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?