“No offence,” murmured his dragoman. “The last group, on the far left, to which indeed I myself am not altogether unaffiliated, is composed of a small number of extremists, who hold that ‘the good’ is things as they are--pardon the inevitable flaw in grammar. They consider that what is now has always been, and will always be; that things do but swell and contract and swell again, and so on for ever and ever; and that, since they could not swell if they did not contract, since without the black there could not be the white, nor pleasure without pain, nor virtue without vice, nor criminals without judges; even contraction, or the black, or pain, or vice, or judges, are not ‘the bad,’ but only negatives; and that all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. They are Voltairean optimists masquerading to an unsuspecting population as pessimists. ‘Eternal Variation’ is their motto.” “I gather,” said the Angel, “that these think there is no purpose in existence?” “Rather, sir, that existence _is_ the purpose. For, if you consider, any other conception of purpose implies fulfilment, or an _end_, which they do not admit, just as they do not admit a beginning.” “How logical!” said the Angel. “It makes me dizzy! You have renounced the idea of climbing, then?” “Not so,” responded his dragoman. “We climb to the top of the pole, slide imperceptibly down, and begin over again; but since we never really know whether we are climbing or sliding, this does not depress us.” “To believe that this goes on for ever is futile,” said the Angel. “So we are told,” replied his dragoman, without emotion. “_We_ think, however, that the truth is with us, in spite of jesting Pilate.” “It is not for me,” said the Angel with dignity, “to argue with my dragoman.” “No, sir, for it is always necessary to beware of the open mind. I myself find it very difficult to believe the same thing every day. And the fact that is whatever you believe will probably not alter the truth, which may be said to have a certain mysterious immutability, considering the number of efforts men have made to change it from time to time. We are now, however, just above the City Tabernacle, and if you will close your wings we shall penetrate it through the claptrap-door which enables its preachers now and then to ascend to higher spheres.” “Stay!” said the Angel; “let me float a minute while I suck a peppermint, for the audiences in these places often have colds.” And with that delicious aroma clinging to them they made their entry through a strait gate in the roof and took their seats in the front row, below a tall prophet in eyeglasses, who was discoursing on the stars. The Angel slept heavily. “You have lost a good thing, sir,” said his dragoman reproachfully, when they left the Tabernacle. “In my opinion,” the Angel playfully responded, “I won a better, for I went nap. What can a mortal know about the stars?”