and life?  If men would only be content to let their minds play freely around all the facts that concern our entrance, our progress, our exit, then existence would be relieved from the presence of terror.  The Greeks were more rational than we are; they took the joys of life with serenity and gladness, and they accepted the mighty transformation with the same serenity.  On their memorial-stones there is no note of mourning.  A young man calmly bids adieu to his friends and prepares to pass with dignity from their presence; a gallant horseman exults in the knowledge that he once rejoiced in life—­“Great joy had I on earth, and now I that came from the earth return to the earth.”  Such are the carvings and inscriptions that show the wise, brave spirit of the ancients.  But we, with our civilisation, behave somewhat like those Indian tribes who keep one mysterious word in their minds, and try to avoid mentioning it throughout their lives.  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.  The word that causes a shudder when it is spoken in a drawing-room gives a sombre and satisfying pleasure when we dwell upon it in our hours of solitude.  Sometimes the poets are palpably guilty of hypocrisy, for they pretend to crave for the passage into the shades.  That is unreal and unhealthy; the wise man neither longs for death nor dreads it, and the fool who begs for extinction before the Omnipotent has willed that it should come is a mere silly blasphemer.  But, though the men who put the thoughts of humanity into musical words are sometimes insincere, they are more often grave and consoling.  I know of two supreme expressions of dread, and one of these was written by the wisest and calmest man that ever dwelt beneath the sun.  Marvellous it is to think that our most sane and contented poet should have condensed all