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 ward form—symmetrical, though fallen, that still and silent shape. There it lies—

calm, motionless, unfecling—a form of man, yet a mass of insensible clay? Whence all this difference? Why, or how, have a few hours wrought so great a change? It has eyes, perfect; yet it sees not. It has organs of hearing, perfectly formed; but it hears not. It has a tongue, and organs of speech, equally perfect as when, a few hours ago, it spake and listened; yet that tongue is for ever silent. Its limbs, lately capable of motion, are now fixed in everlasting stillness; and that body, lately living, breathing, seeing, hearing, speaking—is now insensible, and bereft of all. How, why is this? The spirit is gone. What, then, is that spirit?—for in its going, sight, speech, action, every sense and every feeling, has gone with it? At all events, it is clear, that whatever the spirit may be in itself, it is that something which hears, sees, feels, and moves; and without which, every bodily organ and bodily form is inert and motionless.

There is the eye, lately so bright, so radiant with every feeling, so expressive of every emotion,—glazed and rayless. The spirit is gone; and, with the spirit, the sight too is gone! Shrink not, reader, from the image of death; it teaches, though silent, an instructive lesson. There is the ear, but the spirit is gone, and with it, too, the faculty of hearing. There are the limbs; but again the spirit is gone, and with it the power of motion. What does this teach? The lesson is plain, it is simple, and easily understood. It is this;