our drooping power; and we receive
nothing but the refuse; weak, slavish, flabby souls, hardly worth saving
or damning; gushing preachers, pious editors, crazy enthusiasts, and
half-baked old ladies of both sexes. Why didn't you preach a different
Gospel while you were about it? You had the chance once and let it slip:
we shall never have another.

Jesus.--My dear Father, I am reforming my Gospel to make it suit the
altered taste of the times.

Jehovah.--Stuff and nonsense! It can't be done; thinking people see
through it; the divine is immutable. The only remedy is to start afresh.
Could I beget a new son all might be rectified; but I cannot, I am too
old. Our dominion is melting away like that of all our predecessors.
You cannot outlast me, for I am the fountain of your life; and all the
multitude of "immortal" angels who throng our court, live only while I
uphold them, and with me they will vanish into eternal limbo.

Here followed another fit of coughing worse than before. Jesus resorted
again to the phial, but the cordial seemed powerless against this sharp
attack. Just then the Dove fluttered against the curtain, and my guide
hurried me swiftly away.

In a corridor of the temple we met Michael and Raphael. The latter
scrutinised me so closely that my blood ran cold; but just when my
dread was deepest his countenance cleared, and he turned towards his
companion. Walking behind the great archangels we were able to hear
their conversation. Raphael had just returned from a visit to the earth,
and he was reporting to Michael a most alarming defection from the
Christian faith. People, he said, were leaving in shoals, and unless
fresh miracles were worked he trembled for the prospects of the dynasty.
But what most alarmed him was the spread of profanity. While in England
he had seen copies of a blasphemous paper which horrified the elect by
ridiculing the Bible in what a bishop had justly called "a heartless and
cruel way." "But, my dear Michael," continued Raphael, "that is not
all, nor even the worst. This scurrilous paper, which would be quickly
suppressed if we retained our old influence, actually caricatures our
supreme Lord and his heavenly host in woodcuts, and thousands of people
enjoy this wicked profanity. I dare say our turn will soon come, and
we shall be held up to ridicule like the rest." "Impossible!" cried
Michael; "Surely there is some mistake. What is the name of this
abominable print?" With a gr