rious 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.

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's player, or even like Hamlet
himself--always soliloquising, tearing a passion to rags. 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;--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.

"When in prison," writes Shakib, "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. 'What do you want,' he growled, 'why are
you here?' And I, amazed, 'Did you not send for me?' And he snapped
up, 'I did; but you should not have come. You should withhold from me
your favours.' 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. 'And what is the use of
freedom,' he exclaimed, 'when it drags us to lower and darker depths?
Don't think I am miserable in prison. No; I am not--I am happy. I have
had strange visions, marvellous. O my