“In every point but that name, that Krishna and the fury and love of persecution which it inspired,” said the man in black. “A hot blast came from the East, sounding Krishna; it absolutely maddened people’s minds, and the people would call themselves his children; we will not belong to Jupiter any longer, we will belong to Krishna, and they did belong to Krishna; that is in name, but in nothing else; for who ever cared for Krishna in the Christian world, or who ever regarded the words attributed to him, or put them in practice?”
“Why, we Protestants regard his words, and endeavour to practise what they enjoin as much as possible.”
“But you reject his image,” said the man in black; “better reject his words than his image: no religion can exist long which rejects a good bodily image. Why, the very negro barbarians of High Barbary could give you a lesson on that point; they have their fetish images, to which they look for help in their afflictions; they have likewise a high priest, whom they call—”
“Mumbo Jumbo,” said I; “I know all about him already.”
“How came you to know anything about him?” said the man in black, with a look of some surprise.
“Some of us poor Protestants tinkers,” said I, “though we live in dingles, are also acquainted with a thing or two.”
“I really believe you are,” said the man in black, staring at me; “but, in connection with this Mumbo Jumbo, I could relate to you a comical story about a fellow, an English servant, I once met at Rome.”
“It would be quite unnecessary,” said I; “I would much sooner hear you talk about Krishna, his words and image.”
“Spoken like a true heretic,” said the man in black; “one of the faithful would have placed his image before his words; for what are all the words in the world compared with a good bodily image!”
“I believe you occasionally quote his words?” said I.