comes to deliver us a sermon we shall have made a hole in the roof and
taken down a wall. Our God has a long, white beard, and he is not unlike
the Father Christmas of picture-books. Often he lies on his stomach on
Heaven's floor, an eye at one of his myriads of peepholes, watching that
we keep his laws. Our God wears a frock coat, a starched linen collar
and black necktie, and a silk hat, and on the Sabbath he preaches to the
congregation of Heaven.

Heaven is a Welsh chapel; but its pulpit is of gold, and its walls,
pews, floor, roof, harmonium, and its clock--which marks the days of the
month as well as the hours of the day--are of glass. The inhabitants are
clothed in the white shirts in which they were buried and in which they
arose at the Call; and the language of God and his angels and of the
Company of Prophets is Welsh, that being the language spoken in the
Garden of Eden and by Jacob, Moses, Abraham, and Elijah.

Wales is Heaven on earth, and every Welsh chapel is a little Heaven; and
God has favored us greatly by choosing to rule over us preachers who are
fashioned in his likeness and who are without spot or blemish.

Every Welsh child knows that the preacher is next to God; "I am the Big
Man's photograph," the preacher shouts; and the child is brought up in
the fear of the preacher.

Jealous of his trust, the preacher has made rules for the salvation of
our bodies and souls. Temptations such as art, drama, dancing, and the
study of folklore he has removed from our way. Those are vanities, which
make men puffed up and vainglorious; and they are unsavory in the
nostrils of the Big Man. And look you, the preacher asks, do they not
cost money? Are they not time wasters? The capel needs your money, boys