Up in a garret sat a young man stricken with a melancholy fit, and, as was his custom at such times, he had begun to meditate on the grave, with especial reference to such a grave as he himself might comfortably and pleasingly fill.
While deep in this gratifying occupation he looked up to see sitting across the table from him a gentleman shrouded and swathed to the eyebrows in black. As the door had been locked all evening, he could only conclude that the guest was some supernatural visitant, perhaps indeed that allegorical personage who had been the subject of his late thoughts.
As this fancy dawned on him he discovered that those notions which a moment before he had been regarding with much relish, had suddenly lost all savor. He shuddered at the very idea of dying: it seemed to him such a bad business. Notwithstanding he mustered up all the courage that had run into his boots and remarked in a loud voice, “I’m willing to go any time. I’m sure I haven’t and never will have the slightest objection to Death.”
He moved his feet impatiently when the other did not respond on the instant. “Never,” he repeated.
“How do you know?” said the gentleman in black.
The young man thought hard. “At any rate,” he asserted, “I’m not afraid of Death.” There was a moment’s silence.
“How do you know?” said the gentleman in black.
“Well—of course—that is——” stammered the young man, “but after all—why should anyone be afraid of it? Death brings peace.”
“How do you know”? said the gentleman in black.
By this time the young man was pouring with sweat. “Are you—are you—Death?”
“Fear of Death is my name,” returned the other.
At once the young man’s spirits returned. “Of course! of course!” he shouted. “How stupid of me! I’m going to look hard at you now so that I shall always remember just how you look. Then you see in the future I shall always be able to tell you from old Death himself. For quite naturally I know that Death is not at all like Fear-of-Death.”
“How do you know?” said the gentleman in black.
