What Remains of Heaven

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To kill, and numbers sanctify the crime.

Ah! Why will Kings forget that they are men?

And men that they are brethren? Why delight

In HUMAN SACRIFICE? Why burst the ties

Of Nature, that should knit their souls together

In one soft bond of amity and love?

They yet still breathe destruction, still go on,

Inhumanly ingenious, to find out

New pain for life, new terrors for the grave,

Artificers of death! Still Monarchs dream

Of universal empire, growing up

From universal ruin. Blast the design

Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall

Unpitied Victims at Ambitions shrine!

—From “Death: A Poetical Essay,” by Dr. Beilby Porteous, Bishop of London 1789-1809, The Cambridge Intelligencer (September 14, 1793)

Chapter 1

TANFIELD HILL, TUESDAY, 7 JULY 1812

His breath coming in undignified gasps, the Reverend Malcolm Earnshaw abandoned the village high street and struck out through the lanky grass of the churchyard. He was a small, plump man, well into his middle years, his hair sparse and graying, his knees stiff. Looking up, he saw the belfry of the village church silhouetted dark against the white of the evening sky, and suppressed a groan.

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