present that these last lines were in a somewhat different ink from the
rest, and looked like a later addition. But these profitably held their
peace. And as it was a tremendous feather in the caps of the assembled
Brahmins to have discovered the long lost Crow, they made the most of
him.
Whereupon the Crow fell into a trance, which lasted many hours. And
when he recovered, he narrated how Rama had appeared unto him in a
vision, and assured him that every one of the Brahmins there present
was destined to become a number-one god in the next generation, and
to keep on rising for nine hundred and ninety-four million _Kalpacs_,
and then attain Nirvana; also that the whole party, including himself,
while here on earth, would be deemed incapable of committing any sin
or crime. He had indeed received, as a first instalment of plenary
indulgence, a special dispensation and injunction to drink _aràk_
toddy in honour of Rama, to be supplied to him by the Sacred College.
Whereupon he was invested with the yellow thread, and declared to be a
saint.
* * * * *
It was midnight, and Flaxius and Dschim Crow sat on either side of a
pearl-inlaid table, on seats set with gems, and between them was the
Holy Bottle with gold cups.
‘_Well!_’ observed Flaxius, ‘of all the in-fer-nal, lying, cold-frozen,
brazen, impudent, cheeky humbugs whom I ever encountered on earth,
thou, my son, dost take the cake! But yesterday a Pariah, and to-day
directing all the Brahmins as their chief!’
‘_Que veux-tu, mon vieux?_’ replied the Holy Crow, who in his new
capacity of divine of course divined all the languages of the future:
‘Surely ’tis not by modesty
That gods attain to what they be:
For face, and cheek, since time began,
Were aye the noblest part of man,
And he who hath but impudence
To all things hath sublime pretence.
For the very essence of the most orthodox religion is that man is to be
saved by faith alone, good works being only manifestations of faith;
and of all faith ever roasted or toasted, stewed or brewed in the
kitchen of theology, there is none like a holy faith in one’s own self,
pious auto-reliance, devout assurance, divine audacity, and sanctified
looking-down on everybody, which latter is the true secret of all
ecclesiastical supremacy and influence, as we saints well know.
‘And note you, that this full faith and belief in oneself is neither
egoism nor egotism, but only religion _directed inward_, devotion
which has gone to the heart instead of striking outward into
Pharisaical displays of modesty, wherewith the world is more deluded
and gulled than by all the good honest boldness ever obtruded on it.
For he who believes in his lucky star brings to the battle of life
nine-tenths of victory. Therefore, O illustrious patron, I pray you
believe that this which you call Cheek in me is indeed no vanity or
idle desire to be admired by the world, for which I verily do not care
three straws, esteeming its praise or blame as all stuff and taradiddle:
‘Trumpery, trash, rubbish and hum,
_Fatras_, frippery, bubble and scum,
Leather-prunella, drugs and chaff,
Refuse, sweepings, sediment, raff,
Trifling, paltry, petty or small;
Frivolous stuff worth nothing at all,
Hardly anything, no great shakes;
_Peu de chose_ and as farthing stakes,
Gimcracks, whim-whams, gammon and sells,
Fiddlestick, fudge and bagatelles,
Paltry, pitiful two-penny flams,
Fribbling, beggarly, pitiful crams;
Not worth mentioning, nor a rush,
Stuff and nonsense, humbug and tush!
