But watch the career of one thoroughly artificial.
Through inheritance, or perhaps his own skill, having
obtained enough for purposes of display, he feels
himself thoroughly established. He sits aloof
from the common herd, and looks out of his window upon
the poor man, and says—“Put that
dirty wretch off my steps immediately!” On Sabbath
days he finds the church, but mourns the fact that
he must worship with so many of the inelegant, and
says, “They are perfectly awful!” “That
man that you put in my pew had a coat on his back that
did not cost five dollars.” He struts through
life unsympathetic with trouble, and says, “I
cannot be bothered.” Is delighted with some
doubtful story of Parisian life, but thinks that there
are some very indecent things in the Bible. Walks
arm in arm with a millionnaire, but does not know
his own brother. Loves to be praised for his
splendid house; and when told that he looks younger
than ten years ago, says—“Well, really;
do you think so!”
But the brief strut of his life is about over.
Up-stairs—he dies. No angel wings
hovering about him. No gospel promises kindling
up the darkness;—but exquisite embroidery,
elegant pictures, and a bust of Shakespeare on the
mantel. The pulses stop. The minister comes
in to read of the Resurrection, that day when the
dead shall come up—both he that died on
the floor, and he that expired under princely upholstery.
He is carried out to burial. Only a few mourners,
but a great array of carriages. Not one common
man at the funeral. No befriended orphan to weep
a tear upon his grave. No child of want pressing
through the ranks of the weeping, saying—“He
is the last friend I have; and I must see him.”
What now? He was a great man: Shall not
chariots of salvation come down to the other side
of the Jordan, and escort him up to the palace?
Shall not the angels exclaim—“Turn
out! a prince is coming.” Will the bells
chime? Will there be harpers with their harps,
and trumpeters with their trumpets?
No! No! No! There will be a shudder,
as though a calamity had happened. Standing on
heaven’s battlement, a watchman will see something
shoot past, with fiery downfall, and shriek: “Wandering
star—for whom is reserved the blackness
of darkness forever!”
With the funeral pageant the brilliant career terminated.
There was a great array of carriages.
AFTER MIDNIGHT.
When night came down on Babylon, Nineveh, and Jerusalem,
they needed careful watching, otherwise the incendiary’s
torch might have been thrust into the very heart of
the metropolitan splendor; or enemies, marching from
the hills, might have forced the gates. All night
long, on top of the wall and in front of the gates,
might be heard the measured step of the watchman on
his solitary beat; silence hung in air, save as some
passer-by raised the question: “Watchman,
what of the night?”
