ade in other people's lives,
and a pin knocked out by which many subsidiary friendships hung
together. There are empty chairs, solitary walks, and single beds at
night. Again, in taking away our friends, death does not take them away
utterly, but leaves behind a mocking, tragical, and soon intolerable
residue, which must be hurriedly concealed. Hence a whole chapter of
sights and customs striking to the mind, from the pyramids of Egypt to
the gibbets and dule trees of mediaeval Europe. The poorest persons have
a bit of pageant going towards the tomb; memorial stones are set up over
the least memorable; and, in order to preserve some show of respect for
what remains of our old loves and friendships, we must accompany it with
much grimly ludicrous ceremonial, and the hired undertaker parades
before the door. All this, and much more of the same sort, accompanied
by the eloquence of poets, has gone a great way to put humanity in
error; nay, in many philosophies the error has been embodied and laid
down with every circumstance of logic; although in real life the bustle
and swiftness, in leaving people little time to think, have not left
them time enough to go dangerously wrong in practice.

As a matter of fact, although few things are spoken of with more fearful
whisperings than this prospect of death, few have less influence on
conduct under healthy circumstances. We have all heard of cities in
South America built upon the side of fiery mountains, and how, even in
this tremendous neighbourhood, the inhabitants are not a jot more
impressed by the solemnity of mortal conditions than if they were
delving gardens in the greenest corner of England. There are serenades
and suppers and much gallantry among the myrtles overhead; and meanwhile
the foundation shudders under foot, the bowels of the mountain growl,
and at any moment living ruin may leap sky-high into the moonlight, and
tumble man and his merry-making in the dust. In the eyes of very young
people, and very dull old ones, there is something indescribably
reckless and desperate in such a picture. It seems not credible that
respectable married people, with umbrellas, should find appetite for a
bit of supper within quite a long distance of a fiery mountain; ordinary
life begins to smell of high-handed debauch when it is carried on so
close to a catastrophe; and even cheese and salad, it seems, could
hardly be relished in such circumstances without something like a
defiance