One long, cold, and dark winter’s night, when one-eye’d Phœbus well nigh
had reached his utmost limit in the south and, from afar, lowered upon
Great Britain and all the Northern land, and when it was much warmer in
the kitchen of Glyn Cywarch {43a} than at the top of Cader Idris, and
better in a cosy room with a warm bedfellow than in a shroud in the
lychgate, I was meditating upon a talk I had had by the fireside with a
neighbour concerning the brevity of human life, and how certain it was
that death would come to all, and yet how uncertain its coming. Thus
engaged, I had just lain down, and was half-asleep, when I felt a heavy
weight stealthily creeping over me, from head to heel, so that I could
not move a finger—my tongue only was unbound. I perceived, methought, a
man upon my chest, and above him, a woman. After eyeing him carefully I
recognised by his strong odours, dewy locks and blear eyes, that the man
was no other than my good Master Sleep. “I pray you, sir,” cried I,
squeaking, “what have I done to you that you bring that witch here to
torment me?” “Hush,” said he, “it is only my sister Nightmare; we twain
are going to pay our brother Death {43b} a visit, and want a third to
accompany us, and lest thou shouldst resist we came upon thee, just as he
does, unawares. Consequently come thou must, willy-nilly.” “Alas,” I
cried, “must I die?” “Nay,” said Nightmare, “we will spare thee this
time.” “But an’t please you,” said I, “your brother Death has never
spared anyone yet who came beneath his stroke—he who wrestled with the
Lord of Life himself, though it was little he gained by that contest.”
Nightmare, at that word, rose up angrily and departed. “Come along,”
cried Sleep, “thou wilt never repent of thy journey.” “Well,” said I,
“may there never be night in Sleepton, and may Nightmare never have rest
save on an awl’s point if ye bring me not back where ye found me.”
Then away we went over hills and through forests, across seas and
valleys, over castles and towers, rivers and rocks, and where should we
alight but at one of the gates of the daughters of Belial, at the rear of
the City of Destruction, where I noticed that the three gateways of
Destruction contracted into one at the back, and opened upon the same
place—a murky, vaporous, pestilent place, full of noisome mists, and
terrible lowering clouds. “Prithee, good sir,” asked I, “what place be
this?” “The chambers of Death,” replied Sleep. And no sooner had I
asked than I could hear some wailing, groaning, and sighing; some
deliriously muttering to themselves or feebly moaning, others in great
travail, and with all the signs of man’s departure from life; and, now
and then, would one give a long-drawn gasp, and lapse into silence. At
that moment, I heard a key being turned in a lock, and at the noise I
looked around for the door, and gazing steadfastly, perceived thousands
upon thousands of doors, seemingly afar off but really close at hand.
“Please, Master Sleep, where do these doors open upon?” asked I. “Upon
the land of Oblivion,” was the answer, “an extensive domain {44} under
the sceptre of my brother Death, and this great rampart is the boundary
of vast Eternity.” By this I could see that there was a little death-imp
at every door, each one bearing arms, and a name different from that of
his fellows; though it was evident that they, one and all, were the
ministers of the same king. Nevertheless they were continually
quarrelling about the sick; one would snatch the patient to take him as a
gift through his own door, while another strove to take him through his.
