People take the death differently. Some are in suspense over what awaits them; others, believing that have had no time to finish a big deal, try to extend their span to get it into shape; thirds, having spent the life in arduous, but almost fruitless toils, complain of that they have failed to make their dreams come true. Only few reach old age without dissatisfaction and grumbles at the fate, entirely convinced that they have made a worthy way in which have got enough joys. But, strange as it may seem, even these are not willing to die. The magic of life is too attractive to so easily part with it.

To those who would be unfair to blame their lot, belongs Thomas Hill. He was born in 1760 and had lived a long life of eighty years. His name was known to nearly all the England. And many loved him for his lofty spirit and big heart.

At first, Hill was a drysalter selling dyes and tying goods. But in 1810, in the age of fifty years, he tapped out on speculations in indigo and retired upon the remains of his property to the quarter Adelphi in London where died afterwards. But as back as when doing business, Hill made keen on the exalted. He had accumulated a splendid library, chiefly of old poetry, which was at the point of his downfall estimated at 6000 pounds. Even after that, the call of values had not left him. Notwithstanding the narrower circumstances, he was still spending his means on symbolic rarities. Thus, he purchased a cup and a vase made out of the mulberry tree planted by Shakespeare in Stratford, and a block of wood cut from the willow grown by Pope at his villa in Twickenham.

The cultured society of London was feeling poorer without Hill. He was a Maecenas and patronized friendless poets like Bloomfield or Kirke White. He helped one by reading manuscripts and taking care of their publication, while the other was writing for “The Monthly Mirror” which he had established. Hill seemed to be in touch with all happening in the intellectual circles. He always was invited to previews during exhibitions. In the words of a then wag, when asked whether he saw the new comet he answered jauntily: “Yes, I attended its private view.”

However nothing is permanent under the moon. And the old age had sneaked to Hill, too. On the Christmas Eve of 1840, he fell ill. There was no definite disease. He simply felt growing feebleness in the body.

– Try hard, doctor, – Hill said. – It’s too early for me to depart. I have not yet assuaged my zest for life. And I believe that the main events are ahead of me. I’m content with my years but that is like tasty water. However much you may have drunk it, all the same, you want to have a little more.

The physician had been astonished at the uttered by the old man but gave no sign of it. He was a taciturn person, at all. However what was demanded from him he did conscientiously. Several days the physician was all over the patient who himself, in turn, was far as possible clinging to life. But in spite of everything, shortly they both were bound to resigns themselves to the unavoidable.

– I’m afraid, it is, my friend, – that confessed, finding the words with effort. – I came to the limit of my tether. Unfortunately, I’m not almighty. Your body exhausted itself. But I cannot cure the age.

Some time elapsed in leaden silence. It would be very easy to hear a buzzing. But there scarcely could be something flying. The air was dense to the extent that even a stone would get stuck in it.

– Don’t be upset, doctor. All is for the better. I have lived a happy life, one destined just for me. If I succeed in begging God for extending it, that addition hardly would be a continuation. Who knows where it would have taken my soul and what it would turn out to be for me? Wouldn’t it be just that very fly in the ointment? So that I must thank God not only for what He’s given me but also and even to a greater degree for what He hasn’t. I might be so foolish to ask Him for that. But He couldn’t be so cruel to come across and cancel out my previous life. Perhaps the excess days and, all the more, years would be to me a punishment which, as I hope, I haven’t deserved…

With these words, Hill closed his eyes to open them nevermore.