But, there! of what matter is _our_ misery, _our_ terror? To the
stranger, our home appears fair and bright. The workers in the fields
below look up and envy us our abode of glory and delight! If _they_
think it pleasant, surely _we_ should be content. Have we not been
taught to live for others and not for ourselves, and are we not acting
up bravely to the teaching--in this most curious method?
Ah! yes, we are self-sacrificing enough, and loyal enough in our
devotion to this new-crowned king, the child of Prince Imposture and
Princess Pretense. Never before was despot so blindly worshiped!
Never had earthly sovereign yet such world-wide sway!
Man, if he would live, _must_ worship. He looks around, and what to
him, within the vision of his life, is the greatest and the best, that
he falls down and does reverence to. To him whose eyes have opened on
the nineteenth century, what nobler image can the universe produce
than the figure of Falsehood in stolen robes? It is cunning and
brazen and hollow-hearted, and it realizes his souls ideal, and he
falls and kisses its feet, and clings to its skinny knees, swearing
fealty to it for evermore!
Ah! he is a mighty monarch, bladder-bodied King Humbug! Come, let us
build up temples of hewn shadows wherein we may adore him, safe from
the light.
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