On our approach, I observed that over each door the name of the Death who
kept it was written, and also that at each door were an hundred various
things left all of a heap, showing plainly that those who went through
were in haste. Over one door I saw “Hunger,” and yet on the floor close
by were full purses, and bags, and brass-nailed trunks. “This is the
Porch of Misers,” said Sleep. “Whom do those rags belong to?” “To the
misers, mostly,” he replied, “but there are some which belong to idlers,
gossipmongers and others, who, poor in everything except in spirit,
preferred to die of hunger rather than ask for help.” Next door was
Death-by-Cold, and when I came opposite him I could hear much shuddering
and shivering, and at his door, were many books, pots and flagons, a few
sticks and bludgeons, compasses, cords and ship’s tackle. “Scholars have
gone this way,” said I. “Yea, lonely and helpless, far from the succour
of those who loved them, their very garments stolen from them. Those,”
he continued, pointing to the pots, “are relics of the boon companions,
whose feet were benumbed under the benches, while their heads were
seething in drink and noise; those things over there belonged to those
who journeyed amid snow-clad mountains, and to North Sea traders.” The
next was a lanky skeleton called Fear-Death—so transparent you could see
he had no heart; at his door, too, there were bags and chests, bars and
strongholds. Through this one went userers and traitors, oppressors and
murderers, though many of these last called at the next door, at which
was a Death named Gallows, with a rope ready round his neck. Next to him
was Love-Death, and at his feet thousands of musical instruments and
song-books, love-letters, spots and pigments to beautify the face, and
hundreds of tinselled toys for the same purpose, together with a few
swords: “With these rivals have fought duels for their mistresses, and
some have killed themselves,” said Sleep. I could see that this Death
was sandblind. At the next door was a Death whose colour was worst of
all, and whose liver was entirely gone—his name was Envy. “This is the
Death,” said Sleep, “which brings hither those who have lost money,
slanderers, and a rideress or two, who are jealous of the law which
demands that a wife should submit herself unto her husband.” “Pray, sir,
what is a rideress?” “A rideress is a woman who will over-ride her
husband, her neighbourhood, and the whole country if she can, and by dint
of long riding, at last, rides a devil from that door down to the
bottomless pit.” Next was the door of Ambition-Death for those who hold
their heads high, and break their necks, for want of looking on the
ground they tread on; at this door lay crowns, sceptres, standards,
petitions for offices, and all manner of arms of heraldry and war.
But before I had time to notice any more of these innumerable doors, I
heard a voice bidding me by name to be dissolved, and at the word I felt
myself beginning to melt like a snowball in the heat of the sun; then my
master gave me a sleeping draught, so that I slumbered; and when I awoke,
he had taken me by some road or other far away on the other side of the
castle. I perceived myself in a pitch-dark vale of infinite radius,
methought, and shortly, I saw by a few bluish lights, like the flickering
flame of a candle, countless, ah! countless shades of men, some afoot and
some on horseback, rushing back and fro like the wind, in awful silence
and solemnity; the land was barren, bleak and blasted, without either
grass or hay, trees or animals, save deadly beasts and poisonous vermin
of every kind—serpents, snakes, lice, frogs, worms, locusts, gids and all
such that exist on man’s corruption. Through a myriad shades and
reptiles, graves, churchyards and tombs, we made our way to view the land
unmolested, until I happened to see some turning round and looking at me;
in an instant, notwithstanding the prevailing silence, a whisper passed
from one to another that there was a man from earth there. “A man from
earth!” cried one, “a man from earth,” exclaimed another, while they
crowded round me, like caterpillars, from every quarter. “Which way came
you, sirrah?” asked a morkin of a death-imp. “Indeed, sir,” said I, “I
know not any more than you do.” “What is your name?” he asked. “Call me
here in your own country what ye will, but at home I am called the
Sleeping Bard.”
At that word I could see an ancient mannikin, bent double, head to feet,
like a bramble, straightening himself, and looking at me more malignantly
than the red devil, and without a word he hurled a big skull at my head,
but, thanks to a sheltering tombstone, missed me. “Truce, sir, I pray
you,” cried I, “to a stranger who was never here before, and will never
come again, could I but once find the way home.” “I’ll make you remember
you’ve been here,” quoth he, and, again setting upon me with a thighbone,
he beat me most unmercifully, while I dodged about as best as I could.
“Ho ho!” I cried, “this country is very unmannerly towards strangers; is
there no justice of the peace here?” “Peace, indeed,” said he, “thou,
surely, hast no right to sue for peace, who disturbest the dead in their
graves.” “Pray, sir, might I know your name, for I wot not that I have
ever molested anyone from this country?” “Sirrah!” cried he, “know then
that I, and not you, am the Sleeping Bard, and have been left in peace
these nine centuries by all but you,” and again he set upon me.
