find comfort in thinking of all the good he had done. But that is
not the kind of comfort that a sufferer desires; we may envy a good
man his retrospect of activity, but we cannot really suppose that
to meditate complacently upon what one has been enabled to do is
the final thought that a good man is likely to indulge. He is far
more likely to torment himself over all that he might have done.

It is true, I think, that old and tired people pass into a quiet
serenity; but it is the serenity of the old dog who sleeps in the
sun, wags his tail if he is invited to bestir himself, but does not
leave his place; and if one reaches that condition, it is but a
dumb gratitude at the thought that nothing more is expected of the
worn-out frame and fatigued mind. But no one, I should imagine,
really hopes to step into immortality so tired and worn out that
the highest hope that he can frame is that he will be let alone for
ever. We must not trust the drowsiness of the outworn spirit to
frame the real hopes of humanity. If we believe that the next
experience ahead of us is like that of the mariners,


In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon,


then we acquiesce in a dreamless sort of sleep as the best hope of
man.

No, we must rather trust the desires of the spirit at its
healthiest and most vigorous, and these are all knit up with the
adventure of escape, as I have said. There is something hostile on