“Thus far, sir, I went.  But I have not yet found the world so barren of literature as to write a book about it.  I have not yet found the world so barren of ingratitude as to seek happiness by stabbing in the back every friend I ever had.  I have not yet forsaken wife and children; neighbours and kinsmen; home, ease, and tenderness, for a whim, a dream, a passing qualm.  No, sir; ’tis this Christian’s ignorant hardness-of-heart that is his bane.  Knowing little, he prateth much.  He would pinch and contract the Universe to his own fantastical pattern.  He is tedious, he is pragmatical, and—­I affirm it in all sympathy and sorrow—­he is crazed.  Malice, haply, is a little sharp at times.  And neighbour Obstinate dealeth full weight with his opinions.  But this Christian Flown-to-Glory, as the urchins say, pinks with a bludgeon.  He cannot endure an honest doubt.  He distorteth a mere difference of opinion into a roaring Tophet.  And because he is helpless, solitary, despised in the world; because he is impotent to refute, and too stubborn to hear and suffer people a little higher and weightier, a leetle wiser than he—­why, beyond the grave he must set his hope in vengeance.  Beyond the grave—­bliss for his own shade; fire and brimstone, eternal woe for theirs.  Ay, and ’tis not but for a season will he vex us, but for ever, and for ever, and for ever—­if he knoweth in the least what he meaneth by the phrase.  And this he calls ‘Charity.’

“Yes, sirs, beyond the grave he would condemn us, beyond the grave—­a place of peace whereto I deem there are not many here but will be content at length to come; and I not least content, when my duty is done, my children provided for, and my last suspicion of fear and folly suppressed.

“To conclude, sir—­and beshrew me, gentlemen, how time doth fly in talk!—­this Christian goeth his way.  We, each in accord with his caprice and conscience, go ours.  We envy him not his vapours, his terrors, or his shameless greed of reward.  Why, then, doth he envy us our wealth, our success, our gaiety, our content?  He raves.  He is haunted.  What is man but as grass, and the flower of grass?  Come the sickle, he is clean gone.  I can but repeat it, sir, our poor neighbour was crazed:  ’tis Christian in a word.”

A sigh, a murmur of satisfaction and relief, rose from the company, as if one and all had escaped by Mr. Atheist’s lucidity out of a very real peril.

I thanked him for his courtesy, and in some confusion turned to Reverie with the remark that I thought I now recollected to have heard Christian’s name, but understood he had indeed arrived, at last, at the Celestial City for which he had set out.

“Celestial twaddle, sir!” cried Mr. Obstinate hoarsely.  “He went stark, staring mad, and now is dust, as we shall soon all be, that’s certain.”

Then Cruelty rose out of his chair and elbowed his way to the door.  He opened it and looked out.