have his will in the matter. And remember, too,
+that the abbey&#8217;s bills of expenses run high. If one
+of the monks, therefore, is blessed with a talent for
+solitude and seclusion, his brother monks shall profit
+by it. Indeed, we were told, that the income of the
+Hermitage, that is, the sum total in gold of the occult
+and the agricultural endeavours of Abd&#8217;ul-Messiah,
+is enough to defray the yearly expenditures of
+the monkery. Further, we have nothing to say on
+the subject. But Khalid has. And of his lengthy
+lucubration on <i>The Uses of Solitude</i>, we cull the
+following:</p>
+<p>&#8220;Every one&#8217;s life at certain times,&#8221; writes he, &#8220;is
+either a Temple, a Hermitage, or a Vineyard: every
+one, in order to flee the momentary afflictions of Destiny,
+takes refuge either in God, or in Solitude, or in
+Work. And of a truth, work is the balm of the sore
+mind of the world. God and Solitude are luxuries
+which only a few among us nowadays can afford. But
+he who lives in the three, though his life be that of a
+silk larva in its cocoon, is he not individually considered
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210' name='page_210'></a>210</span>
+a good man? Is he not a mystic, though uncreative,
+centre of goodness? Surely, his influence, his Me
+alone considered, is living and benign, and though it
+is not life-giving. He is a flickering taper under
+a bushel; and this, <i>billah</i>, were better than the
+pissasphaltum-souls which bushels of quackery and pretence
+can not hide. But alas, that a good man by
+nature should be so weak as to surrender himself entirely
+to a lot of bad men. For the monks, my brother
+Hermit, being a silk worm in its cocoon, will asphyxiate
+the larva after its work is done, and utilise the silk.
+Ay, after the Larva dies, they pickle and preserve it in
+their chapel for the benefit of those who sought its
+oracles in life. Let the beef-packers of America take
+notice; the monks of my country are in the market
+with &#8216;canned hermits!&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And this Larva, be it remembered, is not subject
+to decay; a saint does not decompose in the flesh like
+mortal sinners. One of these, I have been told, dead
+fifty years ago and now canonised, can be seen yet in
+one of the monasteries of North Lebanon, keeping well
+his flesh and bones together&ndash;&ndash;divinely embalmed. It
+has been truly said that the work of a good man never
+dies; and these leathery hermits continue in death as in
+life to counsel and console the Faithful.</p>
+<p>&#8220;In the past, these Larv&aelig;, not being cultivated for
+the market, continued their natural course of development
+and issued out of their silk prisons full fledged
+moths. But those who cultivate them to-day are in
+sore need. They have masses and indulgences to sell;
+they have big bills to pay. But whether left to grow
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211' name='page_211'></a>211</span>
+their wings or not, their solitude is that of a cocoon
+larva, narrow, stale, unprofitable to the world. While
+that of a philosopher, a Thoreau, for instance, might
+be called Nature&#8217;s filter; and one, issuing therefrom
+benefited in every sense, morally, physically, spiritually,
+can be said to have been filtered through Solitude.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;The study of life at a distance is inutile; the study
+of it at close range is defective. The only method
+left, therefore, and perhaps the true one, is that of
+the artist at his canvas. He works at his picture an
+hour or two, and retires a little to study and criticise
+it from a distance. It is impossible to withdraw
+entirely from life and pretend to take an interest
+in it. Either like my brother Hermit in these parts,
+a spiritual larva in its cocoon, or like a Thoreau,
+who during his period of seclusion, peeped every fortnight
+into the village to keep up at least his practice
+of human speech. Else what is the use of solitude?
+A life of fantasy, I muse, is nearer to the
+heart of Nature and Truth than a life in sack-cloth
+and ashes....</p>
+<p>&#8220;And yet, deeply considered, this eremitic business
+presents another aspect. For does not the eremite
+through his art of prayer and devotion, seek an ideal?
+Is he not a transcendentalist, at least in the German
+sense of the word? Is not his philosophy above all
+the senses, as the term implies, and common sense included?
+For through Mother Church, and with
+closed eyes, he will attain the ideal, of which my
+German philosopher, through the logic-mill, and with
+eyes open, hardly gets a glimpse.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212' name='page_212'></a>212</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;The devout and poetic souls, and though they
+walk among the crowd, live most of their lives in
+solitude. Through Mother Sorrow, or Mother
+Fancy, or Mother Church, they are ever seeking the
+ideal, which to them is otherwise unattainable. And
+whether a howler of Turabu or a member of the
+French Academy, man, in this penumbra of faith
+and doubt, of superstition and imagination, is much
+the same. &#8216;The higher powers in us,&#8217; says Novalis,
+&#8216;which one day, as Genii, shall fulfil our will,
+are for the present, Muses, which refresh us on our
+toilsome course with sweet remembrances.&#8217; And the
+jinn, the fairies, the angels, the muses, are as young
+and vivacious to-day as they were in the Arabian
+and Gaelic Ages of Romance.</p>
+<p>&#8220;But whether Mother Church or Poetry or Philosophy
+or Music be the magic-medium, the result
+is much the same if the motive be not religiously
+sincere, sincerely religious, piously pure, lofty, and
+humane. Ay, my Larva-Hermit, with all his bigotry
+and straitness of soul, stands higher than most of
+your artists and poets and musicians of the present
+day. For a life sincerely spent between the Temple
+and the Vineyard, between devotion and honest
+labour, producing to one man of all mankind some
+positive good, is not to be compared with the life
+which oscillates continuously between egoism and
+vanity, quackery and cowardice, selfishness and pretence,
+and which never rises, do what it may, above
+the larva state....</p>
+<p>&#8220;Let every one cultivate with pious sincerity some
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213' name='page_213'></a>213</span>
+such vineyard as my Hermit&#8217;s and the world will
+not further need reform. For through all the vapour
+and mist of his ascetic theology, through the tortuous
+chasm of his eremitic logic, through the bigotry
+and crass superstition of his soul, I can always
+see the Vineyard on the one side of his cell, and the
+Church on the other, and say to myself: Here be
+a man who is never idle; here be one who loves the
+leisure praised by Socrates, and hates the sluggishness
+which Iblis decks and titivates. And if he
+crawls between his Church and his Vineyard, and
+burrows in both for a solution of life, nay, spins in
+both the cocoon of his ideal, he ought not to be judged
+from on high. Come thou near him; descend; descend
+a little and see: has he not a task, and though
+it be of the taper-under-the-bushel kind? Has he not
+a faith and a sincerity which in a Worm of the
+Earth ought to be reckoned sublime? &#8216;If there were
+sorrow in heaven,&#8217; he once said to me, &#8216;how many
+there would continuously lament the time they wasted
+in this world?&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;O my Brothers, build your Temples and have
+your Vineyards, even though it be in the rocky wilderness.&#8221;</p>
+<div class='figcenter'>
+<a name='linki_5' id='linki_5'></a>
+<img src='images/illus-222.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 384px; height: 202px;' /><br />
+</div>
+<hr class='major' />
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<p class="h2" >BOOK THE THIRD</p>
+<p class="h2" >IN KULMAKAN</p>
+</div>
+<div class='figcenter'>
+<a name='linki_6' id='linki_6'></a>
+<img src='images/illus-226.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 464px; height: 387px;' /><br />
+</div>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 0; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<a name='TO_GOD' id='TO_GOD'></a>
+<h2>TO GOD<a name='FNanchor_0003' id='FNanchor_0003'></a><a href='#Footnote_0003' class='fnanchor'>[1]</a></h2>
+</div>
+<p><i>In the religious systems of mankind, I sought
+thee, O God, in vain; in their machine-made dogmas
+and theologies, I sought thee in vain; in their
+churches and temples and mosques, I sought thee long,
+and long in vain; but in the Sacred Books of the
+World, what have I found? A letter of thy name, O
+God, I have deciphered in the Vedas, another in the
+Zend-Avesta, another in the Bible, another in the
+Kor&acirc;n. Ay, even in the Book of the Royal Society
+and in the Records of the Society for Psychical Research,
+have I found the diacritical signs which the infant
+races of this Planet Earth have not yet learned to
+apply to the consonants of thy name. The lisping infant
+races of this Earth, when will they learn to pronounce
+thy name entire? Who shall supply the Vowels
+which shall unite the Gutturals of the Sacred
+Books? Who shall point out the dashes which compound
+the opposite loadstars in the various regions of
+thy Heaven? On the veil of the eternal mystery are
+palimpsests of which every race has deciphered a consonant.
+And through the diacritical marks which the
+seers and paleologists of the future shall furnish, the
+various dissonances in thy name shall be reduced, for
+the sake of the infant races of the Earth, to perfect
+harmony.</i>&ndash;&ndash;<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Khalid.</span></p>
+<hr class='fn' />
+<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0003' id='Footnote_0003'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0003'><span class='label'>[1]</span></a>
+<p>
+Arabic Symbol.
+</p></div>
+<hr class='major' />
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219' name='page_219'></a>219</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_I_THE_DISENTANGLEMENT_OF_THE_ME' id='CHAPTER_I_THE_DISENTANGLEMENT_OF_THE_ME'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>
+<h3>THE DISENTANGLEMENT OF THE ME</h3>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;Why this exaggerated sense of thine importance,&#8221;
+Khalid asks himself in the K. L. MS., &#8220;when
+a little ptomaine in thy cheese can poison the source
+of thy lofty contemplations? Why this inflated conception
+of thy Me, when an infusion of poppy seeds
+might lull it to sleep, even to stupefaction? What
+avails thy logic when a little of the Mandragora can
+melt the material universe into golden, unfolding infinities
+of dreams? Why take thyself so seriously
+when a leaf of henbane, taken by mistake in thy salad,
+can destroy thee? But the soul is not dependent on
+health or disease. The soul is the source of both
+health and disease. And life, therefore, is either a
+healthy or a diseased state of the soul.</p>
+<p>&#8220;One day, when I was rolling these questions in my
+mind, and working on a reed basket to present to my
+friend the Hermit as a farewell memento, his serving-monk
+brings me some dried figs in a blue kerchief and
+says, &#8216;My Master greets thee and prays thee come to
+him.&#8217; I do so the following morning, bringing with
+me the finished basket, and as I enter the Hermitage
+court, I find him repairing a stone wall in the vineyard.
+As he sees me, he hastens to put on his cloak that I
+might not remark the sack-cloth he wore, and with a
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220' name='page_220'></a>220</span>
+pious smile of assurance and thankfulness, welcomes
+and embraces me, as is his wont. We sit down in the
+corridor before the chapel door. The odorous vapor
+of what was still burning in the censer within hung
+above us. The holy atmosphere mantled the dread
+silence of the place. And the slow, insinuating smell
+of incense, like the fumes of gunga, weighed heavy on
+my eyelids and seemed to brush from my memory the
+cobwebs of time. A drowsiness possessed me; I felt
+like one awaking from a dream. I asked for the water
+jug, which the Hermit hastened to bring. And looking
+through the door of the chapel, I saw on the altar a
+burning cresset flickering like the planet Mercury on
+a December morning. How often did I light such a
+cresset when a boy, I mused. Yes, I was an acolyte
+once. I swang the censer and drank deep of the incense
+fumes as I chanted in Syriac the service. And I
+remember when I made a mistake one day in reading
+the Epistle of Paul, the priest, who was of an irascible
+humour, took me by the ear and made me spell the
+words I could not pronounce. And the boys in the congregation
+tittered gleefully. In my mortification was
+honey for them. Such was my pride, nevertheless,
+such the joy I felt, when, of all the boys that gathered
+round the lectern at vespers, I was called upon to read
+in the <i>sinksar</i> (hagiography) the Life of the Saint of
+the day.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I knew then that to steal, for instance, is a sin;
+and yet, I emptied the box of wafers every morning
+after mass and shared them with the very boys who
+laughed at my mistakes. One day, in the purest intention,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221' name='page_221'></a>221</span>
+I offered one of these wafers to my donkey and
+he would not eat it. I felt insulted, and never after
+did I pilfer a wafer. Now, as I muse on these sallies
+of boyish waywardness I am impressed with the idea
+that the certainty and daring of Ignorance, or might I
+say Innocence, are great. Indeed, to the pure everything
+is pure. But strange to relate that as I sat in
+the corridor of the Hermitage and saw the light flickering
+on the altar, I hankered for a wafer, and was
+tempted to go into the chapel and filch one. What
+prevented me? Alas, knowledge makes sceptics and
+cowards of us all. And the pursuit of knowledge, according
+to my Hermit, nay, the noblest pursuit, even
+the serving of God, ceases to be a virtue the moment
+we begin to enjoy it.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;It is necessary to conquer, not only our instincts,&#8217;
+he continued, &#8216;but our intellectual and our
+spiritual passions as well. To force our will in the
+obedience of a higher will, to leave behind all our
+mundane desires in the pursuit of the one great desire,
+herein lies the essence of true virtue. St. Anthony
+would snatch his hours of devotion from the Devil.
+Even prayer to him was a struggle, an effort not to
+feel the joy of it. Yes, we must always disobey our
+impulses, and resist the tyranny of our desires. When
+I have a strong desire to pray, I go out into the vineyard
+and work. When I begin to enjoy my work in
+the vineyard, I cease to do it well. Therefore, I take
+up my breviary. Do that which you must not do,
+when you are suffering, and you will not want to do
+it again, when you are happy. The other day, one
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222' name='page_222'></a>222</span>
+who visited the Hermitage, spoke to me of you, O
+Khalid. He said you were what is called an anarchist.
+And after explaining to me what is meant by this&ndash;&ndash;I
+never heard of such a religion before&ndash;&ndash;I discovered
+to my surprise that I, too, am an anarchist. But there
+is this difference between us: I obey only God and
+the authority of God, and you obey your instincts and
+what is called the authority of reason. Yours, O Khalid,
+is a narrow conception of anarchy. In truth, you
+should try to be an anarchist like me: subordinate your
+personality, your will and mind and soul, to a higher
+will and intelligence, and resist with all your power
+everything else. Why do you not come to the Hermitage
+for a few days and make me your confessor?&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;I do not confess in private, and I can not sleep
+within doors.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;You do not have to do so; the booth under the almond
+tree is at your disposal. Come for a spiritual
+exercise of one week only.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;I have been going through such an exercise for a
+year, and soon I shall leave my cloister in the pines.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;What say you? You are leaving our neighbourhood?
+No, no; remain here, O Khalid. Come, live
+with me in the Hermitage. Come back to Mother
+Church; return not to the wicked world. O Khalid,
+we must inherit the Kingdom of Allah, and we can not
+do so by being anarchist like the prowlers of the forest.
+Meditate on the insignificance and evanescence
+of human life.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;But it lies within us, O my Brother, to make it
+significant and eternal.&#8217;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223' name='page_223'></a>223</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;Yes, truly, in the bosom of Mother Church.
+Come back to your Mother&ndash;&ndash;come to the Hermitage&ndash;&ndash;let
+us pass this life together.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;And what will you do, if in the end you discover
+that I am in the right?&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Here he paused a moment, and, casting on me a
+benignant glance, makes this reply: &#8216;Then, I will
+rejoice, rejoice,&#8217; he gasped; &#8216;for we shall both be in the
+right. You will become an anarchist like me and not
+against the wretched authorities of the world, but
+against your real enemies, Instinct and Reason.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And thus, now and then, he would salt his argument
+with a pinch of casuistic wit. Once he was hard
+set, and, to escape the alternatives of the situation, he
+condescended to tell me the story of his first and only
+love.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;In my youth,&#8217; said the Hermit, &#8216;I was a shoemaker,
+and not a little fastidious as a craftsman. In
+fact, I am, and always have been, an extremist, a purist.
+I can not tolerate the cobblings of life. Either
+do your work skilfully, devotedly, earnestly, or do it
+not. So, as a shoemaker, I succeeded very well.
+Truth to tell, my work was as good, as neat, as elegant
+as that of the best craftsman in Beirut. And you
+know, Beirut is noted for its shoemakers. Yes, I was
+successful as any of them, and I counted among my
+customers the bishop of the diocese himself. One day,
+forgive me, Allah! a young girl, the daughter of a
+peasant neighbour, comes into the shop to order a pair
+of shoes. In taking the measure of her foot&ndash;&ndash;but I
+must not linger on these details. A shoemaker can
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224' name='page_224'></a>224</span>
+not fail to notice the shape of his customer&#8217;s foot.
+Well, I measured, too, her ankle&ndash;&ndash;ah, forgive me,
+Allah!</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;In brief, when the shoes were finished&ndash;&ndash;I spent
+a whole day in the finishing touches&ndash;&ndash;I made her a
+present of them. And she, in recognition of my favor,
+made a plush tobacco bag, on which my name was
+worked in gold threads, and sent it to me, wrapped in
+a silk handkerchief, with her brother. Now, that is
+the opening chapter. I will abruptly come to the last,
+skipping the intermediate parts, for they are too silly,
+all of them. I will only say that I was as earnest, as
+sincere, as devoted in this affair of love as I was in
+my craft. Of a truth, I was mad about both.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;Now the closing chapter. One day I went to see
+her&ndash;&ndash;we were engaged&ndash;&ndash;and found she had gone to
+the spring for water. I follow her there and find her
+talking to a young man, a shoemaker like myself. No,
+he was but a cobbler. On the following day, going
+again to see her, I find this cobbler there. I remonstrate
+with her, but in vain. And what is worse, she
+had sent to him the shoes I made, to be repaired. He
+was patching my own work! I swallowed my ire and
+went back to my shop. A week later, to be brief, I
+went there again, and what I beheld made my body
+shiver. She, the wench. Forgive me, Allah! had her
+hands around his neck and her lips&ndash;&ndash;yes, her lying
+lips, on his cheek! No, no; even then I did not utter
+a word. I could but cry in the depth of my heart.
+How can woman be so faithless, so treacherous&ndash;&ndash;in
+my heart I cried.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225' name='page_225'></a>225</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;It was a terrible shock; and from it I lay in bed
+for days with chills and fever. Now, when I recovered,
+I was determined on pursuing a new course of
+life. No longer would I measure women&#8217;s feet. I
+sold my stock, closed my shop, and entered the monastery.
+I heard afterwards that she married that young
+cobbler; emigrated with him to America; deserted him
+there; returned to her native village; married again,
+and fled with her second husband to South Africa.
+Allah be praised! even He appreciates the difference
+between a shoemaker and a cobbler; and the bad woman
+He gives to the bad craftsman. That is why I say,
+Never be a cobbler, whatever you do.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;But in the monastery&ndash;&ndash;draw near, I will speak
+freely&ndash;&ndash;in the monastery, too, there are cobblers and
+shoemakers. There, too, is much ungodliness, much
+treachery, much cobbling. Ah me, I must not speak
+thus. Forgive me, Allah! But I promised to tell
+you the whole story. Therefore, I will speak freely.
+After passing some years in the monastery, years of
+probation and grief they were, I fell sick with a virulent
+fever. The abbot, seeing that there was little
+chance of my recovery, would not send for the physician.
+And so, I languished for weeks, suffering from
+thirst and burning pains and hunger. I raved and
+chattered in my delirium. I betrayed myself, too,
+they told me. The monks my brothers, even during
+my suffering, made a scandal of the love affair I related.
+They said that I exposed my wounds and my
+broken heart before the Virgin, that I sinned in thought
+and word on my death-bed. Allah forgive them. It
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226' name='page_226'></a>226</span>
+may be, however; for I know not what I said and what
+I did. But when I recovered, I was determined not to
+remain in the monastery, and not to return to the
+world. The wicked world, I disentangled myself absolutely
+from its poisoned meshes. I came to the Hermitage,
+to this place. And never, since I made my
+second remove until now, have I known disease, or
+sorrow, nor treachery, which is worse than both. Allah
+be praised! One&#8217;s people, one&#8217;s brothers, one&#8217;s
+lovers and friends, are a hindrance and botheration.
+We are nothing, nothing: God is everything. God is
+the only reality. And in God alone is my refuge.
+That is my story in brief. If I did not like you, I
+would not have told it, and so freely. Meditate upon
+it, and on the insignificance and evanescence of human
+life. The world is a snare, and a bad snare, at that.
+For it can not hold us long enough in it to learn to
+like it. It is a cobbler&#8217;s snare. The world is full of
+cobblers, O Khalid. Come away from it; be an ideal
+craftsman&ndash;&ndash;be an extremist&ndash;&ndash;be a purist&ndash;&ndash;come
+live with me. Let us join our souls in devotion, and
+our hearts in love. Come, let us till and cultivate
+this vineyard together.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And taking me by the hand, he shows me a cell
+furnished with a hair-mat, a <i>masnad</i> (leaning pillow),
+and a chair. &#8216;This cell,&#8217; says he, &#8216;was occupied by
+the Bishop when he came here for a spiritual exercise
+of three weeks. It shall be yours if you come; it&#8217;s the
+best cell in the Hermitage. Now, let us visit the
+chapel.&#8217; I go in with him, and as we are coming out,
+I ask him child-like for a wafer. He brings the box
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227' name='page_227'></a>227</span>
+straightway, begs me to take as much as I desire, and
+placing his hand on my shoulder, encircles me with
+one of his benignant glances, saying, &#8216;Allah illumine
+thy heart, O Khalid.&#8217; &#8216;Allah hear thy prayer,&#8217; I reply.
+And we part in tears.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Here Khalid bursts in ecstasy about the higher spiritual
+kingdom, and chops a little logic about the I and
+the not-I, the Reality and the non-Reality.&ndash;&ndash;&#8220;God,&#8221;
+says the Hermit. &#8220;Thought,&#8221; says the
+Idealist, &#8220;that is the only Reality.&#8221; And what is
+Thought, and what is God, and what is Matter, and
+what is Spirit? They are the mysterious vessels of
+Life, which are always being filled by Love and emptied
+by Logic. &#8220;The external world,&#8221; says the Materialist&ndash;&ndash;&#8220;Does
+not exist,&#8221; says the Idealist. &#8220;&#8217;Tis
+immaterial if it does or not,&#8221; says the Hermit. And
+what if the three are wrong? The Universe, knowable
+and unknowable, will it be affected a whit by it?
+If the German Professor&#8217;s Chair of Logic and Philosophy
+were set up in the Hermitage, would anything be
+gained or lost? Let the <i>I</i> deny the stars, and they
+will nevertheless roll in silence above it. Let the not-I
+crush this I, this &#8220;thinking reed,&#8221; and the higher universal
+I, rising above the stars and flooding the sidereal
+heavens with light, will warm, remold, and regenerate
+the world.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I can conceive of a power,&#8221; writes Khalid in that
+vexing Manuscript, &#8220;which can create a beautiful
+parti-colored sun-flower of the shattered fragments of
+Idealism, Materialism, and my Hermit&#8217;s theology.
+Why not, if in the New World&ndash;&ndash;&#8221; And here, of a
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228' name='page_228'></a>228</span>
+sudden, to surprise and bewilder us, he drags in Mrs.
+Eddy and the Prophet Dowie yoked under the yoke of
+Whitman. He marks the <i>Key to Scripture</i> with blades
+from <i>Leaves of Grass</i>, and such fuel as he gathers from
+both, he lights with an ember borrowed from the chariot
+to Elijah. And thus, for ten whole pages, beating
+continually, now in the dark of Metaphysics, now in
+the dusk of Science; losing himself in the tangled
+bushes of English Materialism, and German Mysticism,
+and Arabic Sufism; calling now to Berkeley, now
+to Hackel; meeting with Spencer here, with Al-Gazzaly
+there; and endeavoring to extricate himself in the
+end with some such efforts as &#8220;the Natural being
+Negativity, the Spiritual must be the opposite of that,
+and both united in God form the Absolute,&#8221; etc., etc.
+But we shall not give ourselves further pain in laying
+before the English reader the like heavy and unwieldy
+lumber. Whoever relishes such stuff, and can
+digest it, need not apply to Khalid; for, in this case,
+he is but a poor third-hand caterer. Better go to the
+Manufacturers direct; they are within reach of every
+one in this Age of Machinery and Popular Editions.
+But there are passages here, of which Khalid can say,
+&#8216;The Mortar at least is mine.&#8217; And in this Mortar
+he mixes and titrates with his Neighbour&#8217;s Pestle some
+of his fantasy and insight. Of these we offer a sample:</p>
+<p>&#8220;I say with psychologists, as the organism, so is the
+personality. The revelation of the Me is perfect in
+proportion to the sound state of the Medium. But
+according to the Arabic proverb, the jar oozes of its
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229' name='page_229'></a>229</span>
+contents. If these be of a putridinous mixture, therefore,
+no matter how sound the jar, the ooze is not going
+to smell of ambergris and musk. So, it all depends
+on the contents with which the Potter fills his
+jugs and pipkins, I assure you. And if the contents
+are good and the jar is sound, we get such excellence
+of soul as is rare among mortals. If the contents are
+excellent and the jar is cracked, the objective influence
+will then predominate, and putrescence, soon or
+late, will set in. Now, the Me in the majority of
+mankind comes to this world in a cracked pipkin, and
+it oozes out entirely as soon as it liquifies in youth.
+The pipkin, therefore, goes through life empty and
+cracked, ever sounding flat and false. While in
+others the Me is enclosed in a sealed straw-covered
+flask and can only be awakened by either evaporation
+or decapitation, in other words, by a spiritual revolution.
+And in the very few among mortals, it emerges
+out of the iron calyx of a flower of red-hot steel, or
+flows from the transparent, odoriferous bosom of a
+rose of light. In the first we have a C&aelig;sar, an Alexander,
+a Napoleon; in the second, a Buddha, a Socrates,
+a Christ.</p>
+<p>&#8220;But consider that Science, in the course of psychological
+analysis, speaks of Christ, Napoleon, and
+Shakespeare, as patients. Such exalted states of the
+soul, such activity of the mind, such exuberance of
+spiritual strength, are but the results of the transformation
+of the Me in the subject, we are told, and
+this transformation has its roots in the organism.
