and sordid
business of this life.

There is one more article, however, of happier import. "All these
indulgences," it appeared, "are applicable to souls in purgatory." For
God's sake, ye ladies of Creil, apply them all to the souls in purgatory
without delay! Burns would take no hire for his last songs, preferring
to serve his country out of unmixed love. Suppose you were to imitate
the exciseman, mesdames, and even if the souls in purgatory were not
greatly bettered, some souls in Creil upon the Oise would find
themselves none the worse either here or hereafter.

I cannot help wondering, as I transcribe these notes, whether a
Protestant born and bred is in a fit state to understand these signs,
and do them what justice they deserve; and I cannot help answering that
he is not. They cannot look so merely ugly and mean to the faithful as
they do to me. I see that as clearly as a proposition in Euclid. For
these believers are neither weak nor wicked. They can put up their
tablet commending Saint Joseph for his despatch, as if he were still a
village carpenter; they can "recite the required _dizaine_," and
metaphorically pocket the indulgence, as if they had done a job for
Heaven; and then they can go out and look down unabashed upon this
wonderful river flowing by, and up without confusion at the pin-point
stars, which are themselves great worlds full of flowing rivers greater
than the Oise. I see it as plainly, I say, as a proposition in Euclid,
that my Protestant mind has missed the point, and that there goes with
these deformities some higher and more religious spirit than I dream.

I wonder if other people would make the same allowances for me! Like the
ladies of Creil, having recited my rosary of toleration, I look for my
indulgence on the spot.

PRECY AND THE MARIONNETTES

We made Precy about sundown. The plain is rich with tufts of poplar. In
a wide, luminous curve, the Oise lay under the hillside. A faint mist
began to rise and confound the different distances together. There was
not a sound audible but that of the sheep-bells in some meadows by the
river, and the creaking of a cart down the long road that descends the
hill. The villas in their gardens, the shops along the street, all
seemed to have been deserted the day before, and I felt inclined to walk
discreetly as one feels in a silent forest. All of a sudden we came
round a corner, and there, in a little green round the church, was a
bevy of g