luxury of his furniture, of all which no portion shall now remain to him but the mournful cloth which is to encircle him in the tomb; from that air of opulence in the midst of which he had always lived. All escape from him; all abandon him; and he begins to look upon himself as a stranger in the midst of his palaces; where, indeed, he ought always to have considered himself as such; as an unknown, who no longer possesses any thing there; as an unfortunate wretch, whom they are on the point of stripping before his eyes, and whom they only allow to gratify his sight with the spoils for a little while, in order to augment his regret and his punishment.
Separation from his honours and offices, which he leaves, perhaps to a rival; to which he had at last attained, by wading through so many dangers, so many anxieties, so many meannesses, and which he had enjoyed with so much insolence and pride. He is already on the bed of death, stripped of all the marks of his dignities, and of all his titles, preserving that of a sinner alone, which he in vain, and now too late, bestows upon himself. Alas! in this last moment, he would gladly embrace the most servile condition; he would accept, as a favour, the most obscure, and the most grovelling station, could but his days be prolonged on these conditions; he envies the lot of his slaves, whom he leaves behind him; he rapidly advances toward death, and turns back his eyes with regret, to take a lingering look of life.
Separation from his body, for whose gratification he had always lived, and with which, by favouring all its passions, he had contracted such lively and intimate ties. He feels that the house of mud is crumbling into dust; he feels the approaches of death in each of his senses; he no longer holds to life, but by a carcass which moulders away; by the cruel agonies which his diseases make him feel; by the excess of his love for it, and which becomes more lively in proportion as he advances toward the moment of separation: from his relations, from his friends, whom he sees surrounding his bed, and whose tears and lamentations wring his heart, and make him cruelly feel the anguish of losing them for ever.
Separation from the world, where he had enjoyed so many distinguished offices; where he had established, aggrandized, and arranged himself, as if it had been intended for the place of his eternal residence; from the world, in whose smiles he only lived; on whose stage he had ever been one of the principal actors; in whose transactions he had always taken such an active part, and where he had figured with so much splendour, and so many talents, to render himself conspicuous in it. His body now quits it; but his heart and all his affections are centred in it still: the world dies to him, but he himself, in expiring, dies not to the world.
Then it is that the Almighty is great in the eyes of the expiring sinner. It is in that terrible moment, that the whole world, crumbling, disappearing from his sight, he sees only God who remaineth, who filleth all, who alone changeth not, and passeth not away. Formerly he used to complain, with an impious and ironical air, that it is very difficult to feel any fervent emotions for a God
