by
A. Adams Martin.
[Illustration:
"Then longe folk to go on pilgrimages,
And palmers for to seeke strange strands
To ferne hallows couth in sundry lands."]
In the good old times, when a man wanted a little change from the bosom
of his family--in those days a somewhat restricted bosom--he went on a
crusade, or a pilgrimage.
What if he did spend his time and substance on that which, from a
worldly standpoint, profited not--absenting himself from home and
friends for periods of time lengthy enough to afford a modern wife good
grounds for a divorce--was it not all meritorious? Heaven, he fondly
believed, would more than pay his travelling expenses by a large cheque
to his credit on the next world, whilst he had the pleasure of the
journey in this: an ingenious method of seeing something of both! And so
he donned his pilgrim weeds, and his "cockle hat and shoon"--as all good
chroniclers tell us--and hied him off to Canterbury or Cologne, Rome,
Jerusalem, or Timbuctoo. Mrs. Pilgrim was left at home to play
"patience," and to keep the house and bairns. She was generally a
long-suffering creature, but sometimes she _did_ get into mischief. She
could not _always_ spin yarn, so she occasionally varied her task by
weaving nets--traps for the unwary who was _not_ a pilgrim.
But if she got into mischief, she paid the penalty; my lord invariably
cut off her head with his scimitar when he returned home--if she waited
for that--and there was an end of the matter. There was no Divorce Court
in the good old days, and a woman's head did not count for much. But
these slight casualties never diminished the ardour of the pilgrim
spirit: the pilgrim increased and multiplied, and sought new shrines as
well as new wives. To slightly vary the words of the poet, "_Shrine_
after _shrine_ his rising raptures fill. But still he sighs--for
_shrines_ are wanting still." The law of supply and demand, however,
worked as surely then as now; and as pilgrims increased to venerate,
objects increased to be venerated. There is a good story told by the
Arabs--it was given by Dr. Samuel Jessup in one of his contributions to
"Picturesque Palestine" some years ago--and it is an apt illustration of
this supply and demand principle.
[Illustration: "RAN AWAY WITH HIS MASTER'S DONKEY."]
There was a certain Sheik-Mohammed who, once upon a time, was the keeper
of a "wely" or shrine, supposed by the faithful to be the tomb of an
eminent Saint, and so largely frequented by them that the Sheik grew
rich from their costly offerings. His servant Ali, however, receiving
but a small share of the profits, ran away to the south of the Jordan,
taking with him his master's donkey. The animal died on the way, and
Ali, having covered his body with a heap of stones, sat down in despair.
A passer-by enquired the cause of his sorrow, and Ali replied that he
had just found the tomb of an eminent Saint; the man kissed the stones,
gave Ali a present, and passed on his way.
The news of the holy shrine spread throughout the land, and pilgrims
thronged to visit it: Ali became rich, built a fine "Kubbeh" (Dome), and
was envied by all the Sheiks.
Mohammed, hearing of the new shrine, and finding his own eclipsed by it,
made a pilgrimage to it himself, in hopes of finding out the source of
its great repute. Finding Ali in charge, he asked, in a whisper, if he
would tell him the name of the Saint whose tomb he kept charge of. "I
will," replied Ali, "on condition that you tell me the name of your
Saint." Mohammed consented, and Ali then whispered, "God alone is great!
This is the tomb of the donkey I stole from you."
"Mashallah!" cried Mohammed, "and my 'wely' is the tomb of that
donkey's father!" Methinks Palestine has not a monopoly of the
long-eared and long-suffering race, either living or dead!
But we have changed all that; as we have a good many other things.
Saints and their shrines are out of fashion. "It is an age of seeing,
not believing," we say complacently; and we laugh with superior wisdom
at the follies of our forefathers, and the relics they went so far to
adore--relics which, like the fabled frog, by trying to swell themselves
to greater and still greater dimensions, ended in growing a little too
extensive for their ultimate good. Saints, like sinners, can only have
two legs apiece, we all know; but the saints of our ancestors, if their
relics spoke truly, must have been saintly centipedes: of making new
limbs there was no end, and, as their numbers increased, reverence
waned, till hey!--the bubble of credulity burst at last, as did the
frog!
