like your Lord; all, all is appointed.  Just think of it; the types may be cast, the paper may be woven, the ink may be made that is to announce to the world your death and mine.  It is all appointed, and we cannot alter it or postpone it.  The only thing we have any hand in is this:  whether our death, when it comes, is to be a success or a failure; that is to say, whether we shall die well or ill.  Since we die but once, then, and since so much turns upon it, let us take advice how we are to do it well.  We cannot come back to make a second attempt; if we do not shoot the gulf successfully, we cannot climb back and try the leap again; we die once, and, after death, the judgment.  Now, when we have any difficult thing before us, how do we prepare ourselves for it?  Do we not practise it as often as we possibly can?  If it is running in a race, or wrestling in a match, or playing a tune, or shooting at a target, do we not assiduously practise it?  Yes, every sensible man is careful to have his hand and his foot accustomed to the trial before the appointed day comes.  Practice makes perfect:  practise dying, then, as Rutherford counsels you, and you will make a perfect thing of your death, and not otherwise.  But how are we to practise dying?  Fore-fancy it, as Rutherford says.  Act it over beforehand; die speculatively, as Goodwin says.  Say to yourself, Suppose this were death at my door to-night.  Suppose he were to visit me in the night, what would I say to him, and what would he say to me?  Make acquaintance with death, Rutherford writes to Lady Kenmure also.  Learn his ways, his manner of approach, his language, and his look.  Conjure him up, practise upon him, have your part rehearsed and ready to be performed.  Let not a heathen be beforehand with you in dying.  Seneca said that every night after his lamp was out, and the house quiet, he went over all his past day, and looked at it all in the light of death.  What he did after that he does not tell us; but Rutherford will tell you if you consult him what you should do.  Well, that is one way of practising dying.  For Sleep is the brother of Death.  And to meet the one brother right will prepare us to meet the other.  Speculate at night, then—­speculate and say, Suppose this were my last night.  Suppose, O my soul, thou wert to cast anchor to-morrow in Eternity, how shouldst thou close thine eyes to-night?  Speculate also at other men’s funerals.  When the clod thuds down on their coffin, think yourself inside of it.  When you see the undertaker’s man screwing down the lid, suppose it yours.  Take your own way of doing it; only, practise dying, and let not death spring upon you unawares.  Die daily, for, as Dante says, ‘The arrow seen beforehand slacks its flight.’