“Withhold, brother,” said Merlin {48a} who stood near, “be not too hasty;
thank him rather for that he hath kept your name in respected memory on
earth.” “In great respect, forsooth,” quoth he, “by such a blockhead as
this. Are you, sirrah, versed in the four and twenty metres? Can you
trace the line of Gog and Magog and of Brutus son of Silvius {48b} down
to a century before the destruction of Troy? Can you prophesy when, and
how the wars between the lion and the eagle, and between the stag and the
red deer will end? Can you?” “Ho there! let me ask him a question,”
said another who stood by a huge seething cauldron, {48c} “draw near, and
tell me the meaning of this:—
“Upon the face of earth I’ll be
Until the judgment day,
And whether I be fish or flesh
No man can ever say.” {48d}
“I would know your name, sir,” said I, “so that I might the more
befittingly give answer.” “I am Taliesin, Chief of the Western Bards,
{48e} and those are lines from my mystery-song.” “I know not what your
meaning may be, if it be not the yellow plague which destroyed Maelgwn
Gwynedd, {49a} slew you upon the sea, and divided you between the ravens
and fishes.” “Tush, you fool,” cried he, “I was foretelling of my two
callings—as lawyer and poet—and which sayest thou now bears greatest
resemblance, whether a lawyer to a raven, or a poet to a whale? How many
will a single lawyer lay bare of flesh to swell his own paunch, and oh!
so callously doth he shed blood and leave the man half dead! The poet,
too, what fish can gulp as much as he? And though he hath always a sea
round him, not all the ocean can quench his thirst. And when a man is
both a poet and a lawyer, who can tell whether he is fish or flesh, and
especially if he be a courtier as well, as I was, and had to change his
taste with every mouth. But tell me, are there many of these folk now on
earth?” “Yes, plenty,” answered I, “if a man can patch together any sort
of metre, straightway he becomes a chaired bard. And of the others,
there is such a plague of barristers, petty lawyers, and clerks that the
locusts of Egypt preyed less heavily on the country than they. In your
time, sir, there were only roadside bargains and a hands-breadth of
writing on the purchase of a hundred pound farm, and a cairn or an
Arthur’s quoit {49b} raised as a memorial of the purchase and boundaries.
People have not the courage to do so nowadays, but more cunning, knavery,
and written parchment, wide as a cromlech, is necessary to bind the
bargain, and for all that it would be strange if no flaw existed or were
contrived therein.” “Well, well,” said Taliesin, “I would not be worth a
straw there, I may as well be here; truth will never be found where there
are many bards, nor justice where many lawyers, until health be found
where there be many doctors.”
Upon this a grey-haired, writhled shrimp, who had heard of the presence
of an earthly man, came and fell at my feet, weeping profusely. “Alack,
poor fellow,” cried I, “what art thou?” “One who suffers too much wrong
on earth day by day,” he replied, “and your soul must obtain me justice.”
“What is thy name?” I enquired. “I am called Someone,” was the answer,
“and there is no love-message, slander, lie, or tale to breed quarrels,
but that I am blamed for most of them. ‘In sooth,’ said one, ‘she is an
excellent wench, and has spoken highly of you to Someone, although
someone great was seeking her.’ ‘I heard Someone,’ said another,
‘reckoning a debt of nine hundred pounds on such and such an estate.’ ‘I
saw Someone yesterday,’ said the beggar, ‘with a mottled neckerchief,
like a sailor, who had come with a grain vessel to the next port;’ and so
every rag and tag mauls me to suit his own evil purpose. Some call me
‘Friend.’ ‘A friend told me,’ saith one, ‘that so and so does not intend
leaving a single farthing to his wife, and that there is no love lost
between them.’ Others further disgrace me and call me a crow: ‘a crow
tell me there is some trickery going on,’ they say. Yea, some call me by
a more honoured name—Old Man, and yet not a half of the omens,
prophecies, and cures attributed to me are really mine. I never
counselled walking the old way if the new were better, and I never
intended forbidding men to church by saying: ‘Frequent not the place
where thou art most welcome,’ and a hundred such. But Someone is the
name generally given me, and most often heard of when anything uncommonly
bad happens; for if you ask one where that scandalous lie was told and
who told it. ‘Indeed,’ he will say, ‘I know not, but Someone in the
company said it,’ and if you enquire of all the company concerning the
story, all have heard it of Someone, but no one knows of whom. Is it not
a shameful wrong?” he cried, “I beg of you to inform everybody who names
me that I uttered nought of such things. I never invented or repeated a
lie to disgrace anyone, nor a single tale to cause kinsmen to fly at each
other’s throats; I do not come near them; I know nothing of their
scandal, or business, or accursed secrets—they must not charge me with
their evils, but their own corrupt brains.”