But if the heavenly profitability was cut off by this collapse of
superstition, or eclipse of faith--call it which you will--the habit of
pleasurable moving remained; stronger by the force of repeated custom
throughout all past times: we keep the shell, but we cunningly
substitute a new kernel in the place of the exploded core of heretofore.
We go a pilgrimage still, but your modern spirit is now the pilgrim of
Health, Pleasure, Science, Art, and such-like--all high-sounding names
to conjure by; and the world, that old time-server, ever seeking to
accommodate itself to the new ways of its inhabitants, is ever supplying
us with a new Spa, a new "old master," or masterpiece, a newly dug-up
ruin, or hieroglyph, or Dark Continent, or--for even the humblest
"tripper" is not forgotten--a new Mudport-on-Sea.
The shrines of our forefathers' worship have crept back into favour by
hiding themselves in the voluminous draperies of History or Art. Our
appetite for shows is omnivorous, and we don't object to a shrine if it
has a Gothic moulding sufficiently "cute," or a Byzantine roof, or some
other attraction--are we not pilgrims of _Art_?--though if called upon
to define our roof or moulding many of us might be considerably
nonplussed, taking refuge in describing one as a "thing with a round
top," and the other as "a sort of stone trimming, don't you know."
I remember once reading a child's tale--I have forgotten where, for it
was many years ago--but the drift of the story was too good to forget.
It was about a small pig who lived with his mother in a stye which
possessed but a limited front yard. Piggy had the pilgrim spirit, and
sighed to escape to pastures new, to see what lay beyond his little
wall. One day his chance came--he escaped somehow, and made a pilgrimage
round the farmyard, where the strange things he saw either frightened
him dreadfully, or were utterly unintelligible to his piggish mind. He
was so frightened by the roaring of a bull that he fled with great
precipitation home, where he gave a glowing account of his travels to
his mother.
[Illustration: "PILGRIMS OF ART."]
"Yes," he said, "I have seen the world. It is square, and it has a wall
all round it, to keep the pigs from falling off, of course. I saw some
queer white pigs, with only two legs--think of that! They said 'Quack,
quack'--that is what they say in the world, you know, but, of course,
_you_ don't understand. Then I saw a great red pig, who cried,
'Mou-e-e-e!' There is but _one_ such pig in the world, and _I_ have seen
it. I am content to live quietly now, for I have seen the whole world!"
Who has not seen that smug satisfaction of small souls as reflected by
piggy?
There is a great deal in _looking_ wise even if you don't feel so. Talk
always of your "dones," and leave out the "undones."
Most of us have heard of the apocryphal American who "does Europe" in a
fortnight! I cannot say that I have actually met that gentleman, but I
have met pilgrims, both English and American, who will tell you grandly
that they have "done"--say Rome, in two, nay in one day! All the
antiquities, of _course_, and the Museums; and then comes a string of
names of churches, and galleries, until you gasp for breath! You go away
and lean against something to recover your breath, and your gravity, but
the pilgrimage is an accomplished fact. They have a right to stick to
the cockle-shell in their cap, so to speak, and go home saying, "Oh,
yes! We have done Rome, or Italy, or Egypt, _thoroughly_; missed
nothing!"
If one could take an impression of one of these pilgrim's brains by
"Kodak," one would get some queer results in chaos, rather like the game
of family post--the Raphael frescoes transferring themselves to Karnak,
and the Sphinx hiding in the Catacombs, whilst pictures, statuary, and
shrines of "cult" executed a Bacchanalian dance on a gigantic scale all
round.
But results do not alter facts; and in these busy days people are
generally content to _see_ your tree of knowledge; they have no time to
climb its branches to look for the fruit of wisdom!
