Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
By Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
She was very old, and therefore it was very hard for her to make up hermind to die. I am aware that this is not at all the general view, butthat it is believed, as old age must be near death, that it prepares thesoul for that inevitable event. It is not so, however, in many cases. Inyouth we are still so near the unseen out of which we came, that death israther pathetic than tragic,—a thing that touches all hearts, but towhich, in many cases, the young hero accommodates himself sweetly andcourageously. And amid the storms and burdens of middle life there aremany times when we would fain push open the door that stands ajar, andbehind which there is ease for all our pains, or at least rest, ifnothing more. But age, which has gone through both these phases, is apt,out of long custom and habit, to regard the matter from a different view.All things that are violent have passed out of its life,—no more strongemotions, such as rend the heart; no great labors, bringing after themthe weariness which is unto death; but the calm of an existence which isenough for its needs, which affords the moderate amount of comfort andpleasure for which its being is now adapted, and of which there seems noreason that there should ever be any end. To passion, to joy, to anguish,an end must come; but mere gentle living, determined by a framework ofgentle rules and habits—why should that ever be ended? When a soul hasgot to this retirement and is content in it, it becomes very hard to die;hard to accept the necessity of dying, and to accustom one's self to theidea, and still harder to consent to carry it out.
The woman who is the subject of the following narrative was in thisposition. She had lived through almost everything that is to be found inlife. She had been beautiful in her youth, and had enjoyed all thetriumphs of beauty; had been intoxicated with flattery, and triumphant inconquest, and mad with jealousy and the bitterness of defeat when itbecame evident that her day was over. She had never been a bad woman, orfalse, or unkind; but she had thrown herself with all her heart intothose different stages of being, and had suffered as much as she enjoyed,according to the unfailing usage of life. Many a day during these stormsand victories, when things went against her, when delights did notsatisfy her, she had thrown out a cry into the wide air of the universeand wished to die. And then she had come to the higher table-land oflife, and had borne all the spites of fortune,—had been poor and rich,and happy and sorrowful; had lost and won a hundred times over; had satat feasts, and kneeled by deathbeds, and followed her best-beloved to thegrave, often, often crying out to God above to liberate her, to make anend of her anguish, for that her strength was exhausted and she couldbear no more. But she had borne it and lived through all; and now hadarrived at a time when all strong sensations are over, when the soul isno longer either triumphant or miserable, and when life itself, andcomfort and ease, and the warmth of the sun, and of the fireside, and themild beauty of home were enough for her, and she required no more. Thatis, she required very little more, a useful routine of hours and rules, aplay of reflected emotion, a pleasant exercise of faculty, making herfeel herself still capable of the best things in life—of interest in herfellow-creatures, kindness