Here in rhythmic form we have the thought of the mighty apostle—­“O Death, where is thy sting?  O Grave, where is thy victory?” Shakspere was too intensely human to be absolved from mortal weakness; but, in the main, he took the one view which I should be glad to see cherished by all.  His words sometimes make us pause, as we pause when the violet flashes of summer lightning fleet across the lowering dome of the sky; but, in the end, he always has his words of cheer, and we gather heart from reading the strongest and most perfect writer the earth has known.  Turn where we will, we find that all of our race—­emperor, warrior, poet, clown, fair lady, innocent child—­are given to dwelling on the same thought.  It is our business to seek out those who have spoken with resignation and dauntlessness, and to leave aside all those who have only affectations of bravery or affectations of horror to give us.  Here is a beautiful word:—­

  “The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
  And all the words of Death are grave and sweet;
  Approaching ever, soft of hands and feet,
  She beckons us, and strife and song have been. 
  A summer night, descending cool and green
  And dark on daytime’s dust and stress and heat,
  The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
  And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. 
  O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien
  And hopeful fancies look upon and greet
  This last of all your lovers, and to meet
  Her kiss mysterious all your spirit lean! 
  The ways of Death are soothing and serene!”

Even Shakspere hardly bettered that!

I should not like to see men begin to encourage the recklessness of the desperado, nor should I like to see women affect the brazen abandonment of the Amazon.  I only care to see our fellow-creatures rise above pettiness, so that they may accept all God’s ordinances with unvarying gratitude.  Is it not pitiful to see a grown man trembling and waving his hand with angry disgust when the holy course of Nature is spoken of with gravity and composed resolution?  I have seen a stout, strong man who had amassed enormous wealth fly into pettish rage like a spoiled child when a friend spoke to him about the final disposal of his riches.  Like a silly girl, this powerful millionaire went into tremors when the inevitable was named in his ear, for he had imbibed all the cowardly conventions that tend to poison our existence.  He died a hundred deaths in his time, and much of his life was passed in such misery as only cultivated poltroonery can breed.  Wicked wags knew that they could frighten him at any moment; they would greet him cordially, and then suddenly assume an air of deep concern.  The poor plutocrat’s face changed instantly, and he would ask, “What is the matter?” The joker then made answer, “You are a little flushed.  You should rest.”  This was enough.  The truant imagination of the unhappy butt went far afield in search of terrors;