ABSTRACT
The religion of Moloch, as such creeds may be genetically called, is in essence the cringing submission of the slave, who dare not, even in his heart, allow the thought that his master deserves no adulation. Since the independence of ideals is not yet acknowledged, Power may be freely worshipped, and receive an unlimited respect despite its wanton infliction of pain. To every man comes, sooner or later, the great renunciation. For the young, there is nothing unattainable; a good thing, desired with the whole force of a passionate will, and yet impossible, is to them not credible. The life of Man is a long march through the night, surrounded by invisible foes, tortured by weariness and pain, towards a goal that few can hope to reach, and where none may tarry long. One by one, as they march, the comrades vanish from our sight, seized by the silent orders of omnipotent Death.
