I was about to disdain to reply, when I saw an old man approaching, with bowed head, apparently in deep distress.  As he drew near he saluted my distinguished interlocutor in the manner of the country, by putting out his tongue to its full extent and moving it slowly from side to side.  Gnarmag-Zote acknowledged the civility by courteously spitting, and the old man, advancing, seated himself at the great officer’s feet, saying:  “Exalted Sir, I have just lost my wife by death, and am in a most melancholy frame of mind.  He who has mastered all the vices of the ancients and wrested from nature the secret of the normal curvature of cats’ claws can surely spare from his wisdom a few rays of philosophy to cheer an old man’s gloom.  Pray tell me what I shall do to assuage my grief.”

The reader can, perhaps, faintly conceive my astonishment when Gnarmag-Zote gravely replied:  “Kill yourself.”

“Surely,” I cried, “you would not have this honest fellow procure oblivion (since you think that death is nothing else) by so rash an act!”

“An act that Gnarmag-Zote advises,” he said, coldly, “is not rash.”

“But death,” I said, “death, whatever else it may be, is an end of life.  This old man is now in sorrow almost insupportable.  But a few days and it will be supportable; a few months and it will have become no more than a tender melancholy.  At last it will disappear, and in the society of his friends, in the skill of his cook, the profits of avarice, the study of how to be querulous and in the pursuit of loquacity, he will again experience the joys of age.  Why for a present grief should he deprive himself of all future happiness?”

Gnarmag-Zote looked upon me with something like compassion.  “My friend,” said he, “guest of my sovereign and my country, know that in any circumstances, even those upon which true happiness is based and conditioned, death is preferable to life.  The sum of miseries in any life (here in Lalugnan at least) exceeds the sum of pleasures; but suppose that it did not.  Imagine an existence in which happiness, of whatever intensity, is the rule, and discomfort, of whatever moderation, the exception.  Still there is some discomfort.  There is none in death, for (as it is given to us to know) that is oblivion, annihilation.  True, by dying one loses his happiness as well as his sorrows, but he is not conscious of the loss.  Surely, a loss of which one will never know, and which, if it operate to make him less happy, at the same time takes from him the desire and capacity and need of happiness, cannot be an evil.  That is so intelligently understood among us here in Lalugnan that suicide is common, and our word for sufferer is the same as that for fool.  If this good man had not been an idiot he would have taken his life as soon as he was bereaved.”

“If what you say of the blessing of death is true,” I said, smilingly, for I greatly prided myself on the ingenuity of my thought, “it is unnecessary to commit suicide through grief for the dead; for the more you love the more glad you should be that the object of your affection has passed into so desirable a state as death.”