A certain legend relates that one of the Piscayan mountains is accurst, and that Satan dwells there. The grass is withered, a sinister hue rests upon everything, the sounds are mournful, the mountain stands a dark fantom in the midst of bedecked nature. But this is not the method of evil. The mountain up which the devil took our Master, and up which he takes us, is bathed in purple; in its rocks gleam jewels, its dust is the dust of gold, in its clefts spring flowers, and from its crest is seen the vision of kingdoms and the glory of them. Things, principles, maxims, amusements, relationships, creeds, ideals, utterly base and vile, are through the power of imagination purged into the lily's whiteness, perfumed with the violet, steeped in the color of the rose. We are never invited to sin; the things which have ruined generations are prest upon us as nuture, freedom, spirit, knowledge, gallantry, beauty, love, and we are deceived through the legerdemain of passion and fancy. (Text) --W. L. Watkinson, "The Transfiqured Sackcloth."
