f to return, to accommodate myself to the common humour.

If I feared to die in any other place than that of my birth; if I thought
I should die more uneasily remote from my own family, I should hardly go
out of France; I should not, without fear, step out of my parish; I feel
death always pinching me by the throat or by the back. But I am
otherwise constituted; 'tis in all places alike to me. Yet, might I have
my choice, I think I should rather choose to die on horseback than in
bed; out of my own house, and far from my own people. There is more
heartbreaking than consolation in taking leave of one's friends; I am
willing to omit that civility, for that, of all the offices of
friendship, is the only one that is unpleasant; and I could, with all my
heart, dispense with that great and eternal farewell. If there be any
convenience in so many standers-by, it brings an hundred inconveniences
along with it. I have seen many dying miserably surrounded with all this
train: 'tis a crowd that chokes them. 'Tis against duty, and is a
testimony of little kindness and little care, to permit you to die in
repose; one torments your eyes, another your ears, another your tongue;
you have neither sense nor member that is not worried by them. Your
heart is wounded with compassion to hear the mourning of friends, and,
perhaps with anger, to hear the counterfeit condolings of pretenders.
Who ever has been delicate and sensitive, when well, is much more so when
ill. In such a necessity, a gentle hand is required, accommodated to his
sentiment, to scratch him just in the place where he itches, otherwise
scratch him not at all. If we stand in need of a wise woman--[midwife,
Fr. 'sage femme'.]--to bring us into the world, we have much more need
of a still wiser man to help us out of it. Such a one, and a friend to
boot, a man ought to purchase at any cost for such an occasion. I am not
yet arrived to that pitch of disdainful vigour that is fortified in
itself, that nothing can assist or disturb; I am of a lower form; I
endeavour to hide myself, and to escape from this passage, not by fear,
but by art. I do not intend in this act of dying to make proof and show
of my constancy. For whom should I do it? all the right and interest I
have in reputation will then cease. I content myself with a death
involved within itself, quiet, solitary, and all my own, suitable to my
retired and private life; quite contrary to the Roman superstition,