s left for the wise, but to turn, as does the preacher, from this
delusion of living, where laughter is mad and pleasure is vain, and
praise the dead which are dead more than the living which are yet alive,
or to esteem as better than both he that hath never been?

Such is the conclusion of many faiths. Wasted with combat, the mortal
longs for the rest prepared for the weary. Buddha taught the
extinguishment in Nirvana; the Brahman portrays the highest bliss as
_shanti_, complete and eternal repose; and that the same longing was
familiar to ancient Judaism, and has always been common to Christianity,
numerous evidences testify.[57-1] Few epitaphs are more common than
those which speak of the mortal resting _in pace, in quiete_.

The supposition at the root of these longings is that action must bring
fatigue and pain, and though it bring pleasure too, it is bought too
dearly. True in fact, I have shown that this conflicts with the theory
of perfect life, even organic life. The highest form of life is the most
unceasing living; its functions ask for their completest well being
constant action, not satisfaction. That general feeling of health and
strength, that _sens de bien etre_, which goes with the most perfect
physical life, is experienced only when all the organs are in complete
working order and doing full duty. They impart to the whole frame a
desire of motion. Hence the activity of the young and healthy as
contrasted with the inertness of the exhausted and aged.

How is it possible to reconcile this ideal of life, still more the hope
of everlasting life, with the acknowledged vanity of desire? It is
accomplished through the medium of an emotion which more than any I have
touched upon reveals the character of the religious sentiment--Love.
This mighty but protean feeling I shall attempt to define on broader
principles than has hitherto been done. The vague and partial meanings
assigned it have led to sad confusion in the studies of religions. In
the language of feeling, love is a passion; but it does not spring from
feeling alone. It is far more fervid when it rises through intellect
than through sense. "Men have died from time to time, and worms have
eaten them, but not for love," says the fair Rosalind; and though her
saying is not very true as to the love of sense, it is far less true as
to the love of intellect. The martyrs to science and religion, to
principles and faith, multiply a hundred-fold those to the g