CHAPTER VII
We returned to the Palace, and still found it the centre of life and brilliancy. I noticed, on entering the large dining-hall in which supper was served, that neither Plucritus nor Vestné were there.
“Will you stay?” asked Vestasian.
“I think not,” I answered. “I am tired, and not accustomed to many people. I will return.”
Almost before the words were spoken I found myself alone in my own chamber.
In one way this evening had been different from the others. It had given me interest and food for thought. There was about Vestasian none of that cold languor and chilliness which nearly always distinguished Vestné, neither did there seem to be the same sneering cruelty that characterised Plucritus.
Yet as I thought about it the old, old feeling came back upon me by leaps and bounds, bringing the same old pain.
Now that I was away from him, from his clear voice, and quiet manner, and curious conversation, I recognised with horrible distrust the fascination he had held for me. I remembered how I had followed him as in a dream, seeing with his eyes, hearing almost with his ears, even arriving at the same thoughts as himself, listening to his stories with an interest as real as if I had taken part in them. I remembered too how he had singled me out for his attention, me, a solitary unknown guest, almost a prisoner, having neither friend nor rank in this great land.
When, however, the interest and glamour had gone I saw him as he was, or what I took him for—a terrible power, silent, strong and swift, covered with a veneer of lightness like all the rest.
Then came the old cursed sense of unreality. For aught I knew this all might be a dream; I might be suffering like the poet or the sculptor, or any of the others I had seen.
Like them I stretched out my arms, trying to push the horrid thing away, because, dream or no dream, the pain was unmistakable to me.
Upon this there came another hard conviction.
None left this gloomy region except through death. Every tortured spirit lingered, then passed away back to the earth, or some equivalent.
I thought drearily if this would be my end, and laughed aloud, for the earth knew me not, neither did heaven, and to my own land, branded with the breath of hell, I could never come.
I recognised more horribly what would be the end. For death to me was death in entirety, the pitiable weakness of which Plucritus had spoken, a total dismemberment and absorption by some—yes, why not?—by some arch-vampire, even perhaps Vestasian, or one of the others.
The more I thought of him the more clearly I discerned his nature. He had told me to think. Indeed, I might think safely whilst others laughed. Through all that night I lay awake, hating the coming day, yet longing for the night to flee away. Towards morning, as the darkest hour approached, I happened to look across toward the wall. There a feeble light was flickering. As I looked it died away, and soon afterwards the dawn broke red and golden. On that I fell asleep, wearily forgetful of all things till wakened by the slave who waited on me.
I remember he pressed me once more with many sighs, and even tears, to wear apparel he had brought for me, but I refused.
On descending to the lower hall I found Plucritus sitting reading. He was dressed ready for going out, and by his side Vestné sat perusing a letter. She looked up as I came to them, and the news was evidently very pleasing to her, for she was smiling. But when she saw me a slight frown puckered up her brow.
“Good-morning, Genius,” she greeted me at last. “We feared you were not well, you are so late.”
Plucritus threw the paper away and jumped up, turning to me. “Good—” but he never finished the salutation; instead, he ended with a violent “Idiot!” that lost nothing by the change in his tone.
“Well,” said I, “as long as you send me a servant who cannot speak one word, what can you expect of me?”
“Common sense,” he answered. “Let us have breakfast.”
The meal was not a pleasant one. Afterwards Vestné left us alone; this hour of the morning seemed one of her busiest. Plucritus led the way to the library, and when we were there he closed the door.
“Genius,” he said at last, “it is very easy to see what you mean by appearing like this.”
“I mean nothing,” I replied, “except that I find my own apparel the more suitable. For my own part I think it is a very childish thing to quarrel over.”
For a short time there was silence, till at last he asked,—
“How did you like Vestasian?”
“I found him a very interesting companion.”
“More so than me?”
“In many ways, yes.”
“Should you care to change hosts?”
“In that respect I find you pretty equal.”
“I am going to the city this morning, would you care to come with me?”
For one minute I looked at him, then I answered,—
“I care very little about anything. If I must go, I must. If not I would rather stay.”
He smiled.
“You are altering,” he said, “altering in mind and spirit. Gradually you will alter altogether, so that none of your past acquaintances will know you. But there! I forgot, you have no past acquaintances. It was you, if I remember rightly, who tried to push your own identity upon someone else, someone very much outside your own station, who could only regard you in the light of an impudent beggar fit simply for spurning aside without remark.”
