THE SPECTER OF DEATH
Often we are anxious and sleepless only because we are afraid of what
is not in itself frightful. Like the little child in the picture who
mounts the dark stairs in deadly terror of an imaginary bear, we are
afraid lest we should see a vague something that might terrify us still
more.
But perhaps there is a real specter in our path? Let us attack the most
terrible foe; having overcome him, we shall find that the lesser ones
have no power over us.
A man was once walking alone a lonely road on a dark, misty night,
fearing every sound and looking for danger. He had been told that the
road was haunted and this was the terror that possessed him. As he
neared the haunted spot, he saw a white form rise from the earth. It
was barely discernible through the mist as it waved thin arms and made
soft moaning sighs. His hair rose on his head, but his going forward
was imperative, so he took heart of grace, and determined to face his
adversary.
“Spirit or human,” said he, “I shall settle you before I leave this
place to-night.” With this he dashed forward, and found that it was
merely a slender birch with white under-leaves upturned in the wind, as
the breeze sighed through its branches.
The rest of the road held no terrors for him. The specter he had most
dreaded proved to be nothing at all. In conquering his first emotion of
fear he had vanquished all terror.
Maybe we fear the possible death either of ourselves or of some other
dearer than ourselves. Are we afraid of that? Let us look calmly at it.
Changes have taken place, and are even now in progress in our bodies,
yet we do not fear them. For the most part we are even unconscious of
them: a change is not terrible in itself, no matter how great it is.
Death is but another change, one that has not yet come.
A pious man once appealed in distress to the late Rev. Dr. John Hall:
he said he knew his soul was saved, but he was afraid of dying. Dr.
Hall asked him, “But you are not dying now, are you?” “No,” he
said, “but I know that I must die some day.” “Ah, well!” replied
the doctor, “we hardly need dying grace until our dying day.” “As
our day so shall our strength be”—the bravest soldier may be nervous
contemplating the battle, but in the action he finds not only courage
but exhilaration. So, if we learn to live from day to day, we may well
put off fear of death or dying until our dying day has come, and then
we may find that there is nothing to fear. For the present, what we
have to consider is life, and what it may mean.
There are two ways of looking at life: one regards life as the changes
that take place in the body from birth to death. The body is always
changing, being almost all renewed at least every seven years. Old hair
is constantly falling out, to be replaced by new; we cut the excess
growth of the nails, and rarely stop to think that the nails we have
to-day are not the same nails we had a few weeks or months ago. We get
rid of dead skin, and our skin constantly renews itself, and so we feel
no worry if we cut or scratch it. We say quite complacently, “Oh! it
will heal up and new skin grow.” The whole body fades and is renewed.
It is not, then, the changes in the body that we fear.
We accept this series of physical changes as physical life, for we
know that, if the changes stopped, life would stop also; but we must
also recognize them as death, for the beginning of each new stage
is the death of the previous stage. Thus death is steadily going on
in ourselves, at the same time that life continues, and we not only
have no fear of it, but are unconscious of the process: our body is
constantly passing from death to life, as well as from life to death,
and we are not afraid of that; in fact, we never give a thought to it.
Even from the physical standpoint man need not spend his best years
fearing death. When we live so that death shall round out a long life,
we shall have lost all fear of it. When we say that a person did not
die a “natural death” we usually mean that he died suddenly and
violently. But death from disease is not “natural” either, and in as
far as we learn how to live aright, harmonizing the physical, mental,
and spiritual natures, realizing that the perishing body is not all of
us, we can avoid most of the fruitful sources of disease. As we learn
what true life is, and how natural the eventual dissolution of the body
is, we shall cease to tremble at it.
Metchnikoff, the eminent philosopher and student who has devoted years
of study and research to the life and death of man, says: “When
diseases are suppressed, and the course of life regulated by scientific
hygiene, it is probable that death will come only at extreme old age.
When death comes in its natural place at the end of the normal cycle of
the physical life, it will be robbed of its terrors, and be accepted
gratefully as any other part of the cycle of life.” He thinks, in fact,
that the instinct of life may be replaced by an instinct of death.
“It is even possible,” he says, “that the approach of natural death
is one of the most pleasant sensations in the world.” Perhaps the most
striking evidence of the truth of this so far recorded is the case of
Brillat-Savarin’s aunt—who, at ninety-three, said to her famous nephew,
“If you ever reach my age you will find that one wants to die just
as one wants to sleep.” All of us know of cases where the very aged,
having lived their lives to the best of their perceptions, awaited
death willingly and almost joyfully. As Browning says, “Thou waitedst
age; wait death, nor be afraid.” Fear of the approach of death disturbs
us because we feel further possibilities of life. We do not want to
be cut off in the flower of our existence; we think of death, not as
a change of existence, but as the end of it, and we think there is no
sure way of avoiding that. All of us have felt the truth of Dickens’
idea of the bells which toll almost gladly for the aged, but seem to
weep when the young die. We are sure we should not fear death, nor be
unwilling to die if we had the privilege of living to a “ripe old
age.” For time is not measured by the clock or by the calendar; those
measure only the revolutions of the earth and of the sun. Time is
measured by thought and act, and, more than all, by feeling. And we can
ordinarily prolong our own lives to the time when we shall willingly
and gladly lay them down.
This willingness is by no means the same feeling that prompts the
useless and unmeaning exclamation, “Oh, I wish I were dead!” The
average person gets into such an unreasoning state over every little
happening that he cannot see any connection between the events in his
daily life. He becomes discouraged, and thinks for the moment that he
would like to quit it all. No matter how many years such an one has
lived, he has not attained a “ripe old age.” Ripeness has no part
in petty impatience; it implies mellowness, soundness, and general
wholesomeness of character.
As man is learning more and more about his life, he is finding that
sickness, premature old age, and untimely death are, in a large
measure, due to his own misunderstanding of the purposes of life. It is
this misunderstanding that gives the mysterious air to life. We fear
the mysterious, for our ingrained habit of regarding things that we do
not yet understand as insoluble mysteries is a relic of the days when
savage man found mystery and danger in everything.
So, if we are making ourselves unhappy, losing sleep, and suffering
physical and mental distress because of the possible approach of death,
we may dismiss that cause of worry. As soon as we begin to consider the
purposes of life and our relation to them, we shall naturally avoid
excesses in eating; live as hygienically as possible; harbor cleanly,
uplifting thoughts, helpful to others and to ourselves, and so reach
out spiritually for a fuller understanding of the purposes of all life.
And what we cease to fear for ourselves, we soon cease to fear for our
other selves.
Living thus, we shall not fear death, but shall move toward it without
thinking of it, knowing that it is natural, merely the long sleep of
the objective consciousness.
Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet!
Nothing comes to thee new or strange.
Sleep full of rest from head to feet;
Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.
TENNYSON.
O’er each vain eye oblivious pinions wave,
And quench’d existence crouches in a grave.
What better name may Slumber’s bed become?
Night’s Sepulcher, the universal Home,
Where Weakness, Strength, Vice, Virtue, sunk supine,
Alike in naked helplessness recline;
Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath,
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death,
And shun, though day but dawns on ills increased,
That Sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.
BYRON.