But, for Noy, John Barron was as good as dead, and himself
as good as under sentence of death.
Grown quite calm, fixed in mind, and immovable as the black sea cliffs of
his mother-land, he wrote steadily on until thought sped whirling forward
to a new aspect of his future: the last. He saw himself in eternity, tossed
to everlasting flames by his Maker, as a man tosses an empty match-box,
after it has done its work, into the fire. He put down his pen and pictured
it. The terrific force of that conviction cannot fairly be set before the
intelligence of average cultured people, because, whatever they profess to
believe in their hearts, the truth is that, even with forty-nine Christians
out of fifty, hell appears a mere vague conceit meaning nothing. They
affirm that they believe in eternal torment; they confess all humanity is
ripe for it; but their pulses are unquickened by the assertion or
admission; they do _not_ believe in it. Nor can educated man so
believe, for that way madness lies, and he who dwells long and closely upon
this unutterable dogma, anon himself feels the first flickering of the
undying flame. It scorches, not his body, but his brain, and a lunatic
asylum presently shuts him from a sane world unless medical aid quickly
brings healthy relief.
But with primitive opinions, narrow beliefs and narrow intelligences, hell
can be a live conceit enough. Among Luke Gospelers and kindred sects there
shall be found such genuine fear and such trembling as the church called
orthodox never knows; and to Noy the tremendous spectacle of his
everlasting punishment now made itself actively felt.
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