He had not thought of this life before he came into it; and it would be time enough to think of the next life when he got into it.

Besides, he had all a doctor's dislike of those terrors of the unseen world, with which some men are wont to oppress still more failing nature, and break the bruised reed.

His business was to cure his patients' bodies; and if he could not do that, at least to see that life was not shortened in them by nervous depression and anxiety.

Accustomed to see men of every character die under every possible circumstance, he had come to the conclusion that the "safety of a man's soul" could by no possibility be inferred from his death-bed temper.

The vast majority, good or bad, died in peace: why not let them die so?
If nature kindly took off the edge of sorrow, by blunting the nervous system, what right had man to interfere with so merciful an arrangement?
Every man, he held in his easy optimism, would go where he ought to go: and it could be no possible good to him--indeed, it might be a very bad thing for him, as in this life--to go where he ought not to go.