of a world, was worthy of a God. Man is called a little world, and his death agony, the darkness which enshrouds his reason and senses and the commotion of the humors of his body, are a tiny picture of what shall take place in heaven and earth at the world's dissolution. The equilibrium of the universe demands that earth and heavenly bodies keep each its place and orbit, but when the sun is turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, and the stars have fallen, there will be nothing but ruin and confusion in heaven, on earth, and in the souls of men. Think of a shipwreck horror, the stricken vessel floundering through a raging sea, shaken and strained in every joint, amid darkness impenetrable, relieved, no, intensified, by the lightning's glare, and quivering with the thunder's crash, and on her decks a wailing company, waiting for death to come to them from the fire within her or from the storm without. An awful picture, but still nothing compared to the wreck of a world. I stood on Mount Vesuvius once and felt the earth quake beneath my feet and looked into the roaring, burning crater, but what was that to a shattered world with all its pent-up fires let loose? What a weird horror thrills us during an eclipse! But that is nothing. What a comfort a light and company 2>re during a fierce midnight thunderstorm! Yet that is nothing. The burning of a city is nothing, nor the Johnstown disaster, nor the destruction of Galveston. Men can witness these and similar catastrophes and survive, but not so when the world falls, for, says the Gospel, "men shall then wither