Hereupon a little Death, one of the King’s secretaries, asked me my name,
and bade Master Sleep carry me at once into the King’s presence. I had
to go, though most unwilling, by reason of the power that took me up like
a whirlwind, ’twixt high and low, thousands of miles back on our left,
till we came, a second time, in sight of the boundary wall, and in an
enclosed corner we could see a vast palace, roofless and in ruins,
extending to the wall wherein were the countless doors, all of which led
to this terrible court. Its walls were built of human skulls with
hideous, grinning teeth; the clay was black with mingled tears and sweat,
the lime ruddy with gore. On the summit of each tower stood a Deathling,
with a quivering heart on the point of his shaft. Around the court were
a few trees—a poisonous yew or twain, or a deadly cypress, and in these
owls, ravens, vampires and the like, make their nests, and cry
unceasingly for flesh, although the whole place is but one vast, putrid
shamble. The pillars of the hall were made of thighbones, and those of
the parlour of shinbones, while the floors were formed of layer upon
layer of all manner of charnel.
I had not to wait a longwhile ere I came in view of a tremendous altar,
where we could see the King of Terrors devouring human flesh and blood,
while a thousand impish deaths, from every hole, were continually feeding
him with warm, fresh meat. “Here is a rogue,” said the Death that led me
thither, “whom I found in the midst of the land of Oblivion, having
approached so light-footed that your majesty never tasted a bite of him,”
“How can that be?” demanded the king, opening his jaws, wide as a chasm,
to swallow me. Whereupon I turned trembling to Sleep. “It was I who
brought him hither,” said he. “Well then, for my brother Sleep’s sake,”
said the awful and lanky monarch, “you can retrace your steps for the
nonce; but beware of me the next time.” Having been for some time
cramming his gluttonous maw with carrion, he caused his subjects to be
called together, and moved from the altar to a very lofty and dreadful
throne, to adjudge newly-arrived prisoners. In an instant, lo! the dead
in countless multitudes paid homage to the king, and took their places in
wonderful array. King Death was in his regal robe of brilliant scarlet,
whereon depicted were wives and children weeping and husbands sighing; on
his head a dark-red, three-cornered cap, a gift his cousin Lucifer had
sent him, on the corners of which were written Grief, Sorrow, and Woe.
Above his head were a myriad pictures of battles on land and sea, of
towns aflame, of the earth yawning, and of the waters of the deluge; the
ground beneath his feet was nought else than the crowns and sceptres of
all the kings he had ever conquered. At his right hand sat Fate with a
morose and scowling visage, reading an enormous tome that lay before him;
at his left, was an old man called Time, warping innumerable threads of
gold, silver, copper, and many of iron—some threads were growing better
towards the end, a myriad worse; along the threads were marked hours,
days and years, and Fate, at his book, cut the thread of life and opened
the doors in the boundary wall between the two worlds.
I had not been looking about me long, when I heard four fiddlers, just
dead, summoned to the bar. “How is it,” asked the King of Terrors, “that
ye, who are so found of joy, did not stay on yonder side of the chasm?
For on this side joy never existed.” “We have done no man ever any
hurt,” said one of the minstrels, “but on the contrary have made them
merry, and quietly took whatever was given us for our pains.” “Have ye
caused no one,” said Death, “to lose time from his work, or to absent
himself from church, eh?” “No,” replied another, “unless we were some
Sundays after service in an inn till the morrow, or in summer time on the
village green, and indeed we had a better and more beloved congregation
than the parson.” “Away, with them to the land of Oblivion,” cried the
terrible king, “bind the four, back to back, and pitch them to their
partners, to dance barefoot on glowing hearths, and scrape their fiddles
for ever without praise or pay.”
The next to come to the bar was a king from near Rome. “Raise thy hand,
caitiff,” bade one of the officers. “I hope,” said he, “ye have somewhat
better manners and favor for a king.” “Sirrah, you too,” said Death,
“ought to have kept on the other side of the gulf where everybody is
king; but know that, on this side, there are none besides myself and
another, who dwelleth down below, and you shall see that that king and
myself will set no value upon the degree of your greatness, but rather
upon the degree of your wickedness, and so make your punishment
proportionate to your crimes; therefore give answer to the questions.”