‘For verily at _that_, and nothing more, do I esteem vanity and
the notice of the world or personal notoriety, or puffs, while, to
my taste, all applause, homage, hero-worship, clapping, hosannahs,
glorification and acclamation, raw or cooked, save so far that there
is _Fun_ in it all, may go to the devil and shake itself! But he who
is what you may call self-superstitious, or guided in all things,
as he thinks, by a _dæmon_ or star, or fairy, or fate, or strange
omens, by occult desires, and coincidences, always becomes strangely
self-confident, and yet not _vain_ or egoistic, because he feels as if
he were a wheelbarrow trundled by his god--
‘Or a top spun by a boy,
Or clay in the potter’s hands,
Or dough being kneaded,
Or a horse in harness,
Or paper under the pen,
Or a maid taken by force,
Or potatoes being mashed,
Or type being set,
Or a garment being shaped,
Or a rocket set fire to,
Or a fiddle being played,
Or an arrow shot from a bow,
Or a cake being mixed,
Or a twine in cat’s-cradle,
Or a sermon being preached,
Or a puppet being played,
Or a pig driven to market,
Or a football in a game,
Or a top being spun,
Or a boat being steered,
or anything or anybody under external direction. Now the egoist
believes himself to be, and the vain man is sure that he is, the actor
and the thing acted on, all in one, but the blind believer in self is
only confident that he is well-directed. _Eccomi!_’
‘A subtle distinction,’ said Flaxius, ‘and not without truth.’
‘Moreover, and this should be noted,’ resumed the Holy Crow, ‘he who
is by God’s grace even a little of a Humourist is above all men most
likely to be misunderstood in this matter. For verily, I swear by this
Holy Bottle, that when _I_ took no notice of the Gūrū, for which Shiva
wished to send me to hell, ’twas not from vanity of great wisdom, (as
those lying old devils the Brahmins declared), but just to see what
sort of a rum face he would cut; and when I disputed with the son of
Brahma as to the divine attributes of his father, I hope I may be
split, salted and dried in hell like a fish, if it was that I pretended
to know more about the Governor than he did, devil a bit! Nay, it
was only that the fiend of Fun inspired me to a stupendous, palpable
absurdity, which, rightly understood, was an act of the deepest
reverence. But the Rishi was a fool, even as the Brahmins and old Vish
himself were also, and Shiv into the bargain.’
‘I believe thee, O Crow,’ replied Flaxius, ‘and it is true that the
dull world often attributes to self-conceit that which is truly an
artistic or humorously inspired conception. Many a creator and artist
have I seen carried away by pride or faith in his inspiration, who had,
God wot! little pride in himself. But, O Dschim Crow, he had, as thou
ever hast, the sublime enjoyment of the joke, or idea, albeit gods and
men missed the point!’
‘Amen,’ quoth the Crow. ‘Let us drink!’
‘And now,’ quoth Flaxius, ‘that the sun shines, thou wilt, I suppose,
begin to make hay, or lay up money for the rainy days.’
‘By the Wheel of Heaven, not I!’ exclaimed the Crow. ‘He that saves up
money keeps it from circulating, which is a great crime, yea, a robbery
of the widow and the orphan. Albeit, should such a chance occur of
saving up money at another man’s expense, as once befell me, I will not
say that I will utterly reject it. One ought to have cash in hand for
holy charities and small treats.’
‘I pray thee, tell me the tale,’ answered Flaxius.
‘That will I,’ exclaimed the Crow, after a drink. ‘Once upon a time,
when Bramadatta was reigning in Benares in Kasi, it befell that I
was born, and when I grew up I had a small place under the treasurer,
Bunder Shroff Kash.
‘One day I bewailed that I was poor, and the treasurer, overhearing me,
told it to the king at his elbow; and the king, calling me, said:
‘“Excellent young man, it is very easy to get rich. Remember that _a
penny saved is a penny earned_. Now to encourage, I will give thee an
order on the treasury, commanding that when thou shalt have saved a
penny it shall be doubled.”
‘“May your glory endure for ever, O Life of the World!” I replied; “but
while you are about it, make it _pence_.”
‘He did so, and the order was written. But the king forgot to limit the
payment! He thought I would only draw once, or a penny at a time, but I
knew a trick worth two of that. I went with my penny and drew another.
‘The next day I came and said, “I have saved twopence, pray pay the
equivalent.” The next day I brought fourpence, and the next eight; and
so it went on, till ere long the treasurer begged for credit. Now I
paid the treasurer a handsome percentage to keep quiet--and he quieted.
