“Where people are holy.”
“O, what makes it glisten so?”
“It holy spiritualizes all within.”
“Then no evil spirits can come to this communion of saints.” Quite bestows comfort and relief.
The walls are landscaped in crackled scenery, and at intervals against their centers aloft, are fastened most gorgeous state chairs, supported by brackets that have a separate and more distinct gleam. I turn again quickly, awed to inquire. I look into the face of Savant, who is intently regarding my expression.
“The chairs,” I say, “are they alive?”
“Yes,” he replies, “to make the dead alive, who will come to sit in them.”
“O, is this where Roban saw the scientific angel?”
I rigidly regard the one nearest to me to see it being occupied by a familiar face and form. (Familiar by engraving). “It is George Washington.”
A hand appears from the air, resting on his arm, which slowly materializes the form to which it is attached.