“Life,” said an Englishman, “is a battle-field in which victory is to the valiant.  To my mind the effort after forgetfulness is no less disquieting than the fear you would shun.  Death, could we but believe it, is simple and natural as Life.”

But this he said, not knowing that

     “Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be.”

“It is true,” spoke the Venerable Nawab Khan, a Musselman of devout piety, “and to what purpose do we struggle?  The inevitable is not to be averted

     Tho’, sliding through lush grass, the shining snake,
     Loving the sun, a sinuous way doth take,
     Its fixed journey to its home ’twill make. 
     Even as in tranquil vale reluctant rill,
     In sportive twinings nigh its parent hill,
     Proceedeth onward to the ocean still.

“Life is a dream,” continued the pious man, “and the first condition of its happiness is peace.  For me I am weary of battle-fields, and feel no desire to grasp after illusive flowers and fading grass.  If anticipated evil is the shadow of life, the vain toils of restless ambition are its menace.  Vain toil it is!  To labour, to suffer, to sorely strive that we may accomplish—­our destiny!  For that is what our utmost effort alike with our quietude will achieve.”

“And,” demanded the Rajah, “is it then life to breathe?  Such tranquillity will breed torpor rather than dream.  If the immobility of Fate be the theme and burden of my days I dare the more.  Let us bare our breasts to the arrows of Fortune, let us invite the shafts of Chance, let us taunt Fate, let us dare our doom, why should we fear?  The hands of Destiny are also bound, and not one pang the more shall we feel for our hardihood.”

But one who reclined on a couch of roses and breathed their languorous fragrance, chided the fervency of this discourse, saying: 

“If Life be a flower,
Light, facile, and free,
Be the grasp that would hold it;
From a halcyon sea
Let the breezes that stir it
Blow thoughtlessly;
No breath of care should chill it,
Nor sad foreboding thrill it,
For honey-dew lies hid
Beneath a fragile lid,
And ardent clutch will spill it.”

“Ay,” cried the Rajah, “I like the counsel of the flowers.

Obeissance to the blast
Make, mock when it is past,
And rise like a washen rose, deliciously,
Forgetful of sorrow,
Unheeding the morrow,
And meeting all destinies, mad, merrily;
If Life be a flower, ’tis fairest of all
If for it you fear fortune’s pitiless thrall,
With the Tulip’s proud beauty
Its wisdom combine,
And bear to the contest
A goblet of wine!”

“Ah,” sighed the pensive one, “but the flower is the poppy, for he who possesses it presently falls asleep.”

But his gentle conceit was unheard, for Nawab Khan related a story.