But at last the thing got beyond all bounds, and the treasurer one day
informed the king that he was bankrupt, and owed more than the whole
kingdom was worth, and all the world with it. For the sum due me was:
_Lakhs of Rupees_ 972,687,265,390,221.
‘Then the king got into a fine rage, and would fain have had me put to
death. But the treasurer said, “Your majesty, it would be better to
compromise with such a brilliant financier, and employ him to collect
the taxes”; which was done.
‘When this lesson was ended, the Supreme Deity, the All-Knowing One
himself, repeated this stanza:
‘“With humblest start on a trifling capital
A shrewd and able man will rise to wealth,
E’en as his breath can nurse a tiny flame.”
‘And there are many tables and fables in which something like this is
to be found, or will be, as, for instance, _The Jātakas from the Pali_,
edited by Professor E. B. Cowell, who will in a future age be known as
a great, good, wise, illustrious, and learned Sanskritist, and in the
Parables of _Buddhagosha and Dhammapady_ (or the Accused Irishman), and
the _Divyāvadāna_, and the _Kathā Sārit Sāgara_. But mine, note ye,
is the Original Jacobs, and the first true prototype, model, pattern,
precedent, protoplast, mould, ensample, matrix, and paradigm of them
all. All the rest of them being mere re-echoes, shadows, reflexes,
apographs, and adumbrations of mine. _Selah!_’
‘And how long dost thou expect to remain here in clover, O Incarnation
of Bhusanda, and favourite of Rama?’ inquired Flaxius.
‘I hope to run the machine of the Sacred College,’ replied the Crow,
critically eyeing his liquor, ‘till a spring breaks, or a screw comes
loose--or, what is quite as likely, till I find the affair is slow and
the fun giving out--when I will start as a _yoghi_ on a pilgrimage, or
a Banjari or Nāt--_jeckno covva miri hai_----’
‘’Tis all one to me,
Where on earth I be;
So I only pass the time in jollity,
Where the girls abound,
And good drink is found,
And a changing round of life I ever see.
With a tol-diddle,
And a rol-diddle,
And a tol-de-rol-de-rol-de diddle dee!
‘All-so, _camarado, buona sera_! Meet me again in life when life seems
dull!’
* * * * *
‘_Hæc fabula docet_,’ wrote Flaxius, ‘that in this life we should not
be too much guided by appearances. For, firstly, the Tale of Sakhara
and Arjun as it occurs in the _Asiatic Journal_ of 1829, whence it
was transferred by Grimm to his work on _Women’s Names derived from
Plants_, might seem to many to have been the original source, whereas
it is only a mutilated and abridged version, as appears from the fact
that I, who had so much to do with the plot, am not mentioned in it,
nor does Dschim Crow once occur in the story. Neither are there in it
those beautiful specimens of Indian poetry in the original Romany, or
Romanyana, dialect (allied to Sanskrit) which prove the fidelity of my
text.
‘Secondly, that the king did not surmise that there was any “working of
the oracle,” as regarded the shooting of the three arrows, or that the
will of the gods is sometimes managed even by such characters as the
Crow. For it was the Crow, indeed, who pulled all the wires, wrote the
lady’s letter, and told all the needful lies on this occasion.
‘Thirdly, that it came not to the surface, neither did it appear to
man, that Dschim Crow, who was an expert penman, added that little
postscript to the old manuscript.
‘Fourthly, that it is most probable that the vast majority of my
readers will fondly believe that I am the author of the old MS.
_History of Bhusanda_, whereas it is really given in the _Ramayana_,
and extracted therefrom by Nork in his _Symbolisches-mythologisches
Real-Wörterbuch_, vol. i. p. 259.
