Hazlet, ashamed and bewildered, confused his present position with old reminiscences, and muttered some balderdash about Carlyle “not being sound.”
“Carlyle not sound?” said Julian; “good heavens! You can still retain the wretched babblements of your sectarianism while your courses are what they are!”
He was inclined to drop the conversation in sheer disgust, but Hazlet’s pride was now aroused, and he began to bluster about the impertinence of interference on Julian’s part, and his right to do what he chose.
“Certainly,” said Julian, sternly, “the choice lies with yourself. Run, if you will, as a bird to the snare of the fowler, till a dart strike you through. But if you are dead and indifferent to your own miserable soul, think that in this sin you cannot sin alone; think that you are dragging down to the nethermost abyss others besides yourself. Remember the wretched victims of your infamous passions, and tremble while you desecrate and deface for ever God’s image stamped on a fair human soul. Think of those whom your vileness dooms to a life of loathliness, a death of shame and anguish, perhaps an eternity of horrible despair. Learn something of the days they are forced to spend, that they may pander to the worst instincts of your degraded nature; days of squalor and drunkenness, disease and dirt; gin at morning, noon, and night; eating infection, horrible madness, and sudden death at the end. Can you ever hope for salvation and the light of God’s presence, while the cry of the souls of which you have been the murderer—yes, do not disguise it, the murderer, the cruel, willing, pitiless murderer—is ringing upwards from the depths of hell?”
“What do you mean by the murderer?” said Hazlet, with an attempt at misconception.
“I mean this, Hazlet; setting aside all considerations which affect your mere personal ruin—not mentioning the atrophy of spiritual life and the clinging sense of degradation which is involved in such a course as yours—I want you to see if you will be honest, that the fault is yet more deadly, because you involve other souls and other lives in your own destruction. Is it not a reminiscence sufficient to kill any man’s hope, that but for his own brutality some who are now perhaps raving in the asylum might have been clasping their own children to their happy breasts, and wearing in unpolluted innocence the rose of matronly honour? Oh, Hazlet, I have heard you talk about missionary societies, and seen your name in subscription lists, but believe me you could not, by myriads of such conventional charities, cancel the direct and awful quota which you are now contributing to the aggregate of the world’s misery and shame.”
It took a great deal to abash a mind like Hazlet’s. He said that he was going to be a clergyman, and that it was necessary for him to see something of life, or he would never acquire the requisite experience.
“Loathly experience!” said Julian with crushing scorn. “And do you ever hope, Hazlet, by centuries of preaching such as yours, to repair one millionth part of the damage done by your bad passions to a single fellow-creature? Such a hateful excuse is verily to carry the Urim with its oracular gems into the very sty of sensuality, and to debase your religion into ‘a procuress to the lords of hell.’ I have done; but let me say, Hazlet, that your self-justification is, if possible, more repulsive than your sin.”
He pushed back his chair from the fire, and turned away, as Hazlet, with some incoherent sentences about “no business of his,” left the room, and slammed the door behind him.
What are words but weak motions of vibrating air? Julian’s words passed by the warped nature of Hazlet like the idle wind, and left no more trace upon him than the snow-flake when it has melted into the purpling sea. As the weeks went on, his ill-regulated passions grew more and more free from the control of reason or manliness, and he sank downwards, downwards, downwards, into the most shameful abysses of an idle, and evil, and dissipated life.