+But why, I ask, should there be such a gulf between
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230' name='page_230'></a>230</span>
+individuals, such a difference in their Mes, when a difference
+in the organism is a trifle in comparison?
+How account for the ebb and flow in the souls, or let
+us say, in the expression of the individualities, of Mohammad
+the Prophet, for instance, and Mohammad
+the camel-herd? And why is it in psychological
+states that are similar, the consciousness of the one is
+like a mountain peak, so to speak, and that of the
+other like a cave?</p>
+<p>&#8220;A soldier is severely wounded in battle and a
+change takes place in his nervous organism, by reason
+of which he loses his organic consciousness; or, to speak
+in the phraseology of the psychologist, he loses the
+sense of his own body, of his physical personality.
+The cause of this change is probably the wound received;
+but the nature of the change can be explained
+only by hypotheses, which are become matters of
+choice and taste&ndash;&ndash;and sometimes of personal interest
+among scientists. Now, when the question is resolved
+by hypothesis, is not even a layman free to
+offer one? If I say the Glass is shattered and the
+Me within is sadly reflected, or in a more tragic instance
+the light of the Me runs out, would I not be
+offering thee a solution as dear and tenable as that
+of the professor of psychology?&#8221;</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231' name='page_231'></a>231</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_II_THE_VOICE_OF_THE_DAWN' id='CHAPTER_II_THE_VOICE_OF_THE_DAWN'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>
+<h3>THE VOICE OF THE DAWN</h3>
+</div>
+<p>Breathless but scathless, we emerge from
+the mazes of metaphysics and psychology where
+man and the soul are ever playing hide-and-seek; and
+where Khalid was pleased to display a little of his
+killing skill in fencing. To those mazes, we promise
+the Reader, we shall not return again. In our present
+sojourn, however, it is necessary to go through the
+swamps and Jordans as well as the mountains and
+plains. Otherwise, we would not have lingered a
+breathing while in the lowlands of mystery. But now
+we know how far Khalid went in seeking health, and
+how deep in seeking the Me, which he would disentangle
+from the meshes of philosophy and anchoretism,
+and bring back to life, triumphant, loving, joyous,
+free. And how far he succeeded in this, we shall soon
+know.</p>
+<p>On the morning of his last day in the pines, meanwhile,
+we behold him in the chariot of Apollo serenading
+the stars. He no longer would thrust a poker
+down his windpipe; for he breathes as freely as the
+mountain bears and chirps as joyously as the swallows.
+And his lungs? The lungs of the pines are not as
+sound. And his eyes? Well, he can gaze at the rising
+sun without adverting the head or squinting or
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232' name='page_232'></a>232</span>
+shedding a tear. Now, as a sign of this healthy state
+of body and mind, and his healthier resolve to return
+to the world, to live opposite his friend the Hermit
+on the other antipode of life, and furthermore, as a
+relief from the exhausting tortuosities of thought in
+the last Chapter, we give here a piece of description
+notably symbolical.</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>&#8220;I slept very early last night; the lights in the
+chapel of the abbey were still flickering, and the
+monks were chanting the complines. The mellow
+music of a drizzle seemed to respond sombrely to the
+melancholy echo of the choir. About midnight the
+rain beat heavily on the pine roof of the forest, and
+the thunder must have struck very near, between me
+and the monks. But rising very early this morning
+to commune for the last time with the pensive silence
+of dawn in the pines, I am greeted, as I peep out of
+my booth, by a knot of ogling stars. But where is
+the opaque breath of the storm, where are the clouds?
+None seem to hang on the horizon, and the sky is as
+limpid and clear as the dawn of a new life. Glorious,
+this interval between night and dawn. Delicious, the
+flavour of the forest after a storm. Intoxicating, the
+odours of the earth, refreshed and satisfied. Divine,
+the whispers of the morning air, divine!</p>
+<p>&#8220;But where is the rain, and where are the thunderbolts
+of last night? The forest and the atmosphere
+retain but the sweet and scented memories of their
+storming passion. Such a December morning in these
+mountain heights is a marvel of enduring freshness and
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233' name='page_233'></a>233</span>
+ardour. All round one gets a vivid illusion of Spring.
+The soft breezes caressing the pines shake from their
+boughs the only evidence of last night&#8217;s storm. And
+these are more like the dew of Summer than the lees
+of the copious tears of parting Autumn. A glorious
+morning, too glorious to be enjoyed by a solitary soul.
+But near the rivulet yonder stands a fox sniffing the
+morning air. Welcome, my friend. Welcome to my
+coffee, too.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I gather my mulberry sticks, kindle them with a
+handful of dried pine needles, roast my coffee beans,
+and grind them while the water boils in the pot. In
+half an hour I am qualified to go about my business.
+The cups and coffee utensils I wash and restore to
+the chest&ndash;&ndash;and what else have I to do to-day? Pack
+up? Allah be praised, I have little packing to do.
+I would pack up, if I could, a ton of the pine air and
+the forest perfume, a strip of this limpid sky, and a
+cluster of those stars. Never at such an hour and
+in this season of the year did I enjoy such transporting
+limpidity in the atmosphere and such reassuring
+expansiveness on the horizon. Why, even the stars,
+the constellations, and the planets, are all here to enjoy
+this with me. Not one of them, I think, is
+absent.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The mountains are lost in the heavens. They are
+seeking, as it were, the sisters of the little flowers
+sleeping at their feet. The moon, resembling a
+crushed orange, is sinking in the Mediterranean.
+The outlines of earth and sky all round are vague, indistinct.
+Were not the sky so clear and the atmosphere
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_234' name='page_234'></a>234</span>
+so rare, thus affording the planets and the constellations
+to shed their modicum of light, the dusk of
+this hour would have deprived the scene of much of
+its pensive beauty of colour and shade. But there is
+Pegasus, Andromeda, Aldebaran, not to mention
+Venus and Jupiter and Saturn,&ndash;&ndash;these alone can conquer
+the right wing of darkness. And there is Mercury,
+like a lighted cresset shaken by the winds,
+flapping his violet wings above the Northeastern horizon;
+and Mars, like a piece of gold held out by
+the trembling hand of a miser, is sinking in the blue
+of the sea with Neptune; the Pleiades are stepping
+on the trail of the blushing moon; the Balance lingers
+behind to weigh the destinies of the heroes who are
+to contend with the dawn; while Venus, peeping from
+her tower over Mt. Sanneen, is sending love vibrations
+to all. I would tell thee more if I knew. But
+I swear to thee I never read through the hornbook of
+the heavens. But if I can not name and locate more
+of the stars, I can tell thee this about them <ins class="trchange" title="Original may be ';'">all:</ins> they
+are the embers of certainty eternally glowing in the
+ashes of doubt.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The Eastern horizon is yet lost in the dusk; the
+false dawn is spreading the figments of its illusion;
+the trees in the distance seem like rain-clouds; and
+the amorphous shadows of the monasteries on the
+mountain heights and hilltops all around, have not
+yet developed into silhouettes. Everything, except
+the river in the wadi below, is yet asleep. Not even
+the swallows are astir. Ah, but my neighbour yonder
+is; the light in the loophole of his hut sends a struggling
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235' name='page_235'></a>235</span>
+ray through the mulberries, and the tintinnabulations
+of his daughter&#8217;s loom are like so many stones
+thrown into this sleeping pond of silence. The loom-girl
+in these parts is never too early at her harness
+and shuttle. I know a family here whose loom and
+spinning wheel are never idle: the wife works at the
+loom in the day and her boy at the wheel; while in
+the night, her husband and his old mother keep up
+the game. And this hardly secures for them their
+flour and lentils the year round. But I concern not
+myself now with questions of economy.</p>
+<p>&#8220;There, another of my neighbours is awake; and
+the hinges of his door, shrieking terribly, fiendishly,
+startle the swallows from their sleep. And here are
+the muleteers, yodling, as they pass by, their</p>
+<div class="poem">
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:left'><span class="leadquote">&#8216;</span>Dhome, Dhome, Dhome,<br />
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>O mother, he is come;</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 0.5em;'>Hide me, hide me quickly,</span><br />
+<span style='margin-left: 1.5em;'>And say I am not home.&#8217;</span><br /></p>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;Lo, the horizon is disentangling itself from the
+meshes of darkness. The dust of haze and dusk on
+the scalloped edges of the mountains, is blown away
+by the first breath of dawn. The lighter grey of the
+horizon is mirrored in the clearer blue of the sea.
+But the darkness seems to gather on the breast of the
+sloping hills. Conquered on the heights, it retreats
+into the wadi. Ay, the darkest hour is nearest the
+dawn.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Now the light grey is become a lavender; the outlines
+of earth and sky are become more distinct;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236' name='page_236'></a>236</span>
+the mountain peaks, the dusky veil being rent, are
+separating themselves from the heaven&#8217;s embrace; the
+trees in the distance no longer seem like rain-clouds;
+and the silhouettes of the monasteries are casting off
+the cloak of night. The lavender is melting now into
+heliotrope, and the heliotrope is bursting here and
+there in pink; the stars are waning, the constellations
+are dying out, and the planets are following in their
+wake. The darkness, too, which has not yet retreated
+from the wadi, must soon follow; for the front guard
+of the dawn is near. Behold the shimmer of their
+steel! And see, in the dust of the retreating darkness,
+the ochre veins of the lime cliffs are now perceptible.
+And that huge pillar, which looked like
+the standard-bearer of Night, is transformed into a
+belfry; and a monk can be seen peeping through the
+ogive beneath it. Mt. Sanneen, its black and ochre
+scales thrown in relief on a coat of grey, is like a
+huge panther sleeping over the many-throated ravine
+of Kisrawan. Ah, the pink flower of dawn is bursting
+in golden glory, thrilling in orange and saffron,
+flaming with the ardency of love and hope. The
+dawn! The glow and glamour of the Eastern
+dawn!...</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>&#8220;The dawn of a new life, of a better, purer,
+healthier, higher spiritual kingdom. I would have its
+temples and those of the vast empire of wealth and
+material well-being, stand side by side. Ay, I would
+even rear an altar to the Soul in the temple of Materialism,
+and an altar to Materialism in the temple
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237' name='page_237'></a>237</span>
+of the Soul. Each shall have its due, each shall glory
+in the sacred purity and strength of life; each shall
+develop and expand, but never at the expense of the
+other. I will have neither the renunciation which
+ends in a kind of idiocy dignified with a philosophic
+or a theologic name, nor the worldliness which ends
+in bestiality. I am a citizen of two worlds&ndash;&ndash;a citizen
+of the Universe; I owe allegiance to two kingdoms.
+In my heart are those stars and that sun, and
+the LIGHT of those stars and that sun.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Yes, I am equally devoted both to the material
+and the spiritual. And when the two in me are opposed
+to each other, conflicting, inimical, obdurate,
+my attitude towards them is neither that of my friend
+the Hermit nor that of my European superman. I
+sit down, shut my eyes, compose myself, and concentrate
+my mind on the mobility of things. If the
+clouds are moving, why, I have but to sit down and
+let them move away. I let my No-will, in this
+case, dominate my will, and that serves my purpose
+well. To be sure, every question tormenting us
+would resolve itself favourably, or at least indifferently,
+if we did not always rush in, wildly,
+madly, and arrogate to ourselves such claims of authority
+and knowledge as would make Olympus
+shake with laughter. The resignation and passiveness
+of the spirit should always alternate equitably
+with the terrible strivings of the will. For the dervish
+who whirls himself into a foaming ecstasy of devotion
+and the strenuous American who works himself
+up to a sweating ecstasy of gain, are the two poles
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238' name='page_238'></a>238</span>
+of the same absurdity, the two ends of one evil. Indeed,
+to my way of thinking, the man on the Stock
+Exchange and the demagogue on the stump, for instance,
+are brothers to the blatant corybant.&#8221;</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239' name='page_239'></a>239</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_III_THE_SELF_ECSTATIC' id='CHAPTER_III_THE_SELF_ECSTATIC'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>
+<h3>THE SELF ECSTATIC</h3>
+</div>
+<p>To graft the strenuosity of Europe and America
+upon the ease of the Orient, the materialism of
+the West upon the spirituality of the East,&ndash;&ndash;this to
+us seems to be the principal aim of Khalid. But
+often in his wanderings and divagations of thought
+does he give us fresh proof of the truism that no two
+opposing elements meet and fuse without both losing
+their original identity. You may place the bit of contentment
+in the mouth of ambition, so to speak, and
+jog along in your sterile course between the vast
+wheat fields groaning under the thousand-toothed
+plough and the gardens of delight swooning with devotion
+and sensuality. But cross ambition with contentment
+and you get the hinny of indifference or the
+monster of fatalism. We do not say that indifference
+at certain passes of life, and certain stages, is not
+healthy, and fatalism not powerful; but both we believe
+are factors as potent in commerce and trade as
+pertinacity and calculation. &#8220;But is there not room in
+the garden of delight for a wheat field?&#8221; asks Khalid.
+&#8220;Can we not apply the bow to the telegraph wires of
+the world and make them the vehicle of music as of
+stock quotations? Can we not simplify life as we
+are simplifying the machinery of industry? Can we
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240' name='page_240'></a>240</span>
+not consecrate its Temple to the Trinity of Devotion,
+Art, and Work, or Religion, Romance, and
+Trade?&#8221;</p>
+<p>This seems to be the gist of Khalid&#8217;s gospel. This,
+through the labyrinths of doubt and contradiction, is
+the pinnacle of faith he would reach. And often in
+this labyrinthic gloom, where a gleam of light from
+some recess of thought or fancy reveals here a Hermit
+in his cloister, there an Artist in his studio, below a
+Nawab in his orgies, above a Broker on the Stock Exchange,
+we have paused to ask a question about these
+glaring contrarieties in his life and thought. And
+always would he make this reply: &#8220;I have frequently
+moved and removed between extremes; I have often
+worked and slept in opposing camps. So, do not expect
+from me anything like the consistency with which
+the majority of mankind solder and shape their life.
+Deep thought seems often, if not always, inconsistent
+at the first blush. The intensity and passiveness of
+the spirit are as natural in their attraction and repulsion
+as the elements, whose harmony is only patent
+on the surface. Consistency is superficial, narrow,
+one-sided. I am both ambitious, therefore, and contented.
+My ambition is that of the earth, the ever
+producing and resuscitating earth, doing the will of
+God, combatting the rasure of time; and my contentment
+is that of the majestic pines, faring alike in
+shade and sunshine, in calm and storm, in winter as
+in spring. Ambition and Contentment are the night
+and day of my life-journey. The day makes room
+for the fruits of solacement which the night brings;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241' name='page_241'></a>241</span>
+and the night gives a cup of the cordial of contentment
+to make good the promise of day to day.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Ay, while sweating in the tortuous path, I never
+cease to cherish the feeling in which I was nourished;
+the West for me means ambition, the East, contentment:
+my heart is ever in the one, my soul, in the
+other. And I care not for the freedom which does
+not free both; I seek not the welfare of the one without
+the other. But unlike my Ph&oelig;nician ancestors,
+the spiritual with me shall not be limited by the
+natural; it shall go far above it, beyond or below it,
+saturating, sustaining, purifying what in external nature
+is but a symbol of the invisible. Nor is my idea
+of the spiritual developed in opposition to nature, and
+in a manner inimical to its laws and claims, as in
+Judaism and Christianity.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The spiritual and natural are so united, so inextricably
+entwined around each other, that I can not
+conceive of them separately, independently. And
+both in the abstract sense are purportless and ineffectual
+without Consciousness. They are blind, dumb
+forces, beautiful, barbaric pageants, careering without
+aim or design through the immensities of No-where
+and No-time, if they are not impregnated and
+nourished with Thought, that is to say, with Consciousness,
+vitalised and purified. You may impregnate
+them with philosophy, nourish them with art;
+they both emanate from them, and remain as skidding
+clouds, as shining mirages, as wandering dust, until
+they find their exponent in Man.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I tell thee then that Man, that is to say Consciousness,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242' name='page_242'></a>242</span>
+vitalised and purified, in other words Thought&ndash;&ndash;that
+alone is real and eternal. And Man is supreme,
+only when he is the proper exponent of Nature,
+and spirit, and God: the three divine sources from
+which he issues, in which he is sustained, and to
+which he must return. Nature and the spiritual,
+without this embodied intelligence, this somatic being,
+called man or angel or ape, are as ermine on a
+wax figure. The human factor, the exponent intelligence,
+the intellective and sensuous faculties, these,
+my Brothers, are whole, sublime, holy, only when, in
+a state of continuous expansion, the harmony among
+themselves and the affirmative ties between them and
+Nature, are perfect and pure. No, the spiritual ought
+not and can not be free from the sensuous, even the
+sensual. The true life, the full life, the life, pure,
+robust, sublime, is that in which all the nobler and
+higher aspirations of the soul AND THE BODY are
+given free and unlimited scope, with the view of developing
+the divine strain in Man, and realising to
+some extent the romantic as well as the material
+hopes of the race. God, Nature, Spirit, Passion&ndash;&ndash;Passion,
+Spirit, Nature, God&ndash;&ndash;in some such panorama
+would I paint the life of a highly developed being.
+Any of these elements lacking, and the life is
+wanting, defective, impure.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I have no faith in men who were conceived in a
+perfunctory manner, on a pragmatical system, so to
+speak; the wife receiving her husband in bed as she
+would a tedious guest at an afternoon tea. Only two
+flames uniting produce a third; but a flame and a
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243' name='page_243'></a>243</span>
+name, or a flame and a spunge, produce a hiff and
+nothing. Oh, that the children of the race are all
+born ph&oelig;nix-like in the fire of noble and sacred
+passion, in the purgatory, as it were, of Love. What
+a race, what a race we should have. What men, what
+women! Yes, that is how the children of the earth
+should be conceived, not on a pragmatical system, in
+an I-don&#8217;t-care-about-the-issue manner. I believe in
+evoking the spirit, in dreaming a little about the gods
+of Olympus, and a little, too, about the gods of the
+abysmal depths, before the bodily communion. And
+in earnest, O my Brother, let us do this, despite
+what old Socrates says about the propriety and wisdom
+of approaching your wife with prudence and
+gravity....&#8221;</p>
+<p>And thus, if we did not often halloo, Khalid, like
+a huntsman pursuing his game, would lose himself in
+the pathless, lugubrious damp of the forest. If we
+did not prevent him at times, holding firmly to his
+coat-tail, he would desperately pursue the ghost of
+his thoughts even on such precipitous paths to those
+very depths in which Socrates and Montaigne always
+felt at home. But he, a feverish, clamorous, obstreperous
+stripling of a Beduin, what chance has he
+in extricating his barbaric instincts from such thorny
+hedges of philosophy? And had he not quoted Socrates
+in that last paragraph, it would have been expunged.
+No, we are not utterly lost to the fine sense
+of propriety of this chaste and demure age. But no
+matter how etiolated and sickly the thought, it regains
+its colour and health when it breathes the literary air.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244' name='page_244'></a>244</span>
+Prudery can not but relish the tang of lubricity when
+flavoured with the classical. Moreover, if Socrates
+and Montaigne speak freely of these midnight matters,
+why not Khalid, if he has anything new to say,
+any good advice to offer. But how good and how
+new are his views let the Reader judge.</p>
+<p>&#8217;Tis very well to speak &#8220;of evoking the spirit before
+the bodily communion,&#8221; but those who can boast
+of a deeper experience in such matters will find in
+Socrates&#8217; dictum, quoted by Montaigne, the very gist
+of reason and wisdom. Those wise ones were as
+far-sighted as they were far gone. And moderation,
+as it was justly said once, is the respiration of the
+philosopher. But Khalid, though always invoking the
+distant luminary of transcendentalism for light, can
+not arrogate to himself this high title. The expansion
+of all the faculties, and the reduction of the demands
+of society and the individual to the lowest
+term;&ndash;&ndash;this, as we understand it, is the aim of transcendentalism.
+And Khalid&#8217;s distance from the orbit
+of this grand luminary seems to vary with his moods;
+and these vary with the librations and revolutions of
+the moon. Hallucinated, moonstruck Khalid, your
+harmonising and affinitative efforts do not always
+succeed. That is our opinion of the matter. And
+the Reader, who is no respecter of editors, might quarrel
+with it, for all we know.</p>
+<p>Only by standing firmly in the centre can one preserve
+the equilibrium of one&#8217;s thoughts. But Khalid
+seldom speaks of equilibrium: he cares not how he
+fares in falling on either side of the fence, so he knows
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245' name='page_245'></a>245</span>
+what lies behind. Howbeit, we can not conceive of how
+the affinity of the mind and soul with the senses, and
+the harmony between these and nature, are possible,
+if not exteriorised in that very superman whom Khalid
+so much dreads, and on whom he often casts a
+lingering glance of admiration. So there you are.
+We must either rise to a higher consciousness on the
+ruins of a lower one, of no-consciousness, rather, or
+go on seeming and simulating, aspiring, perspiring,
+and suffering, until our turn comes. Death denies no
+one. Meanwhile, Khalid&#8217;s rhapsodies on his way
+back to the city, we shall heed and try to echo.</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>&#8220;On the high road of the universal spirit,&#8221; he
+sings, &#8220;the world, the whole world before me, thrilling
+and radiating, chanting of freedom, faith, hope,
+health and power, and joy. Back to the City, O
+Khalid,&ndash;&ndash;the City where Truth, and Faith, and
+Honesty, and Wisdom, are ever suffering, ever
+struggling, ever triumphing. No, it matters not with
+me if the spirit of intelligence and power, of freedom
+and culture, which must go the rounds of the earth,
+is always dominated by the instinct of self-interest.
+That must be; that is inevitable. But the instinct of
+self-interest, O my Brother, goes with the flesh; the
+body-politic dies; nations rise and fall; and the eternal
+Spirit, the progenitor of all ideals, passes to better
+or worse hands, still chastening and strengthening
+itself in the process.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The Orient and Occident, the male and female of
+the Spirit, the two great streams in which the body
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246' name='page_246'></a>246</span>
+and soul of man are refreshed, invigorated, purified&ndash;&ndash;of
+both I sing, in both I glory, to both I consecrate
+my life, for both I shall work and suffer and die.
+My Brothers, the most highly developed being is
+neither European nor Oriental; but rather he who
+partakes of the finer qualities of both the European
+genius and the Asiatic prophet.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Give me, ye mighty nations of the West, the
+material comforts of life; and thou, my East, let me
+partake of thy spiritual heritage. Give me, America,
+thy hand; and thou, too, Asia. Thou land of origination,
+where Light and Spirit first arose, disdain not
+the gifts which the nations of the West bring thee;
+and thou land of organisation and power, where Science
+and Freedom reign supreme, disdain not the
+bounties of the sunrise.</p>
+<p>&#8220;If the discoveries and attainments of Science will
+make the body of man cleaner, healthier, stronger,
+happier, the inexhaustible Oriental source of romantic
+and spiritual beauty will never cease to give the soul
+of man the restfulness and solacement it is ever craving.
+And remember, Europa, remember, Asia, that
+foreign culture is as necessary to the spirit of a nation
+as is foreign commerce to its industries. Elsewise,
+thy materialism, Europa, or thy spiritualism, Asia, no
+matter how trenchant and impregnable, no matter
+how deep the foundation, how broad the superstructure
+thereof, is vulgar, narrow, mean&ndash;&ndash;is nothing, in
+a word, but parochialism.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I swear that neither religious nor industrial slavery
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247' name='page_247'></a>247</span>
+shall forever hold the world in political servitude.
+No; the world shall be free of the authority, absolute,
+blind, tyrannical, of both the Captains of Industry
+and the High Priests of the Temple. And who
+shall help to free it? Science alone can not do it;
+Science and Faith must do it.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I say with thee, O Goethe, &#8216;Light, more light!&#8217;
+I say with thee, O Tolstoi, &#8216;Love, more love!&#8217; I
+say with thee, O Ibsen, &#8216;Will, more will!&#8217; Light,
+Love, and Will&ndash;&ndash;the one is as necessary as the
+other; the one is dangerous without the others.
