The Collected Fiction of William Hope Hodgson: The Dream Of X & Other Fantastic Visions Read Online Free PDF Page A

necessary to accomplish their purpose. Each man would be provided with a knife and steel, and—commencing work at the usual working hour of the country in which the butchering is effected—would proceed to the slaying with all the speed at their command. The survivors would, of course, be esteemed the winners. The slaying over, the meat would be packed and sold by the winning side to defray expenses, in this wise minimizing the cost of a somewhat unpleasant but—according to many learned men—a very necessary and honourable business.
    “This meat should sell well; for I can imagine that there should be considerable satisfaction in eating one’s enemy: moreover, I am told that it is a very old custom.
    “I would suggest, in closing, that the butchers receive instruction from the Head Butchers in the proper methods of killing. At present they put far more science into destroying bullocks quickly and comfortably than in performing the same kind office for their fellows. If a man must be killed, at least let him be treated no more barbarously than a bullock. Further, they would have to learn, when killing, not to spoil the joints. Let every man understand his trade!”
    Here Mr. John Russell made an end amid profound cheering from the whole House.

/* */
    My House Shall Be Called the House of Prayer
    (An incident in the Life of Father Johnson, Roman Catholic Priest)

    “And the Great Deep of Life.”
    F ather Johnson’s Irish village is not Irish. For some unknown reason it is polyglot. They are, as one might say, a most extraordinary family.
    I took my friend, James Pelple, down with me for an afternoon’s jaunt, to give the priest a call in his new house; for he had moved since last I saw him. Pelple knew of Father Johnson, by hearsay, and disapproved strongly. There is no other word to describe his feelings.
    “A good man, yes,” he would remark. “But if all you tell me, and the half of what I hear from others, is true, he is much too lax. His ritual——”
    “I’ve never been to his place,” I interrupted. “I know him only as the man. As a man, I love him, as you know; as a priest, I admire him. Concerning his ritual I know nothing. I don’t believe he is the man to be unduly lax on vital points.”
    “Just so! Just so!” said Pelple. “I know nothing; but I’ve heard some very peculiar things.”
    I smiled to myself. Certainly, Father Johnson has some unusual ways. I have seen him, for instance, when we have been alone, forget to say his grace until, maybe, he had eaten one dish. Then, remembering, he would touch his fingers together, and say:— “Bless this food to me” (glancing at the empty dish), “an’ I thank Thee for it” (looking at the full one in front). Then, remembering the dish yet on the stove:—“An’ that too, Lord,” and direct the Lord’s attention to the same, by a backward nod of his head. Afterwards, resuming his eating and talking, in the most natural fashion.
    “I’ve heard that he allows his church to be used for some very extraordinary purposes,” continued Pelple. “I cannot, of course, credit some of the things I hear; but I have been assured that the women take their knitting into the church on weekday evenings, whilst the men assemble there, as to a kind of rendezvous, where village topics are allowed. I consider it most improper, most improper! Don’t you?”
    But I found it difficult to criticise Father Johnson. I was frankly an admirer, as I am to-day. So I held my peace, assisted by an elusive movement of the head, that might have been either a nod or a negative.
    When we reached the village, and asked for the priest’s new house, three men of the place escorted us there in state, as to the house of a chieftain. Reaching it, two of them pointed to him through the window, where he sat at table, smoking, after his early tea. The third man would have accompanied us in; but I told him that I wanted to see the priest alone; whereupon they all went happily.