“What!” he began, delivering his words in a voice no longer nasal, but deep,—more than deep,—a voice made purposely hollow and cavernous; “What! has the miracle of Pentecost been renewed? Have the cloven tongues come down again? Where are they? The sound filled the whole house just now. I heard the seventeen languages in full action:—Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judæa, and Cappadocia, in Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, in Egypt and in the parts of Lybia about Cyrene, strangers of Rome, Jews and proselytes, Cretes and Arabians;—every one of these must have had its representative in this room two minutes since.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Helstone,” began Mr. Donne; “take a seat, pray, sir. Have a glass of wine?”
His civilities received no answer: the falcon in the black coat proceeded:—
“What do I talk about the gift of tongues? Gift, indeed! I mistook the chapter, and book, and testament:—Gospel for law, Acts for Genesis, the city of Jerusalem for the plain of Shinar. It was no gift, but the confusion of tongues which has gabbled me deaf as a post. You, apostles? What!—you three? Certainly not:—three presumptuous Babylonish masons,—neither more nor less!”
“I assure you, sir, we were only having a little chat together over a glass of wine, after a friendly dinner:—settling the Dissenters.”
