y." William Hazlitt, the great essayist! Happy? "No. I have been
for two hours and a half going up and down Paternoster Row with a
volcano in my breast." Smollett, the witty author! Happy? "No. I am
sick of praise and blame, and I wish to God that I had such
circumstances around me that I could throw my pen into oblivion."
Buchanan, the world-renowned writer, exiled from his own country,
appealing to Henry VIII. for protection! Happy? "No. Over mountains
covered with snow, and through valleys flooded with rain, I come a
fugitive." Moliere, the popular dramatic author! Happy? "No. That
wretch of an actor just now recited four of my lines without the
proper accent and gesture. To have the children of my brain so hung,
drawn, and quartered, tortures me like a condemned spirit."

I went to see a worldling die. As I went into the hall I saw its floor
was tessellated, and its wall was a picture-gallery. I found his
death-chamber adorned with tapestry until it seemed as if the clouds
of the setting sun had settled in the room. The man had given forty
years to the world--his wit, his time, his genius, his talent, his
soul. Did the world come in to stand by his death-bed, and clearing
off the vials of bitter medicine, put down any compensation? Oh, no!
The world does not like sick and dying people, and leaves them in the
lurch. It ruined this man, and then left him. He had a magnificent
funeral. All the ministers wore scarfs, and there were forty-three
carriages in a row; but the departed man appreciated not the
obsequies.

I want to persuade my audience that this world is a poor investment;
that it does not pay ninety per cent. of satisfaction, nor eighty per
cent., nor twenty per cent., nor two per cent., nor one; that it gives
no solace when a dead babe lies on your lap; that it gives no peace
when conscience rings its alarm; that it gives no explanation in the
day of dire trouble; and at the time of your decease it takes hold of
the pillow-case, and shakes out the feathers, and then jolts down in
the place thereof sighs, and groans, and execrations, and then makes
you put your head on it. Oh, ye who have tried this world, is it a
satisfactory portion? Would you advise your friends to make the
investment? No. "Ye have sold yourselves for nought." Your conscience
went. Your hope went. Your Bible went. Your heaven went. Your God
went. When a sheriff under a writ from the courts sells a man out, the
officer generally leaves a