He laughed. “Like most ignorant people,” he continued, “you have great conceit and assurance and stubbornness, which you mistake for true determination. And when all these things fail to assist you, you turn sullen and think yourself ill-used.”
“This is very interesting,” I retorted. “I am learning facts about myself hitherto unknown. Is it sullenness from which I suffer just at present?”
“Undoubtedly. You have found some one more than your match and cannot give in graciously.”
But being dull I made no answer, till at last, seeing he made no effort to continue, I asked,—
“And who may my match be?”
He shook his head.
“If I told you it might be such a blow to your conceit that you would scarce recover from it.”
I did not reply. He rose.
“You are losing your one redeeming quality,” he went on. “You never have an answer ready. When you die we shall raise you a monument and it shall say, ‘Here lies one who died silently after talking loudly,’ and all those who go by will shake their heads and say it was a bad practice. But come, let us be off. I wish you to see the great city; for though you may not know it, I like you better than you think.”
“I am flattered;” and not even dulness could keep bitterness away.
“Now,” said he, when we were outside, “I propose that instead of taking our journey slowly we take it with the greatest possible speed. There is nothing to see on the way but what one may see every day; that is, of course, if one has the wherewithal to travel. What do you propose?”
“I am, as you know, quite at your service. Quickly or slowly, it is all the same to me.”
“Well, then, we will go quickly.”
With incredible speed we found ourselves within a large cathedral. Gloomy it was, yet grand, and as we arrived we heard the organ for the voluntary was playing.
“Why surely,” I cried, gazing about me, “we are back on earth.”
He shook his head.
“No. It’s a good imitation. Splendid, isn’t it?”
“But, pardon me, I recognise this building—”
“One very like it, that is all. This is part of Vestasian’s town house, and knowing you were coming he has built people up from stunted souls. He is considerate.”
“At the expense of others.”
“Oh! we are all that,” Plucritus rejoined. He put his arm through mine. “Come and stand under the shadow of this monument; we can then see without being seen. But perhaps you would like to say a prayer. We will go into the choir stalls, there are stools there and the view is better.”
We went to the stalls he mentioned unnoticed.
By this time Plucritus had recovered his good temper. I never yet had known him upset for long, since though by nature he never forgave he never let this interfere with his good-companionship.
“Now,” said he, “look around, do, and don’t miss anything worth seeing.”
“But what is there to see?”
“A church service. And the church and the theatre are much united, so that when you go to church you see a play, and when you visit a theatre you see the other thing. Now, observe.”
When we had entered the church had been empty, but now it began to fill.
The first to enter was a most elegantly-gowned woman accompanied by two children.
She rustled up the central aisle and took her position, as did the girl and boy to the further side of her. Next she brought out a silver smelling-salts bottle, and a bottle of scent with a silver stopper, and other paraphernalia, and set them by the side of her.
“She has nerves,” Plucritus remarked soothingly to me. “Poor thing! what it must be to be afflicted like that!”
The children, in the meantime, having stared about, began whispering to one another. She smiled maternally, but let them be.
“Poor little things,” he observed. “What an affliction for them to be mewed up here.”
“If you talk so loud,” said I, laughing despite myself, for he took such evident interest in them, “they will hear you.”
“Not they,” he remarked; “they are blind and deaf or they wouldn’t be here. When the choir comes in we shall have to move away, but we shall never be seen nor heard. Vestasian and I once stood at either end of this large building and shouted to one another as loud as we could on matters secular.”
“And what followed?”
“Nothing appreciable. They sang the Athanasian Creed from memory, I believe.”
Next came a rather poor girl, who walked up the aisle in a very undecided way and turned to the left, to a seat opposite the lady.
She knelt down and prayed for a long time, and when she got up Plucritus noted the time in a little note-book he carried. Then he said to me,—
“Would you be kind enough to go and see what is the particular scent that lady carries—eau-de-Cologne or lavender?”
“It won’t be lavender,” I replied, “that’s for the toilet.”
“But we must make sure.”
When I had discovered I returned to him.
“It is eau-de-Cologne, and there is a smaller bottle of wood violet.”
“Out of fashion, but still....” said he, and made a note of it.
