“And yet some people,” the speaker went on, “said that it was all a fable; that there was no such being as the Prince of Darkness. If men looked around they would see plenty of his handiwork. If there were good spirits, why shouldn’t there be evil spirits; spirits not all alike in power or characteristics, but rank and file, with leaders and commanders--Satan, Beelzebub, Moloch?” Then he quoted from _Paradise Lost_:-- “First Moloch, horrid king, besmear’d with blood Of human sacrifice, and parents’ tears, Though for the noise of drums and timbrels loud Their children’s cries unheard, that past through fire, To his grim idol.” And Billy, amongst others, heard and trembled. It was a comfort after that to hear another preacher yonder telling his hearers of One in whose presence the devils, believing, could not but tremble; of One who cast out devils from the souls of men and boys; who loved to have the children round Him, and rebuked those who would have kept them from Him. When Billy found that this same lover of men’s souls was put to death by those whom He had sought to serve, that the Jews had shouted “Crucify Him!” and the Roman soldiers had nailed Him to a cross, the boy’s heart was hot within him, and his eyes were wet with tears. He had met with many Jews--the dirty, unkempt Jews of Petticoat Lane and Whitechapel, and the rich Jews of the West End, heavy of nose and watch-chain, silk-hatted, frock-coated, owners of splendid horses, which Joe cleaned down in the mews. And in his childish imagination there sprang up a strange, fantastic picture of a mixed and savage mob of these Jews of modern times assailing with cries and blows their lonely and forsaken King. “I don’t like them Jews,” he said one day to his friend Joe. The stableman rubbed his bullet-head reflectively. “There’s good Jews and there’s bad ’uns,” he remarked, as one speaking with authority, “just the same as there is in t’other lot. When a Jew’s good, he’s uncommon good. When he’s a bad ’un, he’s a cove as can get the blood out of a stone; he’s a chap as’ll squeeze ye dry, like that there sponge”--throwing one into his zinc bucket. “And, mark my word, Billy, there’s plenty of Christians as’ll do the same. Six of one and half a dozen of t’other, that’s what it is, my lad.” CHAPTER XXIV THE LOWER CRITIC