standing behind man ready to touch him with
its terrible finger if for too long he finds
himself content. What has given this ghastly
shape the right to haunt us from the hour we
are born until the hour we die? What has
given it the right to stand always at our door,
keeping that door ajar with its impalpable yet
plainly horrible hand, ready to enter at the
moment it sees fit? The greatest philosopher
that ever lived succumbs before it at last; and
he only is a philosopher, in any sane sense, who
recognises the fact that it is irresistible, and
knows that like all other men he must suffer
soon or late. It is part of the heritage of men,
this pain and distress; and he who determines
that nothing shall make him suffer, does but
cloak himself in a profound and chilly selfishness.
This cloak may protect him from pain, it
will also separate him from pleasure. If peace
is to be found on earth, or any joy in life, it
cannot be by closing up the gates of feeling,
which admit us to the loftiest and most vivid
part of our existence. Sensation, as we obtain
it through the physical body, affords us all that
induces us to live in that shape. It is inconceivable
that any man would care to take the
trouble of breathing, unless the act brought
with it a sense of satisfaction. So it is with
every deed of every instant of our life. We
live because it is pleasant even to have the