Then entered a very respectable-looking gentleman, who at once gave a tone of staidness to the whole proceedings. And behind him came his wife, who was matronly and very richly dressed, and behind her came four children, three girls and a boy, and they all sat down in the pew behind the elegant lady. The eldest girl curtsied before she went into the seat at a big crucifix on which Christ was hanging, but it was lost, except that Plucritus noted it most carefully. Then there came in three girls all together, and one of them was giggling, and when she knelt down to pray she giggled more than ever, and then the next began to titter, and finally the third was overcome also. And still Plucritus noted it and passed a sketch of it to me, so that I wondered at his great ability in drawing. Next entered another very, very elegant woman, and she walked up to the top pew, and when there she crossed herself and curtsied, and then went in and knelt down and prayed with her face covered, so that it must have been very real to her.
Next came two young men, who sat on the seat opposite the girls who giggled, and that somehow or other made them giggle more.
“What are those two young men doing?” asked Plucritus of me.
“So far as I can make out, nothing.”
“I thought so. Did they say any prayer when they came in?”
“I did not notice.”
“You should be more exact. I don’t think they did. At any rate I have it down that they did not.”
After that a very pompous gentleman with a gold watch-chain arrived. All the way up the aisle he breathed heavily. He sat down in his place with an extra sigh, and nodded to his prayer-book, and passed his hand over the bald place on his head and leant back.
“No prayer again,” criticised Plucritus. “But he does his share in almsgiving.”
Presently quite a party of ladies and gentlemen entered. They looked as if they had just come from dinner; they were very elaborately dressed.
The ladies carried fans and wore big picture hats and much jewellery. Some of the gentlemen had very small prayer-books, that looked like toys, and were perhaps meant to testify to their clear sight for small print.
They made quite a bustle as they came in, and many of the people who had by this time filled up the hinder pews appeared quite awed.
Most of the ladies curtsied before going in the pews, but the gentlemen did not; they looked bored instead, so that one really wondered what it was that brought them.
Finally an elderly lady with silvery hair came up the aisle to where the poorly-clad girl was sitting. As soon as she caught sight of her she raised a pair of gold pince-nez and gazed at her to see if she were really there. When she found out that she was there she stood very straight and a look of extreme hauteur spread over her patrician features. Without saying anything she went back and brought the verger, and he explained somewhat brusquely that those were not the free seats. So the girl got up and came out, and the lady went in and knelt down and prayed. The verger conducted the girl to where the two young men were sitting. It was by now the only available seat, as this service seemed exceedingly popular. She sat down, and one of the young men coughed.
The organ had just struck up in a jovial key, but not too loud, as the congregation didn’t like it, and the choir began to appear.
There was a great number of them, boys and men, and five clergymen followed. As they came the congregation rose, and when they knelt the congregation knelt, and then they all sat down and waited for the organ to finish, which it did in due course.
Then they all rose, and the clergyman said, “Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord! for in thy sight shall no man living be justified.”
Plucritus, who by this time had moved into the central aisle and stood gazing about, now wrote down something in his note-book. I looked to see what it was. It seemed to be just one word—“Evasion.” I think there was nothing more.
Next began the exhortation, and he walked slowly back and forwards up the aisle, with his head bent. He could see better that way; he had a knack of looking out of the corners of his eyes, which at times is startling to those who do not expect it.
When the exhortation was over all knelt down, except one man who was lolling in his seat.
Plucritus went up very slowly and quietly and stood beside him for a second or two, bending his head till his cheek nearly touched the fair hair. Then he drew back and wrote something, and his lips curled up into that curious smile of his.
I looked to see what he had written, but he closed the book with a sharp click and turned round laughing. No one noticed it.
“That was a private memorandum,” he said.
The whole of the service he walked about, never still, yet always watching. The smile never left his lips as he glided from pillar to pulpit, and he joined in every ‘Amen’ and led the Creed, even before the pastor. As the last blessing was being pronounced he went up into the pulpit and beckoned me to follow. I went, and we looked down upon the vast gathering. He leant upon the Bible and studied them. Suddenly the brilliant lights went out, and in the total darkness a harsh red light began to rise. Beneath us every form had changed, and hideous demons were shouting, and gesticulating, and leaping from pew to pew. At last the whole church crashed down like a well-built pack of cards which has stood some pretty strong rebuffs, and upon the shattered ruins stood the Spirit who accompanied me: like some great god, one foot upon the broken crucifix and one upon the topmost fallen spire.
Every wretched soul fled out into the darkness, and he, remaining, laughed aloud.
Then he turned to me those deep, inhuman eyes, flashing with brilliant fire.
“Was I wrong?” Plucritus asked, and laughed again. “I shall not be judged. The merciful Master who excuses one, excuses all. Take me to that God above myself, that blind power, who year by year and century by century allows himself to be befooled, and fools.
