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216 gloom of hell, lighted only by a lurid glare. He beholds there demons—the spirits of bad men become desperate—tormenting each other, quarrelling, fighting, blaspheming, uttering mad cries of fury, hate, revenge, and despair commingled: this is their life—they have rendered themselves incapable of any other—to hate and be hated—to tear and be torn—to torture and be tortured in return, continually and forever. Now, upon earth, the "pensile" earth, hanging as it were between the two. He looks. A fair orb it was created, and a fair and happy world it might be still, but for the wickedness of man. He sees men there in various states; some—a few—steadily and quietly traveling onwards and upwards in the path that leads to the mansions above—the happy and peaceful heaven. He sees others—many—a crowd alas!—rushing with mad haste and cries and blows, along the downward and broad way that leads to the realms of darkness and wretchedness. He calls to them, He warns them. He tells them whither they are going—He forewarns them of the sad and terrible lot, the miserable state that awaits them, unless they quickly turn and retrace their steps, ere it is too late. He cries to them, "turn ye, turn ye, for why will ye die." He implores them—He sends to them messenger after messenger, to check and stop them, if possible, to warn, to urge them, to beseech them to return. But they trample His messengers under their feet, and hurry on. What—what is to be done? As a last resource,—in His burning love and pity, He resolves Himself to descend, and, clothed with a form tangible and visible, to stand before them, to stop, if possible, their way. He