At
this point, under most circumstances, I would close the doors and draw
the veil of privacy over the chamber where the birth which we call
death, out of life into the unknown world, is working its mystery. But
this friend of ours stood alone in the world, and, as the last act of
his life was mainly in harmony with the rest of its drama, I do not
here feel the force of the objection commonly lying against that
death-bed literature which forms the staple of a certain portion of the
press. Let me explain what I mean, so that my readers may think for
themselves a little, before they accuse me of hasty expressions.
The Roman Catholic Church has certain formulae for its dying children,
to which almost all of them attach the greatest importance. There is
hardly a criminal so abandoned that he is not anxious to receive the
"consolations of religion" in his last hours. Even if he be senseless,
but still living, I think that the form is gone through with, just as
baptism is administered to the unconscious new-born child. Now we do
not quarrel with these forms.
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