“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 most prominent “of Marlborough’s captains and Eugenio’s friends.”  If you are acquainted with the history of those times, you have read how Cadogan had his feuds and hatreds too, as Tickell’s patron had his, as Cadogan’s great chief had his.  “The Duke of Marlborough’s character has been so variously drawn” (writes a famous contemporary of the duke’s), “that it is hard to pronounce on either side without the suspicion of flattery or detraction.  I shall say nothing of his military accomplishments, which the opposite reports of his friends and enemies among the soldiers have rendered problematical.  Those maligners who deny him personal valor, seem not to consider that this accusation is charged at a venture, since the person of a general is too seldom exposed, and that fear which is said sometimes to have disconcerted him before action might probably be more for his army than himself.”  If Swift could hint a doubt of Marlborough’s courage, what wonder that a nameless scribe of our day should question the honor of Clyde?