“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! è scritto, è scritto è verissimo!”