'I shall not know that till it comes,' he said; 'I'm only half
conscious of it now.'
'You have no feeling of illness, have you?' I asked.
'No, Nelly, I have not,' he answered.
'Then you are not afraid of death?' I pursued.
'Afraid? No!' he replied. 'I have neither a fear, nor a
presentiment, nor a hope of death. Why should I? With my hard
constitution and temperate mode of living, and unperilous
occupations, I ought to, and probably SHALL, remain above ground
till there is scarcely a black hair on my head. And yet I cannot
continue in this condition! I have to remind myself to breathe -
almost to remind my heart to beat! And it is like bending back a
stiff spring: it is by compulsion that I do the slightest act not
prompted by one thought; and by compulsion that I notice anything
alive or dead, which is not associated with one universal idea. I
have a single wish, and my whole being and faculties are yearning
to attain it. They have yearned towards it so long, and so
unwaveringly, that I'm convinced it will be reached - and soon -
because it has devoured my existence: I am swallowed up in the
anticipation of its fulfilment. My confessions have not relieved
me; but they may account for some otherwise unaccountable phases of
humour which I show. O God! It is a long fight; I wish it were
over!'
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