Those visions of hell, those poor babes and women and girls and lads and men shrieking and supplicating in anguish--why, we could hardly bear it, but he was as bland about it as if it had been so many imitation rats in an artificial fire.
And always when he was talking about men and women here on the earth and their doings--even their grandest and sublimest--we were secretly ashamed, for his manner showed that to him they and their doings were of paltry poor consequence; often you would think he was talking about flies, if you didn't know.

Once he even said, in so many words, that our people down here were quite interesting to him, notwithstanding they were so dull and ignorant and trivial and conceited, and so diseased and rickety, and such a shabby, poor, worthless lot all around.

He said it in a quite matter-of-course way and without bitterness, just as a person might talk about bricks or manure or any other thing that was of no consequence and hadn't feelings.

I could see he meant no offense, but in my thoughts I set it down as not very good manners.
"Manners!" he said.

"Why, it is merely the truth, and truth is good manners; manners are a fiction.