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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
147
XII.
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!
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