It is a strange thing to begin a “Log” when the voyage is nigh ended! Avoyage without chart or compass has it been: and now is land in sight—theland of the weary and heart-tired!
Here am I, at the Hôtel des Princes, en route for Italy, whither mydoctors have sentenced me! What a sad record would be preserved to theworld if travellers were but to fill up, with good faith, the policeformula at each stage of the journey, which asks, “the object of thetour!” How terribly often should we read the two short words—“ToDie.” With what sorrowful interest would one gaze at the letters formed bya trembling hand; and yet how many would have to write them! Truly, theold Italian adage, “Vedere Napole es poi morire” has gained a newsignification; and, unhappily, a far more real one.
This same practice of physicians, of sending their patients to linger outthe last hours of life in a foreign land, is, to my thinking, by no meansso reprehensible as the generality of people make out. It is a theme,however, on which so many commonplaces can be strung, that common-placepeople, who, above all others, love their own eloquence, never weary ofit. Away from his children—from his favourite haunts—from thedoctors that understood his case—from his comfortable house—fromthe family apothecary,—such are the changes they ring; and if dyingwere to be done often, there would be much reason in all this. But it isnot so; this same change occurs but once, and its approach brings with ita new train of thoughts and feelings from all that we have ever feltbefore. In that twilight hour of life, objects that have escaped ourvision in the blaze of noon-day become clear and distinct; and, even tothe least reflecting of minds, an increased power of perception andjudgment is accorded—the viaticum for th