A Cynic Looks at Life | Page 6

is this: we are tied by the feet to a fragile shell
imperfectly confining a force powerful enough under favoring
conditions, to burst it asunder and set the fragments wallowing and
grinding together in liquid flame, in the blind fury of a readjustment.
Nay, it needs no such stupendous cataclysm to depeople this uneasy orb.
Let but a square mile be blown out of the bottom of the sea, or a great
rift open there. Is it to be supposed that we would be unaffected in the
altered conditions generated by a contest between the ocean and the
earth's molten core? These fatalities are not only possible but in the
highest degree probable. It is probable, indeed, that they have occurred
over and over again, effacing all the more highly organized forms of
life, and compelling the slow march of evolution to begin anew. Slow?
On the stage of Eternity the passing of races--the entrances and exits of
Life--are incidents in a brisk and lively drama, following one another
with confusing rapidity.
Mankind has not found it practicable to abandon and avoid those places
where the forces of nature have been most malign. The track, of the
Western tornado is speedily repeopled. San Francisco is still populous,
despite its earthquake, Galveston despite its storm, and even the courts
of Lisbon are not kept by the lion and the lizard. In the Peruvian village
straight downward into whose streets the crew of a United States
warship once looked from the crest of a wave that stranded her a half
mile inland are heard the tinkle of the guitar and the voices of children
at play. There are people living at Herculaneum and Pompeii. On the
slopes about Catania the goatherd endures with what courage he may
the trembling of the ground beneath his feet as old Enceladus again
turns over on his other side. As the Hoang-Ho goes back inside its
banks after fertilizing its contiguity with hydrate of China-man the
living agriculturist follows the receding wave, sets up his habitation
beneath the broken embankment, and again the Valley of the Gone

Away blossoms as the rose, its people diving with Death.
This matter can not be amended: the race exposes itself to peril because
it can do no otherwise. In all the world there is no city of refuge--no
temple in which to take sanctuary, clinging to the horns of the altar--no
"place apart" where, like hunted deer, we can hope to elude the baying
pack of Nature's malevolences. The dead-line is drawn at the gate of
life: Man crosses it at birth. His advent is a challenge to the entire
pack--earthquake, storm, fire, flood, drought, heat, cold, wild beasts,
venomous reptiles, noxious insects, bacilli, spectacular plague and
velvet-footed household disease--all are fierce and tireless in pursuit.
Dodge, turn and double how he can, there's no eluding them; soon or
late some of them have him by the throat and his spirit returns to the
God who gave it--and gave them.
We are told that this earth was made for our inhabiting. Our dearly
beloved brethren in the faith, our spiritual guides, philosophers and
friends of the pulpit, never tire of pointing out the goodness of God in
giving us so excellent a place to live in and commending the admirable
adaptation of all things to our needs.
What a fine world it is, to be sure--a darling little world, "so suited to
the needs of man." A globe of liquid fire, straining within a shell
relatively no thicker than that of an egg--a shell constantly cracking and
in momentary danger of going all to pieces! Three-fourths of this
delectable field of human activity are covered with an element in which
we can not breathe, and which swallows us by myriads:
With moldering bones the deep is white From the frozen zones to the
tropic bright.
Of the other one-fourth more than one-half is uninhabitable by reason
of climate. On the remaining one-eighth we pass a comfortless and
precarious existence in disputed occupancy with countless ministers of
death and pain--pass it in fighting for it, tooth and nail, a hopeless
battle in which we are foredoomed to defeat. Everywhere death, terror,
lamentation and the laughter that is more terrible than tears--the fury
and despair of a race hanging on to life by the tips of its fingers. And

the prize for which we strive, "to have and to hold"--what is it? A thing
that is neither enjoyed while had, or missed when lost. So worthless it
is, so unsatisfying, so inadequate to purpose, so false to hope and at its
best so brief, that for consolation and compensation we set up fantastic
faiths of an aftertime in a better world from which no confirming
whisper has ever reached us across the void.