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Is the word Hell in the Bible: Hades, Sheol, Gehenna, Tartarus? Or is Hell a mistranslation?
S In Tartarus novella after the first 5 chapters are completed! Recent posts by T. Patreon logo. Create on Patreon. App Directory. They came to the first girl blank; they went to the second girl ruled. Then, as I still looked, the two — for some small variety to the monotony — changed places; and where had stood the young, fair brow, now stood the ruled and wrinkled one. Perched high upon a narrow platform, and still higher upon a high stool crowning it, sat another figure serving some other iron animal; while below the platform sat her mate in some sort of reciprocal attendance.
Not a syllable was breathed. Nothing was heard but the low, steady, overruling hum of the iron animals. The human voice was banished from the spot. Machinery — that vaunted slave of humanity — here stood menially served by human beings, who served mutely and cringingly as the slave serves the Sultan. The girls did not so much seem accessory wheels to the general machinery as mere cogs to the wheels.
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All this scene around me was instantaneously taken in at one sweeping glance — even before I had proceeded to unwind the heavy fur tippet from around my neck. But as soon as this fell from me the dark-complexioned man, standing close by, raised a sudden cry, and seizing my arm, dragged me out into the open air, and without pausing for word instantly caught up some congealed snow and began rubbing both my cheeks. Rub away. Soon a horrible, tearing pain caught at my reviving cheeks. Two gaunt blood-hounds, one on each side, seemed mumbling them.
- 2 Peter 2:4.
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Presently, when all was over, I re-entered the factory, made known my business, concluded it satisfactorily, and then begged to be conducted throughout the place to view it. Quitting the folding-room, we crossed some damp, cold boards, and stood beneath a area wet shed, incessantly showering with foam, like the green barnacled bow of some East Indiaman in a gale.
Round and round here went the enormous revolutions of the dark colossal water-wheel, grim with its one immutable purpose. I looked, and saw that the turbid waters of Blood River had not changed their hue by coming under the use of man.
2 Peter 2:4
He took me up a wet and rickety stair to a great light room, furnished with no visible thing but rude, manger-like receptacles running all round its sides; and up to these mangers, like so many mares haltered to the rack, stood rows of girls. Before each was vertically thrust up a long, glittering scythe, immovably fixed at bottom to the manger-edge. The curve of the scythe, and its having no snath to it, made it look exactly like a sword. To and fro, across the sharp edge, the girls forever dragged long strips of rags, washed white, picked from baskets at one side; thus ripping asunder every seam, and converting the tatters almost into lint.
The air swam with the fine, poisonous particles, which from all sides darted, subtilely, as motes in sun-beams, into the lungs. But the buttons are all dropped off. Or did you mean the gold bosom-buttons of our boss, Old Bach, as our whispering girls all call him? Yes, murmured I to myself; I see it now; turned outward, and each erected sword is so borne, edge-outward, before each girl.
If my reading fails me not, just so, of old, condemned state-prisoners went from the hall of judgment to their doom: an officer before, bearing a sword, its edge turned outward, in significance of their fatal sentence. So, through consumptive pallors of this blank, raggy life, go these white girls to death. That moment two of the girls, dropping their rags, plied each a whet-stone up and down the sword-blade. My unaccustomed blood curdled at the sharp shriek of the tormented steel. More tragical and more inscrutably mysterious than any mystic sight, human or machine, throughout the factory, was the strange innocence of cruel-heartedness in this usage-hardened boy.
This way, Sir. Following him, I crossed a large, bespattered place, with two great round vats in it, full of a white, wet, woolly-looking stuff, not unlike the albuminous part of an egg, soft-boiled. Look how it swims bubbling round and round, moved by the paddle here. From hence it pours from both vats into that one common channel yonder; and so goes, mixed up and leisurely, to the great machine. And now for that.
He led me into a room, stifling with a strange, blood-like, abdominal heat, as if here, true enough, were being finally developed the germinous particles lately seen. Before me, rolled out like some long Eastern manuscript, lay stretched one continuous length of iron frame-work — multitudinous and mystical, with all sorts of rollers, wheels, and cylinders, in slowly-measured and unceasing motion.
Follow on now, and see it as it slides from under that to the next cylinder. There; see how it has become just a very little less pulpy now. One step more, and it grows still more to some slight consistence. Still another cylinder, and it is so knitted — though as yet mere dragon-fly wing — that it forms an air-bridge here, like a suspended cobweb, between two more separated rollers; and flowing over the last one, and under again, and doubling about there out of sight for a minute among all those mixed cylinders you indistinctly see, it reappears here, looking now at last a little less like pulp and more like paper, but still quite delicate and defective yet awhile.
But — a little further onward, Sir, if you please — here now, at this further point, it puts on something of a real look, as if it might turn out to be something you might possibly handle in the end. Good way to travel yet, and plenty more of cylinders must roll it. But look; you may try it for yourself.
Have you a bit of paper? Bidding me take out my watch, Cupid adroitly dropped the inscribed slip on an exposed part of the incipient mass. For a moment a curious emotion filled me, not wholly unlike that which one might experience at the fulfillment of some mysterious prophecy. But how absurd, thought I again; the thing is a mere machine, the essence of which is unvarying punctuality and precision. Previously absorbed by the wheels and cylinders, my attention was now directed to a sad-looking woman standing by. She would not seem wholly used to it either.
She was a nurse formerly. But look at the paper she is piling there. But foolscap being in chief demand, we turn out foolscap most. It was very curious. Looking at that blank paper continually dropping, dropping, dropping, my mind ran on in wonderings of those strange uses to which those thousand sheets eventually would be put. Then, recurring back to them as they here lay all blank, I could not but bethink me of that celebrated comparison of John Locke, who, in demonstration of his theory that man had no innate ideas, compared the human mind at birth to a sheet of blank paper; something destined to be scribbled on, but what sort of characters no soul might tell.
The Paradise of Bachelors and the Tartarus of Maids
Pacing slowly to and fro along the involved machine, still humming with its play, I was struck as well by the inevitability as the evolvement-power in all its motions. It is marvelous fragile, and yet this machine it passes through is so mighty. It must go. The machinery makes it go just so; just that very way, and at that very pace you there plainly see it go.
Something of awe now stole over me, as I gazed upon this inflexible iron animal.
Always, more or less, machinery of this ponderous, elaborate sort strikes, in some moods, strange dread into the human heart, as some living, panting Behemoth might. But what made the thing I saw so specially terrible to me was the metallic necessity, the unbudging fatality which governed it. Though, here and there, I could not follow the thin, gauzy vail of pulp in the course of its more mysterious or entirely invisible advance, yet it was indubitable that, at those points where it eluded me, it still marched on in unvarying docility to the autocratic cunning of the machine. A fascination fastened on me.
I stood spell-bound and wandering in my soul. Before my eyes — there, passing in slow procession along the wheeling cylinders, I seemed to see, glued to the pallid incipience of the pulp, the yet more pallid faces of all the pallid girls I had eyed that heavy day. Slowly, mournfully, beseechingly, yet unresistingly, they gleamed along, their agony dimly outlined on the imperfect paper, like the print of the tormented face on the handkerchief of Saint Veronica. In a few moments, feeling revived a little, I went into the folding-room — the first room I had entered, and where the desk for transacting business stood, surrounded by the blank counters and blank girls engaged at them.
Your great machine is a miracle of inscrutable intricacy. We are in a very out-of-the-way corner here.