Even in familiar conversation it is amusing to hear the desperate
attempts made to paraphrase the word which should come naturally to
the lips of all steadfast mortals. "If anything should happen to me,"
says the timid citizen, when he means, "If I should die"; and it would
be possible to collect a score more of roundabout phrases with which
men try to cheat themselves. It is right that we should be in love
with life, for that is the supreme gift; but it is wrong to think with
abhorrence of the close of life, for the same Being who gave us the
thrilling rapture of consciousness bestows the boon of rest upon the
temple of the soul. "He giveth His beloved sleep," and therein He
proves His mighty tenderness.
Strange it is to see how inevitably men and women are drawn to think
and speak of the great Terror when they are forced to muse in
solitude. We flirt with melancholy; we try all kinds of dismal
coquetries to avoid dwelling on our inexorable and beneficent doom;
yet, if we look over the written thoughts of men, we find that more
has been said about Death than even about love. The stone-cold
comforter attracts the poets, and most of them, like Keats, are half
in love with easeful death.
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