a tailor's
shopboard better than the anvil.

Shall we bid the trumpet sound again? It is hardly worth the while.
There remain a few idle men of fortune, tavern and grog-shop loungers,
lazzaroni, old bachelors, decaying maidens, and people of crooked
intellect or temper, all of whom may find their like, or some tolerable
approach to 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 was peculiarly apt for
something, but never could determine what it was; and there the most
unfortunate of men, whose purpose it has been to enjoy life's
pleasures, but to avoid a manful struggle with its toil and sorrow. The
remainder, if any, may connect themselves with whatever rank of the
procession they shall find best adapted to their tastes and
consciences. The worst possible fate would be to remain behind,
shivering in the solitude of time, while all the world is on the move
towards eternity. Our attempt to classify society is now complete. The
result may be anything but perfect; yet better--to give it the very
lowest praise--than the antique rule of the herald's office, or the
modern one of the tax-gatherer, whereby the accidents and superficial
attributes with which the real nature of individuals has least to do,
are acted upon as the deepest characteristics of mankind. Our task is
done! Now let the grand procession move!

Yet pause a while! We had forgotten the Chief Marshal.

Hark! That world-wide swell of solemn music, with the clang of a mighty
bell breaking forth through its regulated uproar, announces his
approach. He comes; a severe, sedate, immovable, dark rider, waving his
truncheon of universal sway, as he passes along the lengthened line, on
the pale horse of the Revelation. It is Death! Who else could assume
the guidance of a procession that comprehends all humanity? And if
some, among these many millions, should deem themselves classed amiss,
yet let them take to their hearts the comfortable truth that Death
levels us all into one great brotherhood, and that another state of
being will surely rectify the wrong of this. Then breathe thy wail upon
the earth's wailing wind, thou band of melancholy music, made up of
every sigh that the human heart, unsatisfied, has uttered! There is yet
triumph in thy tones. And now we move! Beggars in their rags, and Kings
trailing the regal purple in the dust; the Warr