that most calamities will come from us, as
this one did, and that none will stop at our
poor doors, until we are united with that great
squabbling family yonder, to do the things
that are right. We cannot live healthily and
decently, unless they who undertook to
manage us provide the means. We cannot be
instructed, unless they will teach us; we
cannot be rationally amused, unless they will
amuse us; we cannot but have some false
gods of our own, while they set up so many
of theirs in all the public places. The evil
consequences of imperfect instruction, the evil
consequences of pernicious neglect, the evil
consequences of unnatural restraint and the
denial of humanizing enjoyments, will all
come from us, and none of them will stop
with us. They will spread far and wide.
They always do; they always have done—
just like the pestilence. I understand so
much, I think, at last."

But the Master said again, "O you labouring
men! how seldom do we ever hear of you,
except in connection with some trouble!"

"Master," he replied, "I am Nobody, and
little likely to be heard of, (nor yet much
wanted to be heard of, perhaps) except when
there is some trouble. But it never begins
with me, and it can never end with me. As
sure as Death, it comes down to me, and it
goes up from me."

There was so much reason in what he said,
that the Bigwig family, getting wind of it,
and being horribly frightened by the late
desolation, resolved to unite with him to do the
things that were right—at all events, so far
as the said things were associated with the
direct prevention, humanly speaking, of
another pestilence. But as their fear wore off,
which it soon began to do, they resumed their
falling out among themselves, and did nothing.
Consequently the scourge appeared again—
low down as before—and spread avengingly
upward as before, and carried off vast
numbers of the brawlers. But not a man among
them ever admitted, if in the least degree he
ever perceived, that he had anything to do
with it.

So Nobody lived and died in the old, old,
old way; and this, in the main, is the whole
of Nobody's story.

Had he no name, you ask? Perhaps it
was Legion. It matters little what his name
was. Let us call him Legion.

If you were ever in the Belgian villages
near the field of Waterloo, you will have
seen, in some quiet littie church, a monument
erected by faithful companions in arms to the
memory of Colonel A, Major B, Captains C,
D and E, Lieutenants F and G, Ensigns H,
I and J, seven non-commissioned officers, and
one hundred and thirty rank and file, who fell
in the discharge of their duty on the memorable
day. The story of Nobody is the story
of the rank and file of the earth. They bear
their share of the battle; they have their
part in the victory; they fall; they leave no
name but in the mass. The march of the
proudest of us leads to the dusty way by
which they go. O! Let us think of them
this year at the Christmas fire, and not forget
them when it is burnt out.