The free man, says Spinoza, thinks of nothing less often than of death.
Free, in his sense of the word, I may not call myself. I think of death
very often; the thought, indeed, is ever in the background of my mind;
yet free in another sense I assuredly am, for death inspires me with no
fear. There was a time when I dreaded it; but that, merely because it
meant disaster to others who depended upon my labour; the cessation of
being has never in itself had power to afflict me. Pain I cannot well
endure, and I do indeed think with apprehension of being subjected to the
trial of long deathbed torments. It is a sorry thing that the man who
has fronted destiny with something of manly calm throughout a life of
stress and of striving, may, when he nears the end, be dishonoured by a
weakness which is mere disease. But happily I am not often troubled by
that dark anticipation.
I always turn out of my way to walk through a country churchyard; these
rural resting-places are as attractive to me as a town cemetery is
repugnant. I read the names upon the stones, and find a deep solace in
thinking that for all these the fret and the fear of life are over. There
comes to me no touch of sadness; whether it be a little child or an aged
man, I have the same sense of happy accomplishment; the end having come,
and with it the eternal peace, what matter if it came late or soon? There
is no such gratulation as _Hic jacet_. There is no such dignity as that
of death. In the path trodden by the noblest of mankind these have
followed; that which of all who live is the utmost thing demanded, these
have achieved. I cannot sorrow for them, but the thought of their
vanished life moves me to a brotherly tenderness. The dead, amid this
leafy silence, seem to whisper encouragement to him whose fate yet
lingers: As we are, so shalt thou be; and behold our quiet!