little feeling of shame and sorrow, now that the trumpery
little mystery is cleared? To "the new inhabitant of light," passed away
and out of reach of our censure, misrepresentation, scandal, dulness,
malice, a silly falsehood matters nothing. Censure and praise are alike
to him--

"The music warbling to the deafened ear,
The incense wasted on the funeral bier,"

the pompous eulogy pronounced over the gravestone, or the lie that
slander spits on it. Faithfully though this brave old chief did his
duty, honest and upright though his life was, glorious his renown--you
see he could write at Chatham on London paper; you see men can be found
to point out how "strange" his behavior was.

And about ourselves? My good people, do you by chance know any man or
woman who has formed unjust conclusions regarding his neighbor? Have you
ever found yourself willing, nay, eager to believe evil of some man
whom you hate? Whom you hate because he is successful, and you are not:
because he is rich, and you are poor: because he dines with great men
who don't invite you: because he wears a silk gown, and yours is still
stuff: because he has been called in to perform the operation though you
lived close by: because his pictures have been bought and yours returned
home unsold: because he fills his church, and you are preaching to empty
pews? If your rival prospers have you ever felt a twinge of anger? If
his wife's carriage passes you and Mrs. Tomkins, who are in a cab,
don't you feel that those people are giving themselves absurd airs of
importance? If he lives with great people, are you not sure he is a
sneak? And if you ever felt envy towards another, and if your heart has
ever been black towards your brother, if you have been peevish at his
success, pleased to hear his merit depreciated, and eager to believe all
that is said in his disfavor--my good sir, as you yourself contritely
own that you are unjust, jealous, uncharitable, so, you may be sure,
some men are uncharitable, jealous, and unjust regarding YOU.

The proofs and manuscript of this little sermon have just come from
the printer's, and as I look at the writing, I perceive, not without a
smile, that one or two of the pages bear, "strange to say," the mark of
a Club of which I have the honor to be a member. Those lines quoted in
a foregoing page are from some noble verses written by one of Mr.
Addison's men, Mr. Tickell, on the death of Cadogan, who was amongst the