again, had not its
life-warmth been withdrawn. Well might he exclaim, in his wild way:
'Is there no God, then; but at best an absentee God, sitting idle,
ever since the first Sabbath, at the outside of his Universe, and
_see_ing it go? Has the word Duty no meaning; is what we call Duty no
divine Messenger and Guide, but a false earthly Fantasm, made-up of
Desire and Fear, of emanations from the Gallows and from Dr. Graham's
Celestial-Bed? Happiness of an approving Conscience! Did not Paul of
Tarsus, whom admiring men have since named Saint, feel that _he_ was
"the chief of sinners"; and Nero of Rome, jocund in spirit
(_wohlgemuth_), spend much of his time in fiddling? Foolish
Word-monger and Motive-grinder, who in thy Logic-mill hast an earthly
mechanism for the Godlike itself, and wouldst fain grind me out Virtue
from the husks of Pleasure,--I tell thee, Nay! To the unregenerate
Prometheus Vinctus of a man, it is ever the bitterest aggravation of
his wretchedness that he is conscious of Virtue, that he feels himself
the victim not of suffering only, but of injustice. What then? Is the
heroic inspiration we name Virtue but some Passion; some bubble of the
blood, bubbling in the direction others _profit_ by? I know not: only
this I know, If what thou namest Happiness be our true aim, then are
we all astray. With Stupidity and sound Digestion man may front much.
But what, in these dull unimaginative days, are the terrors of
Conscience to the diseases of the Liver! Not on Morality, but on
Cookery, let us build our stronghold: there brandishing our
frying-pan, as censer, let us offer sweet incense to the Devil, and
live at ease on the fat things _he_ has provided for his Elect!'

Thus has the bewildered Wanderer to stand, as so many have done,
shouting question after question into the Sibyl-cave of Destiny, and
receive no Answer but an Echo. It is all a grim Desert, this once-fair
world of his; wherein is heard only the howling of wild-beasts, or the
shrieks of despairing, hate-filled men; and no Pillar of Cloud by day,
and no Pillar of Fire by night, any longer guides the Pilgrim. To such
length has the spirit of Inquiry carried him. 'But what boots it (_was
thut's_)?' cries he: 'it is but the common lot in this era. Not having
come to spiritual majority prior to the _Siecle de Louis Quinze_, and
not being born purely a Loghead (_Dummkopf_), thou hadst no other
outlook. The whole world is, like thee, sold to Unbelief; thei