I DARE SAY —
The old, old fashion – death
By Florence Fisher Parry
If I should die before I wake
I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take.
Death is so simple and quiet and ordinary. It comes to many while they sleep. They sigh, they let go, they are dead. And the pulse of life goes on, losing only the infinitesimal beat of one heart, now through with its labor.
Such a death without pain or struggle came to our President. It is a boon which God grants to the great, it would seem. He makes the going easy. Wilson died so. Lincoln. Wendell Willkie. A slipping away, a soft silent merging, as a river slips its water into the sea…
And in contemplation of this ancient miracle the mind of the world stands hushed today, the solemn shock of the President’s death eased by reminder of the mercy and pity of God that He should have lifted the burden of life so gently from our wearying leader.
And the comfort comes; if death is so simple a transfer; if the veil is so thin between this world and that. Other that one can slip through so gently – surely then, there can be little difference between them; they are borne on the same current, there is no break in the flow… the banks merely grow wider, wider, until they disappear and one is embarked on the sea…
I think of what Charles Dickens called it – The Old, Old Fashion. The old, old fashion – Death. So very old, so common.
The waste
And it is curious. Death being the certitude it is, that it should be regarded as such a convulsion, such unnatural tragedy. Surely, we knew our President was failing in health. By slow reluctant inches he had been dying this long time now. Do we not believe our eyes?
But no, we are gamblers, we in America. We risked his life, thinking it could be charmed into some kind of extension. Our shock that we lost the gamble should give us pause, provide reminder never again to trifle with the fate of nations and peoples.
Such shock came at Lincoln’s death – but it was violent, a dislocation, something unnatural. In his case, too, there had been made no provision. Who remembers (ask the man on the street) who succeeded him?
And we paid for that improvidence.
We cannot afford to keep on pacing such price…
Now the nation is bowed in grief and panic sweeps through the souls of those too long used to dependence on one man. This is a penalty deserved; who shall say we husbanded what alternates were offered us to keep in reserve? We have been wasteful of strong men, we know that now.
But there are some who remain. Give them growing room. This is the greatest land on earth to grow big men in. There need not be “a lonely place against the sky” if other lordly cedars are given room to spread their branches, too.
I am thinking of these men, and the hurried emergency call upon their greatness now! Let them arise from the mourning bench, when the day of mourning is over, and stand erect each one, and proffer their unpurchasable souls to their country never so much in need of them as now!
We are America
They are in our Congress. They are in our Cabinet. They are in places of power in Industry. They are – yes – they are in our political bodies, some of them still honest, wanting to strain loose from the toils of political corruption. They are in labor, trying to match their decent strategy against the gangster rackets of the czars. They are on our Main Streets, that last stronghold of small Enterprise. They are on the farms and in the pulpits and in our science laboratories. Call them the Unpurchasables.
If they arise and serve, there is nothing to fear. But we need them, every one, a solid front of good Americans to face the Questioners who, from all countries, are ever now converging upon us with the uneasy query: Now that you have lost your leader, WHAT?
We mourn, but we dare not despair. We are America, invincible even in our sorrow.