Untitled article by D. T. T.

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Third-day, October 8, 1867

ALL IS VANITY.

By D. T. T.

If any one covets a crown, or a sceptre, or a presidential chair, or a millionaire’s fortune, or a post of honor among men, or a queen’s jewels, or a pleasure seeker’s bubbles, let him first read what they say, and how they feel and fare. Lord Chesterfield, the prince of fashion, with Solomon, said of his gay, golden life, “All is vanity.” Alexander the Great conquered all the world, and died, aged but thirty-two, in a fit of drunkenness,—perhaps poisoned to death. Julius Cæsar conquered Europe, and won royal honor, but at the last was assassinated by a supposed friend. The impious and proud Voltaire said, The world was full of wretches, and he “the most wretched of all.” One of the Spanish emperors (Abderrahman III.) reigned in splendor fifty years, but declared he could count up in that half century “only fourteen days of unalloyed happiness.” Hannibal, the renowned African hero, died of poison administered by his own hand, unlamented and unwept. Charles V. resigned his throne and crown in despair of finding happiness as an emperor. Of the great Roman emperors, history informs us that no less than nine in succession were slain by the Prætorian Guards. The infamous empress Catherine, of Russia, could get no sleep, so did her guilty conscience torment her.

Lincoln, the ruler of thirty millions, was shot dead in an instant. Some of the sovereigns of Great Britain were assassinated or beheaded. Queen Elizabeth died saying she would give “millions of money for an inch of time,” in which to get ready. Louis Napoleon has lived in constant fear of the assassin’s bullet. Of sixty-seven queens, who have sat on the throne of France, eleven were divorced, two were executed, nine died young, seven were widowed early, three cruelly treated, three exiled, the rest being either poisoned or broken-hearted. Napoleon Bonaparte, the arbiter of Europe, declared he had been as fortunate as any man on earth, but “had not enjoyed one hour of real happiness in all his life.” Truly—“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”

The great Hume rested his hope in philosophy, and as the result declared he was “affrighted and confounded at the forlorn solitude” in which it placed him. Goethe, who was so much admired in high circles, said at the age of eighty-four he “had scarcely tasted twenty-four hours solid comfort in all his life.” George Brummell, with a most princely fortune, spent £800 a year on dress alone, and died at last in a lunatic asylum. The Duke of Marlborough had a million of money, and vast estates; but looking around upon them as far as his vision could extend, exclaimed to a friend, “I do not believe that there is in all this vast circuit a more unhappy man than myself.” Robert Clive became the conqueror of all India, and had the treasures of the East poured at his feet, but died disappointed and a suicide. Christopher Columbus discovered a new world, but was robbed of the honor of naming it, became an object of hatred and abuse and died poor and sorrowful. William Beckford, of England, had an income of £100,000 a year and finally died in want and misery.

The wretched life and unhappy death of Lord Byron are well known. William Pitt possessed the rarest intellectual gift in England, but lived in misery and unhappiness, and died of a broken heart. The last words of the great orator Sheridan were, “I am absolutely undone.” Sir Walter Scott, who received the honors of an empire, died in sadness and sorrow, and without hope. The celebrated poet Campbell affirmed that “his fame was only bitter,” and died in grief and solitude. Gibbon, the great historian and infidel, died saying, “All is dark and doubtful.” The eloquent John Randolph’s last word was, “Remorse.” William C. Johnson and T. E. Johnson were a few years ago the most brilliant orators in Congress; one died an outcast and pauper, the other became diseased, and sunk down in ignominy and misery,—all through intemperance. Bulwer, the great novelist, said in his last days, “I am gloomy and unhappy.” The delirious, dying hours of John Jacob Astor, who was worth twenty-five millions, were—“Money, money, bring me money.” Ebenezer Francis, of Boston, who died leaving four millions of dollars, was in the panic of 1857 reduced almost to despair by the abundance of his money. Stephen Girard, the great millionaire of Philadelphia, said that with all his wealth he “lived like a galley slave, passed sleepless nights, and was worn out with care.”

A great American capitalist, when asked why he did not have his life written, replied in these sad words, “My life has been a failure.” The four brothers Rothschild are the bankers of Europe, the wealthiest men in the world. Their united income is $1000 an hour. But when some one said to the Baron at Paris, “I should think you would be happy with such a kingly fortune,” his quick, reproving, negative reply was,—“Happy! me happy!” Reader is not this sad record a striking commentary on the vanity of all earthly riches and greatness? Which would you prefer, to be ranked in this high but wretched company, and, like Abner, die “as the fool dieth;” or be an humble, faithful Christian, and one day inherit immortal life in a glorious and endless kingdom? Which?—D. T. T., in World’s Crisis.