“Let me see the four and twenty elders and the beasts with eyes, let me see the horses dashing o’er the ground, and view that lamb—that little bleating lamb—that sits beside Him on the throne. Let me hear the senseless Hallelujahs! and the fanatic cry. Let me see the coarse and vulgar flatterers who crowd around, more fulsome than the meanest courtier that ever crawled towards a monarch’s throne. Take me to this God Almighty, this God all-powerful, this God all-merciful, this God all-seeing and all-hearing. This God all Truth and God all lies. This Power omnipotent. This Is and Am and Ever-shall-be from Was eternal. Take me to Him and let me look at Him, if not from the front, then from the back, for I have never seen Him.”
I watched him at every line he spoke, and saw the gibe and sneer that marked each sentence.
“You blame them for that which you yourself have formulated.”
“Not I. I blame them for their tawdriness, their mockery, their arrogant vulgarity. It is none of me nor mine.”
“Yet it is the result of your work.”
He laughed scornfully, then answered whimsically, “But God made me. His is the greater sin. For I am like the disrespectful son, who, when accused of ill, speaks of heredity, and blames his father. For I was good until I sinned, and when I sinned I looked into the past life of him who made me, and I found that all was quite respectable and quiet, and the paternal smile still beamed the milder, hiding the devil’s frown which feared detection underneath.”
He stood still looking round and laughing.
“Had they but known my power to smash their Church I think they would have prayed to me instead,” he went on. “I was their God Omnipotent their Lord most merciful, the author of their being and their king. Yet they despised and knew me not. They mocked my power, would not acknowledge me, and prayed to be delivered from my kingdom—licking the very golden dust about my feet the while. Have I not forgiven them time on time? have I not overlooked their follies? Led them gently by the still waters, soothed their stricken consciences, smoothed their guilty paths? Have I not given them gifts for slander, kindness for contempt—and what is my reward? They renounce me—me and all my works—the pomps and vanities of the world I gave them and those delightful pleasures born from flesh. What a thankless office then is mine! I who give all and get nothing but renunciation for all that I have done. Why, even the poorest worm of earth would turn beneath the treatment, and transforming itself into the snake or serpent take God’s voice and utter blasphemy. I, Lucifer, son of the Light, son of the Morning, son of God, an you will, how meek am I become to let mankind walk over me and pry into hell to see my chains and weakness.”
He spoke in that low, contemptuous voice that had the power to cut like knives.
“Therefore,” he continued, “because they renounce me, I renounce them, being but a jealous God, and then I punish them and they say, ‘Nevertheless, not my will but thine,’ and look the other way, so that I am not even held responsible for that, and may torture and torment them as I will.”
“And those who do your will,” said I, “those who do it and swear allegiance to you—what of them?”
For one moment he drew himself up, and pride more strong than I had ever seen before passed o’er his features. Then suddenly he unbent again and answered,—
“There is a word, a little word—a long one—with a meaning human dictionary never yet explained to fulness, and it is ‘ingratitude.’ And yet,” he continued, “they are happy enough under my rule. I am an indulgent monarch, even merciful; I rarely punish, and I feed them well, and I allow them individual work. Through the countless ages that the ball has rolled they have worked well. They carry out my directions to the utmost letter, so that I rarely need to work on earth myself, since they swamp it in vulgarity and mediocrity; things generated from themselves as slaves, having no part in me. They carry out temptation far better than ever I could do, because they understand the pigmy minds they govern, and work themselves all round them, whereas I might pass with a contemptuous smile, heeding and caring not.”
“Yet,” I rejoined, “you paid great attention in this church.”
“’Twas a full-dress rehearsal,” he said. “Now they will go to earth, and whisper in the minds of church-goers. I came unexpectedly to see if all was right, and, as you see, it was so.”
As he spoke the red light which until now had spread all about vanished, and in its place a blue one rose and the scene changed to a public hall having a crowded audience and orators.
“This is a socialistic meeting,” Plucritus said softly. “A kind of tribune such as they had in the French Revolution. They believe in Equality, Fraternity and Liberty. A rotten trinity, as you see, steeped in truth.”
He laughed.
