Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Children's stories; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction
“There are some, however, whom I love and honor,” he said, in a
benignant tone, “who honestly earn their bread, who deserve all the
success that comes to them, and always keep a warm corner in their noble
hearts for those less blest than they. These are the men who serve the
city in times of peace, save it in times of war, deserve the highest
honors in its gift, and leave behind them a record that keeps their
memories green. For such an one we lately tolled a knell, my brothers;
and as our united voices pealed over the city, in all grateful hearts,
sweeter and more solemn than any chime, rung the words that made him so
beloved,—
“‘Treat our dead boys tenderly, and send them home to me.’”
He ceased, and all the spirits reverently uncovered their gray heads as
a strain of music floated up from the sleeping city and died among the
stars.
“Like yours, my report is not satisfactory in all respects,” began the
second spirit, who wore a very pointed cap and a finely-ornamented
cloak. But, though his dress was fresh and youthful, his face was old,
and he had nodded several times during his brother’s speech. “My
greatest affliction during the past year has been the terrible
extravagance which prevails. My post, as you know, is at the court end
of the city, and I see all the fashionable vices and follies. It is a
marvel to me how so many of these immortal creatures, with such
opportunities for usefulness, self-improvement and genuine happiness can
be content to go round and round in one narrow circle of unprofitable
and unsatisfactory pursuits. I do my best to warn them; Sunday after
Sunday I chime in their ears the beautiful old hymns that sweetly chide
or cheer the hearts that truly listen and believe; Sunday after Sunday I
look down on them as they pass in, hoping to see that my words have not
fallen upon deaf ears; and Sunday after Sunday they listen to words that
should teach them much, yet seem to go by them like the wind. They are
told to love their neighbor, yet too many hate him because he possesses
more of this world’s goods or honors than they; they are told that a
rich man cannot enter the kingdom of heaven, yet they go on laying up
perishable wealth, and though often warned that moth and rust will
corrupt, they fail to believe it till the worm that destroys enters and
mars their own chapel of ease. Being a spirit, I see below external
splendor and find much poverty of heart and soul under the velvet and
the ermine which should cover rich and royal natures. Our city saints
walk abroad in threadbare suits, and under quiet bonnets shine the eyes
that make sunshine in the shady places. Often as I watch the glittering
procession passing to and fro below me, I wonder if, with all our
progress, there is to-day as much real piety as in the times when our
fathers, poorly clad, with weapon in one hand and Bible in the other,
came weary distances to worship in the wilderness with fervent faith
unquenched by danger, suffering and solitude.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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