“No man in the enjoyment of health really desires to die; for in some respects, it is a terrible ordeal from which poor, weak human nature shrinks. I have no disposition to court death: I want to live for your sake, for you know with what depth and intensity I love you, and loving you thus, I should like, above all things, to see you in a condition that would enable you to exclaim with rapture, ‘O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?’ What a happy thought to me that we should be one on earth, and then when we cross over the dark river, our purified souls should be knit together in the bonds of a higher, nobler affection than is possible here; and then that we should stroll hand-in-hand in the heavenly groves, along the banks of the crystal river, under the fruit trees whose leaves are for the healing of the nations, never more to be disturbed by any misapprehensions, nor even by a discordant word or thought. We shall be one in heart, soul and mind. This is what I call true marriage. It is a contract not to end with time, but it goes on through the numberless ages of eternity. O, what a glorious prospect!” he exclaimed with features lit up with pure, holy joy; and then he paused for an instant as if overwhelmed and lost in the contemplation of indescribable scenes which “eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man.” After a moment he continued: “On the other hand, what an awful thought! It makes me shudder. O, if you remain as you now are, we shall be separated forever, when we part at the grave. Then where will you go? If you miss the glory-land, there is only one more place--the lake that burns with fire and brimstone--a place where their worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched. If there is no fire there, as some contend, then it is a place of black, thick darkness. The lost soul, cast out into the illimitable regions of uninhabited space, away beyond the last star that glitters on the outskirts of visible creation, will go wandering round and round, or if too weary to make an effort, it will begin falling, like a bird with folded wings, and keep on falling, falling, down and down, forever down--no company but your own thoughts--no sound heard but your own breathing--no sweet music--no voice of friend--no light--nothing but the horrors of eternal, impenetrable darkness. You may suppose you will have companions--but what will be their character? Not kind friends, to speak words of consolation, but malevolent fiends whose delight it will be to torment. All the horrors so graphically described by Dante may be awful realities. Can you blame me, then, for feeling the deepest anxiety on your account? I should be the happiest man in town if you could make up your mind to join the church.”