“Look at that gentleman in the middle,” he continued. “They are trying to teach him that he is no better than themselves, and because he is a dull pupil they have got worked up to proving him lower than themselves, which sends the see-saw up the other way, and again destroys the theory. For my part, I always find the French Revolution and movements like it exceedingly amusing. It is pitting devils’ pride against the pride of gods. But that is very badly expressed, and things badly put are stupid lies. I must begin again. It is like—let me see—it is like dark scum rising against fair scum. Both are bad, both rotten, but the see-saw is uneven. The devils, who really favour both sides equally, have a funny trick of scampering from side to side occasionally, but for the most part they sit on the dark area and let the fair one rise—it makes more envies and dissimulation. Listen to that man speaking. It is the old cry ‘A bas!’ Down with everything—except himself and those like him. If you let him he will cry ‘Down! down!’ till only he is up. Then the chorus starts against him, and the devils sing the Marseillaise as they escort his soul to hell. He it is who strikes at royalty from the back, or side, or front, and makes martyrs and heroes of whom he sought to kill. His reasoning is at fault; he sends the see-saw higher up once more, and only lands himself in hell. His is a bad policy, a very poor, shriveled kind of thing, but it suits him. Let every man have perfect liberty, even to kill. Let every man satisfy his inclinations to the top of his bent. Let every man worship himself and know none other, and our slaves will fatten on that they let walk over them whilst it lived.”
I was so intent on hearing him that I paid little heed to the scene below, and in a little while it changed.
Before us was a magnificent throne-room, draped in gold, and purple, and scarlet, and everything was ready as for a grand reception.
The tall doors swung open and tall footmen stood aside to let an innumerable swarm of pigmies enter. Each was striving with his neighbour and trying to enter first, and so they rushed helter-skelter, and screaming in wild fury towards the throne. The first to get upon the lower step was a man, but a woman going by leaps and bounds outreached him. Then a mad onrush brought many to the third step all together. They strove, and pushed, and fought, and tore, and the woman who had done so well got thrust right back. But another woman, seizing the opportunity, made a sudden dive—and yes, she was seated on the throne, right in the very centre. On this there was a sudden silence, and instead of pushing forward they began pushing backward, trying to push each other off the steps and into line.
“I’m first,” shouted one.
“I’m second,” cried another.
“No. I am.”
But with much arguing and hard blows, in which the weaker always were pushed back, they came to silent order.
Then she who sat upon the throne turned to the first man on the right and said, in a very matter-of-fact tone,—
“Now make haste with the ointment. I only want a little on my head. If you let it run down my back I’ll slap your face.”
So the ointment was brought, and such a threat naturally made him careful. He certainly let two drops fall on to her shoulder, but she only wriggled and muttered something about a “clumsy fool.”
Presently they all went out backward, as the tall footman announced that there was to be a reception later, to which all were invited who had lived fairly respectable lives in the past, for this was the next best thing to a sacrament; indeed, much better, for here they saw, and there they didn’t.
Last of all the queen went out, and the last six people on either side stayed behind and followed her.
Once more we were left alone, but my attention was attracted by hearing a whimper near me. On looking round I saw the woman who had just missed the throne. Plucritus looked as well. And when he saw her he called out, “What’s the matter?”
“She’s got my place, and it isn’t fair.”
“You should have made more haste.”
“I did. But they pulled me back.”
“Well, never mind. You got there last time, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” And she fell to crying louder.
“Cheer up,” said he, patting her head. “Go and get dressed and you shall be the prettiest.”
At this she dried her eyes.
“Will the queen be jealous of me?”
“Yes, if you like.”
“Will her husband fall in love with me?”
He laughed. “Much will have more,” he returned.
By his tone she took it for granted that she should have her way, and skipped about in glee, and kissed his hand just as a little dog might lick it, and gambolled off.
“You don’t keep up much state,” I remarked to him.
“We don’t need to—we are, what do you call it? Almighty—that’s the word.”
In an incredibly short time the doors were once again flung open and powdered footmen walked about the chamber, putting it all in readiness.
At last the queen entered, attended by her chief officers and maids of honour.
She was most magnificently dressed, and looked herself magnificent from human standpoint, and all her servants looked the same.
After that the reception began, and it was one of exceeding brilliancy.
Anon great stir was caused by a woman of remarkable beauty entering, dressed so beautifully and to such advantage that quite a murmur of comment arose.
The queen, who understood her court well, gazed round, and then she looked towards the king, who was a mere cypher in all this grandeur, except for his crown and the place he occupied.
But, try as the poor king would, it was only natural he should look towards this vision that had entered. It was quite enough to set all the courtiers looking at one another, and to make the ladies smile behind their fans. The new-comer, however, received a very gracious welcome, even from the queen, who remained in conversation with her for some moments.
