Satan Absolved: A Victorian Mystery — Reading Notes

Else were Creation mocked--and haply I not God. In sooth all's well with the World. And thou my Raphael, How fare the Spirit hosts? Say, is _thy_ world, too, well?

All's well with the World. We stand, as aye, obedient. We have no thought but Thee, no asking, no intent More than to laud and worship, O most merciful, Being of those that wait.

The contemplative rule Out-ministers the active. These have right to boast, Who stand aye in His presence, beyond the Angel host.

And none of ye grow weary?

God is a jealous God. He doubteth Thee.

Nay, none. We are not as the Angels.

These have their devoirs, The search, the novelty. Ye drowse here in your choirs, Sleep-walkers all,--while these, glad messengers, go forth Upon new joyous errands, Earthwards, South and North, To visit men and cities. What is strange as Man? What fair as his green Globe in all Creation's plan? What ordered as his march of life, of mind, of will? What subtle as his conscience set at grips with ill? Their service needs no sleep who guide Man's destinies. Speak, Gabriel, thou the last. Is Man grown grand and wise? Hath he his place on Earth, prince of Time's fashionings, Noblest and fairest found, the roof and crown of things? Is the World joyful all in his most perfect joy? Hath the good triumphed, tell, o'er pain and Time's annoy, Since Our Son died, who taught the way of perfect peace? Thou knowest it how I love these dear Humanities. Is all quite well with Man?

All's well with the World, ay well. All's well enough with Man.

How meanest thou "enough"? Man holdeth then Earth's seat, Master of living things. He mild is and discreet, Supreme in My Son's peace. The Earth is comforted With its long rest from toil, nor goeth aught in dread, Seeing all wars have ceased, the mad wars of old time. The lion and the lamb lie down in every clime. There is no strife for gold, for place, for dignities, All holding My Son's creed! The last fool hath grown wise. He hath renounced his gods, the things of wood and stone!

The Christian name prevaileth. Its dominion Groweth in all the lands. From Candia to Cathay The fear of Christ is spread, and wide through Africa.

The fear and not the love?

Who knoweth Man's heart? All bow, And all proclaim His might. The manner and the how It were less safe to argue, since some frailties be. We take the outward act to prove conformity. All's well enough with Man--most well with Christendom.

Again thou sayest "enough." How fareth it in Rome? Hath My vicegerent rest?

He sitteth as of old Enthroned in Peter's chair with glories manifold. He sang a mass this morning and I heard his prayer.

And were the monarchs there, The great ones in their place? Did all pray with one breath?

Some priests and poor I saw,

The poor he always hath.

His guards, his chamberlains.

The mighty ones, the proud, Do they not kneel together daily in one crowd? Have they no common counsel?

Kings have their own needs, Demanding separate service.

Ay, and their own creeds. One cause alone combines them, and one service--mine.

We did redeem his line And crown him with new worship. In the ancient days His was a stubborn neck. But now he hath found grace, Being born anew. His gods he hath renounced, sayest thou? He worshippeth the Christ? What more?

Nay, 'tis enow. He is justified by faith. He hath no fear of Hell Since he hath won Thy grace. All's well with Man,--most well.

"All's well"! The fair phrase wearieth. It hath a new false ring. Truce, Gabriel, to thy word fence. Mark my questioning. Or rather no--not thou, blest Angel of all good, Herald of God's glad tidings to a world subdued, Thou lover tried of Man. I will not question thee, Lest I should tempt too sore and thou lie cravenly. Is there no other here, no drudge, to do that task And lay the secret bare, the face behind the mask? One with a soul less white, who loveth less, nay hates; One fit for a sad part, the Devil's advocate's; One who some wrong hath done, or hath been o'erborne of ill, And so hath his tongue loosed? O for Soul with will! O for one hour of Satan!

He is here, Lord God, Ready to speak all truths to Thy face, even "Ichabod, Thy glory is departed," were _that_ truth.

A suppliant for Thy pardon, and in love, not fear, One who Thou knowest doth love Thee, ay, and more than these.

That word was Peter's once.