Death is terrible only in presence.  When distant, or supposed to be distant, we can call him hard or tender names, nay, even poke our poor fun at him. Mr. Punch, on one occasion, when he wished to ridicule the useful-information leanings of a certain periodical publication, quoted from its pages the sentence, “Man is mortal,” and people were found to grin broadly over the exquisite stroke of humour.  Certainly the words, and the fact they contain, are trite enough.  Utter the sentence gravely in any company, and you are certain to provoke laughter.  And yet some subtile recognition of the fact of death runs constantly through the warp and woof of the most ordinary human existence.  And this recognition does not always terrify.  The spectre has the most cunning disguises, and often when near us we are unaware of the fact of proximity.  Unsuspected, this idea of death lurks in the sweetness of music; it has something to do with the pleasures with which we behold the vapours of morning; it comes between the passionate lips of lovers; it lives in the thrill of kisses.  “An inch deeper, and you will find the emperor.”  Probe joy to its last fibre, and you will find death.  And it is the most merciful of all the merciful provisions of nature, that a haunting sense of insecurity should deepen the enjoyment of what we have secured; that the pleasure of our warm human day and its activities should to some extent arise from a vague consciousness of the waste night which environs it, in which no arm is raised, in which no voice is ever heard.  Death is the ugly fact which nature has to hide, and she hides it well.  Human life were otherwise an impossibility.  The pantomime runs on merrily enough; but when once Harlequin lifts his vizor, Columbine disappears, the jest is frozen on the Clown’s lips, and the hand of the filching Pantaloon is arrested in the act.  Wherever death looks, there is silence and trembling.  But although on every man he will one day or another look, he is coy of revealing himself till the appointed time.  He makes his approaches like an Indian warrior, under covers and ambushes.  We have our parts to play, and he remains hooded till they are played out.  We are agitated by our passions, we busily pursue our ambitions, we are acquiring money or reputation, and all at once, in the centre of our desires, we discover the “Shadow feared of man.”  And so nature fools the poor human mortal evermore.  When she means to be deadly, she dresses her face in smiles; when she selects a victim, she sends him a poisoned rose.  There is no pleasure, no shape of good fortune, no form of glory in which death has not hid himself, and waited silently for his prey.