“Sir, allow me to tell you that you have no authority to arrest and
examine me,” said he, “I hold a pardon under the Pope’s own hand for all
my sins. Because I served him faithfully, he gave me a dispensation to
go straight to Paradise, without a moment’s stay in Purgatory.” At that
the king, and all the lean jaws, gave a dismal grin in imitation of
laughter, and the other, angered at their laughing, ordered them to show
him the way. “Silence, lost fool!” cried Death, “Purgatory lies behind
thee, on the other side of the wall, for it was in life thou hadst ought
to have purified thyself, and Paradise is on the right, beyond that
chasm. Now there is no way of escape for thee, neither across this abyss
to Paradise, nor through the boundary wall back to earth; for wert thou
to give thy kingdom—though thou hast not a ha’penny to give—the warder of
those doors would not let thee look once, even through the keyhole. This
is called the irremeable wall, for once it is passed there is no hope of
return. But since you are so high in the Pope’s favor, {54} you shall go
and get his bed ready with his predecessor, and there you may kiss his
toe for ever, and he, the toe of Lucifer.” At the word, four death-imps
raised him up, now trembling like an aspen leaf, and snatched him away
out of sight, with the speed of lightning.
Next after him, came a man and woman; he had been a boon companion, and
she a kind and lavish maid, but there they were called by their plain,
unvarnished names, a drunkard and a harlot. “I hope,” said the drunkard,
“I may obtain some favor in your eyes, for I despatched hither on a flood
of good ale many a fatted prey, and when I failed to slay others, I
willingly came myself to feed you.” “By the court’s leave,” said the
minion, “not half so many as I have despatched to you as a burnt offering
ready for table.” “Ha, ha,” exclaimed Death, “it was to feed your own
accursed lusts, and not me, that all this was done. Let them be bound
together and hurled into the land of darkness.” And so they too were
hurried away headlong.
Next to them came seven recorders, who, on being bidden to raise their
hands {55} to the bar, pretended not to hear the command, for their palms
were so thickly greased. One of them, bolder than the rest, began to
argue, “We ought to have had fair citation, in order to prepare our
reply, instead of being attacked unawares.” “Oh, we are not bound to
give you any particular notice,” said Death, “because ye have,
everywhere, and everywhile throughout your lives, warning of my advent.
How many sermons on the mortality of man have ye heard? How many books,
how many graves, knells and fevers, how many messages and signs, have ye
seen? What is your Sleep but my brother? Your heads but my image? Your
daily food but dead creatures? Seek not to lay the blame of your ill hap
on my shoulders—ye would not hear of the summons, although ye had it an
hundred times.” “Pray what have you against us?” asked one ruddy
recorder. “What indeed?” exclaimed Death, “the drinking the sweat and
blood of the poor, and the doubling your fees.” “Here is an honest man,”
he said, pointing to a wrangler behind them, “who knows I never did aught
but what was fair, and it is not fair in you to detain us here, seeing
you have no specific charge to prove against us.” “Ha, ha!” cried Death,
“ye shall bring proof against yourselves; place them on the verge of the
precipice before the throne of Justice; there they will obtain justice,
though they practised it not.”
There were yet seven other prisoners, who kept up such commotion and
clamour—some blandishing, gnashing the teeth and uttering threats, others
giving advice and so on. Scarcely had they been summoned to the bar than
the whole court darkened sevenfold more hideously than before, a
murmuring and great confusion arose around the throne, and Death became
more livid than ever. Upon enquiry it seemed that one of Lucifer’s
envoys had arrived, bearing a letter to Death, concerning these seven
prisoners; and shortly, Fate called for silence to read the letter which,
as far as I can recollect, was as follows:—
“LUCIFER, _King of the Kings of Earth_, _Prince of Perdition and
Archruler of the Deep_, _To our natural son_, _mightiest and most
terrible King Death_, _greeting_, _wishing you supremacy and booty
without end_:
“Whereas some of our swift messengers, who are always out espying,
have informed us that there lately came into your royal court seven
prisoners of the seven most worthless and dangerous species in the
world, and that you are about to hurl them over the precipice into my
realm: our advice is, that you endeavour, by every possible way, to
let them return to the earth; there they will be more serviceable—to
you, in the matter of food, to me, for supplying better company. We
had too much trouble with their partners in days gone by, and our
kingdom is, even now, unsettled. Wherefore, turn them back or retain
them yourself; for, by the infernal crown, if thou cast them hither,
I will undermine the foundations of thy kingdom, until it fall and
become one with mine own great realm.