“Are they not all very well bred?” remarked Plucritus to me.
“Indeed, I am very much astonished. Are these really they who went out some time ago?”
“The exact same,” he answered. “Only since then they have put on stays. And stays are a great restraint, especially to the women. Before they put them on they are natural, afterwards they become artificial.”
“They have not been long in preparing,” I commented.
“It was all ready before. It is simply another full-dress rehearsal.” He closed the note-book, and once more the presence chamber vanished and we were left in darkness.
Soon I beheld a very glorious scene arising of vast size and exquisite beauty. In the middle a fountain played, and on either side a tree grew in wild luxuriance, covered with purple fruit which hung in heavy clusters.
From the fountain a broad stream of crystal ran either way, spreading out like a sea of glass in the far distance. On either side steps of gold led up to a crystal throne that shone by reflection like the sun itself. Upon the throne sat the figure of a man wearing a golden crown, surrounded by awe and majesty. His face was bright and shining.
A passage omitted
His hair, which shone like gold, hung in thick ringlets over his shoulders, and his beard, of the same golden hue, flowed below his girdle like those of the patriarchs of old. In one hand he held the moon, and in the other a reduced facsimile of the sun, whilst underneath his feet lightnings played, and above his head thunder.
Ranging down on either side were figures garbed in white and wearing crowns.
Passage omitted
Behind these came thousands of spirits, all carrying golden harps and timbrels, waiting with impatience. Behind the figure on the throne a white, misty figure stood.
Passage omitted
Suddenly, at the signal given by one of those who sat upon the steps, a perfect flood of music rose.
“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! Magnify His name—Wonderful, Almighty, Omnipotent, Eternal, Lords of Lords, God of Gods!
Passage omitted
“Praise the Lord! for there is none like him, neither in Heaven nor earth, Holy! Holy! Holy! Jah! Jehovah! Hallelujah!”
“Is it not deafening?” said Plucritus, laughing.
I could not laugh.
Passage omitted
But the Spirit on the throne bore it with high serenity.
Some passages omitted
At last he rose, and as he did so fire and smoke went up around him. He began to speak, and all fell upon the earth, covering their faces.
Thus then he spoke to them:—
“Sons, children, and co-heirs.
“Co-heirs with Christ and Sons of God!
“Upon the earth much wickedness is sown—And I repent me of my first intent—With love I sought to raise Man from the dust—to set him high in heaven above you all. And for that reason I have sent my Son, gotten of me before the worlds were formed, to suffer pains and penalties and death. But Man in boldness turned his hand aside, and nailed the Godhead even to a tree—Forgetful of my promise and my power—I loved my son, he was my only Son—And yet the earth I must have loved it more—For when they spat on him I only frowned—nor interfered when they assailed him sore—I put them in a garden with a tree—Like to this one you see beside my throne—And this commandment stern I gave to them—‘Eat not, lest ye be eaten’—Yet they ate. Then up I rose, amazed thus much to find—that they my word regarded not at all—I told them not to eat, but they would eat—Oh! What a vile unnatural sin was theirs!—I gave them a free will as well you know—To do or not to do, as they thought best—And if I cramped it in with one small ‘but’—who could presume to judge my sovran will?—And when they fell I pardoned them again—In mercy thinking on their nature frail—And spared to kill them in my father’s power. Hoping to mould them into better shape—But they essayed from badness unto worse, and wrung my heart with pangs unfelt before—Till this my son, here sitting by my side—Rose and departed to the manger’s door. Then thought I now that all things were set square—That man would love me and esteem my son—They turned away and thought foul scorn of him—And matters turned from badness unto worse. Yet merciful am I, and all forgive—If they will call upon my holy name—I will forget about my son for them—And think his death a victory o’er the grave—Go powers omnipotent on wheels of fire—Ride to the earth and call aloud my name—Tell them to bow before me, low with fear—For when I come, I’ll come in a royal flame.”
Hereon he sat down and loud cries of “Hallelujah” rent the air.
“Worthy is he to be praised,” they cried.
“Tis the voice of a God who rules in equity.”
Some passages omitted
“Well,” said Plucritus, laughing,
Passage omitted
“I must note him down in my book. He is a bad disciplinarian—he gives them too many chances. It is too relaxing for the morals. If he’d drawn them up pretty sharp when Adam fell he’d have spared himself a great deal of—well, pleasure, perhaps.”
And now the scene darkened, and the whole thing began to crumble, and the nimble demons ran hither and thither the sounds of weird and magic music from beneath.