+Light, Love, and Will, are the three eternal, vital
+sources of the higher, truer, purer cosmic life.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Light, Love, and Will&ndash;&ndash;with corals and pearls
+from their seas would I crown thee, O my City. In
+these streams would I baptise thy children, O my
+City. The mind, and the heart, and the soul of man
+I would baptise in this mountain lake, this high Jordan
+of Truth, on the flourishing and odoriferous
+banks of Science and Religion, under the sacred <i>sidr</i>
+of Reason and Faith.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Ay, in the Lakes of Light, Love, and Will, I
+would baptise all mankind. For in this alone is
+power and glory, O my European Brothers; in this
+alone is faith and joy, O my Brothers of Asia.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The Hudson, the Mississippi, the Amazon, the
+Thames, the Seine, the Rhine, the Danube, the Euphrates,
+the Ganges&ndash;&ndash;every one of these great
+streams shall be such a Jordan in the future. In
+every one of them shall flow the confluent Rivers of
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248' name='page_248'></a>248</span>
+Light, Love, and Will. In every one of them shall
+sail the barks of the higher aspirations and hopes of
+mankind.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I come now to be baptised, O my City. I come
+to slake my thirst in thy Jordan. I come to launch
+my little skiff, to do my little work, to pay my little
+debt.</p>
+<p>&#8220;In thy public-squares, O my City, I would raise
+monuments to Nature; in thy theatres to Poesy and
+Thought; in thy bazaars to Art; in thy homes, to
+Health; in thy temples of worship, to universal <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'Good-will' across lines">Goodwill;</ins>
+in thy courts, to Power and Mercy; in thy
+schools, to Simplicity; in thy hospitals, to Faith; and
+in thy public-halls to Freedom and Culture. And all
+these, without Light, Love, and Will, are but hollow
+affairs, high-sounding inanities. Without Light,
+Love, and Will, even thy Nabobs in the end shall
+curse thee; and with these, thy hammals under their
+burdens shall thank the heavens under which thy
+domes and turrets and minarets arise.&#8221;</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_249' name='page_249'></a>249</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_OPEN_HIGHWAY' id='CHAPTER_IV_ON_THE_OPEN_HIGHWAY'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2>
+<h3>ON THE OPEN HIGHWAY</h3>
+</div>
+<p>And Khalid, packing his few worldly belongings
+in one of his reed baskets, gives the rest to his
+neighbours, leaves his booth in the pines to the swallows,
+and bids the monks and his friend the Hermit
+farewell. The joy of the wayfaring! Now, where
+is the jubbah, the black jubbah of coarse wool, which
+we bought from one of the monks? He wraps himself
+in it, tightens well his shoe-strings, draws his fur
+cap over his ears, carries his basket on his back, takes
+up his staff, lights his cigarette, and resolutely sets
+forth. The joy of the wayfaring! We accompany
+him on the open highway, through the rocky wilderness,
+down to the fertile plains, back to the city.
+For the account he gives us of his journey enables
+us to fill up the lacuna in Shakib&#8217;s <i>Histoire Intime</i>,
+before we can have recourse to it again.</p>
+<p>&#8220;From the cliffs &#8217;neath which the lily blooms,&#8221; he
+muses as he issues out of the forest and reaches the top
+of the mountain, &#8220;to the cliffs round which the eagles
+flit,&ndash;&ndash;what a glorious promontory! What a contrast
+at this height, in this immensity, between the arid
+rocky haunts of the mountain bear and eagle and the
+spreading, vivifying verdure surrounding the haunts of
+man. On one side are the sylvan valleys, the thick
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250' name='page_250'></a>250</span>
+grown ravines, the meandering rivulets, the fertile
+plains, the silent villages, and on the distant horizon,
+the sea, rising like a blue wall, standing like a stage
+scene; on the other, a howling immensity of boulders
+and prickly shrubs and plants, an arid wilderness&ndash;&ndash;the
+haunt of the eagle, the mountain bear, and the
+goatherd. One step in this direction, and the entire
+panorama of verdant hills and valleys is lost to view.
+Its spreading, riant beauty is hidden behind that little
+cliff. I penetrate through this forest of rocks, where
+the brigands, I am told, lie in ambush for the caravans
+traveling between the valley of the Leontes and the
+villages of the lowland. But the brigands can not
+harm a dervish; my penury is my amulet&ndash;&ndash;my salvation.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The horizon, as I proceed, shrinks to a distance of
+ten minutes&#8217; walk across. And thus, from one circle
+of rocks to another, I pass through ten of them before
+I hear again the friendly voice of the rill, and behold
+again the comforting countenance of the sylvan slopes.
+I reach a little grove of slender poplars, under the brow
+of a little hill, from which issues a little limpid stream
+and runs gurgling through the little ferns and bushes
+down the heath. I swing from the road and follow
+this gentle rill; I can not find a better companion now.
+But the wanton lures me to a village far from the road
+on the other side of the gorge. Now, I must either
+retrace my steps to get to it by a long detour, or cross
+the gorge, descending to the deep bottom and ascending
+in a tangled and tortuous path to reach the main
+road on the breast of the opposite escarpment. Here is
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251' name='page_251'></a>251</span>
+a short-cut which is long and weary. It lures me as
+the stream; it cheats me with a name. And when I
+am again on the open road, I look back with a sigh of
+relief on the dangers I had passed. I can forgive the
+luring rill, which still smiles to me innocently from
+afar, but not the deluding, ensnaring ravine. The
+muleteer who saw me struggling through the tangled
+bushes up the pathless, hopeless steep, assures me that
+my mother is a pious woman, else I would have slipped
+and gone into an hundred pieces among the rocks below.
+&#8216;Her prayers have saved thee,&#8217; quoth he; &#8216;thank
+thy God.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And walking together a pace, he points to the
+dizzy precipice around which I climbed and adds:
+&#8216;Thou seest that rock? I hallooed to thee when thou
+wert creeping around it, but thou didst not hear me.
+From that same rock a woodman fell last week, and,
+falling, looked like a potted bird. He must have died
+before he reached the ground. His bones are scattered
+among those rocks. Thank thy God and thy
+mother. Her prayers have saved thee.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;My dear mother, how long since I saw thee, how
+long since I thought of thee. My loving mother,
+even the rough, rude spirit of a muleteer can see in the
+unseen the beauty and benevolence of such devotion as
+thine. The words of this dusky son of the road, coming
+as through the trumpet of revelation to rebuke me,
+sink deep in my heart and draw tears from mine eyes.
+For art thou not ever praying for thy grievous son,
+and for his salvation? How many beads each night
+dost thou tell, how many hours dost thou prostrate
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252' name='page_252'></a>252</span>
+thyself before the Virgin, sobbing, obsecrating, beating
+thy breast? And all for one, who until now, ever
+since he left Baalbek, did not think on thee.&ndash;&ndash;Let me
+kiss thee, O my Brother, for thy mild rebuke. Let
+me kiss thee for reminding me of my mother.&ndash;&ndash;No,
+I can not further with thee; I am waygone; I must
+sit me a spell beneath this pine&ndash;&ndash;and weep. O Khalid,
+wretched that thou art, can the primitive soul of
+this muleteer be better than thine? Can there be a
+sounder intuitiveness, a healthier sense of love, a
+grander sympathy, beneath that striped aba, than there
+is within thy cloak? Wilt thou not beat thy cheeks in
+ignominy and shame, when a stranger thinks of thy
+mother, and reverently, ere thou dost? No matter
+how low in the spiritual circles she might be, no matter
+how high thou risest, her prayer and her love are
+always with thee. If she can not rise to thee on the
+ladder of reason, she can soar on the wings of affection.
+Yea, I prostrate myself beneath this pine, bury my forehead
+in its dust, thanking Allah for my mother. Oh,
+I am waygone, but joyous. The muleteer hath illumined
+thee, O Khalid.&ndash;&ndash;</p>
+<p>&#8220;There, the snow birds are passing by, flitting to
+the lowland. The sky is overcast; there is a lull in
+the wind. Hark, I hear the piping of the shepherd
+and the tinkling bell of the wether. Yonder is his
+flock; and there sits he on a rock blowing his doleful
+reed. I am almost slain with thirst. I go to him,
+and cheerfully does he milk for me. I do not think
+Rebekah was kinder and sweeter in Abraham&#8217;s servant&#8217;s
+eyes than was this wight in mine. &#8216;Where dost thou
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253' name='page_253'></a>253</span>
+sleep?&#8217; I ask, &#8216;Under this rock,&#8217; he replies. And he
+shows me into the cave beneath it, which is furnished
+with a goat-skin, a masnad, and a little altar for the
+picture of the Virgin. Before this picture is an oil
+lamp, ever burning, I am told. &#8216;And this altar,&#8217; quoth
+the shepherd, &#8216;was my mother&#8217;s. When she died she
+bequeathed it to me. I carry it with me in the wilderness,
+and keep the oil burning in her memory.&#8217; Saying
+which he took to weeping. Even the shepherd, O Khalid,
+is sent to rebuke thee. I thank him, and resume
+my march.</p>
+<p>&#8220;At eventide, descending from one hilltop to another,
+I reach a village of no mean size. It occupies
+a broad deep steep, in which the walnut and poplar
+relieve the monotony of the mulberries. I hate the
+mulberry, which is so suggestive of worms; and I
+hate worms, and though they be of the silk-making
+kind. I hate them the more, because the Lebanon
+peasant seems to live for the silk-worms, which
+he tends and cultivates better than he does his children.</p>
+<p>&#8220;When I stood on the top of the steep, the village
+glittering with a thousand lights lay beneath like a
+strip of the sidereal sky. It made me feel I was
+above the clouds, even above the stars. The gabled
+houses overtopping each other, spreading in clusters
+and half-circles, form here an aigrette, as it were, on
+the sylvan head of the mountain, there a necklace on
+its breast, below a cestus brilliant with an hundred
+lights. I descend into the village and stop before the
+first house I reach. The door is wide open; and the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254' name='page_254'></a>254</span>
+little girl who sees me enter runs in fright to tell her
+mother. Straightway, the woman and her son, a
+comely and lusty youth, come out in a where-is-the-brigand
+manner, and, as they see me, stand abashed,
+amazed. The young man who wore a robe-de-chambre
+and Turkish slippers worked in gold, returns
+my salaam courteously and invites me up to the divan.
+There is a spark of intelligence in his eyes, and an
+alien affectation in his speech. I foresaw that he had
+been in America. He does not ask me the conventional
+questions about my religious persuasion; but
+after his inquiries of whence and whither, he offers
+me an Egyptian cigarette, and goes in to order the
+coffee. It did not occur to him that I was his guest
+for the night.&ndash;&ndash;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Ah me, I no longer know how to recline on a
+cushion, and a rug under my feet seems like a sheet of
+ice. But with my dust and mud I seem like Diogenes
+trampling upon Plato&#8217;s pride. I survey the hall,
+which breathes of rural culture and well-being, and
+in which is more evidence of what I foresaw. On the
+wall hung various photographs and oil prints, among
+which I noticed those of the King and Queen of
+England, that of Theodore Roosevelt, a framed cartoon
+by an American artist, an autographed copy of
+an English Duke&#8217;s, and a large photograph of a banquet
+of one of the political Clubs of New York. On
+the table were a few Arabic magazines, a post-card
+album, and a gramophone! Yes, mine host was more
+than once in the United States. And knowing that I,
+too, had been there, he is anxious to display somewhat
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255' name='page_255'></a>255</span>
+of his broken English. His father, he tells me,
+speaks English even as good as he does, having been a
+dragoman for forty years.</p>
+<p>&#8220;After supper, he orders me a narghilah, and winds
+for my entertainment that horrible instrument of torture.&#8221;
+Khalid did not seem to mind it; but he was
+anxious about the sacred peace of the hills, sleeping in
+the bosom of night. My Name is Billy Muggins, I
+Wish I Had a Pal Like You, Tickle Me, Timothy,
+and such like ragtime horrors come all the way from
+America to violate the antique grandeur and beauty
+of the Lebanon hills. That is what worried Khalid.
+And he excuses himself, saying, &#8220;I am waygone from
+the day&#8217;s wayfaring.&#8221; The instrument of torture is
+stopped, therefore, and he is shown into a room where
+a mattress is spread for him on the floor.</p>
+<p>&#8220;In the morning,&#8221; he continues, &#8220;mine host accompanies
+me through the populous village, which is
+noted for its industries. Of all the Lebanon towns,
+this is, indeed, the busiest; its looms, its potteries, and
+its bell foundries, are never idle. And the people
+cultivate little of the silk worm; they are mostly
+artisans. American cotton they spin, and dye, and
+weave into substantial cloth; Belgian iron they melt
+and cast into bells; and from their native soil they
+dig the clay which they mould into earthenware.
+The tintinnabulations of the loom can be heard in
+other parts of the Lebanons; but no where else can
+the vintner buy a dolium for his vine, or the housewife,
+a pipkin for her oil, or the priest, a bell for his
+church. The sound of these foundries&#8217; anvils, translated
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256' name='page_256'></a>256</span>
+into a wild, thrilling, far-reaching music, can be
+heard in every belfry and bell-cote of Syria.</p>
+<p>&#8220;We descend to the potteries below, not on the
+carriage road which serpentines through the village,
+and which is its only street, but sheer down a steep
+path, between the noise of the loom and spinning
+wheel and the stench of the dyeing establishments.
+And here is the real potter and his clay, not the symbol
+thereof. And here is the pottery which is illustrated
+in the Bible. For in the world to-day, if we
+except the unglazed tinajas of the Pueblo Indians,
+nothing, above ground at least, can be more ancient
+and primitive. Such a pitcher, I muse, did Rebekah
+carry to the well; with such a Jar on her shoulder
+did Hagar wander in the wilderness; and in such
+vessels did the widow, by Elijah&#8217;s miracle, multiply
+her jug of oil.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The one silk-reeling factory of the village, I did
+not care to visit; for truly I can not tolerate the smell
+of asphyxiated larvas and boiling cocoons. &#8216;But the
+proprietor,&#8217; quoth mine host, &#8216;is very honourable, and
+of a fine wit.&#8217; As honourable as a sweater can be, I
+thought. No, no; these manufacturers are all of a
+piece. I know personally one of them, who is a
+Scrooge, and of the vilest. I watched him one day
+buying cocoons from the peasants. He does not trust
+any of his employees at the scales; they do not know
+how to press their hand over the weights in the pan.
+Ay, that little pressure of his chubby hand on the
+weights makes a difference in his favour of more than
+ten per cent. of what he buys. That little pressure
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257' name='page_257'></a>257</span>
+of his hand is five or six piasters out of the peasant&#8217;s
+pocket, who, with five or six piasters, remember, can
+satisfy his hunger on bread and olives and pulverised
+thyme, for five or six days. So, we visit not the
+cocoon-man, about whom the priest of his private
+chapel&ndash;&ndash;he prays at home like the Lebanon Amirs
+of old, this khawaja&ndash;&ndash;tells me many edifying things.
+Of these, I give out the most curious and least injurious.
+As the sheikh (squire) of the town, he is
+generous; as the operator of a silk-reeling factory, he is
+grasping, niggardly, mean. For, to misgovern well,
+one must open his purse as often as he forces the
+purses of others. He was passing by in his carriage
+this great khawaja, when we were coming out of the
+pottery. And of a truth, his paunch and double chin
+and ruddy cheeks seemed to illustrate what the priest
+told me about his usurious propensities.</p>
+<p>&#8220;What a contrast between him and the swarthy,
+leathery, hungry-looking potters. I can not think
+that Nature has aught to do with these naked inequalities.
+I can not believe that, to produce one
+roseate complexion, she must etiolate a thousand. I
+can not see how, in drinking from the same gushing
+spring, and breathing the same mountain air, and
+basking in the same ardent sun, the khawaja gets a
+double chin and the peasant a double curse. But his
+collops and his ruddiness are due to the fact that he
+misgoverns as well as his Pasha and his Sultan. He
+battens, even like a Tammany chief, on political jobbery,
+on extortion, on usury. His tree is better
+manured, so to speak; manured by the widows and
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258' name='page_258'></a>258</span>
+tended by the orphans of his little kingdom. In a
+word, this great khawaja is what I call a political
+coprophagist. Hence, his suspicious growth, his lustre
+and lustiness.</p>
+<p>&#8220;But he is not the only example in the village of
+this superabundance of health; the priests are many
+more. For I must not fail to mention that, in addition
+to its potteries and founderies, the town is blessed
+with a dozen churches. Every family, a sort of tribe,
+has its church and priests; and consequently, its feuds
+with all the others. It is a marvel how the people,
+in the lethal soot and smoke of strife and dissension,
+can work and produce anything. Farewell, ye
+swarthy people! Farewell, O village of bells and potteries!
+Were it not for the khawaja who misgoverns
+thee, and the priests who sow their iniquity in thee,
+thou shouldst have been an ideal town. I look back,
+as I descend into the wadi, and behold, thou art as
+beautiful in the day as thou art in the night. Thy
+pink gables under a December sky seem not as garish
+as they do in summer. And the sylvan slopes, clustered
+with thy white-stone homes, peeping here
+through the mulberries, standing there under the walnuts
+and poplars, rising yonder in a group like a
+mottled pyramid, this most picturesque slope, whereon
+thou art ever beating the anvil, turning the wheel,
+throwing the shuttle, moulding the clay, and weltering
+withal in the mud of strife and dissension, this
+beautiful slope seems, nevertheless, from this distance,
+like an altar raised to Nature. I look not upon thee
+more; farewell.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259' name='page_259'></a>259</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;I descend in the wadi to the River Lykos of the
+ancients; and crossing the stone-bridge, an hour&#8217;s
+ascent brings me to one of the villages of Kisrawan.
+On the grey horizon yonder, is the limed bronze
+Statue of Mary the Virgin, rising on its sable pedestal,
+and looking, from this distance, like a candle in a
+bronze candle-stick. That Statue, fifty years hence,
+the people of the Lebanons will rebaptise as the Statue
+of Liberty. Masonry, even to-day, raises around it
+her mace. But whether these sacred mountains will
+be happier and more prosperous under its r&eacute;gime, I
+can not say. The Masons and the Patriarch of the
+Maronites are certainly more certain. Only this I
+know, that between the devil and the deep sea, Mary
+the Virgin shall hold her own. For though the
+name be changed, and the alm-box thrown into the
+sea, she shall ever be worshipped by the people. The
+Statue of the Holy Virgin of Liberty it will be called,
+and the Jesuits and priests can go a-begging. Meanwhile,
+the Patriarch will issue his allocutions, and the
+Jesuits, their pamphlets, against rationalism, atheism,
+masonry, and other supposed enemies of their Blessed
+Virgin, and point them out as enemies of Abd&#8217;ul-Hamid.
+&#8217;Tis curious how the Sultan of the Ottomans
+can serve the cause of the Virgin!</p>
+<p>&#8220;I visit the Statue for the love of my mother, and
+mounting to the top of the pedestal, I look up and
+behold my mother before me. The spectre of her,
+standing before the monument, looks down upon me,
+reproachfully, piteously, affectionately. I sit down
+at the feet of the Virgin Mary and bury my face in
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260' name='page_260'></a>260</span>
+my hands and weep. I love what thou lovest, O my
+mother, but I can see no more what thou seest. For
+thy love, O my mother, these kisses and tears. For
+thy love, I stand here like a child, and look up to this
+inanimate figure as I did when I was an acolyte.
+My intellect, O my mother, I would drown in my
+tears, and thy faith I would stifle with my kisses.
+Only thus is reconciliation possible.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Leaving this throne of modern mythology, I cross
+many wadis, descend and ascend many hills, pass
+through many villages, until I reach, at Ghina and
+Masshnaka, the tomb of the mythology of the ancients.
+At Ghina are ruins and monuments, of which Time
+has spared enough to engage the interest of arch&aelig;ologists.
+Let the P&egrave;res Jesuit, Bourquenoud and Roz,
+make boast of their discoveries and scholarship; I can
+only boast of the fact that the ceremonialisms of worship
+are the same to-day as they were in the days of
+my Ph&oelig;nician ancestors. Which, indeed, speaks well
+for THEM. This tablet, representing an armed
+figure and a bear, commemorates, it is said, the death
+of Tammuz. And the figure of the weeping woman
+near it is probably that of Ashtaroth. Other figures
+there are; but nothing short of the scholarship of
+Bourquenoud and Roz can unveil their marble
+mystery.</p>
+<p>&#8220;At Masshnaka, overlooking the River Adonis, are
+ruins of an ancient temple in which can still be seen a
+few Corinthian columns. This, too, we are told, was
+consecrated to Tammuz; and in this valley the women
+of Byblus bemoaned every year the fate of their god.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261' name='page_261'></a>261</span>
+Isis and Osiris, Tammuz and Ashtaroth, Venus and
+Adonis,&ndash;&ndash;these, I believe, are one and the same.
+Their myth borrowed from the Ph&oelig;nicians, the Egyptians,
+and the Romans, from either of the two. But
+the Venus of Rome is cheerful, joyous, that of the
+Ph&oelig;nicians is sad and sorrowful. Even mythology
+triumphs in its evolution.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Here, where my forebears deliquesced in sensuality,
+devotion, and grief, where the ardency of the
+women of Byblus flamed on the altar of Tammuz, on
+this knoll, whose trees and herbiage are fed perchance
+with their dust, I build my <i>athafa</i> (little kitchen),
+Arab-like, and cook my noonday meal. On the
+three stones, forming two right angles, I place my skillet,
+kindle under it a fire, pour into it a little sweet
+oil, and fry the few eggs I purchased in the village.
+I abominate the idea of frying eggs in water as the
+Americans do.<a name='FNanchor_0004' id='FNanchor_0004'></a><a href='#Footnote_0004' class='fnanchor'>[1]</a> I had as lief fry them in vinegar or
+syrup, where neither olive oil nor goat-butter is obtainable.
+But to fry eggs in water? O the barbarity
+of it! Why not, my friend, take them boiled and
+drink a little hot water after them? This savours of
+originality, at least, and is just as insipid, if not more.
+Withal, they who boil cabbage, and heap it in a plate
+over a slice of corn-beef, and call it a dish, can break
+a few boiled eggs in a cup of hot water and call them
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262' name='page_262'></a>262</span>
+fried. Be this as it may. The Americans will be
+solesistically simple even in their kitchen.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Now, my skillet of eggs being ready, I draw out
+of my basket a cake of cheese, a few olives, an onion,
+and three paper-like loaves, rather leaves, of bread,
+and fall to. With what relish, I need not say. But
+let it be recorded here, that under the karob tree, on
+the bank of the River Adonis, in the shadow of the
+great wall surrounding the ruins of the temple of
+Tammuz, I Khalid, in the thirty-fourth year of the
+reign of Abd&#8217;ul-Hamid, gave a banquet to the gods&ndash;&ndash;who,
+however, were content in being present and applauding
+the devouring skill of the peptic host and
+toast-master. Even serene Majesty at Yieldiz would
+give away, I think, an hundred of its sealed dishes for
+such a skillet of eggs in such an enchanted scene.
+But for it, alas! such wild and simple joy is a sealed
+book. Poor Serene Majesty! Now, having gone
+through the fruit course&ndash;&ndash;and is not the olive a
+fruit?&ndash;&ndash;I fill my jug at the River to make my coffee.
+And here I ask, In what Hotel Cecil or Waldorf
+or Savoy, or in what Arab tent in the desert,
+can one get a better cup of coffee than this, which
+Khalid makes for himself? The gods be praised, before
+and after. Ay, even in washing my pots and
+dishes I praise the good gods.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And having done this, I light my cigarette, lug
+my basket on my back, and again set forth. In three
+hours, on my way to Byblus, I reach a hamlet situated
+in a deep narrow wadi, closed on all sides by huge
+mountain walls. The most sequestered, the most
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263' name='page_263'></a>263</span>
+dreary place, I have yet seen. Here, though unwilling,
+the dusk of the December day having set in, I lay
+down the staff of wayfare. And as I enter the little
+village, I am greeted by the bleat of sheep and the low
+of the kine. The first villager I meet is an aged
+woman, who stands in her door before which is a
+pomegranate tree, telling her beads. She returns my
+salaam graciously, and invites me, saying, &#8216;Be kind to
+tarry overnight.&#8217; But can one be kinder than such an
+hostess? Seeing that I laid down my burden, she
+calls to her daughter to light the seraj (naphtha lamp)
+and bring some water for the stranger. &#8216;Methinks
+thou wouldst wash thy feet,&#8217; quoth she. Indeed, that
+is as essential and refreshing, after a day&#8217;s walk, as
+washing one&#8217;s face. I sit me down, therefore, under
+the pomegranate, take off my shoes and stockings, and
+the little girl, a winsome, dark-eyed, quick-witted lass,
+pours to me from the pitcher. I try to take it from
+her; but she would not, she said, be deprived of the
+pleasure of serving the stranger. Having done, I put
+on my stockings, and, leaving my shoes and basket
+near the door, enter a beit (one-room house) meagrely
+but neatly furnished. The usual straw mats are
+spread on the winter side, behind the door; in the
+corner is a little linen-covered divan with trimming of
+beautiful hand-made lace, the work of the little girl;
+and nearby are a few square cushions on the floor and
+a crude chair. The seraj, giving out more smoke and
+smell than light, is placed on a little shelf attached
+to the central pillar of the beit. Near the door is a
+bench for the water jars, and in the other corner are
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264' name='page_264'></a>264</span>
+the mattresses and quilts, and the earthen tub containing
+the round leaves of bread. Of these consist the
+furniture and provision of mine hostess.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Her son, a youth of not more than two score
+years, returns from his day&#8217;s labour a while after I
+had arrived. And as he stands in the door, his pick-axe
+and spade on his shoulder, his sister runs to meet
+him, and whispers somewhat about the stranger.
+Sitting on the threshold, he takes off his spats of cloth
+and his clouted shoes, while she gets the pitcher of
+water. After having washed, he enters, salaams
+graciously, and squats on the floor. The mother then
+brings a wicker tray on which is set the supper, consisting
+of only bread and olives. &#8216;Thou wilt overlook
+our penury,&#8217; she falters out; &#8216;here be all we
+have.&#8217; In truth, my hostess is of the poorest of the
+Lebanon peasants; even her sweet-oil pipkin and her
+jars of lentils and beans, are empty. She lays the tray
+before her son and invites me to partake of the repast.
+I go to my basket, bring forth the few onions and the
+two cakes of cheese I had left, lay them with an
+apology on the tray&ndash;&ndash;the mother, abashed, protests&ndash;&ndash;and
+we sit down cross-legged in a circle to supper.
+When we rise, the little girl lights a little fire, and
+they enjoy the cup of coffee I make for them. And
+the mother, in taking hers, tells me na&iuml;vely, and with
+a sigh, that it is five years now since she had had a
+cup of coffee. Indeed, she had seen better days.
