Boon, The Mind of the Race, The Wild Asses of the Devil, and The Last Trump;: Being a First Selection from the Literary Remains of George Boon, Appropriate to the TimesWells, H. G. (Herbert George)
Philosophy
Boon, The Mind of the Race, The Wild Asses of the Devil, and The Last Trump;: Being a First Selection from the Literary Remains of George Boon, Appropriate to the Times
Wells, H. G. (Herbert George)
English fiction -- 20th century; Satire
And then it became apparent that this person was one of the very
lowest types of infernal denizen, and that his role in the dark realms
of Dis had been that of watcher and minder of a herd of sinister
beings hitherto unknown to our Author, the Devil's Wild Asses, which
pastured in a stretch of meadows near the Styx. They were, he
gathered, unruly, dangerous, and enterprising beasts, amenable only to
a certain formula of expletives, which instantly reduced them to
obedience. These expletives the stoker-devil would not repeat; to do
so except when actually addressing one of the Wild Asses would, he
explained, involve torments of the most terrible description. The bare
thought of them gave him a shivering fit. But he gave the Author to
understand that to crack these curses as one drove the Wild Asses to
and from their grazing on the Elysian fields was a by no means
disagreeable amusement. The ass-herds would try who could crack the
loudest until the welkin rang.
And speaking of these things, the poor creature gave a picture of
diabolical life that impressed the Author as by no means unpleasant
for any one with a suitable constitution. It was like the Idylls of
Theocritus done in fire; the devils drove their charges along burning
lanes and sat gossiping in hedges of flames, rejoicing in the warm,
dry breezes (which it seems are rendered peculiarly bracing by the
faint flavour of brimstone in the air), and watching the harpies and
furies and witches circling in the perpetual afterglow of that
inferior sky. And ever and again there would be holidays, and one
would take one's lunch and wander over the sulphur craters picking
flowers of sulphur or fishing for the souls of usurers and publishers
and house-agents and land-agents in the lakes of boiling pitch. It was
good sport, for the usurers and publishers and house-agents and
land-agents were always eager to be caught; they crowded round the
hooks and fought violently for the bait, and protested vehemently and
entertainingly against the Rules and Regulations that compelled their
instant return to the lake of fire.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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