As to the first, it was very quiet and colloquial.

The preacher dwelt on the tortured body, the choking breath, the failing sight, the talk of relations and friends round the bed.
'Ay, poor fellow, he'll not lasst mich longer; t' doctor's gien him up--and a good thing too, for his sufferins are terr'ble to see.' 'And your poor dying ears will catch what they say.

Then will your fear come upon you as a storm, and your calamity as a whirlwind.
Such a fear! 'Once, my lads--long ago--I saw a poor girl caught by her hair in one of the roving machines in the mill I used to work at.

Three minutes afterwards they tore away her body from the iron teeth which had destroyed her.

But I, a lad of twelve, had seen her face just as the thing caught her, and if I live to be a hundred I shall never forget that face--that horrible, horrible fear convulsing it.
'But that fear, my boys, was as _nothing_ to the sinner's fear at death! Only a few more hours--a few more minutes, perhaps--and then _judgment_! All the pleasant loafing and lounging, all the eating and drinking, the betting and swearing, the warm sun, the kind light, the indulgent parents and friends left behind; nothing for ever and ever but the torments which belong to sin, and which even the living God can no more spare you and me if we die in sin than the mill-engine, once set going, can spare the poor creature that meddles with it.
'Well; but perhaps in that awful last hour you try to pray--to call on the Saviour.