+And &#8217;tis sorrow, forestalling Time, which furrows
+her cheeks and robs her black eyes of their lustre and
+spark.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_265' name='page_265'></a>265</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;She had once cattle, and a beit of her own, and
+rugs, too, and jars full of provision. But now she is
+a tenant. And her husband, ever since he emigrated
+to America, did not send a single piaster or even write
+a letter. From necessity she becomes a prey of
+usurers; for those Lebanon Moths, of which we saw
+a specimen in the village of bells and potteries, fall
+mostly in the wardrobe of women. They are locusts
+rather, who visit only the wheat fields of the poor.
+Her home was mortgaged to one such, and failing
+to meet her obligation, the mortgage is closed and he
+takes possession. Soon after she is evicted, her son,
+the first-born, a youth of much promise, dies.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;He could read and write, my son,&#8217; quoth she,
+sobbing; &#8216;of a sharp wit he was, and very assiduous
+in his studies. Once he accompanied the priest of
+the village on a visit to the Patriarch, and read there
+a eulogium of his own composition, for which he
+received a silver medal. The Patriarch then sent
+him to a Seminary; he was to become a priest, my
+son. He wrote a beautiful hand&ndash;&ndash;both Arabic and
+French; he was of a fine wit, sharp, quick, brilliant.
+Ah, me, but those who are of such minds never
+live!&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;She then tells me how they lost their last head
+of cattle. An excellent sheep it was; which one night
+they forgot outside; and the wolf, visiting the village,
+sees it tied to the mulberry, howls for joy, and
+carries it off. And thus Death robs the poor woman of
+her son; America, of her husband; the Shylock of the
+village, of her home; and the wolf, of her last head of
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266' name='page_266'></a>266</span>
+cattle. And this were enough to age even a Spartan
+woman. Late in the evening, after she had related at
+length of her sorrows, three mattresses&ndash;&ndash;all she had&ndash;&ndash;are
+laid on the straw mat near each other, and the little
+girl had to sleep with her mother.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Early in the morning I bid them farewell, and
+pass on my way to Amsheet, where Henriette Renan,
+the sister of Ernest, is buried. An hour&#8217;s walk, and
+the incarcerated wadi and its folk lie concealed behind.
+I breathe again the open air of the mountain expanse;
+I behold again the emerald stretch of water on the
+horizon, where the baggalas and saics, from this distance,
+seem like doves basking in the morning sun. I
+cross the last rill, mount the last hilltop on my
+journey, and lo, at the foot of the gently sloping heath
+are the orchards and palms of Amsheet. Further below
+is Jbail, or ancient Byblus, looking like a clutter
+of cliffs on the shore. Farewell to the mountain
+heights, and the arid wilderness! Welcome the fertile
+plains, and hopeful strands. In half an hour I
+reach the immense building&ndash;&ndash;the first or the last of
+the village, according to your direction&ndash;&ndash;which, from
+the top of the hill, I thought to be a fortress. A
+huge structure this, still a-building, and of an architecture
+altogether different from the conventional
+Lebanon type. No plain square affair, with three
+pointed arches in the fa&ccedil;ade, and a gable of pink tiles;
+but here are quoins, oriels, embrasures, segmental
+arches, and other luxuries of architecture. Out of
+place in these wilds, altogether out of place. Hard
+by are two primitive flat-roofed beits, standing grimly
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267' name='page_267'></a>267</span>
+there as a rebuke to the extravagant tendencies of the
+age. I go there in the hope of buying some cheese
+and eggs, and behold a lady of severe beauty smoking a
+narghilah and giving orders to a servant. She returns
+my salaam seated in her chair, and tells me in
+an injured air, after I had made known to her my
+desire, that eggs and cheese are sold in the stores.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;You may come in for breakfast,&#8217; she adds; and
+clapping for the servant, orders him to lay the table
+for me. I enter the beit, which is partitioned into
+a kitchen, a dining-room, and a parlour. On the table
+is spread the usual breakfast of a Lebanonese of
+affluence: namely, cheese, honey, fig-jam, and green
+olives. The servant, who is curious to know my
+name, my religion, my destination, and so forth, tells
+me afterwards that Madame is the wife of the kaiemkam,
+and the castle, which is building, is their new
+home.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Coming out, I thank Madame, and ask her about
+the grave of Renan&#8217;s sister. She pauses amazed,
+blows her narghilah smoke in my face, surveys me
+from top to toe, and puts to me those same questions
+with which I was tormented by her servant. Indeed,
+I had answered ten of hers, before I got this answer
+to mine: &#8216;The sister of whom, thou sayst? That
+Frenchman who came here in the sixties for antiquities?
+Yes; his sister died and was buried here,
+but no Christian remembers her for good. She must
+have been a bad one like her brother, who was an
+infidel, they say, and did not know or fear God.&ndash;&ndash;What
+wouldst thou see there? Art like the idiot
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268' name='page_268'></a>268</span>
+Franje (Europeans) who come here and carry away
+from around the grave some stones and dust? Go
+thou with him&ndash;&ndash;(this to the servant) and show him
+the vault of the Toubeiyahs, where she was buried.&#8217;
+This, in a supercilious air, while she drew from
+the narghilah the smoke, which I could not relish.</p>
+<p>&#8220;We come to the cemetery near the church in the
+centre of the town. The vault where Henriette was
+laid, a plain, plastered square cell, is not far from an
+oak which in the morning envelopes it with its shadow;
+and directly across are palms, whose shades at sundown,
+make a vain effort to kiss its dust. No grass,
+no flowers around; but much of the dust of neglect.
+And of this I take up a handful, like &#8216;the idiot
+Franje&#8217;; but instead of carrying it away, I press
+therein my lips and leave my planted kisses near
+the vault.&ndash;&ndash;When the mothers and the sisters of these
+sacred hills, O Henriette, can see the flowers of these
+kisses in thy dust, when they can appreciate the sacred
+purity of thy spirit and devotion, what mothers then
+we shall have, and what sisters!</p>
+<p>&#8220;I pass through the village descending on the carriage
+road to Jbail, or Byblus. In these diggings the
+shrewd antiquary digs for those precious tear-bottles
+of my ancestors. And everywhere one turns are tombs
+in which the arch&aelig;ologist finds somewhat to noise
+abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially
+necrophagous. For consider, what would become
+of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield
+somewhat of nourishment,&ndash;&ndash;a limb, a torso, a palimpsest,
+or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin?
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269' name='page_269'></a>269</span>
+I rail not at these scholarly grave-diggers because I
+can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise
+and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business
+of &#8216;cashing,&#8217; as it were, the ruins and remains, the
+ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Arch&aelig;ology for
+arch&aelig;ology&#8217;s sake is pardonable; arch&aelig;ology for the
+sake of writing a book is intolerable; and arch&aelig;ology
+for lucre is abominable.</p>
+<p>&#8220;At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Ph&oelig;nician
+origin, which is occupied by the mudir of the
+District. Entering the gate, near which is a chapel
+consecrated to Our Lady of that name, where litigants,
+when they can not prove their claims, are made
+to swear to them, we pass through a court between
+rows of Persian lilac trees, into a dark, stivy arcade
+on both sides of which are dark, stivy cells used as
+stables. Reaching the citadel proper, we mount a
+high stairway to the loft occupied by the mudir.
+This, too, is partitioned, but with cotton sheeting, into
+various apartments.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The zabtie, in zouave uniform, at the door, would
+have me wait standing in the corridor outside; for
+his Excellency is at dinner. And Excellency, as affable
+as his zabtie, hearing the parley without, growls
+behind the scene and orders me gruffly to go to the
+court. &#8216;This is not the place to make a complaint,&#8217;
+he adds. But the stranger at thy door, O gracious
+Excellency, complains not against any one in this
+world; and if he did, assure thee, he would not complain
+to the authorities of this world. This, or some
+such plainness of distemper, the zouave communicates
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270' name='page_270'></a>270</span>
+to his superior behind the cotton sheeting, who presently
+comes out, his anger somewhat abated, and, taking
+me for a monk&ndash;&ndash;my jubbah is responsible for the
+deception&ndash;&ndash;invites me to the sitting-room in the
+enormous loophole of the citadel. He himself was
+beginning to complain of the litigants who pester him
+at his home, and apologise for his ill humour, when
+suddenly, disabused on seeing my trousers beneath
+my jubbah, he subjects me to the usual cross-examination.
+I could not refrain from thinking that, not
+being of the cowled gentry, he regretted having
+honoured me with an apology.</p>
+<p>&#8220;But after knowing somewhat of the pilgrim
+stranger, especially that he had been in America, Excellency
+tempers the severity of his expression and
+evinces an agreeable curiosity. He would know many
+things of that distant country; especially about a
+Gold-Mining Syndicate, or Gold-Mining Fake, in
+which he invested a few hundred pounds of his fortune.
+And I make reply, &#8216;I know nothing about Gold
+Mines and Syndicates, Excellency: but methinks if
+there be gold in such schemes, the grubbing, grabbing
+Americans would not let it come to Syria.&#8217; &#8216;Indeed,
+so,&#8217; he murmurs, musing; &#8216;indeed, so.&#8217; And
+clapping for the serving-zabtie&ndash;&ndash;the mudirs and
+kaiemkams of the Lebanon make these zabties, whose
+duty is to serve papers, serve, too, in their homes&ndash;&ndash;he
+orders for me a cup of coffee. And further complaining
+to me, he curses America for robbing the country
+of its men and labourers.&ndash;&ndash;&#8216;We can no more find tenants
+for our estates, despite the fact that they get
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271' name='page_271'></a>271</span>
+more of the income than we do. The shreek
+(partner), or tenant, is rightly called so. For the
+owner of an estate that yields fifty pounds, for instance,
+barely gets half of it; while the shreek, he
+who tills and cultivates the land, gets away with the
+other half, sniffing and grumbling withal. Of a
+truth, land-tenants are not so well-off anywhere. And
+if the land but yields a considerable portion, any one
+with a few grains of the energy of those Americans,
+would prefer to be a shreek than a real-estate owner.&#8217;
+Thus, his Excellency, complaining of the times, regretting
+his losses, cursing America and its Gold
+Mines; and having done, drops the narghilah tube
+from his hand and dozes on the divan.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I muse meanwhile on Time, who sees in a citadel
+of the ancient Ph&oelig;nicians, after many thousand years,
+that same propensity for gold, that same instinct for
+trade. The Ph&oelig;nicians worked gold mines in
+Thrace, and the Syrians, their descendants, are working
+gold mines in America. But are we as daring,
+as independent, as honest? I am not certain, however,
+if those Ph&oelig;nicians had anything to do with bubbles.
+My friend Sanchuniathon writes nothing on the subject.
+History records not a single instance of a gold-mine
+bubble in Thrace, or a silver ditto in Africa.
+Apart from this, have we, the descendants of those
+honest Ph&oelig;nicians, any of their inventive skill and
+bold initiative? They taught other nations the art
+of ship-building; we can not as much as learn from
+other nations the art of building a gig. They transmitted
+to the people of the West a knowledge of
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_272' name='page_272'></a>272</span>
+mathematics, weights, and measures; we can not as
+much as weigh or measure the little good Europe is
+transmitting to us. They always fought bravely
+against their conquerors, always gave evidence of their
+love of independence; and we dare not raise a finger
+or whisper a word against the red Tyrant by whom
+we are degraded and enslaved. We are content in
+paying tribute to a criminal Government for pressing
+upon our necks the yoke and fettering hopelessly our
+minds and souls&ndash;&ndash;and my brave Ph&oelig;nicians, ah, how
+bravely they thought and fought. What daring
+deeds they accomplished! what mysteries of art and
+science they unveiled!</p>
+<p>&#8220;On these shores they hammered at the door of
+invention, and, entering, showed the world how glass
+is made; how colours are extracted from pigments;
+how to measure, and count, and communicate human
+thought. The swarthy sons of the eternal billows,
+how shy they were of the mountains, how enamoured
+of the sea! For the mountains, it was truly said,
+divide nations, and the seas connect them. And
+my Ph&oelig;nicians, mind you, were for connection
+always. Everywhere, they lived on the shores, and
+ever were they ready to set sail.</p>
+<p>&#8220;In this mammoth loophole, measuring about ten
+yards in length,&ndash;&ndash;this the thickness of the wall&ndash;&ndash;I
+muse of another people skilled in the art of building.
+But between the helots who built the pyramids and
+the freemen who built this massive citadel, what a
+contrast! The Egyptian mind could only invent
+fables; the Ph&oelig;nician was the vehicle of commerce
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273' name='page_273'></a>273</span>
+and the useful arts. The Egyptians would protect
+their dead from the tyranny of Time; the Ph&oelig;nicians
+would protect themselves, the living, from the invading
+enemy: those based their lives on the vagaries of
+the future; these built it on the solid rock of the
+present....&#8221;</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>But we have had enough of Khalid&#8217;s gush about the
+Ph&oelig;nicians, and we confess we can not further walk
+with him on this journey. So, we leave his Excellency
+the mudir snoring on the divan, groaning under
+the incubus of the Gold Mine Fake, bemoaning his
+losses in America; pass the zabtie in zouave uniform,
+who is likewise snoring on the door-step; and, hurrying
+down the stairway and out through the stivy
+arcade, we say farewell to Our Lady of the Gate, and
+get into one of the carriages which ply the shore
+between Junie and Jbail. We reach Junie about
+sundown, and Allah be praised! Even this toy of
+a train brings us, in thirty minutes, to Beirut.</p>
+<hr class='fn' />
+<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0004' id='Footnote_0004'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0004'><span class='label'>[1]</span></a>
+<p>
+Khalid would speak here of poached eggs, we believe.
+And the Americans, to be fair, are not so totally ignorant
+of the art of frying. They have lard&ndash;&ndash;much worse than
+water&ndash;&ndash;in which they cook, or poach, or fry&ndash;&ndash;but the
+change in the name does not change the taste. So, we let
+Khalid&#8217;s stricture on fried eggs and boiled cabbage stand.&ndash;&ndash;<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Editor.</span>
+</p></div>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_274' name='page_274'></a>274</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_V_UNION_AND_PROGRESS' id='CHAPTER_V_UNION_AND_PROGRESS'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>
+<h3>UNION AND PROGRESS</h3>
+</div>
+<p>Had not Khalid in his retirement touched his philosophic
+raptures with a little local colouring, had
+he not given an account of his tramping tour
+in the Lebanons, the hiatus in Shakib&#8217;s <i>Histoire Intime</i>
+could not have been bridged. It would have
+remained, much to our vexation and sorrow, somewhat
+like the ravine in which Khalid almost lost his
+life. But now we return, after a year&#8217;s absence, to
+our Scribe, who at this time in Baalbek is soldering
+and hammering out rhymes in praise of Niazi and
+Enver, Abd&#8217;ul-Hamid and the Dastur (Constitution).</p>
+<p>&#8220;When Khalid, after his cousin&#8217;s marriage, suddenly
+disappeared from Baalbek,&#8221; writes he, &#8220;I felt
+that something had struck me violently on the brow,
+and everything around me was dark. I could not
+withhold my tears: I wept like a child, even like
+Khalid&#8217;s mother. I remember he would often speak
+of suicide in those days. And on the evening of that
+fatal day we spent many hours discussing the question.
+&#8216;Why is not one free to kill himself,&#8217; he
+finally asked, &#8216;if one is free to become a Jesuit?&#8217;
+But I did not believe he was in earnest. Alas, he
+was. For on the morning of the following day, I
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275' name='page_275'></a>275</span>
+went up to his tent on the roof and found nothing of
+Khalid&#8217;s belongings but a pamphlet on the subject,
+&#8216;Is Suicide a Sin?&#8217; and right under the title the
+monosyllable LA (no) and his signature. The frightfulness
+of his intention stood like a spectre before
+me. I clapped one hand upon the other and wept.
+I made inquiries in the city and in the neighbouring
+places, but to no purpose. Oh, that dreadful, dismal
+day, when everywhither I went something seemed to
+whisper in my heart, &#8216;Khalid is no more.&#8217; It was
+the first time in my life that I felt the pangs of separation,
+the sting of death and sorrow. The days and
+months passed, heartlessly confirming my conjecture,
+my belief.</p>
+<p>&#8220;One evening, when the last glimmer of hope
+passed away, I sat down and composed a threnody in
+his memory. And I sent it to one of the newspapers
+of Beirut, in the hope that Khalid, if he still lived,
+might chance to see it. It was published and quoted
+by other journals here and in Egypt, who, in their
+eulogies, spoke of Khalid as the young Baalbekian
+philosopher and poet. One of these newspapers,
+whose editor is a dear friend of mine, and of comely
+ancient virtue, did not mention, from a subtle sense
+of tender regard for my feelings, the fact that Khalid
+committed suicide. &#8216;He died,&#8217; the Notice said, &#8216;of
+a sudden and violent defluxion of rheums,<a name='FNanchor_0005' id='FNanchor_0005'></a><a href='#Footnote_0005' class='fnanchor'>[1]</a> which baffled
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_276' name='page_276'></a>276</span>
+the physician and resisted his skill and physic.&#8217;
+Another journal, whose editor&#8217;s religion is of the
+Jesuitical pattern, spoke of him as a miserable God-abandoned
+wretch who was not entitled to the right
+of Christian burial; and fulminated at its contemporaries
+for eulogising the youthful infidel and moaning
+his death, thus spreading and justifying his evil
+example.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And so, the days passed, and the months, and
+Khalid was still dead. In the summer of this year,
+when the Constitution was proclaimed, and the
+country was rioting in the saturnalia of Freedom
+and Equality, my sorrow was keener, deeper than
+ever. Not I alone, but the cities and the deserts of
+Syria and Arabia, missed my loving friend. How
+gloriously he would have filled the tribune of the day,
+I sadly mused.... O Khalid, I can never forgive
+this crime of thine against the sacred rites of
+Friendship. Such heartlessness, such inexorable
+cruelty, I have never before observed in thee. No
+matter how much thou hast profited by thy retirement
+to the mountains, no matter how much thy
+solitude hath given thee of health and power and
+wisdom, thy cruel remissness can not altogether be
+drowned in my rejoicing. To forget those who love
+thee above everything else in the world,&ndash;&ndash;thy mother,
+thy cousin, thine affectionate brother&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>And our Scribe goes on, blubbering like a good
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277' name='page_277'></a>277</span>
+Syrian his complaint and joy, gushing now in verse,
+now in what is worse, in rhymed prose, until he
+reaches the point which is to us of import. Khalid,
+in the winter of the first year of the Dastur (Constitution)
+writes to him many letters from Beirut,
+of which he gives us not less than fifty! And of
+these, the following, if not the most piquant and interesting,
+are the most indispensable to our History.</p>
+<p>Letter I (As numbered in the Original)</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>My loving Brother Shakib:</p>
+<p>To whom, if not to you, before all, should I send
+the first word of peace, the first sign of the resurrection?
+To my mother? To my cousin Najma?
+Well, yes. But if I write to them, my letters will be
+brought to you to be read and answered. So I write
+now direct, hoping that you will convey to them these
+tidings of joy. &#8217;Tis more than a year now since I
+slinked out of Baalbek, leaving you in the dark about
+me. Surely, I deserve the chastisement of your bitterest
+thoughts. But what could I do? Such is
+the rigour of the sort of life I lived that any communication
+with the outside world, especially with friends
+and lovers, would have marred it. So, I had to be
+silent as the pines in which I put up, until I became
+as healthy as the swallows, my companions there.
+When we meet, I shall recount to you the many curious
+incidents of my solitude and my journey in the
+sacred hills of Lebanon. To these auspicious mountains,
+my Brother, I am indebted for the health and
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_278' name='page_278'></a>278</span>
+joy and wisdom that are now mine; and yours, too,
+if you consider.</p>
+<p>Strange, is it not, that throughout my journey,
+and I have passed in many villages, nothing heard I
+of this great political upheaval in the Empire. Probably
+the people of the Lebanons cherish not the Revolution.
+There is so much in common, I find, between
+them and the Celtic races, who always in such
+instances have been more royalists than the king.
+And I think Mt. Lebanon is going to be the Vend&eacute;e
+of the Turks.</p>
+<p>I have been in Beirut but a few days. And
+truly, I could not believe my eyes, when in the Place
+de la Concorde (I hope the Turks are not going to
+follow in the steps of the French Revolutionists in all
+things), I could not believe my eyes, when, in this
+muddy Square, on the holy Stump of Liberty, I beheld
+my old friend the Spouter dispensing to the turbaned
+and tarboushed crowd, among which were
+cameleers and muleteers with their camels and mules,
+of the blessing of that triple political abracadabra of
+the France of more than a century passed. Liberty,
+Fraternity, Equality!&ndash;&ndash;it&#8217;s a shame that the show
+has been running for six months now and I did not
+know it. I begin by applauding the Spouters of Concord
+Square, the donkey that I am. But how, with
+my cursed impulsiveness, can I always keep on the
+sidewalk of reason? I, who have suckled of the milk
+of freedom and broke the bottle, too, on my Nurse&#8217;s
+head, I am not to blame, if from sheer joy, I cheer
+those who are crowning her on a dung-hill with
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_279' name='page_279'></a>279</span>
+wreaths of stable straw. It&#8217;s better, billah, than
+breaking the bottle on her head, is it not? And so,
+let the Spouters spout. And let the sheikh and the
+priest and the rabbi embrace on that very Stump and
+make up. Live the Era of Concord and peace and
+love! Live the Dastur! Hurrah for the Union
+and Progress Heroes! Come down to Beirut and
+do some shouting with your fellow citizens.</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Letter V</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>No; I do not approve of your idea of associating
+with that young Mohammedan editor. You know
+what is said about the tiger and its spots. Besides,
+I had another offer from a Christian oldtimer; but
+you might as well ask me to become a Jesuit as to
+became a Journalist. I wrote last week a political
+article, in which I criticised Majesty&#8217;s Address to
+the Parliament, and mauled those oleaginous, palavering,
+mealy-mouthed Representatives, who would
+not dare point out the lies in it. They hear the Chief
+Clerk read of &#8220;the efforts made by the Government
+during the past thirty years in the interest of education,&#8221;
+and applaud; while at the Royal Banquet they
+jostle and hustle each other to kiss the edge of
+Majesty&#8217;s frock-coat. The abject slaves!</p>
+<p>The article was much quoted and commented upon;
+I was flouted by many, defended by a few, these asked:
+&#8220;Was the Government of Abd&#8217;ul-Hamid, committing
+all its crimes in the interest of education, were we
+being trained by the Censorship and the Bosphorus
+Terror for the Dastur?&#8221; &#8220;But the person of
+Majesty, the sacredness of the Khalifate,&#8221; cried the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280' name='page_280'></a>280</span>
+others. And a certain one, in the course of his attack,
+denies the existence of Khalid, who died, said
+he, a year ago. And what matters it if a dead man
+can stir a whole city and blow into the nostrils of its
+walking spectres a breath of life?</p>
+<p>I spoke last night in one of the music halls and
+gave the Mohammedans a piece of my mind. The
+poor Christians!&ndash;&ndash;they feared the Government in the
+old r&eacute;gime; they cower before the boatmen in this.
+For the boatmen of Beirut have not lost their
+prestige and power. They are a sort of commune
+and are yet supreme. Yes, they are always riding
+the whirlwind and directing the storm. And who
+dares say a word against them? Every one of them,
+in his swagger and bluster, is an Abd&#8217;ul-Hamid.
+Alas, everything is yet in a chaotic state. The boatman&#8217;s
+shriek can silence the Press and make the Spouters
+tremble.</p>
+<p>I am to lecture in the Public Hall of one of the
+Colleges here on the &#8220;Moral Revolution.&#8221; Believe
+me, I would not utter a word or write a line if I
+were not impelled to it. And just as soon as some
+one comes to the front to champion in this land spiritual
+and moral freedom, I&#8217;ll go &#8220;way back and sit
+down.&#8221; For why should I then give myself the
+trouble? And the applause of the multitude, mind
+you, brings me not a single olive.</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Letter XXII</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>I had made up my mind to go to Cairo, and I was
+coming up to say farewell to you and mother. For
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281' name='page_281'></a>281</span>
+I like not Beirut, where one in winter must go
+about in top-boots, and in a dust-coat in summer.
+I wonder what Rousseau, who called Paris the city
+of mud, would have said of this? Besides, a city
+ruled by boatmen is not a city for gentlemen to live
+in. So, I made up my mind to get out of it, and
+quickly. But yesterday morning, before I had taken
+my coffee, some one knocked at my door. I open,
+and lo, a policeman in shabby uniform, makes inquiry
+about Khalid. What have I done, I thought, to
+deserve this visit? And before I had time to imagine
+the worst, he delivers a card from the Deputy to
+Syria of the Union and Progress Society of Salonique.
+I am desired in this to come at my earliest convenience
+to the Club to meet this gentleman. There, I
+am received by an Army Officer and a certain Ahmed
+Bey. And after the coffee and the formalities of civility
+are over, I am asked to accompany them on a
+tour to the principal cities of upper Syria&ndash;&ndash;to Damascus,
+Homs, Hama, and Aleppo. The young
+Army Officer is to speechify in Turkish, I, in Arabic,
+and Ahmed Bey, who is as oleaginous as a Turk
+could be, will take up, I think, the collection. Seeing
+in this a chance to spread the Idea among our
+people, I accept, and in a fortnight we shall be in
+Damascus. You must come there, for I am burning
+to meet and embrace you.</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>Letter XXV</p>
+<blockquote>
+<p>Whom do you think I met yesterday? Why,
+nothing gave me greater pleasure ever since I have
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282' name='page_282'></a>282</span>
+been here than this: I was crossing the Square on
+my way to the Club, when some one plucking at my
+jubbah angrily greets me. I look back, and behold
+our dear old Im-Hanna, who has just returned from
+New York. She stood there waving her hand wildly
+and rating me for not returning her salaam. &#8220;You
+know no one any more, O Khalid,&#8221; she said plaintively;
+&#8220;I call to you three times and you look not,
+hear not. No matter, O Khalid.&#8221; Thereupon, she
+embraces me as fondly as my mother. &#8220;And why,&#8221;
+she inquired, &#8220;do you wear this black jubbah? Are
+you now a monk? Were it not for that long hair
+and that cap of yours, I would not have known you.
