Death.
Strange, that we can live so constantly with that threatening hand hung over us, and not think of it always! How difficult it is to realise death! how difficult to believe that the hand with whose every vein you are familiar will ever lose its motion and warmth! That the quick eye will settle and grow dull. It is at first hard to believe that we must die; harder still to believe the repulsive circumstances that follow this terrible change! It is a bitter thought, at the lightest. There is little comfort in knowing that the sense and the mind, that feel and measure suffering, will be gone. The separation of soul and body is too great a mystery to satisfy fear: it is the body that we know; it is this material frame in which the affections have grown up. The spirit is a thought, a presence, that we are told of, but do not see. The idea of existence is connected indissolubly with the visible body, and its pleasant and familiar scenes. We talk of, and rest our belief on the soul’s ascent to its Maker; but it is not ourselves, it is not our own conscious breathing identity, that we, in imagination, send up through the invisible air; we do not understand, we cannot realise the wondrous thought.