‘Fifthly, that Brahma, Siva, Vishnu and Co., including all the saints,
were utterly mistaken in the true character of the Crow [even as a
reviewer sometimes is at the present day when he adventures into
literature]. Now, this showing how the Hindoo Trinity made a fool
of itself firstly, by putting Pantagruelism into a Crow, and then
expecting to ever get it out, is, I am sure, one of those subtle
sarcasms of the Pariah literature, which worked its way into the
regular Scriptures, somewhat in the same way as the erotic, or
erratic, melodrama of the Song of Solomon was insinuated (probably by
some Hebrew joker) into the Old Testament.
‘Sixthly, that as there are substances, which to the vulgar sense
seem to be one and the same, yet which chemistry shows are radically
different elements, so there are natures like that of the Crow, which
do not care twopence for applause, or what the world thinks of them,
and yet are called _egoistic_ when their inspiration consists in
yielding to influences which, had they guided them, might indeed have
caused them to be called vain.
‘Seventhly, that the Crow, being incorrigible and incurable, will
continue to manifest himself as a poor devil, and be considered as “a
comic fella, doncher know,” and as nothing but a swell jester--until
gods and saints get more sense.’
[9] This exquisitely beautiful incantation poem will be readily
intelligible to every Sanskritist, with the exception perhaps of the
last line, which is in a later vulgar dialect. It means, accurately
translated: ‘I am a gypsy foot-traveller.’ In common dialect it would
be, ‘_Ro-mani pat-engro shom_.’ _Omani_ for ‘Romany’ occurs in _The
English Gypsies and their Language_.
THE WONDERFUL STORY OF MISS JESABELLE ROCKHARD
WITH A SERIOUS VINDICATION OF HER PROTOTYPES
OR FLAXIUS IN ENGLAND
‘And thus outspoke ye Oracle:
A very truth to thee I tell:
If thou canst a woman finde,
With such an earth-subduing minde
And with soule so stern and deepe,
That she can a secret keepe.
Then know of verie truth that she
A great Enchauntresse soon will be,
A queen in soothe or faery.’
IT was five o’clock tea at Lady Puddlebrooke’s--a somewhat famous
weekly rendezvous, which many called ‘The Meet,’ because there
assembled on the occasion so many gallant hunters of gossip, and
harriers of character, who were soon let slip in full cry of the
_chronique scandaleuse_ of the day. The which chronicle, be it
remarked, by the way, is by far the most wonderful flying leaf, as such
journals were once called, which was ever compiled, since every soul
implicitly believes that there is in it the name of Everybody else, and
that all which is said of others in it is true, while their own names
are never there--or, if there, invariably attached to falsehoods, and
out of place.
Now, while all the good Christians, philanthropists, nobly honest
agnostics, angelic virgins who had been presented, dignified and
ferocious matrons, clergymen, positivists, and other seekers after
truth, were--as a nasty, cynical journalist who was present,
remarked--‘ravening and battening on their garbage,’ which meant
repeating what they had read in the society papers, or preparing what
would soon appear in them, Flaxius had withdrawn to a quiet corner
and an easy sofa, where he was joined by Miss Jesabelle Rockhard, a
lady of whom all her friends said: ‘It certainly cannot be denied that
she is good-looking’; others limiting this praise to ‘_distinguée_,’
while some reduced it to ‘striking,’ which she certainly was, being a
hard hitter in conversation, and not above fibbing when it came to a
scratch. That she was ‘highly intelligent’ and an _esprit fort_, gifted
with the unscrupulousness which she herself graced with the name of
Will, was manifested at a glance, and impressively set forth by the
first utterance of her voice to any reader of the human heart.
She was between afternoon and twilight as regarded age, and of very
limited means; facts which she stated with the utmost candour to
everybody. Nor was she devoid of a certain intuition or clairvoyance
as regarded ability in others, as she had creditably shown by divining
that Flaxius was a character. She determined that she would draw him
out to the last hair, and completely ascertain all there was in him.