+Let me see, isn&#8217;t that the cap I bought you in New
+York?&#8221; And she takes it off my head to examine
+it. &#8220;Yes, that&#8217;s it. How good of you to keep it.
+Well, how are you now? Do you cough any more?
+Are you still crazy about books? I don&#8217;t think so,
+for you have rosy cheeks now.&#8221; And sobbing for joy,
+she embraces me again and again.</p>
+<p>She is neatly dressed, wears a silk fich&eacute;, and is as
+alert as ever. In the afternoon, I visit her at the
+Hotel, and she asks me to accompany her to the Bank,
+where she cashes three bills of exchange for three
+hundred pounds each! I ask her what she is going
+to do with all this money, and she tells me that she
+is going to build a little home for her grandson and
+send him to the College of the Americans here.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And is there like America in all the world?&#8221; she
+exclaims. &#8220;Ah, my heart for America!&#8221; And on
+asking her why she did not remain there: &#8220;Fear not;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_283' name='page_283'></a>283</span>
+just as soon as I build my house and place my son
+in the College I am going back to New York. What,
+O Khalid, will you return with me?&#8221; She then
+takes some gold pieces in her hand, and lowering her
+voice: &#8220;May be you need some money; take, take
+these.&#8221; Dear old Im-Hanna, I would not refuse her
+favour, and I would not accept one such. What was
+I to do? Coming through the Jewellers&#8217; bazaar I
+hit upon an idea, and with the money she slipped
+into my pocket, I bought a gold watch in one of the
+stores and charged her to present it to her grandson.
+&#8220;Say it is from his brother, your other grandson
+Khalid.&#8221; She protests, scolds, and finally takes the
+watch, saying, &#8220;Well, nothing is changed in you: still
+the same crazy Khalid.&#8221;</p>
+<p>To-morrow she is coming to see my room, and to
+cook for me a dish of <i>mojadderah</i>! Ah, the old days
+in the cellar!</p>
+</blockquote>
+<p>In the thirtieth Letter, one of considerable length,
+dated March, is an exceedingly titillating divagation
+on the <i>gulma</i> (oustraation of <ins class="trchange" title="Added closing ')'">animals)</ins>, called forth, we
+are told, &#8220;by the rut of the d&ndash;&ndash;&ndash;d cats in the
+yard.&#8221; Poor Khalid can not sleep. One night he
+jumps out of bed and chases them away with his
+skillet, saying, &#8220;Why don&#8217;t I make such a row, ye
+wantons?&#8221; They come again the following night,
+and Khalid on the following morning moves to a
+Hotel which, by good or ill chance, is adjacent to the
+lupanars of the city. His window opens on another
+yard in which other cats, alas!&ndash;&ndash;of the human species
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284' name='page_284'></a>284</span>
+this time&ndash;&ndash;are caterwauling, harrowing the soul of
+him and the night. He makes a second remove, but
+finds himself disturbed this time by the rut of a
+certain roebuck within. Nature, O Khalid, will not
+be cheated, no more than she will be abused, without
+retaliating soon or late. True, you got out of many
+ruts heretofore; but this you can not get out of except
+you go deeper into it. Your anecdotes from Ad-Damiry
+and your quotations from Montaigne shall
+not help you. And your allusions to March-cats and
+March-Khalids are too pitiful to be humorous. Indeed,
+were not the tang of lubricity in this Letter too
+strong, we would have given in full the confession
+it contains.</p>
+<p>We now come to the last of this Series, in which
+Khalid speaks of a certain American lady, a Mrs.
+Goodfree, or Gotfry, who is a votary of Ebbas Effendi,
+the Pope of Babism at Heifa. Mrs. Gotfry
+may not be a Babist in the strict sense of the word;
+but she is a votary and worshipper of the Bab. To
+her the personal element in a creed is of more importance
+than the ism. Hence, her pilgrimage every
+year to Heifa. She comes with presents and gold;
+and Ebbas Effendi, who is not impervious to the influence
+of other gods than his own, permits her into
+the sanctuary, where she shares with him the light of
+divine revelation and returns to the States, as the
+Priestess of the Cult, to bless and console the Faithful.
+Khalid was dining with Ahmed Bey at the
+Grand Hotel&ndash;&ndash;but here is a portion of the Letter.</p>
+<p>By a devilish mischance she occupied the seat opposite
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_285' name='page_285'></a>285</span>
+to mine. And in this trap of Iblis was decoy
+enough for a poor mouse like me. It is an age since
+I beheld such an Oriental gem in an American
+setting; or such a strange Southern beauty in an
+exotic frame. For one would think her from the
+South, or further down from Mexico. Nay, of Andalusian,
+and consequently of Arabian, origin she must
+be. Her hair and her eyes are of the richest jet; her
+glance, voluptuous, mysterious; her complexion,
+neither white nor olive, but partakes of both,&ndash;&ndash;a
+gauze-like shade of heliotrope, as it were, over a pink
+and straw surface, if you can imagine that; and her
+expression, a play between devotion and diabolism&ndash;&ndash;now
+a question mark to love, now an exclamation
+to sorrow, and at times a dash between both.
+By what mysterious medium of romance and adventure
+did America produce such a beauty, I can
+not tell. Perhaps she, too, can not. If you saw her,
+O Shakib, you&#8217;d do nothing for months but dedicate
+odes to her eyes,&ndash;&ndash;to the deep, dark infinity of their
+luring, devouring beauty,&ndash;&ndash;which seem to drop honey
+and poison from every arched hair of their fulsome
+lashes. Withal,&ndash;&ndash;another devilish mischance,&ndash;&ndash;she
+was dressed in black and wore a white silk ruffle, like
+myself. And her age? Well, she can not have
+passed her sixth lustrum. And really, as the Novelist
+would say in his Novel, she looks ten years younger....
+To say we were attracted to each other
+were presumptuous: but <i>I was</i> taken.... Near
+her sat a Syrian gentleman of my acquaintance, with
+whom she was conversing when we entered. That
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286' name='page_286'></a>286</span>
+is the lady whose beauty, when she was sitting, I described
+to you: but when she got up to leave the table,&ndash;&ndash;alas,
+and <i>ay me</i>, and all the other expressions of
+regret and <ins class="trchange" title="Changed ',' to '.'">sorrow.</ins> That such a beautiful face should
+be denied a corresponding beauty of figure. And
+what is more pitiable about her, she is lame in the
+right leg. Poor dear Misfortune, I wish it were in
+my power to add an inch of my limb to hers.</p>
+<p>And Khalid goes on limping, drooling, alassing, to
+the end. After dinner he is introduced to his &#8220;poor
+dear Misfortune&#8221; by his Syrian friend. But being
+with Ahmed Bey he can not remain this evening. On
+the following day, however, he is invited to lunch;
+and on the terrace facing the sea, they pass the afternoon
+discussing various subjects. Mrs. Gotfry is surprised
+how a Syrian of Khalid&#8217;s mind can not see the
+beauties of Babism, or Buhaism, as it is now called,
+and the lofty spirituality of the Bab. But she forgives
+him his lack of faith, gives him her card, and
+invites him to her home, if he ever returns to the
+United States.</p>
+<p>Now, maugre the fact that, in a postscript to this
+Letter, Khalid closes with these words, &#8220;And what
+have I to do with priests and priestesses?&#8221; we can not
+but harbour a suspicion that his &#8220;Union and Progress&#8221;
+tour is bound to have more than a political
+significance. By ill or good hap those words are
+beginning to assume a double meaning; and maugre
+all efforts to the contrary, the days must soon unfold
+the twofold tendency and result of the &#8220;Union and
+Progress&#8221; ideas of Khalid.</p>
+<hr class='fn' />
+<div class='footnote'><a name='Footnote_0005' id='Footnote_0005'></a><a href='#FNanchor_0005'><span class='label'>[1]</span></a>
+<p>
+In some parts of Syria, as in Arabia, almost every ill and
+affection is attributed to the rheums, or called so. Rheumatism,
+for instance, is explained by the Arab quack as a defluxion
+of rheums, failing to discharge through the upper
+orifices, progress downward, and settling in the muscles and
+joints, produce the affection. And might there not be more
+truth in that than the diagnosis of him who is a Membre de
+la Facult&eacute; de Medicine de France?&ndash;&ndash;<span style='font-variant:small-caps'>Editor.</span>
+</p></div>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_287' name='page_287'></a>287</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_VI_REVOLUTIONS_WITHIN_AND_WITHOUT' id='CHAPTER_VI_REVOLUTIONS_WITHIN_AND_WITHOUT'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2>
+<h3>REVOLUTIONS WITHIN AND WITHOUT</h3>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;Even Carlyle can be longwinded and short-sighted
+on occasions. &#8216;Once in destroying the
+False,&#8217; says he, &#8216;there was a certain inspiration.&#8217;
+And always there is, to be sure, my Master. For
+the world is not Europe, and the final decision on
+Who Is and What Is To Rule, was not delivered
+by the French Revolution. The Orient, the land of
+origination and prophecy, must yet solve for itself
+this eternal problem of the Old and New, the False
+and True. And whether by Revolutions, Speculations,
+or Constitutions, ancient Revelation will be
+purged and restored to its original pristine purity:
+the superannuated lumber that accumulated around
+it during centuries of apathy, fatalism, and sloth, must
+go: the dust and mould and cobwebs of the Temple
+will be swept away. Indeed, &#8216;a war must be
+eternally waged on evils eternally renewed.&#8217; The
+genius of destruction has done its work, you say, O
+my esteemed Master? and there is nothing more to
+destroy? The gods might say this of other worlds
+than ours. In Europe, as in Asia, there is to be
+considered and remembered: if this mass of things
+we call humanity and civilisation were as healthy as
+the eternal powers would have them, the healthiest of
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_288' name='page_288'></a>288</span>
+the race would not be constantly studying and dissecting
+our social and political ills.</p>
+<p>&#8220;In a certain sense, we are healthier to-day than
+the Europeans; but our health is that of the slave and
+not the master: it is of more benefit to others than
+it is to ourselves. We are doomed to be the drudges
+of neurasthenic, psychopathic, egoistic masters, if we
+do not open our minds to the light of science and
+truth. &#8216;Every age has its Book,&#8217; says the Prophet.
+But every book, if it aspires to be a guide to life, must
+contain of the eternal truth what was in the one that
+preceded it. We can not afford to let aught of this
+die. Leave the principal original altar in the Temple,
+and destroy all the others. Light on that altar the
+torch of science, which the better mind and cleaner
+hand of Europe are transmitting to us, and place your
+foot upon its false and unspeakable divinities. The
+gods of wealth, of egoism, of alcohol, of fornication,
+we must not acknowledge; nay, we must resist unto
+death their malign influence and power. But alas,
+what are we doing to-day? Instead of looking up to
+the pure and lofty souls of Europe for guidance, we
+welter in the mud with the lowest and most degenerate.
+We are beginning to know and appreciate
+English whiskey, but not English freedom; we know
+the French grisettes, but not the French sages; we
+guzzle German beer, but of German wisdom we
+taste not a drop.</p>
+<p>&#8220;O my Brothers, let us cease rejoicing in the
+Dastur; for at heart we know no freedom, nor truth,
+nor order. We elect our representatives to Parliament,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_289' name='page_289'></a>289</span>
+but not unlike the Europeans; we borrow from
+France what the deeper and higher mind of France no
+longer believes; we imitate England in what England
+has long since discarded; but our Books of Revelation,
+which made France and Germany and England what
+they are, and in which is the divine essence of truth
+and right and freedom, we do not rightly understand.
+A thousand falsehoods are cluttered around the truth
+to conceal it from us. I call you back, O my
+Brothers, to the good old virtues of our ancestors.
+Without these the Revolution will miscarry and our
+Dastur will not be worth a date-stone. Our ancestors,&ndash;&ndash;they
+never bowed their proud neck to tyranny,
+whether represented in an autocrat or in a body of
+autocrats; they never betrayed their friends; they
+never soiled their fingers with the coin of usury; they
+never sacrificed their manhood to fashion; they never
+endangered in the caf&eacute;s and lupanars their health and
+reason. The Mosque and the Church, notwithstanding
+the ignorance and bigotry they foster, are still better
+than lunatic asylums. And Europe can not have
+enough of these to-day.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Continence, purity of heart, fidelity, simplicity, a
+sense of true manhood, magnanimity of spirit, a healthiness
+of body and mind,&ndash;&ndash;these are the beautiful ancient
+virtues. These are the supreme truths of the
+Books of Revelation: in these consists the lofty spirituality
+of the Orient. But through what thick, obscene
+growths we must pass to-day, through what cactus
+hedges and thistle-fields we must penetrate, before we
+rise again to those heights.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_290' name='page_290'></a>290</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;There can be no Revolution without a Reformation,&#8217;
+says a German philosopher. And truly so. For
+the fetters which bind us can not be shaken off, before
+the conscience is emancipated. A political revolution
+must always be preceded by a spiritual one, that it
+might have some enduring effect. Otherwise, things
+will revert to their previous state of rottenness as sure
+as Allah lives. But mind you, I do not say, Cut down
+the hedges; mow the thistle-fields; uproot the obscene
+plants; no: I only ask you to go through them, and
+out of them, to return no more. Sell your little estate
+there, if you have one; sell it at any price: give it
+away and let the dead bury their dead. Cease to work
+in those thorny fields, and God and nature will do the
+rest.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I am for a reformation by emigration. And
+quietly, peacefully, this can be done. Nor fire, nor
+sword bring I: only this I say: Will and do; resolve
+and act upon your resolution. The emigration of
+the mind before the revolution of the state, my Brothers.
+The soul must be free, and the mind, before
+one has a right to be a member of a free Government,
+before one can justly enjoy his rights and perform his
+duties as a subject. But a voting slave, O my Brothers,
+is the pitifulest spectacle under the sun. And remember
+that neither the Dastur, nor the Unionists, nor
+the Press, can give you this spiritual freedom, if you do
+not awake and emigrate. Come up to the highlands:
+here is a patrimony for each of you; here are vineyards
+to cultivate. Leave the thistle-fields and marshes behind;
+regret nothing. Come out of the superstitions
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_291' name='page_291'></a>291</span>
+of the sheikhs and ulema; of the barren mazes of the
+sufis; of the deadly swamps of theolougues and priests:
+emigrate! Every one of us should be a Niazi in this
+moral struggle, an Enver in this spiritual revolution.
+A little will-power, a little heroism, added to those virtues
+I have named, the solid virtues of our ancestors,
+and the Orient will no longer be an object of scorn
+and gain to commercial Europe. We shall then stand
+on an equal footing with the Europeans. Ay, with the
+legacy of science which we shall learn to invest, and
+with our spirituality divested of its cobwebs, and purified,
+we shall stand even higher than the Americans
+and Europeans.&#8221;&ndash;&ndash;</p>
+<p>On the following day Damascus was simmering
+with excitement&ndash;&ndash;Damascus, the stronghold of the
+ulema&ndash;&ndash;the learned fanatics&ndash;&ndash;whom Khalid has
+lightly pinched. But they scarcely felt it; they could
+not believe it. Now, the gentry of Islam, the sheikhs
+and ulema, would hear this lack-beard dervish, as he
+was called. But they disdain to stand with the rabble
+in the Midan or congregate with the <i>Mutafarnejin</i>
+(Europeanised) in the public Halls. Nowhere but
+at the Mosque, therefore, can they hear what this
+Khalid has to say. This was accordingly decided
+upon, and, being approved by all parties concerned,&ndash;&ndash;the
+Mufti, the Vali, the Deputies of the Holy Society
+and the speaker,&ndash;&ndash;a day was set for the great address
+at the great Mosque of Omaiyah.</p>
+<p>Meanwhile, the blatant Officer, the wheedling
+Politician, and the lack-beard Dervish, are feasted by
+the personages and functionaries of Damascus. The
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_292' name='page_292'></a>292</span>
+Vali, the Mufti, Abdallah Pasha,&ndash;&ndash;he who owns
+more than two score villages and has more than five
+thousand braves at his beck and call,&ndash;&ndash;these, and
+others of less standing, vie with each other in honouring
+the distinguished visitors. And after the banqueting,
+while Ahmed Bey retires to a private room
+with his host to discuss the political situation, Khalid,
+to escape the torturing curiosity of the bores and
+quidnuncs of the evening, goes out to the open court,
+and under an orange tree, around the gurgling fountain,
+breathes again of quietude and peace. Nay,
+breathes deeply of the heavy perfume of the white
+jasmines of his country, while musing of the scarlet
+salvias of a distant land.</p>
+<p>And what if the salvia, as by a miracle, blossoms
+on the jasmine? What if the former stifles the latter?
+Indeed, one can escape boredom, but not love.
+One can flee the quidnuncs of the salon, but not the
+questioning perplexity of one&#8217;s heart. A truce now
+to ambiguities.</p>
+<p>&#8217;Tis high time that we give a brief account of what
+took place after Khalid took leave of Mrs. Gotfry.
+Many &#8220;devilish mischances&#8221; have since then conspired
+against Khalid&#8217;s peace of mind. For when
+they were leaving Beirut, only a few minutes before
+the train started, Mrs. Gotfry, who was also going to
+Damascus, steps into the same carriage, which he and
+his companions occupied: mischance first. Arriving
+in Damascus they both stay at the same Hotel: mischance
+second. At table this time he occupies the seat
+next to hers, and once, rising simultaneously, their
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_293' name='page_293'></a>293</span>
+limbs touch: mischance third. And the last and
+worst, when he retires to his room, he finds that her
+own is in the same side-hall opposite to his. Now, who
+could have ordered it thus, of all the earthly powers?
+And who can say what so many mischances might not
+produce? True, a thousand thistles do not make a
+rose; but with destiny this logic does not hold. For
+every new mischance makes us forget the one preceding;
+and the last and worst is bound to be the harbinger
+of good fortune. Yes, every people, we
+imagine, has its aphorisms on the subject: Distress is
+the key of relief, says the Arabic proverb; The strait
+leads to the plain, says the Chinese; The darkest hour
+is nearest the dawn, says the English.</p>
+<p>But we must not make any stipulations with time,
+or trust in aphorisms. We do not know what Mrs.
+Gotfry&#8217;s ideas are on the subject. Nor can we say
+how she felt in the face of these strange coincidences.
+In her religious heart, might there not be some shadow
+of an ancient superstition, some mystical, instinctive
+strain, in which the preternatural is resolved? That
+is a question which neither our Scribe nor his Master
+will help us to answer. And we, having been faithful
+so far in the discharge of our editorial duty, can
+not at this juncture afford to fabricate.</p>
+<p>We know, however, that the Priestess of Buhaism
+and the beardless, long-haired Dervish have many a
+conversation together: in the train, in the Hotel, in
+the parks and groves of Damascus, they tap their
+hearts and minds, and drink of each other&#8217;s wine of
+thought and fancy.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294' name='page_294'></a>294</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;I first mistook you for a Mohammedan,&#8221; she said
+to him once; and he assured her that she was not mistaken.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Then, you are not a Christian?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;I am a Christian, <ins class="trchange" title="Added closing double-quote">too.&#8221;</ins></p>
+<p>And he relates of the Buha when he was on trial
+in Rhodes. &#8220;Of what religion are you,&#8221; asks the
+Judge. &#8220;I am neither a Camel-driver nor a Carpenter,&#8221;
+replies the Buha, alluding thereby to Mohammad
+and Christ. &#8220;If you ask me the same question,&#8221;
+Khalid continues&ndash;&ndash;&#8220;but I see you are uncomfortable.&#8221;
+And he takes up the cushion which had fallen
+behind the divan, and places it under her arm. He
+then lights a cigarette and holds it up to her inquiringly.
+Yes? He, therefore, lights another for himself,
+and continues. &#8220;If you ask me the same question
+that was asked the Buha, I would not hesitate in
+saying that I am both a Camel-driver and Carpenter.
+I might also be a Buhaist in a certain sense. I renounce
+falsehood, whatsoever be the guise it assumes;
+and I embrace truth, wheresoever I find it. Indeed,
+every religion is good and true, if it serves the high
+purpose of its founder. And they are false, all of
+them, when they serve the low purpose of their high
+priests. Take the lowest of the Arab tribes, for instance,
+and you will find in their truculent spirit a
+strain of faith sublime, though it is only evinced at
+times. The Beduins, rovers and raveners, manslayers
+and thieves, are in their house of moe-hair the kindest
+hosts, the noblest and most generous of men.
+They receive the wayfarer, though he be an enemy,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295' name='page_295'></a>295</span>
+and he eats and drinks and sleeps with them under
+the same root, in the assurance of Allah. If a religion
+makes a savage so good, so kind, it has well
+served its purpose. As for me, I admire the grand
+passion in both the Camel-driver and the Carpenter:
+the barbaric grandeur, the magnanimity and fidelity
+of the Arab as well as the sublime spirituality, the
+divine beauty, of the Nazarene, I deeply reverence.
+And in one sense, the one is the complement of the
+other: the two combined are <i>my</i> ideal of a Divinity.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And now we descend from the chariot of the
+empyrean where we are riding with gods and apostles,
+and enter into one drawn by mortal coursers. We go
+out for a drive, and alight from the carriage in the
+poplar grove, to meander in its shades, along its streams.
+But digressing from one path into another, we enter
+unaware the eternal vista of love. There, on a
+boulder washed by the murmuring current, in the
+shade of the silver-tufted poplars, Khalid and Mrs.
+Gotfry sit down for a rest.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Everything in life must always resolve itself into
+love,&#8221; said Khalid, as he stood on the rock holding out
+his hand to his friend. &#8220;Love is the divine solvent.
+Love is the splendour of God.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Mrs. Gotfry paused at the last words. She was
+startled by this image. Love, the splendour of God?
+Why, the Bab, the Buha, is the splendour of God.
+Buha mean splendour. The Buha, therefore, is love.
+Love is the new religion. It is the old religion, the
+eternal religion, the only religion. How came he by
+this, this young Syrian? Would he rival the Buha?
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_296' name='page_296'></a>296</span>
+Rise above him? They are of kindred races&ndash;&ndash;their
+ancestors, too, may be mine. Love the splendour of
+God&ndash;&ndash;God the splendour of Love. Have I been
+all along fooling myself? Did I not know my own
+heart?</p>
+<p>These, and more such, passed through Mrs. Gotfry&#8217;s
+mind, as shuttles through a loom, while Khalid
+was helping her up to her seat on the boulder, which
+is washed by the murmuring current.</p>
+<p>&#8220;If life were such a rock under our feet,&#8221; said he,
+pressing his lips upon her hand, &#8220;the divine currents
+around it will melt it, soon or late, into love.&#8221;</p>
+<p>They light cigarettes. A fresh breeze is blowing
+from the city. It is following them with the perfume
+of its gardens. The falling leaves are whispering
+in the grove to the swaying boughs. The narcissus
+is nodding to the myrtle across the way. And
+the bulbuls are pouring their golden splendour of
+song. Khalid speaks.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Beauty either detains, repels, or enchants. The
+first is purely external, linear; the second is an imitation
+of the first, its artistic artificial ideal, so to speak;
+and the third&#8221;&ndash;&ndash;He is silent. His eyes, gazing into
+hers, take up the cue.</p>
+<p>Mrs. Gotfry turns from him exhausted. She looks
+into the water.</p>
+<p>&#8220;See the rose-beds in the stream; see the lovely
+pebbles dancing around them.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;I can see everything in your eyes, which are like
+limpid lakes shaded with weeping-willows. I can
+even hear bulbuls singing in your brows.&ndash;&ndash;Turn not
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297' name='page_297'></a>297</span>
+from me your eyes. They reflect the pearls of your
+soul and the flowers of your body, even as those
+crystal waters reflect the pebbles and rose-beds beneath.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Did you not say that love is the splendour of
+God?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Yes.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Then, why look for it in my eyes?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And why look for it in the heart of the heavens,
+in the depths of the sea&ndash;&ndash;in the infinities of everything
+that is beautiful and terrible&ndash;&ndash;in the breath
+of that little flower, in the song of the bulbul, in the
+whispers of your silken lashes, in&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Shut your eyes, Khalid; be more spiritual.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;With my eyes open I see but one face; with my
+eyes closed I see a million faces: they are all yours.
+And they are loving, and sweet, and kind. But I am
+content with one, with the carnate symbol of them,
+with you, and though you be cold and cruel. The
+divine splendour is here, and here and here&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Why, your ardour is exhausting.&#8221;</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>But on their way back to the Hotel, Khalid gives
+her this from Swedenborg: &#8220;&#8216;Do you love me&#8217; means
+&#8216;do you see the same truth that I see?&#8217;&#8221;</p>
+<p>There is no use. Khalid is impossible.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_298' name='page_298'></a>298</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_VII_A_DREAM_OF_EMPIRE' id='CHAPTER_VII_A_DREAM_OF_EMPIRE'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2>
+<h3>A DREAM OF EMPIRE</h3>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;I&#8217;m not starving for pleasure,&#8221; Khalid once said
+to Shakib; &#8220;nor for the light free love of an
+exquisite caprice. Those little flowers that bloom and
+wither in the blush of dawn are for the little butterflies.
