Death gives a life to some men and women compared with which their so-called existence here is as nothing.  Which is the truer life of Shakespeare, Handel, that divine woman who wrote the Odyssey, and of Jane Austen—­the life which palpitated with sensible warm motion within their own bodies, or that in virtue of which they are still palpitating in ours?  In whose consciousness does their truest life consist—­their own, or ours?  Can Shakespeare be said to have begun his true life till a hundred years or so after he was dead and buried?  His physical life was but as an embryonic stage, a coming up out of darkness, a twilight and dawn before the sunrise of that life of the world to come which he was to enjoy hereafter.  We all live for a while after we are gone hence, but we are for the most part stillborn, or at any rate die in infancy, as regards that life which every age and country has recognized as higher and truer than the one of which we are now sentient.  As the life of the race is larger, longer, and in all respects more to be considered than that of the individual, so is the life we live in others larger and more important than the one we live in ourselves.  This appears nowhere perhaps more plainly than in the case of great teachers, who often in the lives of their pupils produce an effect that reaches far beyond anything produced while their single lives were yet unsupplemented by those other lives into which they infused their own.

Death to such people is the ending of a short life, but it does not touch the life they are already living in those whom they have taught; and happily, as none can know when he shall die, so none can make sure that he too shall not live long beyond the grave; for the life after death is like money before it—­no one can be sure that it may not fall to him or her even at the eleventh hour.  Money and immortality come in such odd unaccountable ways that no one is cut off from hope.  We may not have made either of them for ourselves, but yet another may give them to us in virtue of his or her love, which shall illumine us for ever, and establish us in some heavenly mansion whereof we neither dreamed nor shall ever dream.  Look at the Doge Loredano Loredani, the old man’s smile upon whose face has been reproduced so faithfully in so many lands that it can never henceforth be forgotten—­would he have had one hundredth part of the life he now lives had he not been linked awhile with one of those heaven-sent men who know che cosa e amor?  Look at Rembrandt’s old woman in our National Gallery; had she died before she was eighty-three years old she would not have been living now.  Then, when she was eighty-three, immortality perched upon her as a bird on a withered bough.

I seem to hear someone say that this is a mockery, a piece of special pleading, a giving of stones to those that ask for bread.  Life is not life unless we can feel it, and a life limited to a knowledge of such fraction of our work as may happen to survive us is no true life in other people; salve it as we may, death is not life any more than black is white.