Faustus. Now, brother hermit, since the things are on the table, fall to without waiting to be asked twice. You may eat of our fare without the least injury to your reputation. I see your mouth begins to water. Come, a glass to the honour of your patron saint. What is his name?
Hermit. St. George.
Faustus. Here’s his health.
Devil. Ho, ho, brother hermit! the renowned St. George of Cappadocia was a fellow after my own heart; and if you take him for a model, you cannot go wrong. I am perfectly well acquainted with his history, and will relate it in a few words for your instruction. He was the son of wretchedly poor people, and was born in a miserable hut in Cilicia. As he grew up, he early perceived his own talents, and, by force of flattery, servility, and corruption, found his way into the houses of the great and opulent, who at length, out of gratitude for his services, procured him a
commission in the army of the Greek emperor. But when there he pilfered and plundered to so enormous an extent, that he was soon obliged to fly, to avoid being hanged. Thereupon he joined himself to the sect of the Arians, and, by his quick parts, soon learnt to gabble the unintelligible jargon of theology and metaphysics. About this time the Arian emperor, Constantine, kicked from the episcopal chair at Alexandria the good and most Catholic Athanasius; and your redoubtable Cappadocian was, by an Arian synod, appointed to the vacant see. George was now completely in his element: he puffed, strutted, and filled his paunch. But when he, by his injustice and cruelty, had driven his subjects to the verge of madness, they put him to death, and carried his body in triumph through the streets of Alexandria. Thus did he become a martyr, and consequently a saint.
Hermit. There is not a word of this in the legend.
Devil. I believe ye, brother; and, for the sake of truth, the Devil only ought to have written it.
The hermit then crossed himself.
Faustus. Do you call eating and drinking crimes?
Hermit. They may tempt us to commit crimes.