+The love that endures, give me that. And it
+must be of the deepest divine strain,&ndash;&ndash;as deep and
+divine as maternal love. Man is of Eternity, not of
+Time; and love, the highest attribute of man, must
+be likewise. With me it must endure throughout all
+worlds and immensities; else I would not raise a
+finger for it. Pleasure, Shakib, is for the child within
+us; sexual joy, for the animal; love, for the god.
+That is why I say when you set your seal to the contract,
+be sure it is of the kind which all the gods of
+all the future worlds will raise to their lips in reverence.&#8221;</p>
+<p>But Khalid&#8217;s child-spirit, not to say childishness, is
+not, as he would have us believe, a thing of the past.
+Nor are the animal and the god within him always
+agreed as to what is and what is not a love divine and
+eternal. In New York, to be sure, he often brushed
+his wings against those flowerets that &#8220;bloom and
+wither in the blush of dawn.&#8221; And he was not a
+little pleased to find that the dust which gathers on
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_299' name='page_299'></a>299</span>
+the wings adds a charm to the colouring of life. But
+how false and trivial it was, after all. The gold dust
+and the dust of the road, could they withstand a drop
+of rain? A love dust-deep, as it were, close to the
+earth; too mean and pitiful to be carried by the storm
+over terrible abysses to glorious heights. A love, in
+a word, without pain, that is to say impure. In
+Baalbek, on the other hand, he drank deep of the pain,
+but not of the joy, of love. He and his cousin
+Najma had just lit in the shrine of Venus the candles
+of the altar of the Virgin, when a villainous hand that
+of Jesuitry, issuing from the darkness, clapped over
+them the snuffer and carried his Happiness off. Here
+was a love divine, the promised bliss of which was
+snatched away from him.</p>
+<p>And now in Damascus, he feels, for the first time,
+the exquisite pain and joy of a love which he can not
+yet fathom; a love, which like the storm, is carrying
+him over terrible abysses to unknown heights. The
+bitter sting of a Nay he never felt so keenly before.
+The sleep-stifling torture and joy of suspense he did
+not fully experience until now. But if he can not
+sleep, he will work. He has but a few days to prepare
+his address. He can not be too careful of what
+he says, and how he says it. To speak at the great
+Mosque of Omaiyah is a great privilege. A word
+uttered there will reach the furthermost parts of the
+Mohammedan world. Moreover, all the ulema and
+all the heavy-turbaned fanatics will be there.</p>
+<p>But he can not even work. On the table before
+him is a pile of newspapers from all parts of Syria
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_300' name='page_300'></a>300</span>
+and Egypt&ndash;&ndash;even from India&ndash;&ndash;and all simmering,
+as it were, with Khalid&#8217;s name, and Khalidism, and
+Khalid scandals. He is hailed by some, assailed by
+others; glorified and vilified in tawdry rhyme and
+ponderous prose by Christians and Mohammedans
+alike. &#8220;Our new Muhdi,&#8221; wrote an Egyptian wit
+(one of those pallid prosers we once met in the
+hasheesh dens, no doubt), &#8220;our new Muhdi has
+added to his hareem an American beauty with an
+Oriental leg.&#8221;</p>
+<p>What he meant by this only the hasheesh smokers
+know. &#8220;An instrument in the hands of some
+American speculators, who would build sky-scrapers
+on the ruins of our mosques,&#8221; wrote another.
+&#8220;A lever with which England is undermining Al-Islam,&#8221;
+cried a voice in India. &#8220;A base one in the
+service of some European coalition, who, under the
+pretext of preaching the spiritualities, is undoing the
+work of the Revolution. The gibbet is for ordinary
+traitors; for him the stake,&#8221; etc., etc.</p>
+<p>On the other hand, he is hailed as the expected
+one,&ndash;&ndash;the true leader, the real emancipator,&ndash;&ndash;&#8220;who
+has in him the soul of the East and the mind of the
+West, the builder of a great Asiatic Empire.&#8221; Of
+course, the foolish Damascene editor who wrote this
+had to flee the country the following day. But
+Khalid&#8217;s eyes lingered on that line. He read it and
+reread it over and over again&ndash;&ndash;forward and backward,
+too. He juggled, so to speak, with its words.</p>
+<p>How often people put us, though unwittingly, on
+the path we are seeking, he thought. How often
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_301' name='page_301'></a>301</span>
+does a chance word uttered by a stranger reveal to us
+our deepest aims and purposes.</p>
+<p>Before him was ink and paper. He took up the
+pen. But after scrawling and scribbling for ten
+minutes, the sheet was filled with circles and arabesques,
+and the one single word Dowla (Empire).</p>
+<p>He could not think: he could only dream. The
+soul of the East&ndash;&ndash;The mind of the West&ndash;&ndash;the
+builder of a great Empire. The triumph of the Idea,
+the realisation of a great dream: the rise of a great
+race who has fallen on evil days; the renaissance of
+Arabia; the reclaiming of her land; the resuscitation
+of her glory;&ndash;&ndash;and why not? especially if backed
+with American millions and the love of a great
+woman. He is enraptured. He can neither sleep
+nor think: he can but dream. He puts on his jubbah,
+refills his cigarette box, and walks out of his room.
+He paces up and down the hall, crowning his dream
+with wreaths of smoke. But the dim lights seemed
+to be ogling each other and smiling, as he passed.
+The clocks seemed to be casting pebbles at him. The
+silence horrified him. He pauses before a door. He
+knocks&ndash;&ndash;knocks again.</p>
+<p>The occupant of that room was not yet asleep. In
+fact, she, too, could not sleep. The clock in the hall
+outside had just struck one, and she was yet reading.
+After inquiring who it was that knocked, she puts on
+a kimono and opens the door. She is surprised.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Anything the matter with you?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;No; but I can not sleep.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;That is amusing. And do you take me for a
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_302' name='page_302'></a>302</span>
+soporific? If you think you can sleep here, stretch
+yourself on the couch and try.&#8221; Saying which, she
+laughed and hurried back to her bed.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I did not come to sleep.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;What then? How lovely of you to wake me up
+so early.&ndash;&ndash;No, no; don&#8217;t apologise. For truly, I
+too, could not sleep. You see, I was still reading.
+Sit on the couch there and talk to me.&ndash;&ndash;Of course,
+you may smoke.&ndash;&ndash;No, I prefer to sit in bed.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Khalid lights another cigarette and sits down. On
+the table before him are some antique colour prints
+which Mrs. Gotfry had bought in the Bazaar. These
+one can only get in Damascus. And&ndash;&ndash;strange coincidence!&ndash;&ndash;they
+represented some of the heroes of
+Arabia&ndash;&ndash;Antar, Ali, Saladin, Har&ucirc;n ar-Rashid&ndash;&ndash;done
+in gorgeous colouring, and in that deliciously
+ludicrous angular style which is neither Arabic nor
+Egyptian, but a combination perhaps of both. Khalid
+reads the poetry under each of them and translates
+it into English. Mrs. Gotfry is charmed. Khalid
+is lost in thought. He lays the picture of Saladin on
+the table, lights another cigarette, looks intently upon
+his friend, his face beaming with his dream.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Jamilah.&#8221; It was the first time he called her by
+her first name&ndash;&ndash;an Arabic name which, as a Bahaist
+she had adopted. And she was neither surprised nor
+displeased.</p>
+<p>&#8220;We need another Saladin to-day,&ndash;&ndash;a Saladin of
+the Idea, who will wage a crusade, not against
+Christianity or Mohammedanism, but against those
+Tataric usurpers who are now toadying to both.&#8221;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_303' name='page_303'></a>303</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;Whom do you mean?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;I mean the Turks. They were given a last
+chance to rise; they tried and failed. They can not
+rise. They are demoralised; they have no stamina,
+no character; no inborn love for truth and art; no
+instinctive or acquired sense of right and justice.
+Whiskey and debauch and high-sounding inanities
+about fraternity and equality can not regenerate an
+Empire. The Turk must go: he will go. But out
+in those deserts is a race which is always young, a race
+that never withers; a strong, healthy, keen-eyed,
+quick-witted race; a fighting, fanatical race; a race
+that gave Europe a civilisation, that gave the world
+a religion; a race with a past as glorious as Rome&#8217;s;
+and with a future, too, if we had an Ali or a Saladin.
+But He who made those heroes will make others like
+them, better, too. He may have made one already,
+and that one may be wandering now in the desert.
+Now think what can be done in Arabia, think what
+the Arabs can accomplish, if American arms and an
+up-to-date Kor&acirc;n are spread broadcast among them.
+With my words and your love and influence, with our
+powers united, we can build an Arab Empire, we can
+resuscitate the Arab Empire of the past. Abd&#8217;ul-Wahhab,
+you know, is the Luther of Arabia; and
+Wahhabism is not dead. It is only slumbering in
+Nejd. We will wake it; arm it; infuse into it the
+living spirit of the Idea. We will begin by building
+a plant for the manufacture of arms on the shore of
+the Euphrates, and a University in Yaman. The
+Turk must go&ndash;&ndash;at least out of Arabia. And the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_304' name='page_304'></a>304</span>
+Turk in Europe, Europe will look after. No; the
+Arab will never be virtually conquered. Nominally,
+maybe. And I doubt if any of the European Powers
+can do it. Why? Chiefly because Arabia has a
+Prophet. She produced one and she will produce
+more. Cannons can destroy Empires; but only the
+living voice, the inspired voice can build them.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Mrs. Gotfry is silent. In Khalid&#8217;s vagaries is a
+big idea, which she can not wholly grasp. And she
+is moreover devoted to another cause&ndash;&ndash;the light of
+the world&ndash;&ndash;the splendour of God&ndash;&ndash;Buhaism. But
+why not spread it in Arabia as in America? She will
+talk to Ebbas Effendi about Khalid. He is young,
+eloquent, rising to power. And with her love, and
+influence superadded, what might he not do? what
+might he not accomplish? These ideas flashed
+through her mind, while Khalid was pacing up and
+down the room, which was already filled with smoke.
+She is absorbed in thought. Khalid comes near her
+bed, bends over her, and buries his face in her wealth
+of black hair.</p>
+<p>Mrs. Gotfry is startled as from a dream.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I can not see all that you see.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Then you do not love me.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Why do you say that? Here, now go sit down.
+Oh, I am suffocating. The smoke is so thick in the
+room I can scarcely see you. And it is so late.&ndash;&ndash;No,
+no. Give me time to think on the subject. Now,
+come.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And Mrs. Gotfry opens the door and the window
+to let out Khalid and his smoke.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_305' name='page_305'></a>305</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;Go, Khalid, and try to sleep. And if you can
+not sleep, try to write. And if you can not write,
+read. And if you can neither read nor write nor
+sleep, why, then, put on your shoes and go out for a
+walk. Good night. There. Good night. But don&#8217;t
+forget, we must visit Sheikh Taleb to-morrow.&#8221;</p>
+<p>The astute Mrs. Gotfry might have added, And if
+you do not feel like walking, take a dip in the River
+Barada. But in her words, to be sure, were a
+douche cold enough for Khalid. Now, to be just and
+comprehensive in our History we must record here
+that she, too, did not, and could not sleep that night.
+The thought that Khalid would make a good apostle
+of Buhaism and incidentally a good companion, insinuated
+itself between the lines on every page of the
+book she was trying to read.</p>
+<p>On the following day they visit Sheikh Taleb, who
+is introduced to us by Shakib in these words:</p>
+<p>&#8220;A Muslem, like Socrates, who educates not by lesson,
+but by going about his business. He seldom deigns
+to write; and yet, his words are quoted by every writer
+of the day, and on every subject sacred and profane.
+His good is truly magnetic. He is a man who lives
+after his own mind and in his own robes; an Arab
+who prays after no Imam, but directly to Allah and
+his Apostle; a scholar who has more dryasdust knowledge
+on his finger ends than all the ulema of Cairo
+and Damascus; a philosopher who would not give an
+orange peel for the opinion of the world; an ascetic
+who flees celebrity as he would the plague; a sage
+who does not disdain to be a pedagogue; an eccentric
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_306' name='page_306'></a>306</span>
+withal to amuse even a Diogenes:&ndash;&ndash;this is the noted
+Sheikh Taleb of Damascus, whom Mrs. Gotfry once
+met at Ebbas Effendy&#8217;s in Akka, and whom she was
+desirous of meeting again. When we first went to
+visit him, this charming lady and Khalid and I, we
+had to knock at the door until his neighbour peered
+from one of the windows above and told us that the
+Sheikh is asleep, and that if we would see him, we
+must come in the evening. I learned afterwards that
+he, reversing the habitual practice of mankind, works
+at night and sleeps during the day.</p>
+<p>&#8220;We return in the evening. And the Sheikh, with
+a lamp in his hand, peers through a small square opening
+in the door to see who is knocking. He knew
+neither Khalid nor myself; but Mrs. Gotfry&ndash;&ndash;&#8216;Eigh!&#8217;
+he mused. And as he beheld her face in
+the lamplight he exclaimed &#8216;Marhaba (welcome)!
+Marhaba!&#8217; and hastened to unbolt the door. We
+are shown through a dark, narrow hall, into a small
+court, up to his study. Which is a three-walled
+room&ndash;&ndash;a sort of stage&ndash;&ndash;opening on the court, and
+innocent of a divan or a settle or a chair. While he
+and Mrs. Gotfry were exchanging greetings in Persian,
+I was wondering why in Damascus, the city of
+seven rivers and of poetry and song, should there be a
+court guilty like this one of a dry and dilapidated
+fountain. I learned afterwards, however, that the
+Sheikh can not tolerate the noise of the water; and
+so, suffering from thirst and neglect, the fountain
+goes to ruin.</p>
+<p>&#8220;On the stage, which is the study, is a clutter of
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_307' name='page_307'></a>307</span>
+old books and pamphlets; in the corner is the usual
+straw mat, a cushion, and a sort of stool on which
+are ink and paper. This he clears, places the cushion
+upon it, and offers to Mrs. Gotfry; he himself sits
+down on the mat; and we are invited to arrange for
+ourselves some books. Indeed, the Sheikh is right;
+most of these tomes are good for nothing else.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Mrs. Gotfry introduces us.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;Ah, but thou art young and short of stature,&#8217; said
+he to Khalid; &#8216;that is ominous. Verily, there is
+danger in thy path.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;But he will embrace Buhaism,&#8217; put in Mrs. Gotfry.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;That might save him. Buhaism is the old torch,
+relighted after many centuries, by Allah.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Meanwhile Khalid was thinking of second-hand
+Jerry of the second-hand book-shop of New York.
+The Sheikh reminded him of his old friend.</p>
+<p>&#8220;And I was holding in my hand a book on which
+I chanced while arranging my seat. It was Debrett&#8217;s
+Baronetage, Knightage, and Companionage. How did
+such a book find its way into the Sheikh&#8217;s rubbish,
+I wondered. But birds of a feather, thought I.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;That book was sent to me,&#8217; said he, &#8216;by a merchant
+friend, who found it in the Bazaar. They send
+me all kinds of books, these simple of heart. They
+think I can read in all languages and discourse on all
+subjects. Allah forgive them.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And when I tell him, in reply to his inquiry, that
+the book treats of Titles, Orders, and Degrees of Precedence,
+he utters a sharp whew, and with a quick
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_308' name='page_308'></a>308</span>
+gesture of weariness and disgust, tells me to take it.
+&#8216;I have my head full of our own ansab (pedigrees),&#8217;
+he adds, &#8216;and I have no more respect for a green turban
+(the colour of the Muslem nobility) than I have
+for this one,&#8217; pointing to his, which is white.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Mrs. Gotfry then asks the Sheikh what he thinks
+of Wahhabism.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;It is Islam in its pristine purity; it is the Islam
+of the first great Khalifs. &#8220;Mohammed is dead; but
+Allah lives,&#8221; said Abu Bekr to the people on the death
+of the Prophet. And Wahhabism is a direct telegraph
+wire between mortal man and his God.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;But why should these Wahhabis of Nejd be the
+most fanatical, when their doctrines are the most
+pure?&#8217; asked Khalid.</p>
+<p>&#8220;&#8216;In thy question is the answer to it. They are
+fanatical <i>because</i> of their purity of doctrine, and
+withal because they live in Nejd. If there were a
+Wahhabi sect in Barr&#8217;ush-Sham (Syria), it would not
+be thus, assure thee.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;And expressing his liking for Khalid, he advises
+him to be careful of his utterances in Damascus, if he
+believes in self-preservation. &#8216;I am old,&#8217; he continues;
+&#8216;and the ulema do not think my flesh is good
+for sacrifice. But thou art young, and plump&ndash;&ndash;a
+tender yearling&ndash;&ndash;ah, be careful sheikh Khalid.
+Then, I do not talk to the people direct. I talk to
+them through holy men and dervishes. The people
+do not believe in a philosopher; but the holy man, and
+though he attack the most sacred precepts of the
+Faith, they will believe. And Damascus is the very
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_309' name='page_309'></a>309</span>
+hive of turbans, green and otherwise. So guard thee,
+my child.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Mrs. Gotfry then asks for a minute&#8217;s privacy with
+the Sheikh. And before he withdraws with her to the
+court, he searches through a heap of mouldy tomes,
+draws from beneath them a few yellow pamphlets on
+the Comparative Study of the Semetic Alphabets and
+on The Rights of the Khalifate&ndash;&ndash;such is the scope of
+his learning&ndash;&ndash;and dusting these on his knee, presents
+them to us, saying, &#8216;Judge us not severely.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;This does not mean that he cares much if we do
+or not. But in our country, in the Orient, even a
+Diogenes does not disdain to handle the coin of affability.
+We are always meekly asked, even by the most
+supercilious, to overlook shortcomings, and condone.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I could not in passing out, however, overlook
+the string of orange peels which hung on a pole in the
+court. Nor am I sensible of an indecorum if I give
+out that the Sheikh lives on oranges, and preserves
+the peels for kindling the fire. And this, his only
+article of food, he buys at wholesale, like his robes
+and undergarments. For he never changes or washes
+anything. A robe is worn continually, worn out in
+the run, and discarded. He no more believes in the
+efficacy of soap than in the efficacy of a good reputation.
+&#8216;The good opinion of men,&#8217; he says, &#8216;does not
+wash our hearts and minds. And if these be clean,
+all&#8217;s clean.&#8217;</p>
+<p>&#8220;That is why, I think, he struck once with his staff
+a journalist for inserting in his paper a laudatory notice
+on the Sheikh&#8217;s system of living and thinking and
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_310' name='page_310'></a>310</span>
+speaking of him as &#8216;a deep ocean of learning and wisdom.&#8217;
+Even in travelling he carries nothing with
+him but his staff, that he might the quicker flee, or
+put to flight, the vulgar curious. He puts on a few
+extra robes, when he is going on a journey, and in
+time, becoming threadbare, sheds them off as the serpent
+its skin....&#8221;</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>And we pity our Scribe if he ever goes back to
+Damascus after this, and the good Sheikh chances upon
+him.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_311' name='page_311'></a>311</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_VIII_ADUMBRATIONS' id='CHAPTER_VIII_ADUMBRATIONS'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
+<h3>ADUMBRATIONS</h3>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;In the morning of the eventful day,&#8221; it is set
+forth in the <i>Histoire Intime</i>, &#8220;I was in Khalid&#8217;s
+room writing a letter, when Ahmed Bey comes
+in to confer with him. They remain together for
+some while during which I could hear Khalid growl
+and Ahmed Bey gently whispering, &#8216;But the Dastur,
+the Unionists, Mother Society,&#8217;&ndash;&ndash;this being the burden
+of his song. When he leaves, Khalid, with a
+scowl on his brow, paces up and down the room,
+saying, &#8216;They would treat me like a school boy; they
+would have me speak by rule, and according to their
+own dictation. They even espy my words and actions
+as if I were an enemy of the Constitution. No;
+let them find another. The servile spouters in the
+land are as plenty as summer flies. After I deliver
+my address to-day, Shakib, we will take the first train
+for Baalbek. I want to see my mother. No, billah!
+I can not go any further with these Turks.
+Why, read this.&#8217; And he hands me the memorandum,
+or outline of the speech given to him by Ahmed
+Bey.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And this, we learn, is a litany of praises, beginning
+with Abd&#8217;ul-Hamid and ending with the ulema of
+Damascus; which litany the Society Deputies would
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_312' name='page_312'></a>312</span>
+place in the mouth of Khalid for the good of all concerned.
+Ay, for his good, too, if he but knew. If
+he but looked behind him, he would have yielded a
+whit, this Khalid. The deep chasm between him and
+the Deputy, however, justifies the conduct of each on
+his side: the lack of gumption in the one and the lack
+of depth in the other render impossible any sort of
+understanding between them. While we recommend,
+therefore, the prudence of the oleaginous Ahmed, we
+can not with justice condemn the perversity of our
+fretful Khalid. For he who makes loud boast of
+spiritual freedom, is, nevertheless, a slave of the Idea.
+And slavery in some shape or shade will clutch at
+the heart of the most powerful and most developed
+of mortals. Poor Khalid! if Truth commands thee
+to destroy the memorandum of Ahmed Bey, Wisdom
+suggests that thou destroy, too, thine address. And
+Wisdom in the person of Sheikh Taleb now knocks
+at thy door.</p>
+<p>The Sheikh is come to admonish Khalid, not to
+return his visit. For at this hour of the day he
+should have been a-bed; but his esteem for Mrs. Gotfry,
+billah, his love, too, for her friend Khalid, and
+his desire to avert a possible danger, banish sleep from
+his eyes.</p>
+<p>&#8220;My spirit is perturbed about thee,&#8221; thus further,
+&#8220;and I can not feel at ease until I have given my
+friendly counsel. Thou art free to follow it or not
+to follow it. But for the sake of this beard Sheikh
+Khalid, do not speak at the Mosque to-day. I know
+the people of this City: they are ignorant, obtuse, fanatical,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_313' name='page_313'></a>313</span>
+blind. &#8216;God hath sealed up their hearts and
+their hearing.&#8217; They will not hear thee; they can not
+understand thee. I know them better than thou: I
+have lived amongst them for forty years. And what
+talk have we wasted. They will not hear; they can
+not see. It&#8217;s a dog&#8217;s tail, Sheikh Khalid. And what
+Allah hath twisted, man can not straighten. So, let
+it be. Let them wallow in their ignorance. Or, if
+thou wilt help them, talk not to them direct. Use
+the medium of the holy man, like myself. This is
+my advice to thee. For thine own sake and for the
+sake of that good woman, thy friend and mine, I give
+it. Now, I can go and sleep. Salaam.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And the grey beard of Sheikh Taleb and his sharp
+blue eyes were animated, as he spoke, agitated like his
+spirit. What he has heard abroad and what he suspects,
+are shadowed forth in his friendly counsel. Let
+Khalid reflect upon it. Our Scribe, at least, is persuaded
+that Sheikh Taleb spoke as a friend. And he,
+too, suspects that something is brewing abroad. He
+would have Khalid hearken, therefore, to the Sheikh.</p>
+<p>But Khalid in silence ponders the matter. And at
+table, even Mrs. Gotfry can not induce him to
+speak. She has just returned from the bazaar;
+she could hardly make her way through the choked
+arcade leading to the Mosque; the crowd is immense
+and tumultuous; and a company of the Dragoons is
+gone forth to open the way and maintain order.
+&#8220;But I don&#8217;t think they are going to succeed,&#8221; she
+added. Silently, impassively, Khalid hears this.
+And after going through the second course, eating as
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_314' name='page_314'></a>314</span>
+if he were dreaming, he gets up and leaves the table.
+Mrs. Gotfry, somewhat concerned, orders her last
+course, takes her thimble-full of coffee at a gulp, and,
+leaving likewise, hurries upstairs and calls Khalid,
+who was pacing up and down the hall, into her room.</p>
+<p>&#8220;What is the matter with you?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Nothing, nothing,&#8221; murmured Khalid absent-mindedly.</p>
+<p>&#8220;That&#8217;s not true. Everything belies your words.
+Why, your actions, your expression, your silence oppresses
+me. I know what is disturbing you. And I
+would prevail upon you, if I could, to give up this
+afternoon&#8217;s business. Don&#8217;t go; don&#8217;t speak. I have
+a premonition that things are not going to end well.
+Why, even my dragoman says that the Mohammedan
+mob is intent upon some evil business. Be advised.
