And Here They Kneel, Candle In Hand, On The Wet Flags Of This Foetid And
Malodorous Cave, Gazing In Rapture
Upon the blandly beaming idol, their
sensibilities tickled by resplendent priests reciting full-mouthed Latin
phrases, while the organ overhead
Plays wheezy extracts from "La Forza
del Destino" or the Waltz out of Boito's "Mefistofele"... for sure, it
must be a foretaste of Heaven! And likely enough, these are "the poor in
heart" for whom that kingdom is reserved.
One may call this a debased form of Christianity. Whether it would have
been distasteful to the feelings of the founder of that cult is another
question, and, debased or not, it is at least alive and palpitating,
which is more than can be said of certain other varieties. But the
archangel, as was inevitable, has suffered a sad change. His fairest
attribute of Light-bringer, of Apollo, is no longer his own; it has been
claimed and appropriated by the "Light of the World," his new master.
One by one, his functions have been stripped from him, all save in name,
as happens to men and angels alike, when they take service under
"jealous" lords.
What is now left of Saint Michael, the glittering hierarch? Can he still
endure the light of sun? Or has he not shrivelled into a spectral
Hermes, a grisly psychopomp, bowing his head in minished glory, and
leading men's souls no longer aloft but downwards - down to the pale
regions of things that have been?
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