of Life.  And our sages give us about the best satisfaction in their power when they say that it is a vapour, or a show, or made out of the same stuff with dreams.[13] Philosophy, in its more rigid sense, has been at the same work for ages; and after a myriad bald heads have wagged over the problem, and piles of words have been heaped one upon another into dry and cloudy volumes without end, philosophy has the honour of laying before us, with modest pride, her contribution towards the subject:  that life is a Permanent Possibility of Sensation.[14] Truly a fine result!  A man may very well love beef, or hunting, or a woman; but surely, surely, not a Permanent Possibility of Sensation.  He may be afraid of a precipice, or a dentist, or a large enemy with a club, or even an undertaker’s man; but not certainly of abstract death.  We may trick with the word life in its dozen senses until we are weary of tricking; we may argue in terms of all the philosophies on earth, but one fact remains true throughout—­that we do not love life, in the sense that we are greatly preoccupied about its conservation; that we do not, properly speaking, love life at all, but living.  Into the views of the least careful there will enter some degree of providence; no man’s eyes are fixed entirely on the passing hour; but although we have some anticipation of good health, good weather, wine, active employment, love, and self-approval, the sum of these anticipations does not amount to anything like a general view of life’s possibilities and issues; nor are those who cherish them most vividly, at all the most scrupulous of their personal safety.  To be deeply interested in the accidents of our existence, to enjoy keenly the mixed texture of human experience, rather leads a man to disregard precautions, and risk his neck against a straw.  For surely the love of living is stronger in an Alpine climber roping over a peril, or a hunter riding merrily at a stiff fence, than in a creature who lives upon a diet and walks a measured distance in the interest of his constitution.

There is a great deal of very vile nonsense talked upon both sides of the matter:  tearing divines reducing life to the dimensions of a mere funeral procession, so short as to be hardly decent; and melancholy unbelievers yearning for the tomb as if it were a world too far away.  Both sides must feel a little ashamed of their performances now and again when they draw in their chairs to dinner.  Indeed, a good meal and a bottle of wine is an answer to most standard works upon the question.  When a man’s heart warms to his viands, he forgets a great deal of sophistry, and soars into a rosy zone of contemplation.  Death may be knocking at the door, like the Commander’s statue;[15] we have something else in hand, thank God, and let him knock.  Passing bells are ringing all the world over.  All the world over, and every hour,[16] someone is parting company with all his aches and ecstasies.  For us also the trap is laid.  But we are so fond of life that we have no leisure to entertain the terror of death.  It is a honeymoon with us all through, and none of the longest.  Small blame to us if we give our whole hearts to this glowing bride of ours, to the appetites, to honour, to the hungry curiosity of the mind, to the pleasure of the eyes in nature, and the pride of our own nimble bodies.