The Argosy — page 140: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

126 The Knight of the Trowel. a ht a west, who “ worshipped the scarlet lady and had the mark of the baste on their foreheads.” Robin, however, could never convince anyone, save himself, of his peculiar fitness for this work; so he was fain to content himself by carrying on a guerilla warfare against “ Her that sits upon the seven hills,” with such of her followers as he came into ordinary contact with, and who were no wise averse to discussion with one so oufré, amusing, and well-intentioned as Robin. In the mean- time he handled his hammer and trowel, built up literal broken-down walls and erected new ones, and lived and died without seeing “ foreign parts,” or “far lands,” or, indeed, anything greater or grander, more distant or important, than the chief town of his native county. Guess, then, with what interest and amaze he looked upon that wonderful miracle of modern swiftness and power, the train. The first time it came rushing along on its new line of rails through our district, Robin was leaning over the battlements of one of its bridges, with a young gentleman fnend of ours, to watch its approach. “What do you think of it, Robin?” inquired the latter, as it dashed past, with an eagle-like scream, glistening and shining in its glory and might. “What do I think of it?” cried Robin, profoundly. ‘“ Eh, sir, what do I think? It swelleth with pride, it looks like a turkey- -cock, it comes in a minute, and it’s gone with a rush.” “ What 1s it like, Robin ?” “What is it like, sir? Eh, what is it like? Now, faith, I don’t know ;” and fairly puzzled, Robin gave a great gasp, and rolled his eyes all round the horizon in quest of something to which he might liken it. At length, bringing them down on his young master, with a huge grimace, he exclaimed, in his most solemn sepulchral voice, as if speaking from profound personal knowledge and conviction: “It’s like the Deil runnin’ bare-headed.” Robin was a truly religious man so far as his lights went, and his “lights,” poor fellow, as we have already hinted, were often clouded and wandering ; still he was a man of simple faith and unbounded trust in Providence and the great God he served. He delighted much to read in the Book, but his knowledge, although large, was irregular, and his interpretations were often as highly gro- tesque as they were inaccurate. Daniel he loved, and Revelation he loved, and the dark old Prophets. There was something in their mysterious allegories and magnificent allusions which charmed his own vague but profound ideas of the awful, and sublime, and poetical in nature, and in nature’s God. The same fascination existed for him, too, in all the mysterious phenomena of thunder and lightning, and dark clouds and tempests, in -which Robin reverently enveloped his Creator. When he listened to the organ playing in the parish church of a Sunday, he had strange visions of glory and happiness to come, and comicaooks GO)