+And since you are going to break with your associates,
+why not do so now. The quicker the better. Come,
+make up your mind. And we&#8217;ll not wait for the
+morning train. We&#8217;ll leave for Baalbek in a special
+carriage this afternoon. What say you?&#8221;</p>
+<p>Just then the brass band in front of the Hotel
+struck up the Dastur march in honour of the Sheikhs
+who come to escort the Unionist Deputies and the
+speaker to the Mosque.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I have made up my mind. I have given my
+word.&#8221;</p>
+<p>And being called, Mrs. Gotfry, though loath to let
+him go, presses his hand and wishes him good speed.</p>
+<p>And here we are in the carriage on the right of the
+green-turbaned Sheikh. We look disdainfully on the
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_315' name='page_315'></a>315</span>
+troops, the brass band, and the crowd of nondescripts
+that are leading the procession. We cross the bridge,
+pass the Town-Hall, and, winding a narrow street
+groaning with an electric tramway, we come to the
+grand arcade in which the multitudes on both sides
+are pressed against the walls and into the stalls by the
+bullying Dragoons. We drive through until we
+reach the arch, where some Khalif of the Omayiahs
+used to take the air. And descending from the carriage,
+we walk a few paces between two rows of book-shops,
+and here we are in the court of the grand
+Mosque Omayiah.</p>
+<p>We elbow our way through the pressing, distressing
+multitudes, following Ahmed Bey into the Mosque,
+while the Army Officer mounts a platform in the
+court and dispenses to the crowd there of his Turkish
+blatherskite. We stand in the Mosque near the heavy
+tapestried square which is said to be the sarcophagus
+of St. John. Already a Sheikh is in the pulpit
+preaching on the excellences of liberty, chopping out
+definitions of equality, and quoting from Al-Hadith
+to prove that all men are Allah&#8217;s children and that
+the most favoured in Allah&#8217;s sight is he who is most
+loving to his brother man. He then winds up with
+an encomium on the heroes of the day, curses
+vehemently the reactionaries and those who curse
+them not (the Mosque resounds with &#8220;Curse the reactionists,
+curse them all!&#8221;), tramples beneath his
+heel every spy and informer of the New Era, invokes
+the great Allah and his Apostle to watch over the
+patriots and friends of the Ottoman nation, to visit
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_316' name='page_316'></a>316</span>
+with grievous punishment its enemies, and&ndash;&ndash;descends.</p>
+<p>The silence of expectation ensues. The Mosque is
+crowded; and the press of turbans is such that if a
+pea were dropt from above it would not reach
+the floor. From the pulpit the great Mohammedan
+audience, with its red fezes, its green and white turbans,
+seemed to Khalid like a verdant field overgrown
+with daisies and poppies. &#8220;It is the beginning of
+Arabia&#8217;s Spring, the resuscitation of the glory of
+Islam,&#8221; and so forth; thus opening with a flourish of
+flattery like the spouting tricksters whom he so
+harshly judges. And what shall we say of him? It
+were not fair quickly to condemn, to cry him down
+at the start. Perhaps he was thus inspired by the
+august assembly; perhaps he quailed and thought it
+wise to follow thus far the advice of his friends. &#8220;It
+was neither this nor that,&#8221; say our Scribe. &#8220;For as
+he stood in the tribune, the picture of the field of
+daisies and poppies suggested the picture of Spring.
+A speaker is not always responsible for the frolics of
+his fancy. Indeed, an audience of some five thousand
+souls, all intent upon this opaque, mysterious Entity in
+the tribune, is bound to reach the very heart of it;
+for think what five thousand rays focussed on a sensitive
+plate can do.&#8221; Thus our Scribe, apologetically.</p>
+<p>But after the first contact and the vibrations of
+enthusiasm and flattery that followed, Khalid regains
+his equilibrium and reason, and strikes into his favourite
+theme. He begins by arraigning the utilitarian
+spirit of Europe, the rank materialism which is invading
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_317' name='page_317'></a>317</span>
+our very temples of worship. God, Truth,
+Virtue, with them, is no longer esteemed for its own
+worth, but for what it can yield of the necessities and
+luxuries of life. And with these cynical materialistic
+abominations they would be supreme even in the East;
+they would extinguish with their dominating spirit of
+trade every noble virtue of the soul. And yet, they
+make presumption of introducing civilisation by benevolent
+assimilation, rather dissimulation. For even
+an Englishman in our country, for instance, is unlike
+himself in his own. The American, too, who is loud-lunged
+about democracy and shirt-sleeve diplomacy,
+wheedles and truckles as good as the wiliest of our
+pashas. And further he exclaims:</p>
+<p>&#8220;Not to Christian Europe as represented by the
+State, therefore, or by the industrial powers of
+wealth, or by the alluring charms of decadence in art
+and literature, or by missionary and educational institutions,
+would I have you turn for light and guidance.
+No: from these plagues of civilisation protect us,
+Allah! No: let us have nothing to do with that practical
+Christianity which is become a sort of divine
+key to Colonisation; a mint, as it were, which continually
+replenishes the treasuries of Christendom.
+Let us have nothing to do with their propagandas for
+the propagation of supreme Fakes. No, no. Not
+this Europe, O my Brothers, should we take for our
+model or emulate: not the Europe which is being dereligionised
+by Material Science; disorganised by
+Communion and Anarchy; befuddled by Alcoholism;
+enervated by Debauch. To another Europe indeed,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_318' name='page_318'></a>318</span>
+would I direct you&ndash;&ndash;a Europe, high, noble, healthy,
+pure, and withal progressive. To the deep and inexhaustible
+sources of genius there, of reason and wisdom
+and truth, would I have you advert the mind.
+The divine idealism of German philosophy, the lofty
+purity of true French art, the strength and sterling
+worth of English freedom,&ndash;&ndash;these we should try to
+emulate; these we should introduce into the gorgeous
+besottedness of Oriental life, and literature, and religion....&#8221;</p>
+<p>And thus, until he reaches the heart of his subject;
+while the field of daisies and poppies before him
+gently sways as under a soft morning breeze; nods, as
+it were, its approbation.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Truly,&#8221; he continues, &#8220;religion is purely a work
+of the heart,&ndash;&ndash;the human heart, and the heart of the
+world as well. For have not the three monotheistic
+religions been born in this very heart of the world,
+in Arabia, Syria, and Palestine? And are not our
+Books of Revelation the truest guides of life hitherto
+known to man? How then are we to keep this Heart
+pure, to free it, in other words, from the plagues I
+have named? And how, on the other hand, are we
+to strengthen it, to quicken its sluggish blood? In a
+word, how are we to attain to the pinnacle of health,
+and religion, and freedom,&ndash;&ndash;of power, and love, and
+light? By political revolutions, and insurrections,
+and Dasturs? By blindly adopting the triple political
+tradition of France, which after many years of
+terror and bloodshed, only gave Europe a new Yoke,
+a new Tyranny, a new grinding Machine? No, my
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_319' name='page_319'></a>319</span>
+Brothers; not by political nomenclature, not by political
+revolutions alone, shall the nations be emancipated.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Whereupon Ahmed Bey begins to knit his brows;
+Shakib shakes his head, biting his nether lip; and here
+and there in the audience is heard a murmur about retrogression
+and reaction. Khalid proceeds with his
+allegory of the Muleteer and the Pack-Mule.</p>
+<p>&#8220;See, the panel of the Mule is changed; the load,
+too; and a few short-cuts are made in the rocky winding
+road of statecraft and tyranny. Ah, the stolid,
+patient, drudging Mule always exults in a new Panel,
+which, indeed, seems necessary every decade, or so.
+For the old one, when, from a sense of economy, or
+from negligence or stupidity, is kept on for a length
+of time, makes the back sore, and the Mule becomes
+kickish and resty. Hence, the plasters of conservative
+homeopathists, the operations suggested by political
+leeches, the radical cures of social quacks, and such
+like. But the Mule continues to kick against the
+pricks; and the wise Muleteer, these days, when he
+has not the price of a new Panel, or knows not how
+to make one, sells him to the first bidder. And the
+new owner thereupon washes the sores and wounds,
+applies to them a salve of the patent kind, buys his
+Mule a new Panel, and makes him do the work.
+That is what I understand by a political revolution....
+And are the Ottoman people free to-day?
+Who in all Syria and Arabia dare openly criticise the
+new Owner of the Mule?</p>
+<p>&#8220;Ours in a sense is a theocratic Government. And
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_320' name='page_320'></a>320</span>
+only by reforming the religion on which it is based,
+is political reform in any way possible and enduring.&#8221;
+And here he argues that the so-called Reformation of
+Islam, of which Jelal ud-D&iuml;n el-Afghani and Mohammed
+Abdu are the protagonists, is false. It is based on
+theological juggling and traditional sophisms. Their
+Al-Gazzali, whom they so much prize and quote, is
+like the St. Augustine of the Christians: each of these
+theologians finds in his own Book of Revelation a
+divine criterion for measuring and judging all human
+knowledge. No; a scientific truth can not be
+measured by a Kor&acirc;nic epigram: the Kor&acirc;n, a divine
+guide to life; a work of the heart should not attempt
+to judge a work of the mind or should be judged
+by it.</p>
+<p>&#8220;But I would brush the cobwebs of interpretation
+and sophism from this Work of the heart,&#8221; he cries;
+&#8220;every spider&#8217;s web in the Mosque, I would sweep
+away. The garments of your religion, I would have
+you clean, O my Brothers. Ay, even the threadbare
+adventitious wrappages, I would throw away. From
+the religiosity and cant of to-day I call you back to
+the religion pure of the heart....&#8221;</p>
+<p>But the Field of poppies and daisies begins to sway
+as under a gale. It is swelling violently, tumultuously.</p>
+<p>&#8220;I would free al-Islam,&#8221; he continues, &#8220;from its
+degrading customs, its stupefying traditions, its enslaving
+superstitions, its imbruting cants.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Here several voices in the audience order the
+speaker to stop. &#8220;Innovation! Infidelity!&#8221; they cry.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_321' name='page_321'></a>321</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;The yearly pestiferous consequences of the Haji&#8221;&ndash;&ndash;But
+Khalid no longer can be heard. On all sides
+zealotry raises and shakes a protesting hand; on all
+sides it shrieks, objurgating, threatening. Here it
+asks, &#8220;We would like to know if the speaker be a
+Wahhabi.&#8221; From another part of the Mosque comes
+the reply: &#8220;Ay, he is a Wahhabi.&#8221; And the voice
+of the speaker thundering above the storm: &#8220;Only in
+Wahhabism pure and simple is the reformation of al-Islam
+possible.&#8221;... Finis.</p>
+<p>Zealotry is set by the ear; the hornet&#8217;s nest is
+stirred. Your field of poppies and daisies, O Khalid,
+is miraculously transformed into a pit of furious grey
+spectres and howling red spirits. And still you wait
+in the tribune until the storm subside? Fool, fool!
+Art now in a civilised assembly? Hast thou no eyes
+to see, no ears to hear?</p>
+<p>&#8220;Reactionist! Infidel! Innovator! Wahhabi!
+Slay him! Kill him!&#8221;&ndash;&ndash;Are these likely to subside
+the while thou wait? By the tomb of St.
+John there, get thee down, and quickly. Bravo,
+Shakib!&ndash;&ndash;He rushes to the tribune, drags him down
+by the jubbah, and, with the help of another friend,
+hustles him out of the Mosque. But the thirst for
+blood pursues them. And Khalid receives in the
+court outside a stiletto-thrust in the back and a slash
+in the forehead above the brow down to the ear.
+Which, indeed, we consider a part of his good fortune.
+Like the muleteer of his Lebanon tour, we
+attribute his escape with two wounds to the prayers
+of his good mother. For he is now in the carriage
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_322' name='page_322'></a>322</span>
+with Shakib, the blood streaming down his back and
+over his face. With difficulty the driver makes his
+way through the crowds, issues out of the arcade, and&ndash;&ndash;crack
+the whip! Quickly to the Hotel.</p>
+<p>The multitudes behind us, both inside and outside
+the Mosque, are violently divided; for the real reactionists
+of Damascus, those who are hostile to the
+Constitution and the statochratic Government, are
+always watching for an opportunity to give the match
+to the dry sedges of sedition. And so, the liberals,
+who are also the friends of Khalid, and the fanatical
+mobs of the ulema, will have it out among themselves.
+They call each other reactionists, plotters, conspirators;
+and thereupon the bludgeons and poniards are
+brandished; the pistols here and there are fired; the
+Dragoons hasten to the scene of battle&ndash;&ndash;but we are
+not writing now the History of the Ottoman Revolution.
+We leave them to have it out among themselves
+as best they can, and accompany our Khalid to
+the Hotel.</p>
+<p>Here the good Mrs. Gotfry washes the blood from
+his face, and Shakib, after helping him to bed, hastens
+to call the surgeon, who, having come straightway,
+sews and dresses the wounds and assures us that they
+are not dangerous. In the evening a number of
+Sheikhs of an enlightened and generous strain, come
+to inquire about him. They tell us that one of the
+assailants of Khalid, a noted brigand, and ten of the
+reactionists, are now in prison. The Society Deputies,
+however, do not seem much concerned about their
+wounded friend. Yes, they are concerned, but in
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_323' name='page_323'></a>323</span>
+another direction and on weightier matters. For the
+telegraph wires on the following day were kept busy.
+And in the afternoon of the second day after the
+event, the man who helped Shakib to save Khalid from
+the mob, comes to save Khalid&#8217;s life. The Superintendent
+of the Telegraph himself is here to inform us
+that Khalid was accused to the Military Tribunal as
+a reactionist, and a cablegram, in which he is summoned
+there, is just received.</p>
+<p>&#8220;Had I delivered this to the Vali,&#8221; he continues,
+&#8220;you would have been now in the hands of the police,
+and to-morrow on your way to Constantinople. But
+I shall not deliver it until you are safe out of the
+City. And you must fly or abscond to-day, because I
+can not delay the message until to-morrow.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Now Khalid and Shakib and Mrs. Gotfry take
+counsel together. The one train for Baalbek leaves
+in the morning; the carriage road is ruined from disuse;
+and only on horseback can we fly. So, Mrs.
+Gotfry orders her dragoman to hire horses for three,&ndash;&ndash;nay,
+for four, since we must have an extra guide
+with us,&ndash;&ndash;and a muleteer for the baggage.</p>
+<p>And here Shakib interposes a suggestion: &#8220;They
+must not come to the Hotel. Be with them on the
+road, near the first bridge, about the first hour of
+night.&#8221;</p>
+<p>At the office of the Hotel the dragoman leaves word
+that they are leaving for a friend&#8217;s house on account
+of their patient.</p>
+<p>And after dinner Mrs. Gotfry and Khalid set
+forth afoot, accompanied by Shakib. In five minutes
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_324' name='page_324'></a>324</span>
+they reach the first bridge; the dragoman and the
+guide, with their horses and lanterns, are there waiting.
+Shakib helps Khalid to his horse and bids them
+farewell. He will leave for Baalbek by the first
+train, and be there ahead of them.</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>And now, Reader, were we really romancing, we
+should here dilate of the lovely ride in the lovely
+moonlight on the lovely road to Baalbek. But truth
+to tell, the road is damnable, the welkin starless, the
+night pitch-black, and our poor Dreamer is suffering
+from his wounds.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_325' name='page_325'></a>325</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_IX_THE_STONING_AND_FLIGHT' id='CHAPTER_IX_THE_STONING_AND_FLIGHT'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2>
+<h3>THE STONING AND FLIGHT</h3>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;And whence the subtle thrill of joy in suffering
+for the Truth,&#8221; asks Khalid. &#8220;Whence the
+light that flows from the wounds of martyrs? Whence
+the rapture that triumphs over their pain? In the
+thick of night, through the alcoves of the mountains,
+over their barren peaks, down through the wadi of
+oblivion, silently they pass. And they dream. They
+dream of appearance in disappearance; of triumph in
+surrender; of sunrises in the sunset.</p>
+<p>&#8220;A mighty tidal wave leaves high upon the beach a
+mark which later on becomes the general level of the
+ocean. And so do the great thinkers of the world,&ndash;&ndash;the
+poets and seers, the wise and strong and self-denying,
+the proclaimers of the Religion of Man. And I
+am but a scrub-oak in this forest of giants, my Brothers.
+A scrub-oak which you might cut down, but not
+uproot. Lop off my branches; apply the axe to my
+trunk; make of my timber charcoal for the censers of
+your temples of worship; but the roots of me are deep,
+deep in the soil, beyond the reach of mortal hands.
+They are even spreading under your tottering palaces
+and temples....</p>
+<p>&#8220;I dream of the awakening of the East; of puissant
+Orient nations rising to glorify the Idea, to build temples
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_326' name='page_326'></a>326</span>
+to the Universal Spirit&ndash;&ndash;to Art, and Love, and
+Truth, and Faith. What if I am lost in the alcoves
+of the hills, if I vanish forever in the night? The
+sun that sets must rise. It is rising and lighting up
+the dark and distant continents even when setting.
+Think of that, ye who gloat over the sinking of my
+mortal self.</p>
+<p>&#8220;No; an idea is never too early annunciated. The
+good seed will grow among the rocks, and though the
+heavens withhold from it the sunshine and rain. It is
+because I will it, nay, because a higher Will than mine
+wills it, that the spirit of Khalid shall yet flow among
+your pilgrim caravans, through the fertile deserts of
+Arabia, down to the fountain-head of Faith, to Mecca
+and Medina,&#8221; et cetera.</p>
+<p>This, perhaps the last of the rhapsodies of Khalid&#8217;s,
+the Reader considering the circumstances under which
+it was written, will no doubt condone. Further, however,
+in the K. L. MS. we can not now proceed. Certainly
+the Author is not wanting in the sort of courage
+which is loud-lunged behind the writing table; his
+sufficiency of spirit is remarkable, unutterable. But
+we would he knew that the strong do not exult in their
+strength, nor the wise in their wisdom. For to fly
+and philosophize were one thing, and to philosophize
+in prison were another. Khalid this time does not follow
+closely in the way of the Masters. But he would
+have done so, if we can believe Shakib in this, had not
+Mrs. Gotfry persuaded him to the contrary. He
+would have stood in the Turkish Areopagus at Constantinople,
+defended himself somewhat Socratic before
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_327' name='page_327'></a>327</span>
+his judges, and hung out his tung on a rickety gibbet
+in the neighborhood of St. Sophia. But Mrs. Gotfry
+spoiled his great chance. She cheated him of the
+glory of dying for a noble cause.</p>
+<p>&#8220;The Turks are not worth the sacrifice,&#8221; Shakib
+heard her say, when Khalid ejaculated somewhat about
+martyrdom. And when she offered to accompany
+him, the flight did not seem shameful in his eyes.
+Nay, it became necessary; and under the circumstances
+it was, indeed, cowardice not to fly. For is it not as
+noble to surrender one&#8217;s self to Love as to the Turks
+or any other earthly despotism? Gladly, heroically, he
+adventures forth, therefore, and philosophizes on the
+way about the light that flows from the wounds of
+persecution. But we regret that this celestial stream
+is not unmixed; it is accompanied by blood and pus;
+by distention and fever, and other inward and outward
+sores.</p>
+<p>In this grievous state, somewhat like Don Quixote
+after the Battle of the Mill, our Khalid enters Baalbek.
+If the reader likes the comparison between the
+two Knights at this juncture, he must work it out for
+himself. We can not be so uncharitable as that; especially
+that our Knight is a compatriot, and is now,
+after our weary journeyings together, become our
+friend.&ndash;&ndash;Our poor grievous friend who must submit
+again to the surgeon&#8217;s knife.</p>
+<p>Mrs. Gotfry would not let him go to his mother,
+for she herself would nurse him. So, the doctor is
+called to the Hotel. And after opening, disinfecting,
+and dressing the wounds, he orders his patient to keep
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_328' name='page_328'></a>328</span>
+in bed for some days. They will then visit the ruins
+and resume their journeying to Egypt. Khalid no
+longer would live in Syria,&ndash;&ndash;in a country forever
+doomed to be under the Turkish yoke, faring, nay,
+misfaring alike in the New Era as in the Old.</p>
+<p>Now, his mother, tottering with age and sorrow,
+comes to the Hotel, and begs him in a flood of tears
+to come home; for his father is now with the Jesuits of
+Beirut and seldom comes to Baalbek. And his
+cousin Najma, with a babe on her arm and a tale of
+woe in her eyes, comes also to invite her cousin Khalid
+to her house.</p>
+<p>She is alone; her father died some months ago; her
+husband, after the dethronement of Abd&#8217;ul-Hamid, being
+implicated in the reaction-movement, fled the country;
+and his relatives, to add to her affliction, would
+deprive her of her child. She is alone; and sick in
+the lungs. She coughs, too, the same sharp, dry, malignant
+cough that once plagued Khalid. Ay, the same
+disease which he buried in the pine forest of Mt. Lebanon,
+he beholds the ghost of it now, more terrible and
+heart-rending than anything he has yet seen or experienced.
+The disease which he conquered is come
+back in the person of his cousin Najma to conquer him.
+And who can assure Khalid that it did not steal into
+her breast along with his kisses? And yet, he is not
+the only one in Baalbek who returned from America
+with phthisis. O, but that thought is horrifying. Impossible&ndash;&ndash;he
+can not believe it.</p>
+<p>But whether it be from you or from another, O Khalid,
+there is the ghost of it beckoning to you. Look at
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_329' name='page_329'></a>329</span>
+it. Are those the cheeks, those the eyes, this the body
+which a year ago was a model of rural charm and
+beauty and health? Is this the compensation of love?
+Is there anything like it dreamt of in your philosophy?
+There she is, who once in the ruined Temple of Venus
+mixed the pomegranate flower of her cheeks with the
+saffron of thy sickly lips. Wasted and dejected broken
+in body and spirit, she sits by your bedside nursing her
+baby and coughing all the while. And that fixed expression
+of sadness, so habitual among the Arab women
+who carry their punks and their children on their backs
+and go a-begging, it seems as if it were an hundred
+autumns old, this sadness. But right there, only a year
+ago, the crimson poppies dallied with the laughing
+breeze; the melting rubies dilated of health and joy.</p>
+<p>And now, deploring, imploring, she asks: &#8220;Will
+you not come to me, O Khalid? Will you not let me
+nurse you? Come; and your mother, too, will live
+with us. I am so lonesome, so miserable. And at
+night the boys cast stones at my door. My husband&#8217;s
+relatives put them to it because I would not give them
+the child. And they circulate all kinds of calumnies
+about me too.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Khalid promises to come, and assures her that she
+will not long remain alone. &#8220;And Allah willing,&#8221; he
+adds, &#8220;you will recover and be happy again.&#8221;</p>
+<p>She rises to go, when Mrs. Gotfry enters the room.
+Khalid introduces his cousin as his dead bride. &#8220;What
+do you mean?&#8221; she inquires. He promises to explain.
+Meanwhile, she goes to her room, brings some <ins class="trchange" title="Was 'sweet-meats' across lines">sweetmeats</ins>
+in a round box inlaid with mother-of-pearl for
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_330' name='page_330'></a>330</span>
+Khalid&#8217;s guests. And taking the babe in her arms,
+she fondles and kisses it, and gives its mother some advice
+about suckling. &#8220;Not whenever the child cries,
+but only at stated times,&#8221; she repeats.</p>
+<p>So much about Khalid&#8217;s mother and cousin. A few
+days after, when he is able to leave his room, he goes
+to see them. His cousin Najma he would take with
+him to Cairo. He would not leave her behind, a prey
+to the cruelty of loneliness and disease. He tells her
+this. She is overjoyed. She is ready to go whenever
+he says. To-morrow? Please Allah, yes. But&ndash;&ndash;</p>
+<p>Please Allah, ill-luck is following. For on his
+way back to the Hotel, a knot of boys, lying in
+wait in one of the side streets, cast stones at him.
+He looks back, and a missile whizzes above his head,
+another hits him in the forehead almost undoing the
+doctor&#8217;s work. Alas, that wound! Will it ever
+heal? Khalid takes shelter in one of the shops; a
+cameleer rates the boys and chases them away. The
+stoning was repeated the following day, and the
+cause of it, Shakib tells us, is patent. For when it
+became known in Baalbek that Khalid, the excommunicated
+one, is living in the Hotel, and with an
+American woman! the old prejudices against him were
+aroused, the old enemies were astirring. The priests
+held up their hands in horror; the women wagged
+their long tongues in the puddle of scandal; and the
+most fanatical shrieked out, execrating, vituperating,
+threatening even the respectable Shakib, who persists
+in befriending this muleteer&#8217;s son. Excommunicated,
+he now comes with this Americaniyah (American
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_331' name='page_331'></a>331</span>
+woman) to corrupt the community. Horrible! We
+will even go farther than this boy&#8217;s play of stoning.
+We present petitions to the kaiemkam demanding the
+expulsion of this Khalid from the Hotel, from the
+City.</p>
+<p>From other quarters, however, come heavier charges
+against Khalid. The Government of Damascus has
+not been idle ever since the seditious lack-beard Sheikh
+disappeared. The telegraph wires, in all the principal
+cities of Syria, are vibrating with inquiries about him,
+with orders for his arrest. One such the kaiemkam
+of Baalbek had just received when the petition of the
+&#8220;Guardians of the Morals of the Community&#8221; was
+presented to him. To this, the kaiemkam, in a perfunctory
+manner, applies his seal, and assures his petitioners
+that it will promptly be turned over to the
+proper official. But Turk as Turks go, he &#8220;places
+it under the cushion,&#8221; when they leave. Which expression,
+translated into English means, he quashes it.</p>
+<p>Now, by good chance, this is the same kaiemkam who
+sent Khalid a year ago to prison, maugre the efforts
+and importunities and other inducements of Shakib.
+And this time, he will do him and his friend a good
+turn. He was thinking of the many misfortunes of
+this Khalid, and nursing a little pity for him, when
+Shakib entered to offer a written complaint against a
+few of the more noted instigators of the assailants of
+his friend. His Excellency puts this in his pocket and
+withdraws with Shakib into another room. A few
+minutes after, Shakib was hurrying to the Hotel to
+confer with his brother Khalid and Mrs. Gotfry.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_332' name='page_332'></a>332</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;I saw the Order with these very eyes,&#8221; said Shakib,
+almost poking his two forefingers into them.
+&#8220;The kaiemkam showed it to me.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Hence, the secret preparations inside the Hotel and
+out of it for a second remove, for a final flight.
+Shakib packs up; Najma is all ready. And Khalid
+cuts his hair, doffs his jubbah, and appears again in
+the ordinary attire of civilised mortals. For how else
+can he get out of Beirut and the telegraph wires
+throughout Syria are flowing with orders for his arrest?
