When that famous statesman Mirabeau died, all France bewailed his loss, and men for some hours could think or speak of little else. A waiter in one of the Restaurants of the Palais Royal, after the manner of his race, saluted a customer with the usual remark, 'Fine weather, Monsieur.'
'Yes, my friend,' replied the other, 'very fine; but Mirabeau is dead.'
If one absorbing thought can thus take precedence of every other in the affairs of life, is it so very wonderful that men aroused to care for the life to come should be altogether swallowed up with grief at the dread discovery that they are by reason of sin condemned of God? Fine or foul may the weather be, but if the soul be under the wrath of God its woeful condition will make it careless of surroundings. If his former security be dead, and the fear of coming judgment be alive in the man's heart, it is little wonder if eating and drinking be forgotten, if sleep forsake his eyelids and even household joys become insipid. Let but the one emotion be great enough, and it will push out every other. The bitterness of spiritual grief will destroy both the honey of earthly bliss and the quassia of bodily pain.