In forming this resolution she had, as the Americans express it,
unconsciously, ‘taken out a mighty big contract,’ which was the further
impeded by the fact that the party of the other part knew exactly how
much stock she held, and what was her capital, while she--poor little
soul--knew nothing at all as to the resources of the adversary.
But she came up to the assault gallantly. There was something in her
very smile with its pinch in the lips, and in the ring of her keen
voice, which seemed to say: ‘I’m arch and airy, with the gay, sarcastic
tone of society; you must accept all my stings with a delighted
air--and you’ll be in bad form if you don’t. Beware! beware!’
‘Ah, Mr. Flaxius, just as one would expect--withdrawn from the
gossiping, frivolous crowd. You set up to be intellectual, I believe.’
There are certain very common and very silly speeches of this kind
current, which tease sensible people, because they are hard to answer.
So true is it that a fool can roll a stone into a well which fifty wise
men cannot get out. But Flaxius replied with divine suavity:
‘If being out of the swim is a sign of setting up to be intellectual,
then, I suppose, as you are here, that you also advance the same claim,
and would fain remind me of it.’ Here the smile was beautifully genial,
as if to say: ‘’Tis all my fun.’
‘Confound his cheeky impudence!’ thought Miss Jesabelle. And she
promptly countered.
‘So you _do_ set up to be intellectual, then? Oh, you needn’t deny
it--you’ve admitted it.’
‘True,’ exclaimed Flaxius, ‘and I have heard from other people
the same of you. And yet I am not sure,’ he added, in so dreamy,
meditative a manner, that he seemed to be thinking of anything except
Miss Rockhard, ‘that ’tis not better to be able to set oneself up
independently--though ever so little--than to have to rely on others to
do it for us!’
And looking at Miss Jesabelle with a smile that was child-like and
bland, he added:
‘Ask me some more of those hard questions, please!’
‘I really believe,’ answered the lady with some acerbity (‘Aha!’
thought Flaxius, ‘the first blood drawn!’)--‘that you must have
belonged to the Disagreeable Club, whose members make a practice of
irritating and retorting, like cabmen.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Flaxius, ‘if I had not, I should have been indeed
ill-qualified for conversation with an advanced young lady of the _fin
de siècle_. How often she reminds me of a Spanish fairy-tale. May I
tell it?’ he asked, like a little boy.
‘Oh, certainly, if it amuses you,’ replied the young lady in a tone
half-contemptuously vexed, yet half interested in this extraordinary
stranger.
‘Once upon a time,’ said Flaxius, ‘there were three brothers, and the
two elder were a pair of awful blackguards.’
‘Truly, it begins beautifully!’ remarked Miss Rockhard scornfully.
‘Doesn’t it?’ quoth Flaxius gleefully. ‘And it’s nothing to what’s
a-coming. Well, there was a king of the country, and he had a beautiful
daughter--at least she was _distinguée_, or what you might call
_stunning_, for she was awful at being disagreeable, and could shut up
any man in chaff, or worse--not to draw it too fine. And if anybody
dared to answer her--oh, then she became angry!
‘Now the king, finding that his daughter kept his court all the time
in an uproar, issued a proclamation, saying that whoever could beat the
princess in abuse should have her to wife, and welcome. Then the two
elder brothers rejoiced, each being sure that he would win the prize.
But the younger, who was a sort of Saint Johnny, with no great gift of
the gab, went and sat sorrowfully in the woods, weeping to think he had
no chance to win the princess, and wishing he had passed his boyhood in
playing chuck-farthing, and hanging about the docks with other little
guttersnipes, and had not wasted it in going to school and church and
penny-readings.
‘And while he sat there weeping, and eating a great slice of
water-melon, mingling his tears with the seeds, there came by an Irish
fairy of his acquaintance.
‘“An’ what is it yees wape-in an’ bodderin’ about, _alanna_?” she asked
kindly.
