You may see this in cases in which the restraint of the civilized
man binds him no longer. A man delirious or mad needs four men to
hold him: there is no restraint keeping in his exertions; and you
see what physical energy can do when utterly unlimited. And a man
who always spoke out in public the entire truth about all men and
all things, would inspire I know not what of terror. He would be
like a mad Malay running a muck, dagger in hand. If the person who
in a deliberative assembly speaks of another person as his venerable
friend, were to speak of him there as he did half an hour before
in private, as an obstructive old idiot, how people would start!
It would be like the bare bones of the skeleton showing through
the fair covering of flesh and blood.

The shadows are lengthening eastward now; the summer day will soon
be gone. And looking about on this beautiful world, I think of
a poem by Bryant, in which he tells us how, gazing on the sky and
the mountains in June, he wished that when his time should come,
the green turf of summer might be broken to make his grave. He could
not bear, he tells us, the idea of being borne to his resting-place
through sleety winds, and covered with icy clods. Of course, poets
give us fanciful views, gained by looking at one side of a picture:
arid De Quincey somewhere states the opposite opinion, that death
seems sadder in summer, because there is a feeling that in quitting
this world our friend is losing more. It will not matter much,
friendly reader, to you and me, what kind of weather there may be
on the day of our respective funerals; though one would wish for
a pleasant, sunshiny time. And let us humbly trust that when we
go, we may find admission to a Place so beautiful, that we shall
not miss the green fields and trees, the roses and honeysuckle of
June. You may think, perhaps, of another reason besides Bryant's,