We have changed our pilgrim weeds for an ulster of the latest cut, and
our Missal for a "Murray" or "Baedeker," but are we really so much wiser
than our forefathers?
Alas! we have but changed the object, and human nature, gullible ever,
sees no reason why it should not flock in thousands to drop a visiting
card into the tomb (so called) of "Juliet" at Verona, with as fond
credulity as their fathers, when they deposited their candle at the tomb
of some miracle-working saint; with this difference, however--that the
latter was deposited for the glory and praise of the saint, and the
former of the sinner _himself_. Who could say, after that, that he had
not seen it!
I happened, when there, to make some irreverent remarks about that tomb.
I had walked out to see it on a hot afternoon, and I found it
inconveniently far. One is accustomed to have these places "grouped,"
and I was displeased with _Juliet_ for not being buried nearer home--it
was an oversight--but perhaps it had been arranged for the benefit of
the carriage-drivers. _Juliet_ was public-spirited, and thought of all
classes, and their interests. I did not think of all these extenuating
circumstances then, however, and so I said unbelieving things about her
tomb.
The _custode_ was deeply pained, as an orthodox _custode_ ought to be.
He remonstrated with me first, and then he pointed to the wall. "_Ecco,
Signor! e scritto, e scritto e verissimo!_"
[Illustration: "ECCO, SIGNOR!"]
And there indeed it was written, in good set terms, and in two or three
languages, for the benefit of all non-literary or unbelieving pilgrims.
I have often thought since how many people there are, like my friend the
_custode_, to whom the magic "it is written" is sufficient ground for
their faith, without further consideration as to _when_ and _how_.
Some time ago a friend of mine encountered a portly Western American
tourist at Kenilworth. He came in a hurry, and asked to be shown the
part "wrote up" by Scott. He gazed for a few minutes, and then departed
as quickly as he came. To him Kenilworth was merely a place "wrote up"
by Scott, and no doubt he had Warwick and Stratford-on-Avon to see that
same afternoon, before going on to Liverpool.
There are pilgrims who certainly carry a feeling of duty into all
things. Wherever they go they mean work!
This quality pre-eminently distinguishes the English-speaking world, and
it always fills our Continental, or Oriental, neighbours with lazy
wonder. "Oh, these Englishwomen! they have legs and stomachs of bronze!"
I once heard an Italian say.
We are inclined to overdo it. I think an occasional rest-day is as
necessary to the tired brain as the photographer's dark room is to the
development of the negative impression--without it the brain would,
indeed, record a "_negative impression_."
But I am straying from _Juliet's_ tomb, and the subject of unlimited
faith. Only make a thing possible, and, _if there is an undercurrent of
desire to believe it_, the large majority will swallow almost anything
with what theologians call "simple faith." The "if" is an important
one--the key to the situation. We believe readily when it is agreeable
to do so, and all pilgrims have ever sought to heighten the attractions
of the objects of their interest. It adds to their own enjoyment of
them, and, after all, is it not a reflex compliment to ourselves? If
"there is but _one_ such pig in the world," have not _I_ seen it?
[Illustration: "LURED MEN TO DESTRUCTION."]
Have you ever noticed the effect of the expression, "They say?" If we
say "Tom," or "Dick," or "Harry," says "so and so," "Tom" is no better
authority than "Dick," nor are both together much better than "Harry."
But if we say, indefinitely, "_They_ say" "so and so," there is a
mysterious potency in the unknown quantity which leads, if not to
universal belief, at least to universal transmission.
"Yes, it is an interesting spot. They say that a princess is buried here
who was laid under a potent spell by a mighty wizard, long, long ago,"
etc.; or "They tell of a beauteous maiden who sat on this rock, in the
far past, and sang, and thus lured men to destruction," etc.
[Illustration]
He or she is always swallowed up by the mists of obscurity--oh, ye mists
of obscurity, ye have much to answer for!
