Non-Fiction > Uncollected essays > Volumes 33-38, 1876-1878 - Cornhill magazine > Volume 37

JES TKIPLEX. 435
remains tx'ue tlirouglioiit — that Ave do not love life, in the sense that we
are greatly in-eoccupied about its conservation ; that we do not, pro-
perly sijeaking, love life at all, but living. Into the views of the least
cai'eful there will enter some degree of providence ; no man's eyes are
fixed entirely on the passing hour; but although we have some anticipa-
tion 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 textui'e of human experience, rather leads a
man to disregard ^precautious, 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 stifi' fence, than in a creature
who lives upon a diet and walks a measured distance i-n the interest of
his constitution.
There is a great deal of very vile nonsense talked ujion 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 un-
believei's 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 theii' 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 ; we have some-
thing else in hand, thank God, and let him knock. Passing bells are
ringing, all the world over ; all the world over, and every hour, some-
one 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 leisiu-e to
entertain the teiror of death. 'Tis 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
cui'iosity of the mind, to the pleasui'e of the eyes in nature, and the
pride of our own nimble bodies. We all of us appreciate the sensations ;
but as for caring about the Permanence of the Possibility, a man's head
is generally very bald, and his senses very dull, before he comes to tliat.
Whether we regard life as a lane leading to a dead wall — a mere bag's
end, as the Fi-ench say — or whether we think of it as a vestibule or
gymnasium, where we wait our turn and prepare our faculties for some
more noble destiny ; whether we thunder in a pulpit, or pule in little
atheistic poetry- books, about its vanity and brevity ; whether we look
justly for years of health and vigour, or are about to mount into a bath-
chair, as a step towards the hearse ; in each and all of these views and
situations there is but one conclusion possible : that a man should stop
his eai'S against pai'alysing terror, and run the race that is set before
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