“_From our Court_, _on the miry Swamp in the glowing Evildom_, _in
the year of our reign_, _5425_.”
King Death, his visage green and livid, stood for a time undecided. But
while he was meditating, Fate turned upon him such a grim frown that he
trembled. “Sire,” said Fate, “consider well what you are about to do. I
dare not allow anyone to repass the bounds of Eternity—the insurmountable
ramparts, nor deign you harbour any here, wherefore, send them on to
their doom, spite of the great Evil One. He has been able to array in a
moment many a haul of a thousand or ten thousand souls, and allot each
one his place, and what difficulty will he have with these seven now,
however dangerous they may be? Whatever happen, even if they overturn
the infernal government, send them thither instantly, lest I be commanded
to crush thee to untimely nothingness. As for his menaces, they are
false, and although thy doom, and that of yon ancient (looking at Time),
are not many pages hence, yet, thou need have no fear of sinking down to
Lucifer, for however glad everybody there would be to have thee, they
never will; for the eternal rocks of steel and adamant, which roof Hell,
are somewhat too firm to be shattered.” Whereupon Death, in great
agitation, called for someone to indite thus his reply:—
“DEATH, _King of Terrors_, _Conqueror of Conquerors_, _To our most
revered kinsman and neighbour_, _Lucifer_, _Monarch of the Endless
Night_, _and Emperor of the Sheer Vortex_, _Salutation_:
“After giving earnest thought to this your royal wish, it seemeth to
us more advantageous, not only to our state, but also to your vast
realm, that these prisoners be sent to the furthest point possible
from the portals of the impervious wall, left their putrid odour
should so terrify the entire City of Destruction that no one would
ever enter Eternity from that side of the gulf, and I, in
consequence, would be unable to cool my sting, and you should have no
commerce betwixt earth and hell. But I leave you to judge them, and
to cast them into the cells you deem most secure and befitting.
“_From our Lower Court in the Great Tollgate of Destruction: from the
year of the restoration of my Kingdom_, _1670_.”
After hearing all this, I was itching to know what manner of folk these
seven might be, seeing that the devils themselves feared them so much.
But ere long, the Clerk to the Crown calls them by name, as follows:
“Mister Busybody, alias Finger-in-every-pie.” This fellow was so fussily
and busily directing the others, that he had no leisure to answer to his
name until Death threatened to sunder him with his dart. Then, “Mr.
Slanderer, alias Foe-of-Good-Fame,” was called, but no response came.
“He is rather bashful to hear his titles,” said the third, “he can’t
abide the nicknames.” “Have you no titles, I wonder?” asked the
Slanderer, “call Mr. Honey-tongued Swaggerer, alias Smoothgulp, alias
Venomsmile.” “Here,” cried a woman, who was standing near, pointing to
the Swaggerer. “Ha, Madam Huntress!” cried he, “your humble servant; I
am glad to see you well, I never saw a more beautiful woman in breeches,
but woe’s me to think how pitiable is the country, having lost in you
such an unrivalled ruler; and yet, your pleasant company will make hell
itself somewhat better.” “Oh, thou scion of evil,” cried she, “no one
need a worse hell than to be with thee—thou art enough.” Then the crier
called, “Huntress, alias Mistress o’ the Breeches.” “Here,” answered
someone else, she herself not saying a word because they did not “madam”
her. Next was called the Schemer, alias Jack-of-all-Trades. But he,
too, failed to answer, for he was assiduously plotting to escape the Land
of Despair. “Here, here,” cried someone behind him, “here he is spying
for a place to break out of your great court, and unless you be on your
guard, he has a considerable plot against you.” “Then,” said the
Schemer, “Let him also be called, to wit, The Accuser-of-his-Brethren,
alias Faultfinder, alias Complaint-monger.” “Here, here he is,” cried
the Litigious Wrangler—for each one knew the other’s name, but none would
acknowledge his own. “You are also called,” said the Accuser, “Mr.