We do not care to dispute with "They" his superior information--even if
we could find him; for he seems to reside permanently in the aforesaid
mists himself; only issuing forth, like a valiant knight, to rescue the
fair maidens--Fact, or Fiction--from the jaws of the dragon Oblivion!
What he _is_, we leave to the learned, who could no doubt dispose of him
suitably in connection with the highly convenient solar myths, as a
Potent Rescuing Power! As for us, we meddle not with the mists: we
rather like the delicious glow of their luminous dimness, which
glorifies the past if it clouds it; and which softens off the hardness
of our prosaic modern life, as a summer haze our English landscape.
We are delighted to get hold of an ancient legend, whether of headless
horseman or housekeeper, pixie or wizard. Even in that "happy hunting
ground" of the Modern Spirit, the United States of America, the old
legends linger still, if but faintly. The soil of a new country does not
grow sentiment of this sort readily, but the plant is indigenous to the
human heart; and its fair flowers have been gathered and wreathed around
their pages by many an essayist and poet. We cannot do without the
element of mystery in our life, however we may represent it. It is part
of the spirit within us, and we find it in everything around us. It is
the veil of "Isis" which science, her worshipper, is ever trying to
lift, but cannot. The muse of Inspiration pours forth her melodious
voice, like the nightingale, in the darkness and the shady covert. We
listen to her song with entranced ears; a few whose spirits are "finely
touched," try to repeat it; but who has ever seen her; the soul that
animates, the spirit that inspires! Our life itself is a mystery--the
Past and Future--are they not the wings of the Spirit of Time which are
brooding over our Present? When they are lifted--when the mighty pinions
are outspread for flight--_then_ the shadows will flee for ever, for the
great Daybreak of Eternity will have begun!
[Illustration: SCIENCE LIFTING THE VEIL OF ISIS.]
Without the spirit of mystery, the mother of enquiry--of romance, the
days of pilgrimage would be ended. If it is a mere matter of rest, and
of oiling the wheels of the machine for a fresh grind, Mudport-on-Sea
will do well enough; but Mudport-on-Sea can never satisfy the hunger of
the curious soul for the beautiful; the marvellous; all that is in
itself lovely, or that has lived in the past, and caught a brighter
glow from its rainbow reflections. One spot of ground may content the
naturalist, or the Buddhist sage, for one can find a world of wondrous
thought in the smallest leaf--a microcosm in a dew-drop; and the other
can send his soul off on aerial pilgrimages, though his body may be in
chains! But we are not all either natural or transcendental
philosophers; our appetite requires not one leaf, but many, for our
powers of assimilation are not great enough to draw spiritual sustenance
from one alone; and so, like the caterpillar, when we have finished our
leaf, we crawl to another.
"But this spirit of curiosity, or unrest, is all owing to lack of
self-culture," cry some. Perhaps it is--some of it. No doubt the cocoon
stage of rest and self-development is higher, and nearer to the ultimate
perfection--the winged creature which soars above where others
crawl--but until we are fit to be cocoons, and evolve butterflies, we
must be content with our caterpillar instincts.
People speak scornfully of "mere curiosity," but it is only worthless
when it bears no fruit. Curiosity, in itself, is a healthy, natural
instinct, which we see to perfection in the small child. Toddie's speech
in "Helen's Babies," "Want to shee wheels go wound," is the pilgrim
spirit epitomised. We hear of the watch, and we want to see it; we see
it, and then we want to hold it; we hear it tick, and we want to open
it; and then we would like to "shee wheels go wound" constantly, and if
we cannot, we kick at the prohibition!
Curiosity may be a worthless element in life when idle, but when
otherwise, is it not the mainspring of the watch? Think of the manifold
results of "mere curiosity," when rightly persevered in! But then we
change the name--it becomes insight--research--it becomes a power which
can climb the dizziest height, and dive the deepest depths, to bring to
us their treasures--the star--the pearl!
[Illustration]
A College Idyl.