Plato, in the Phaedrus, explains this by describing Man as a Composite Being, having three natures, and compares him to a pair of winged horses and a charioteer. "Of the two horses one is noble and of noble origin, the other ignoble and of ignoble origin; and the driving, as might be expected, is no easy matter." The noble steed endeavors to raise the chariot, but the ignoble one struggles to drag it down. "Man," says Shelly, "is an instrument over which a series of external and internal impressions are driven, like the alternations of an ever-changing wind over an Aeolian lyre, which move it by their motion to ever-changing melody." Cicero mentions the approach of death as the fourth drawback of old age. To many minds the shadow of the end is ever present, like the coffin in the Egyptian feast, and overclouds all the sunshine of life. But ought we so to regard death? Shelly's beautiful lines, "Life, like a Dome of many-colored glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until death tramples it to fragments," contain, as it seems to me at least, a double error. Life need not stain the white radiance of eternity; nor does death necessarily trample it to fragments. Man has, says Coleridge, "Three treasures,--love and light And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath; And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, Himself, his Maker, and the Angel Death." Death is "the end of all, the remedy of many, the wish of divers men, deserving better of no men than of those to whom she came before she was called." [3] It is often assumed that the journey to "The undiscovered country from whose bourne No traveler returns" must be one of pain and suffering. But this is not so. Death is often peaceful and almost painless. Bede during his late illness was translating St. John's Gospel into Anglo-Saxon, and the morning of his death his secretary, observing his weakness, said, "There remains now only one chapter, and it seems difficult to you to speak." "It is easy," said Bede; "take your pen and write as fast as you can," At the close of the chapter the scribe said, "It is finished," to which he replied, "Thou hast said the truth, _consummatum est_." He then divided his little property among the brethren, having done which he asked to be placed opposite to the place where he usually prayed, said "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost," and as he pronounced the last words he expired. Goethe died without any apparent suffering, having just prepared himself to write, and expressed his delight at the return of spring. We are told of Mozart's death that "the unfinished requiem lay upon the bed, and his last efforts were to imitate some peculiar instrumental effects, as he breathed out his life in the arms of his wife and their friend Süssmaier."