Litigious Wrangler, alias Cumber-of-Courts.” “Witness, witness, all of
you, what names the knave has given me,” cried the Wrangler. “Ha, ha,
’tis not according to the font, but according to the fault, that
everybody is named in this land,” said Death, “and with your permission,
Mr. Wrangler, these names must stick to you for evermore.” “Indeed,”
quoth the Wrangler, “by the devil, I’ll make it hot for you; although you
may put me to death, you have no right to nickname me. I shall enter a
plaint for this and for false imprisonment, against you and your kinsman
Lucifer, in the Court of Justice.”
By this I could see the armies of Death in array and armed, looking to
the king for the word of command. Then the king, standing erect on his
throne, spoke as follows: “My terrible and invincible hosts, spare
neither care nor haste to despatch these prisoners out of my territories,
lest they corrupt my country; throw them in bonds headlong over the
hopeless precipice. But as to the eighth, this cumbrous fellow who
menaces me, let him free on the brink beneath the Court of Justice, so
that he may make good his charge against me, if he can.” No sooner had
he sat down than the whole deadly armies surrounded and bound the
prisoners, and led them towards their appointed dwelling. And when I,
having gone out, half-turned to look at them. “Come hither,” cried
Sleep, and flew with me to the top of the loftiest tower on the court;
from whence I saw the prisoners going forth to their everlasting doom.
Before long a sudden whirlwind arose, and drove away the pitch-dark mist
usually hovering over the Land of Oblivion, and in the wan light, I could
see myriads of livid candles, and by their gleam, I obtained a far-off
view of the mouth of the bottomless abyss. But if that was a horrible
sight, overhead was one still more horrible—Justice, on her throne,
guarding the portal of hell, and holding a special tribunal above the
entrance thereto, to pronounce the doom of the damned as they arrive. I
beheld the seven hurled headlong over the terrible verge, and the
Wrangler, too, rushing to throw himself over, lest he should once look on
the Court of Justice, for, alas, the sight thereof was intolerable to
guilty eyes. I was only gazing from a distance, yet I beheld more
dreadful horrors than I can now relate, nor then could endure; for my
spirit so strove and panted through exceeding fear, and struggled so
violently, that all the bonds of Sleep were burst; my soul returned to
its wonted functions, and I rejoiced greatly to perceive myself still
among the living, and resolved to lead a better life, for I would rather
suffer affliction an hundred years in the paths of holiness than,
perforce, take another glance at the horrors of that night.
1 Must I leave home and fatherland,
And every charm and pleasure?
Leave honored name and high degree
Enjoyed in life’s brief measure?
2 Leave beauty, strength, and wisdom, too,
All won in hard employment,—
All I have learnt, and all I’ve loved,
And all this world’s enjoyment.
3 Can I evade the stroke of Death
That rends all ties asunder?
Do not his awful shambles gape
For me to be his plunder?
4 Ye gilded men would fain enjoy
The wealth your souls engrossing,
But ye must bow to him and go
The journey of his choosing.
5 Ye favored fair, whose lightest word
Has caused ten thousand errors,
Think not your garish, tinselled charms
Can blind the King of Terrors.
6 Ye who rejoice in heedless youth
And follow fleeting pleasures,
Know that ye cannot conquer Death
By valor, arts, or treasures.
7 Ye who exult in madding song
The giddy dances treading,
Think not that all the mirth of France
Can thwart the fate you’re dreading.
8 Ye who have roamed the wide world o’er,
Where have ye found the tower,
With walls and portals strong enough
To check Death’s awful power?
9 Statesmen and learned sages, all
Of godlike understanding,
What will your craft and skill avail?
’Tis Death who is commanding.
10 The greatest foes of man are now
The world, the flesh, the devil;
And yet, ere long, we’ll surely find
In Death a greater evil.
11 How little now it seems to die—
To gain the suit or lose it?
But when the doom is of thyself
How great thy care to chose it?
12 We care, at present, not a jot
Which way our gains may turn us;
Eternal life, howe’er so great,
We think can not concern us.
13 But when thou’rt hedged on every side
And Death himself is nearest,
For one brief, ling’ring space we’ll give
Whate’er to us is dearest.
14 Think not that thou canst make thy terms
For thine eternal dwelling,
On either side of that dread gulf,
With death thy steps compelling.
15 Repentence, faith, and righteousness,
Alone are thy Salvation,
And in the agony of Death
Shall be thy consolation.
16 And when the world is passing by,
Its joys and pleasures ending,
Infinite thou wilt deem their worth
When to the bourne descending!