Put side by side the infant and the old man. Think of the undeveloped
strength, the smooth cheek, the ruddy complexion, the rejoicing in
physical well-being, of the one, with the failing senses, the
tottering limbs, the lowered vitality, the many pains and aches, of
the other. In these respects the end is worse than the beginning. Or
go a step further onwards in life, and think of youth, with its unworn
energy, and the wearied longing for rest which comes at the end; of
youth, with its quick, open receptiveness for all impressions, and the
horny surface of callousness which has overgrown the mind of the old;
of youth, with its undeveloped powers and endless possibilities, which
in the old have become rigid and fixed; of youth, with the rich gift
before it of a continent of time, which in the old has been washed
away by the ocean, till there is but a crumbling bank still to stand
on; of youth, with its wealth of hopes, and of the hopes of the old,
which are solemn ventures, few and scanty--and then say if the end is
not worse than the beginning.
And if we go further, and think of death as the end, is it not in a
very real and terrible sense, loss, loss? It is loss to be taken out
of the world, to 'leave the warm precincts and the cheerful day,' to
lose friends and lovers, and to be banned into a dreary land. Yet,
further, the thought of the end as being a state of retribution
strikes upon all hearts as being solemn and terrible.