The world clapped its hands and stamped its feet in honor of Charles Lamb; but what does he say?  “I walk up and down, thinking I am happy, but feeling I am not.”  Call the roll, and be quick about it.  Samuel Johnson, the learned!  Happy?  “No.  I am afraid I shall some day get crazy.”  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 few chairs and a bed, and a few cups and knives; but in this awful vendue in which you have been engaged the auctioneer’s mallet has come down upon body, mind, and soul:  Going!  Gone!  “Ye have sold yourselves for nought.”