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Page 32
"_Thus far_, sir, I went. But I have not yet found the world so barren
of literature as to write a book about it. I have not yet found the
world so barren of ingratitude as to seek happiness by stabbing in the
back every friend I ever had. I have not yet forsaken wife and
children; neighbours and kinsmen; home, ease, and tenderness, for a
whim, a dream, a passing qualm. No, sir; 'tis this Christian's
ignorant hardness-of-heart that is his bane. Knowing little, he
prateth much. He would pinch and contract the Universe to his own
fantastical pattern. He is tedious, he is pragmatical, and--I affirm
it in all sympathy and sorrow--he is crazed. Malice, haply, is a
little sharp at times. And neighbour Obstinate dealeth full weight
with his opinions. But this Christian Flown-to-Glory, as the urchins
say, pinks with a bludgeon. He cannot endure an honest doubt. He
distorteth a mere difference of opinion into a roaring Tophet. And
because he is helpless, solitary, despised in the world; because he is
impotent to refute, and too stubborn to hear and suffer people a
little higher and weightier, a leetle wiser than he--why, beyond the
grave he must set his hope in vengeance. Beyond the grave--bliss for
his own shade; fire and brimstone, eternal woe for theirs. Ay, and
'tis not but for a season will he vex us, but for ever, and for ever,
and for ever--if he knoweth in the least what he meaneth by the
phrase. And this he calls 'Charity.'
"Yes, sirs, beyond the grave he would condemn us, beyond the grave--a
place of peace whereto I deem there are not many here but will be
content at length to come; and I not least content, when my duty is
done, my children provided for, and my last suspicion of fear and
folly suppressed.
"To conclude, sir--and beshrew me, gentlemen, how time doth fly in
talk!--this Christian goeth his way. We, each in accord with his
caprice and conscience, go ours. We envy him not his vapours, his
terrors, or his shameless greed of reward. Why, then, doth he envy us
our wealth, our success, our gaiety, our content? He raves. He is
haunted. What is man but as grass, and the flower of grass? Come the
sickle, he is clean gone. I can but repeat it, sir, our poor neighbour
was crazed: 'tis Christian in a word."
A sigh, a murmur of satisfaction and relief, rose from the company, as
if one and all had escaped by Mr. Atheist's lucidity out of a very
real peril.
I thanked him for his courtesy, and in some confusion turned to
Reverie with the remark that I thought I now recollected to have heard
Christian's name, but understood he had indeed arrived, at last, at
the Celestial City for which he had set out.
"Celestial twaddle, sir!" cried Mr. Obstinate hoarsely. "He went
stark, staring mad, and now is dust, as we shall soon all be, that's
certain."
Then Cruelty rose out of his chair and elbowed his way to the door. He
opened it and looked out.
"I would," he said, "I had known of this Christian before he started.
Step you down to Vanity Fair, Sir Stranger, if the mood take you; and
we'll show you as pretty a persuasion against pilgrimage as ever you
saw." He opened his mouth where he stood between me and the stars.
"... There's many more!" he added with difficulty, as if his rage was
too much for him. He spat into the air and went out.
Presently after Liveloose rose up, smiling softly, and groped after
him.
A little silence followed their departure.
"You must tell your friend, Mr. Reverie," said Atheist
good-humouredly, "that Mr. Cruelty says more than he means. To my mind
he is mistaken--too energetic; but his intentions are good."
"He's a staunch, dependable fellow," said Obstinate, patting down the
wide cuffs he wore.
But even at that moment a stranger softly entered the inn out of the
night. His face was of the grey of ashes, and he looked once round on
us all with a still, appalling glance that silenced the words on my
lips.
We sat without speech--Obstinate yawning, Atheist smiling lightly,
Superstition nibbling his nails, Reverie with chin drawn a little
back, Pliable bolt upright, like a green and white wand, Mistrust
blinking his little thin lids; but all with eyes fixed on this
stranger, who deemed himself, it seemed, among friends.
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