‘Then the youth told her his trouble, and how he would like to win the
princess, but wanted that _copia verborum_, or elegant “fluency of
sass,” as it is called in America, which was necessary to secure it.
‘“Och, _monoma diaoul!_ and tear and agers!” exclaimed the fairy,
“sure, if it’s nothin’ but blay-gairdin’ is naded, it’s mesilf that’ll
tache ye how to bate thim all intoirely. Pattherin’ an’ cantin’ is it!
and me here that blissed the great Daniel O’Connell in his cradle, an’
gave him the illigant spache that shut up all the sass in Parliamint.
‘“Great O’Connell, the Libherather,
An’ salvathor of Oireland’s oisle!
‘“Whoop! _Fa-na-ballah_, and Erin-go-braugh!” cried the fairy as she
danced in a ring, brandishing her broom. “And now, ye divil, sit down
till I give yees a lisson in polite litherature.”
‘I forbear for certain reasons to give you the conversation which
occurred between the princess and the two brothers, in which they
were utterly silenced. Then, turning to the youngest, she exclaimed
scornfully:
‘“And I suppose you, with your white egg-fruit face of an idiotic
scallawag, set up for being intellectual--intellectual enough to smash
_me_--that is, if you know what the word means, you Number Three
Mackerel with the head gone!”
‘“It is just like your ante-penultimate superfluitancy to mundivagate
anent my candicancy,’ replied the youth indignantly. ‘Thou tramontarian
tomboy-trollope and trull-cat, thou quadruplicate quean, mopsy minx,
and metaphrastic harridame--reintegrated in thy deligration even to
conquassentiality--thou mere projectile of an eolipile--nay, I go so
far as to call thee a true ultimatum of the fourth effusion--dug up
by a divarication of conduplicated metatarsity--thou art all this as
thy conscience deterrates ... yea and thou art moreover addicted to
_lipothymy_ and all such enormities and vices!”
‘Thereupon the princess gave it to him back, with all that there is
in Grose’s _Slang Dictionary_, and Romany to boot--which was pretty
bad; but when he retorted with a passage from Browning’s _Sordello_,
she gave it up, and fell into a fit of rage, foaming at the mouth. And
having recovered, she married him, and they lived like the devil ever
after.’
Now Flaxius had the gift of voice, and with it that of the
story-teller, to the degree of well-nigh transcending language itself;
for one could read the full meaning of every word in his intonation,
and eyes and gestures; these latter were never extravagant, but
strangely significant, as they well might be, since he knew as only the
priests of old knew the wonderful Sign Language which men have found of
late years on every Etruscan vase--much of which is still found even
among the peasant-children of Italy. And as a small group of guests had
gathered round to hear the legend, there were roars of final laughter,
in which Miss Jesabelle herself joined with a good-will, for she had
begun to realise that there was a lion in this man, and as the story
had been told for _her_, she shrewdly made the very best of it.
‘You tell a fairy-tale so well,’ she said to Flaxius, when they were
again together, and no one near, ‘as to make one regret that there are
no more fairies or magic, or rather that such fancies never were.’
‘And if there were,’ replied the sage, ‘you and the world would still
necessarily remain in ignorance of them.’
‘Permit me,’ replied Miss Rockhard, ‘to differ with you. I _presume_,’
she added, with a slightly sarcastic expression, ‘that I am _quite_ as
likely as you are to be acquainted, or possibly familiar, with all that
has been investigated by science--the London Library and British Museum
being open to all--and I can assure you that despite Madame Blavatsky
and Mr. Sinnett and Colonel Olcott--very nice men they are--not the
slightest scientific proof of the existence of fairies or magic has
ever been detected.’
‘Very true,’ rejoined Flaxius imperturbably. ‘I did not say that
they existed. I only assert that, from the very nature of things,
if they do, they _must_ be concealed from man as he now is. The more
indubitable proof of such occult matters would bring about a premature
confusion in humanity which would have disastrous results.’