thing, and our sensations tell us another.  When we die, we are surrendering in truth all that with which we have associated existence.  All that we know of life is connected with a shape, a form, a body of materialism; and now that that is palpably melting away into nothingness, the boldest heart may be excused a shudder, when there is forced upon it, in spite of itself, the idea of ceasing for ever.

The second reason is not one of imagination at all, but most sober reality.  It is a solemn thing to die, because it is the parting with all round which the heart’s best affections have twined themselves.  There are some men who have not the capacity for keen enjoyment.  Their affections have nothing in them of intensity, and so they pass through life without ever so uniting themselves with what they meet, that there would be anything of pain in the severance.  Of course, with them the bitterness of death does not attach so much to the idea of parting.  But my brethren, how is it with human nature generally?  Our feelings do not weaken as we go on in life; emotions are less shown, and we get a command over our features and our expressions; but the man’s feelings are deeper than the boy’s.  It is length of time that makes attachment.  We become wedded to the sights and sounds of this lovely world more closely as years go on.

Young men, with nothing rooted deep, are prodigal of life.  It is an adventure to them, rather than a misfortune, to leave their country for ever.  With the old man it is like tearing his own heart from him.  And so it was that when Lot quitted Sodom, the younger members of his family went on gladly.  It is a touching truth; it was the aged one who looked behind to the home which had so many recollections connected with it.  And therefore it is, that when men approach that period of existence when they must go, there is an instinctive lingering over things which they shall never see again.  Every time the sun sets, every time the old man sees his children gathering round him, there is a filling of the eye with an emotion that we can understand.  There is upon his soul the thought of parting, that strange wrench from all we love which makes death (say what moralists will of it) a bitter thing.

Another pang which belongs to death, we find in the sensation of loneliness which attaches to it.  Have we ever seen a ship preparing to sail with its load of pauper emigrants to a distant colony?  If we have we know what that desolation is which comes from feeling unfriended on a new and untried excursion.  All beyond the seas, to the ignorant poor man, is a strange land.  They are going away from the helps and the friendships and the companionships of life, scarcely knowing what is before them.  And it is in such a moment, when a man stands upon a deck, taking his last look of his fatherland, that there comes upon him a sensation new, strange, and inexpressibly miserable—­the