+In a hat and frock-coat, therefore (furnished
+by Shakib), he enters into the carriage with Mrs. Gotfry
+about two hours after midnight; and, with their
+whole retinue, make for Riak, and thence by train for
+Beirut. Here Shakib obtains passports for himself
+and Najma, and together with Mrs. Gotfry and her
+dragoman, they board in the afternoon the Austrian
+Liner for Port-Said; while, in the evening, walking at
+the side of one of the boatmen, Khalid, passportless,
+stealthily passes through the port, and rejoins his
+friends.</p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_333' name='page_333'></a>333</span>
+<a name='CHAPTER_X_THE_DESERT' id='CHAPTER_X_THE_DESERT'></a>
+<h2>CHAPTER X</h2>
+<h3>THE DESERT</h3>
+</div>
+<p>We remember seeing once a lithographic print
+representing a Christmas legend of the Middle
+Ages, in which a detachment of the Heavenly Host&ndash;&ndash;big,
+ugly, wild-looking angels&ndash;&ndash;are pursuing, with
+sword and pike, a group of terror-stricken little devils.
+The idea in the picture produced such an impression
+that one wished to see the helpless, pitiful imps in
+heaven and the armed winged furies, their pursuers, in
+the other place. Now, as we go through the many
+pages of Shakib&#8217;s, in which he dilates of the mischances,
+the persecutions, and the flights of Khalid,
+and of which we have given an abstract, very brief
+but comprehensive, in the preceding Chapters, we are
+struck with the similarity in one sense between his
+Dastur-legend, so to speak, and that of the Middle
+Ages to which we have alluded. The devils in both
+pictures are distressing, pitiful; while the winged persecutors
+are horribly muscular, and withal atrociously
+armed.</p>
+<p>Indeed, this legend of the Turkish angels of Fraternity
+and Equality, pursuing the Turkish little devils
+of reaction, so called, is most killing. But we can
+not see how the descendants of Yakut and Seljuk
+Khan, whether pursuers or pursued, whether Dastur
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_334' name='page_334'></a>334</span>
+winged furies they be, or Hamidian devils, are going to
+hold their own in face of the fell Dragon which soon or
+late must overtake them. That heavy, slow-going,
+slow-thinking Monster&ndash;&ndash;and it makes little difference
+whether he comes from the North or from the West&ndash;&ndash;will
+wait until the contending parties exhaust their
+strength and then&ndash;&ndash;but this is not our subject. We
+would that this pursuing business cease on all sides,
+and that everybody of all parties concerned pursue
+rather, and destroy, the big strong devil within them.
+Thus sayeth the preacher. And thus, for once, we,
+too. For does not every one of these furious angels
+of Equality, whether in Constantinople, in Berlin, in
+Paris, in London, or in New York, sit on his wings
+and reveal his horns when he rises to power? We
+are tired of wings that are really nothing but horns,
+misshaped and misplaced.</p>
+<p>Look at our French-swearing, whiskey-drinking
+Tataric angels of the Dastur! Indeed, we rejoice
+that our poor little Devil is now beyond the reach of
+their dripping steel and rickety second-hand gibbets.
+And yet, not very far; for if the British Government
+consent or blink, Khalid and many real reactionists
+whom Cairo harbours, would have to seek an asylum
+elsewhere. And the third flight might not be as successful
+as the others. But none such is necessary.
+On the sands of the Libyan desert, not far from
+Cairo and within wind of Helwan, they pitch their
+tents. And Mrs. Gotfry is staying at Al-Hayat,
+which is a stone&#8217;s throw from their evening fire. She
+would have Khalid live there too, but he refuses. He
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_335' name='page_335'></a>335</span>
+will live with his cousin and Shakib for a while. He
+is captivated, we are told, by that little cherub of a
+babe. But this does not prevent him from visiting
+his friend the Buhaist Priestess every day and dining
+often with her at the Hotel.</p>
+<p>She, too, not infrequently comes to the camp. Indeed,
+finding the solitude agreeable she has a tent
+pitched near theirs. And as a relief from the noise
+and bustle of tourists and the fatiguing formalities of
+Hotel life, she repairs thither for a few days every
+week.</p>
+<p>Now, in this austere delicacy of the desert, where
+allwhere is the softness of pure sand, Khalid is perfectly
+happy. Never did he seem so careless, our
+Scribe asserts, and so jovial and child-like in his joys.
+Far from the noise and strife of politics, far from the
+bewildering tangle of thought, far from the vain hopes
+and dreams and ambitions of life, he lives each day as
+if it were the last of the world. Here are joys manifold
+for a weary and persecuted spirit: the joy of
+having your dearest friend and comrade with you;
+the joy of nursing and helping to restore to health and
+happiness the woman dearest to your heart; the joy
+of a Love budding in beauty and profusion; and&ndash;&ndash;this,
+the rarest and sublimest for Khalid&ndash;&ndash;the joy
+of worshipping at the cradle&ndash;&ndash;of fondling, caressing,
+and bringing up one of the brightest, sweetest, loveliest
+of babes.</p>
+<p>Najib is his name&ndash;&ndash;it were cruel to neutralise such
+a prodigy&ndash;&ndash;and he is just learning to walk and lisp.
+Khalid teaches him the first step and the first monosyllable,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_336' name='page_336'></a>336</span>
+receiving in return the first kiss which his infant
+lips could voice. With what joy Najib makes
+his first ten steps! With what zest would he practise
+on the soft sands, laughing as he falls, and rising
+to try again. And thus, does he quickly, wonderfully
+develop, unfolding in the little circle of his caressers&ndash;&ndash;in
+his mother&#8217;s lap, in Shakib&#8217;s arms, on Khalid&#8217;s
+back, on Mrs. Gotfry&#8217;s knee&ndash;&ndash;the irresistible charm
+of his precocious spirit.</p>
+<p>In two months of desert life, Najib could run on
+the sands and sit down when tired to rest; in two
+months he could imitate in voice and gesture whatever
+he heard or saw: the donkey&#8217;s bray, and with a
+tilt of the head like him; the cry of the cock; the
+shrill whistle of the train; and the howling of donkey
+boys. His keen sense of discrimination in sounds is
+incredible. And one day, seeing a Mohammedan
+spreading his rug to pray, he begins to kneel and kiss
+the ground in imitation of him. He even went into
+the tent and brought Khalid&#8217;s jubbah to spread it on
+the sand likewise for that purpose. So sensitive to
+outside impressions is this child that he quickly responds
+to the least suggestion and with the least effort.
+Early in the morning, when the chill of night is still
+on the sands, he toddles into Khalid&#8217;s tent cooing and
+warbling his joy. A walking jasmine flower, a singing
+ray of sunshine, Khalid calls him. And the
+mother, on seeing her child thus develop, begins to
+recuperate. In this little garden of happiness, her
+hope begins to blossom.</p>
+<p>But Khalid would like to know why Najib, on
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_337' name='page_337'></a>337</span>
+coming into his tent in the morning and seeing him
+naked, always pointed with his little finger and with
+questioning smile, to what protruded under the navel.
+The like questions Khalid puts with the ease and
+freedom of a child. And writes full pages about
+them, too, in which he only succeeds in bamboozling
+himself and us. For how can we account for everything
+a child does? Even the psychologist with his
+reflex-action theory does not solve the whole problem.
+But Khalid would like to know&ndash;&ndash;and perhaps not
+so innocently does he dwell upon this subject as upon
+others&ndash;&ndash;he would like to know the significance of
+Najib&#8217;s pointed finger and smile. It may be only an
+accident, Khalid. &#8220;But an accident,&#8221; says he, &#8220;occurring
+again and again in the same manner under
+stated conditions ceases to be such.&#8221; And might not
+the child, who is such an early and keen observer,
+have previously seen his mother in native buff, and
+was surprised to see that appendage in you, Khalid?</p>
+<p>Even at Al-Hayat Najib is become popular. Khalid
+often comes here carrying him on his back. And
+how ready is the child to salaam everybody, and with
+both hands, as he stands on the veranda steps.
+&#8220;Surely,&#8221; says Khalid, &#8220;there is a deeper understanding
+between man and child than between man
+and man. For who but a child dare act so freely
+among these polyglots of ceremony in this little world
+of frills and frocks and feathers? Who but a child
+dare approach without an introduction any one of these
+solemn-looking tourists? Here then is the divine
+source of the sweetest and purest joy. Here is that
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_338' name='page_338'></a>338</span>
+one touch of Nature which makes the whole world
+kin. For the child, and though he be of the lowest
+desert tribe, standing on the veranda of a fashionable
+Hotel, can warm and sweeten with the divine flame
+that is in him, the hearts of these sour-seeming, stiff-looking
+tourists who are from all corners of the earth.
+Is not this a miracle? My professor of psychology
+will say, &#8216;Nay.&#8217; But what makes the heart leap in
+that grave and portly gentleman, who might be from
+Finland or Iceland, for all I know, when Najib&#8217;s
+hand is raised to him in salutation? What makes
+that stately and sombre-looking dame open her arms,
+when Najib plucks a flower and, after smelling it,
+presents it to her? What makes that reticent, meditative,
+hard-favoured ancient, who is I believe a psychologist,
+what makes him so interested in observing Najib
+when he stands near the piano pointing anxiously to
+the keyboard? For the child enjoys not every kind
+of music: play a march or a melody and he will keep
+time, listing joyously from side to side and waving
+his hand in an arch like a maestro; play something
+insipid or chaotic and he will stand there impassive
+as a <ins class="trchange" title="Added closing double-quote">statue.&#8221;</ins></p>
+<p>And &#8220;the reticent hard-favoured ancient,&#8221; who turns
+out to be an American professor of some ology, explains
+to Khalid why lively music moves children,
+while soft and subtle tones do not. But Khalid is
+not open to argument on the subject. He prefers
+to believe that children, especially when so keenly
+sensitive as his prodigy, understand as much, if not
+more, about music as the average operagoer of to-day.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_339' name='page_339'></a>339</span>
+But that is not saying much. The professor furthermore,
+while admitting the extreme precocity of
+Najib&#8217;s mind, tries to simplify by scientific analysis
+what to Khalid and other laymen seemed wonderful,
+almost miraculous. Here, too, Khalid botches the
+arguments of the learned gentleman in his effort to
+give us a summary of them, and tells us in the end
+that never after, so long as that professor was there,
+did he ever visit Al-Hayat.</p>
+<p>He prefers to frolic and philosophise with his
+prodigy on the sands. He goes on all four around
+the tent, carrying Najib on his back; he digs a little
+ditch in the sand and teaches him how to lie therein.
+Following the precept of the Greek philosophers, he
+would show him even so early how to die. And
+Najib lies in the sand-grave, folds his hands on his
+breast and closes his eyes. Rising therefrom, Khalid
+would teach him how to dance like a dervish, and
+Najib whirls and whirls until he falls again in that
+grave.</p>
+<p>When Mrs. Gotfry came that day, Khalid asked
+the child to show her how to dance and die, and
+Najib begins to whirl like a dervish until he falls
+in the grave; thereupon he folds his arms, closes his
+eyes, and smiles a pathetic smile. This by far is the
+masterpiece of all his feats. And one evening, when
+he was repeating this strange and weird antic, which
+in Khalid&#8217;s strange mind might be made to symbolise
+something stranger than both, he saw, as he lay in
+the grave, a star in the sky. It was the first time he
+saw a star; and he jumped out of his sand-grave exulting
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_340' name='page_340'></a>340</span>
+in the discovery he had made. He runs to
+his mother and points the star to her....</p>
+<p>And thus did Khalid spend his halcyon months in
+the desert. Here was an arcadia, perfect but brief.
+For his delight in infant worship, and in the new
+Love which was budding in beauty and profusion, and
+in tending his sick cousin who was recovering her
+health, and in the walks around the ruins in the
+desert with his dearest comrade and friend,&ndash;&ndash;these,
+alas, were joys of too pure a nature to endure.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_341' name='page_341'></a>341</span></p>
+<div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'>
+<a name='ALKHATIMAH' id='ALKHATIMAH'></a>
+<h2>AL-KHATIMAH</h2>
+</div>
+<p>&#8220;But I can not see all that you see.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Then you do not love me.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Back again to Swedenborg&ndash;&ndash;I told you more
+than once that he is not my apostle.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Nor is he mine. But he has expressed a great
+truth, Jam&iuml;lah. Now, can you love me in the light of
+that truth?&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;You are always asking me that same question, Khalid.
+You do not understand me. I do not believe in
+marriage. I tried it once; I will not try it again.
+I am married to Buhaism. And you Khalid&ndash;&ndash;remember
+my words&ndash;&ndash;you will yet be an apostle&ndash;&ndash;the
+apostle&ndash;&ndash;of Buhaism. And you will find me with
+you, whether you be in Arabia, in America, or in
+Egypt. I feel this&ndash;&ndash;I know it&ndash;&ndash;I am positive
+about it. Your star and mine are one. We are
+born under the same star. We are now in the same
+orbit, approaching the same nadir. We are ruled by
+our stars. I believe this, and you don&#8217;t. At least,
+you say you don&#8217;t. But you do. You don&#8217;t know
+your own mind. The trend of the current of your
+life is beyond your grasp, beyond your comprehension.
+I know. And you must listen to me. You must
+follow my advice. If you can not come with me now
+to the States, you will await me here. I am called
+on a pressing business. And within three months,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_342' name='page_342'></a>342</span>
+at the most, I shall return and find you waiting for
+me right here, in this desert.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;I can not understand you.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;You will yet.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;But why not try to understand me? Can you not
+find in my ideas the very essence of Buhaism? Can
+you not come up to my height and behold there the
+star that you have taken for your guide? My Truth,
+Jam&iuml;lah, can you not see that? Love and Faith, free
+from all sectarianism and all earthly authority,&ndash;&ndash;what
+is Buhaism or Mohammedanism or Christianity
+beside them? Moreover, I have a mission. And to
+love me you must believe in <i>me</i>, not in the Buha.
+You laugh at my dream. But one day it will be
+realised. A great Arab Empire in the border-land
+of the Orient and Occident, in this very heart of
+the world, this Arabia, this Egypt, this Field of the
+Cloth of Gold, so to speak, where the Male and
+Female of the Spirit shall give birth to a unifying
+faith, a unifying art, a unifying truth&ndash;&ndash;&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Vagaries, chimeras,&#8221; interrupted Mrs. Gotfry.
+&#8220;Buhaism is established, and it needs a great apostle.
+It needs you; it will have you. I will have you.
+Your destiny is interwoven with mine. You can
+not flee it, do what you may. We are ruled by our
+stars, Khalid. And if you do not realise this now,
+you will realise it to-morrow. Here, give me your
+hand.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;I can not.&#8221;</p>
+<p>&#8220;Very well, then. Good-bye&ndash;&ndash;<i>au revoir</i>. In
+three months you will change your mind. In three
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_343' name='page_343'></a>343</span>
+months I will return to the East and find you waiting
+for me, even here in this desert. Think on it, and
+take care of yourself. <i>Au revoir.</i>&#8221;</p>
+<p>In this strange, mysterious manner, after pacing
+for hours on the sand in the sheen of the full moon,
+Mrs. Gotfry says farewell to Khalid.</p>
+<p>He sits on a rock near his tent and ponders for
+hours. He seeks in the stars, as it were, a clue to
+the love of this woman, which he first thought to be
+unfathomable. There it is, the stars seem to say.
+And he looks into the sand-grave near him, where
+little Najib practises how to die. Yes; a fitting
+symbol of the life and love called modern, boasting
+of freedom. They dance their dervish dance, these
+people, even like Khalid&#8217;s little Najib, and fall into
+their sand-graves, and fold their arms and smile:
+&#8220;We are in love&ndash;&ndash;or we are out of it.&#8221; Which is
+the same. No: he&#8217;ll have none of this. A heart as
+simple as this desert sand, as deep in affection as this
+heaven, untainted by the uncertainties and doubts and
+caprices of modern life,&ndash;&ndash;only in such a heart is the
+love that endures, the love divine and eternal.</p>
+<p>He goes into Najma&#8217;s tent. The mother and her
+child are sound asleep. He stands between the bed
+and the cot contemplating the simplicity and innocence
+and truth, which are more eloquent in Najib&#8217;s
+brow than aught of human speech. His little hand
+raised above his head seems to point to a star which
+could be seen through an opening in the canvas. Was
+it his star&ndash;&ndash;the star that he saw in the sand-grave&ndash;&ndash;the
+star that is calling to him?&ndash;&ndash;
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_344' name='page_344'></a>344</span></p>
+<p>But let us resume our narration.</p>
+<p>A fortnight after Mrs. Gotfry&#8217;s departure Shakib
+leaves the camp to live in Cairo. He is now become
+poet-laureate to one of the big pashas.</p>
+<p>Khalid is left alone with Najma and Najib.</p>
+<p>And one day, when they are playing a game of
+&#8220;donkey,&#8221;&ndash;&ndash;Khalid carried Najib on his back, ran
+on all four around the tent, and Najma was the donkey-driver,&ndash;&ndash;the
+child of a sudden utters a shriek and
+falls on the sand. He is in convulsions; and after the
+relaxation, lo, his right hand is palsied, his mouth
+awry, and his eyes a-squint. Khalid finds a young
+doctor at Al-Hayat, and his diagnosis of the case does
+not disturb the mind. It is infantile paralysis, a disease
+common with delicate children. And the doctor, who
+is of a kind and demonstrative humour, discourses at
+length on the disease, speaks of many worse cases of
+its kind he cured, and assures the mother that within
+a month the child will recover. For the present he
+can but prescribe a purgative and a massage of the
+arm and spine. On the third visit, he examines the
+child&#8217;s f&aelig;ces and is happy to have discovered the seat
+and cause of the affection. The liver is not performing
+its function; and given such weak nerves as the
+child&#8217;s, a torpid liver in certain cases will produce
+paralysis.</p>
+<p>But Khalid is not satisfied with this. He places
+the doctor&#8217;s prescription in his pocket, and goes down
+to Cairo for a specialist. He comes, this one, to disturb
+their peace of mind with his indecision. It is
+not infantile paralysis, and he can not yet say what
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_345' name='page_345'></a>345</span>
+it is. Khalid meanwhile is poring over medical books
+on all the diseases that children are heir to.</p>
+<p>On the fifth day the child falls again in convulsions,
+and the left arm, too, is paralysed. They take him
+down to Cairo; and Medicine, considering the disease
+of his mother, guesses a third time&ndash;&ndash;tuberculosis of
+the spine, it says&ndash;&ndash;and guesses wrong. Again, considering
+the strabismus, the obliquity of the mouth,
+the palsy in the arms, and the convulsions, we guess
+closely, but ominously. Nay, Medicine is positive
+this time; for a fifth and a sixth Guesser confirm the
+others. Here we have a case of cerebral meningitis.
+That is certain; that is fatal.</p>
+<p>Najib is placed under treatment. They cut his
+hair, his beautiful flow of dark hair; rub his scalp
+with chloroform; keep the hot bottles around his
+feet, the ice bag on his head; and give him a spoon
+of physic every hour. &#8220;Make no noise around the
+room, and admit no light into it,&#8221; further advises the
+doctor. Thus for two weeks the child languishes in
+his mother&#8217;s arms; and resting from the convulsions
+and the coma, he would fix on Khalid the hollow,
+icy glance of death. No; the light and intelligence
+might never revisit those vacant eyes.</p>
+<p>Now Shakib comes to suggest a consultation. The
+great English physician of Cairo, why not call <i>him</i>?
+It might not be meningitis, after all, and the child
+might be helped, might be cured.</p>
+<p>The great guesswork Celebrity is called. He examines
+the patient and confirms the opinion of his
+confr&egrave;res, rather his disciples.
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_346' name='page_346'></a>346</span></p>
+<p>&#8220;But the whole tissue,&#8221; he continues with glib
+assurance, &#8220;is not affected. The area is local, and to
+the side of the ear that is sore. The strabismus being
+to the right, the affection must be to the left. And
+the pus accumulating behind the ear, under the bone,
+and pressing on the covering of the brain, produces
+the inflammation. Yes, pus is the cause of this.&#8221; And
+he repeats the Arabic proverb in broken Arabic, &#8220;A
+drop of pus will disable a camel.&#8221; Further, &#8220;Yes,
+the child&#8217;s life can be saved by trepanning. It should
+have been done already, but the time&#8217;s not passed.
+Let the surgeon come and make a little opening&ndash;&ndash;no;
+a child can stand chloroform better than an adult.
+And when the pus is out he will be well.&#8221;</p>
+<p>In a private consultation the disciples beg to observe
+that there was no evidence of pus behind the ear.
+&#8220;It is beneath the skullbone,&#8221; the Master asserts.
+And so we decide upon the operation. The Eye
+and Ear specialist is called, and after weighing the
+probabilities of the case and considering that the great
+Celebrity had said there was pus, although there be
+no evidence of it, he convinces Khalid that if the
+child is not benefited by the operation he cannot suffer
+from it more than he is suffering now.</p>
+<p>The surgeon comes with his assistants. Little
+Najib is laid on the table; the chloroform towel is
+applied; the scalpels, the cotton, the basins of hot water,
+and other accessories, are handed over by one doctor
+to another. The Cutter begins. Shakib is there
+watching with the rest; Najma is in an adjacent room
+weeping; and Khalid is pacing up and down the hall,
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_347' name='page_347'></a>347</span>
+his brows moistened with the cold sweat of anguish
+and suspense.</p>
+<p>No pus between the scalp and the bone: the little
+hammer and chisel are handed to the Cutter. One,
+two, three,&ndash;&ndash;the child utters a faint cry; the chloroform
+towel is applied again;&ndash;&ndash;four, five, six, and the
+seventh stroke of the little hammer opens the skull.
+The Cutter then penetrates with his catheter, searches
+thoroughly through the brain&ndash;&ndash;here&ndash;&ndash;there&ndash;&ndash;above&ndash;&ndash;below&ndash;&ndash;and
+finally holds the instrument up to
+his assistants to show them that there is&ndash;&ndash;no pus!
+&#8220;If there be any,&#8221; says he, &#8220;it is beyond the reach
+of surgery.&#8221; The wound, therefore, is quickly
+washed, sewn up, and dressed, while everybody is
+wondering how the great Celebrity can be
+wrong....</p>
+<p>Little Najib remains under the influence of an&aelig;sthetics
+for two days&ndash;&ndash;for two days he is in a trance.
+And on the third, the fever mounts to the danger line
+and descends again&ndash;&ndash;only after he had stretched his
+little arm and breathed his last!</p>
+<p>And Khalid and Najma and Shakib take him out
+to the desert and bury him in the sand, near the
+tent round which he used to play. There, where he
+stepped his first step, lisped his first syllable, smacked
+his first kiss, and saw for the first time a star in the
+heaven, he is laid; he is given to the Night, to the
+Eternity which Khalid does not fear. And yet, what
+tears, Shakib tells us, he shed over that little grave.</p>
+<p>But about the time the second calamity approaches,
+when Najma begins to decline and waste away from
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_348' name='page_348'></a>348</span>
+grief, when the relapse sets in and carries her in a
+fortnight downward to the grave of her child,
+Khalid&#8217;s eyes are as two pieces of flint stone on a
+sheet of glass. His tears flow inwardly, as it were,
+through his cracked heart....</p>
+<p>Like the poet Saadi, Khalid once sought to fill his
+lap with celestial flowers for his friends and brothers;
+and he gathered some; but, alas, the fragrance of them
+so intoxicated him that the skirt dropt from his
+hand....</p>
+<hr class='tb' />
+<p>We are again at the Mena House, where we first
+met Shakib. And the reader will remember that the
+tears rushed to his eyes when we inquired of him
+about his Master and Friend. &#8220;He has disappeared
+some ten days ago,&#8221; he then said, &#8220;and I know not
+whither.&#8221; Therefore, ask us not, O gentle Reader,
+what became of him. How can <i>we</i> know? He
+might have entered a higher spiritual circle or a
+lower; of a truth, he is not now on the outskirts of
+the desert: deeper to this side or to that he must have
+passed. And passing he continues to dream of &#8220;appearance
+in the disappearance; of truth in the surrender;
+of sunrises in the sunset.&#8221;</p>
+<p>Now, fare <i>thee</i> well in either case, Reader. And
+whether well or ill spent the time we have journeyed
+together, let us not quarrel about it. For our part,
+we repeat the farewell words of Sheikh Taleb of
+Damascus: &#8220;Judge us not severely.&#8221; And if we did
+not study to entertain thee as other Scribes do, it is
+because we consider thee, dear good Reader, above
+<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_349' name='page_349'></a>349</span>
+such entertainment as our poor resources can furnish,
+<i>Wassalmu aleik</i>!</p>
+<div>&nbsp;</div>
+<p style='margin-left:0.0em; margin-right:0.0em; text-align:center'>IN . FREIKE . WHICH . IS . IN . MOUNT . LEBANON<br />
+SYRIA . ON . THE . TWELFTH . DAY . OF<br />
+JANUARY . 1910 . ANNO . CHRISTI . AND . THE<br />
+FIRST . DAY . OF . MUHARRAM . 1328 . HEGIRAH<br />
+THIS . BOOK . OF . KHALID . WAS . FINISHED<br /></p>
+<div class='figcenter'>
+<a name='linki_7' id='linki_7'></a>
+<img src='images/illus-358.png' alt='' title='' style='width: 387px; height: 215px;' /><br />
+</div>
+<hr class='pb' />
+<div class="trnote">
+<p><span style='font-weight:bold'>Transcriber&#8217;s Notes</span></p>
+<p>Typographical problems have been changed and these are
+<ins class="trchange" title="Was 'hgihligthed'">highlighted</ins>.</p>
+<p>Archaic and variable spelling is preserved.</p>
+<p>Author&#8217;s punctuation style is preserved.</p>
+</div>
+
+<!-- generated by ppg.rb version: ppg0529 -->
+<!-- timestamp: Fri Jun 19 15:39:46 +0800 2009 -->
+
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+<pre>
+
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+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Book of Khalid, by Ameen Rihani
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+</pre>
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+</body>
+</html>
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