ly given him to add to the volume its chief ornament, the
frontispiece, which is a reproduction of Mr. Watts' Angel of Pity weeping
over the dead birds' wings.

To both these heroic workers in the cause of good the Author in gratitude
inscribes himself their faithful servant, disciple, and friend.

FERNYCROFT, NEW FOREST.
_July 27th, 1899._

SATAN ABSOLVED

A Victorian Mystery

(_In the antechamber of Heaven. Satan walks alone. Angels in groups
conversing_).

SATAN

To-day is the Lord's "day." Once more on His good pleasure
I, the Heresiarch, wait and pace these halls at leisure
Among the Orthodox, the unfallen Sons of God.
How sweet in truth Heaven is, its floors of sandal wood,
Its old-world furniture, its linen long in press,
Its incense, mummeries, flowers, its scent of holiness!
Each house has its own smell. The smell of Heaven to me
Intoxicates and haunts--and hurts. Who would not be
God's liveried servant here, the slave of His behest,
Rather than reign outside? I like good things the best,
Fair things, things innocent; and gladly, if He willed,
Would enter His Saints' kingdom--even as a little child (_laughs_).
I have come to make my peace, to crave a full "amaun,"
Peace, pardon, reconcilement, truce to our daggers-drawn,
Which have so long distraught the fair wise Universe,
An end to my rebellion and the mortal curse
Of always evil-doing. He will mayhap agree
I was less wholly wrong about Humanity
The day I dared to warn His wisdom of that flaw.
It was at least the truth, the whole truth I foresaw
When he must needs create that simian "in His own
Image and likeness." Faugh! the unseemly carrion!
I claim a new revision and with proofs in hand,
No Job now in my path to foil me and withstand.
Oh, I will serve Him well!
(_Certain Angels approach_). But who are these that come
With their grieved faces pale and eyes of martyrdom?
Not our good Sons of God? They stop, gesticulate,
Argue apart, some weep,--weep, here within Heaven's gate!
Sob almost in God's sight! ay, real salt human tears,
Such as no Spirit wept these thrice three thousand years.
The last shed were my own, that night of reprobation
When I unsheathed my sword and headed the lost nation.
Since then not one of them has spoken above his breath
Or whispered in these courts one word of life or death
Displeasing to the Lord. No Seraph of them all,
Sa