A certain legend relates that one of the Piscayan mountains is
accurst, and that Satan dwells there. The grass is withered, a
sinister hue rests upon everything, the sounds are mournful, the
mountain stands a dark fantom in the midst of bedecked nature.
But this is not the method of evil. The mountain up which the
devil took our Master, and up which he takes us, is bathed in
purple; in its rocks gleam jewels, its dust is the dust of gold,
in its clefts spring flowers, and from its crest is seen the
vision of kingdoms and the glory of them. Things, principles,
maxims, amusements, relationships, creeds, ideals, utterly base
and vile, are through the power of imagination purged into the
lily’s whiteness, perfumed with the violet, steeped in the color
of the rose. We are never invited to sin; the things which
have ruined generations are prest upon us as nature, freedom,
spirit, knowledge, gallantry, beauty, love, and we are deceived
through the legerdemain of passion and fancy. (Text.)--W. L.
WATKINSON, “The Transfigured Sackcloth.”
(1521)