The latter have lost less than their companions； yet more，because they deem it infinite. Perchance the two speciesof unfortunates may comfort one another. Here areQuakers with the instinct of battle in them； and men ofwar who should have worn the broadbrim. Authors shallbe ranked here， whom some freak of Nature， making gameof her poor children， has imbued with the confidence ofgenius， and strong desire of fame， but has favored with nocorresponding power； and others， whose lofty gifts wereunaccompanied with the faculty of expression， or any ofthat earthly machinery， by which ethereal endowmentsmust be manifested to mankind. All these， therefore， aremelancholy laughing-stocks. Next， here are honest andwell-intentioned persons， who， by a want of tact—byinaccurate perceptions—by a distorting imagination—have been kept continually at cross-purposes with theworld， and bewildered upon the path of life. Let us see，if they can confine themselves within the line of ourprocession. In this class， likewise， we must assign placesto those who have encountered that worst of ill-success， ahigher fortune than their abilities could vindicate； writers，actors， painters， the pets of a day， but whose laurels witherunrenewed amid their hoary hair； politicians， whomsome malicious contingency of affairs has thrust intoconspicuous station， where， while the world stands gazingat them， the dreary consciousness of imbecility makesthem curse their birth-hour. To such men， we give for acompanion him whose rare talents， which perhaps requirea revolution for their exercise， are buried in the tomb ofsluggish circumstances.
Not far from these， we must find room for one whosesuccess has been of the wrong kind； the man who shouldhave lingered in the cloisters of a university， diggingnew treasures out of the Herculaneum of antique lore，diffusing depth and accuracy of literature throughout hiscountry， and thus making for himself a great and quietfame. But the outward tendencies around him have provedtoo powerful for his inward nature， and have drawn himinto the arena of political tumult， there to contend atdisadvantage， whether front to front， or side by side， withthe brawny giants of actual life. He becomes， it may be， aname for brawling parties to bandy to and fro， a legislatorof the Union； a governor of his native State； an ambassadorto the courts of kings or queens； and the world maydeem him a man of happy stars. But not so the wise； andnot so himself， when he looks through his experience，and sighs to miss that fitness， the one invaluable touch，which makes all things true and real. So much achieved，yet how abortive is his life！ Whom shall we choose forhis companion？ Some weak-framed blacksmith， perhaps，whose delicacy of muscle might have suited a tailor’s shopboardbetter than the anvil.
Shall we bid the trumpet sound again； It is hardly worththe while. There remain a few idle men of fortune， tavernand grog-shop loungers， lazzaroni， old bachelors， decayingmaidens， and people of crooked intellect or temper， allof whom may find their like， or some tolerable approachto it， in the plentiful diversity of our latter class. There，too， as his ultimate destiny， must we rank the dreamer，who， all his life long， has cherished the idea that he waspeculiarly apt for something， but never could determinewhat it was； and there the most unfortunate of men，whose purpose it has been to enjoy life’s pleasures， butto avoid a manful struggle with its toil and sorrow. Theremainder， if any， may connect themselves with whateverrank of the procession they shall find best adapted to theirtastes and consciences. The worst possible fate would be，to remain behind， shivering in the solitude of time， whileall the world is on the move towards eternity. Our attemptto classify society is now complete. The result may beanything but perfect； yet better—to give it the very lowestpraise—than the antique rule of the herald’s office， or themodern one of the tax-gatherer， whereby the accidentsand superficial attributes， with which the real nature ofindividuals has least to do， are acted upon as the deepestcharacteristics of mankind. Our task is done. Now let thegrand procession move！
Yet pause awhile！ We had forgotten the Chief-Marshal.
Hark！ That world-wide swell of solemn music， with theclang of a mighty bell breaking forth through its regulateduproar， announces his approach. He comes； a severe，sedate， immovable， dark rider， waving his truncheon ofuniversal sway， as he passes along the lengthened line，on the pale horse of the Revelations. It is Death！ Whoelse could assume the guidance of a procession thatcomprehends all humanity？ And if some， among thesemany millions， should deem themselves classed amiss， yetlet them take to their hearts the comfortable truth， thatDeath levels us all into one great brotherhood， and thatanother state of being will surely rectify the wrong of this.
Then breathe thy wail upon the earth’s wailing wind， thouband of melancholy music， made up of every sigh thatthe human heart， unsatisfied， has uttered！ There is yettriumph in thy tones. And now we move！ Beggars in theirrags， and Kings trailing the regal purple in the dust； theWarrior’s gleaming helmet； the Priest in his sable robe；the hoary Grandsire， who has run life’s circle and comeback to childhood； the ruddy School-boy with his goldencurls， frisking along the march； the Artisan’s stuff-jacket；the Noble’s star-decorated coat； —the whole presentinga motley spectacle， yet with a dusky grandeur broodingover it. Onward， onward， into that dimness where thelights of Time， which have blazed along the procession，are dickering in their sockets！ And whither？ We know not；and Death， hitherto our leader， deserts us by the wayside，as the tramp of our innumerable footsteps echoes beyondhis sphere. He knows not， more than we， our destinedgoal. But God， who made us， knows， and will not leave uson our toilsome and doubtful march， either to wander ininfinite uncertainty， or perish by the way！
