Stepping
up into the desk which cowered humbly at the foot of the pulpit,
he stood erect, and cast his eyes around the small assembly.
Discovering there no one that could lead in singing, he chose out
and read one of the monster's favourite hymns, in which never a
sparkle of thought or a glow of worship gave reason wherefore the
holy words should have been carpentered together. Then he prayed
aloud, and then first the monster found tongue, voice, articulation.
If this was worship, surely it was the monster's own worship of
itself! No God were better than one to whom such were fitting words
of prayer. What passed in the man's soul, God forbid I should judge:
I speak but of the words that reached the ears of men.
And over all the vast of London lay the monster, filling it like
the night--not in churches and chapels only--in almost all
theatres, and most houses--most of all in rich houses: everywhere
he had a foot, a tail, a tentacle or two--everywhere suckers that
drew the life blood from the sickening and somnolent soul.
When the deacon, a little brown man, about five-and-thirty, had
ended his prayer, he read another hymn of the same sort--one of
such as form the bulk of most collections, and then looked meaningly
at Mr Graham, whom he had seen in the chapel on Sunday with his
brother deacon, and therefore judged one of consequence, who had
come to the meeting with an object, and ought to be propitiated:
he had intended speaking himself.
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