e than any or all
other motives is the source of their power and the support of their
organizations. Not only are the fears of mankind the whip to scourge and
the bridle to restrain them, but they are the basis of an almost
incalculable material interest. "Talk about giving up the doctrine of
endless punishment by fire!" exclaimed Number Seven; "there is more
capital embarked in the subterranean fire-chambers than in all the
iron-furnaces on the face of the earth. To think what an army of
clerical beggars would be turned loose on the world, if once those raging
flames were allowed to go out or to calm down! Who can wonder that the
old conservatives draw back startled and almost frightened at the thought
that there may be a possible escape for some victims whom the Devil was
thought to have secured? How many more generations will pass before
Milton's alarming prophecy will find itself realized in the belief of
civilized mankind?"

Remember that Number Seven is called a "crank" by many persons, and take
his remarks for just what they are worth, and no more.

Out of the preceding conversation must have originated the following
poem, which was found in the common receptacle of these versified
contributions:

TARTARUS.

While in my simple gospel creed
That "God is Love" so plain I read,
Shall dreams of heathen birth affright
My pathway through the coming night?
Ah, Lord of life, though spectres pale
Fill with their threats the shadowy vale,
With Thee my faltering steps to aid,
How can I dare to be afraid?

Shall mouldering page or fading scroll
Outface the charter of the soul?
Shall priesthood's palsied arm protect
The wrong our human hearts reject,
And smite the lips whose shuddering cry
Proclaims a cruel creed a lie?
The wizard's rope we disallow
Was justice once,--is murder now!

Is there a world of blank despair,
And dwells the Omnipresent there?
Does He behold with smile serene
The shows of that unending scene,
Where sleepless, hopeless anguish lies,
And, ever dying, never dies?

Say, does He hear the sufferer's groan,
And is that child of wrath his own?
O mortal, wavering in thy trust,
Lift thy pale forehead from the dust
The mists that cloud thy darkened eyes
Fade ere they reach the o'erarching skies!
When the blind heralds of despair
Would bid thee doubt a Father's care,
Look up from earth, and re