Part 1

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THE KNICKERBOCKER.

VOL. XXII. NOVEMBER, 1843. NO. 5.

THOUGHTS ON IMMORTALITY.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

THERE are those who reject the idea of a future state; or, at least, who deny that they ought to be convinced of its reality, because reasoning, in the method of the sciences, does not appear to prove it to them; although they acknowledge how natural it is for man to anticipate a future existence. I have thought that such persons might be included in a similitude like the following. Let us suppose a young bee, just returning from his first excursion abroad, bearing his load of honey. He has been in a labyrinth of various directions, and far from his native home; winding among trees and their branches, and stopping to sip from numerous flowers. He has even been taken, by one bearing no good-will to the little community of which he is a member, and carried onward, without being permitted a sight of the objects which he passed, that he might estimate aright his new direction. Notwithstanding, he is winging his way with unerring precision to the place where his little load is to be deposited. Not more exactly does the needle tend to the pole, than the line he is drawing points toward his store-house. But in this he is governed by no such considerations of distance and direction as enable the skilful navigator so beautifully to select his way along the pathless ocean. He has no data, by reasoning from which, as the geometrician reasons, he may determine that his course bears so many degrees to the right or so many to the left. He has never been taught to mark the right ascension of hill-tops, nor to estimate latitude and longitude from the trees. He is governed in his progress by that indescribable and mysterious principle of instinct alone, which, although developed in man, produces its most surprising effects in the brute creation. But here, as he is going onward thus swiftly and surely, by some creative power a vast addition is made to his previous character. All at once he becomes a reasoning being, possessed of all the faculties which are found in the philosopher. He is endowed with judgment, that he may compare, and consciousness and reflection, to make him a metaphysician. Nor is he slow to exercise these newly-acquired faculties.

Among other things, his consciousness tells him that he is impressed with a deep presentiment of something greatly desirable in the far distance toward which he supposes his course to be fast and directly tending. Perhaps he has a memory of the place he left, of the business there going on, and of the part which he is taking in it. Probably his strong impression is, that he is fast advancing toward that place; that he expects the greeting of his friends of the swarm. Possibly he finds his bosom even now beginning to swell in anticipation of the praise which shall be bestowed on his early manifestation of industry and virtue. Perhaps his recollections are more vague; and accordingly his consciousness only tells him that he thinks of something requiring him to urge onward in that particular direction, but of which he realizes no very definite idea.

But here Reason interrupts him: 'Why are you pursuing this course so fast? I see nothing to attract your attention so strongly.' 'I am going to a place lying this way,' says the bee, 'where I can deposite my load in safety, which I am anxious to do quickly, that I may return for another.' 'But,' says Reason, 'what evidence have you that the place lies this way?' Here Philosophy whispers: 'You should not act without evidence; it becomes no reasonable creature to do so;' but Reason continues: 'There are many points in the horizon beside that you are making for; and I see not why one of them is not as likely to be the place as another.'

This rather staggered the bee at first; for he had no recollection of courses and distances taken, by a comparison of which he could prove his true direction; but suddenly he said: 'Why, I am so strongly impressed that this is the course, that I cannot doubt it.' 'But what signify your strong impressions,' says Reason, 'if they are not founded on any evidence? Were you ever led to such a place as you seek by the aid of _impression_ alone?' 'I never was,' said the bee; for in fact he had never before been out of sight of the place where he was born. 'Then again,' says Reason, 'I ask what is your evidence?' And Philosophy again, as a faithful monitor, replies: 'Bee, you must not act without evidence.'

The bee could hardly add any thing more. Had his experience been greater, and his reflection deeper, he might have answered, that there are principles in the mind pointing to certain conclusions, and seeking to establish certain beliefs, of which those principles are at once the evidence and the source; and that the impression which now seemed so clearly to point out his course was one of this class. But in the exercise of his young faculties he had not yet arrived at that height of philosophy which could lead him to recur to such principles. He had never come to distinguish between those impressions which have taken possession of the mind by chance, and those which Nature herself has prepared to aid the very weakness of reason. No wonder then, that thus sore pressed by Reason, he seemed to find himself at fault.

Whether these mental conflicts were sufficient to suspend his course entirely, or whether, like a prudent bee, he resolved to act as if nature were right and reason were wrong until he knew nature to be wrong and reason to be right, I am not able to say. But I could not fail to reflect, that if he did finally arrive at the place whither he had been directing his course, he would probably quarrel with all the arrangements in the tree.

It would not occur to him, for instance, why such particular art should be observed in constructing the cells of the comb as the bee has ever been known to observe. Why must they always be made with just six sides to them, and no more? Why could they not, upon occasion, be constructed with three or four sides, or even round, equally as well? Surely a curve is more beautiful than a combination of straight lines, with angular points to disturb the mind; and variety is undoubtedly essential to all harmony. But if six sides are to be preferred, why not have the same number for the roof and floor? and why should they be always constructed with one particular inclination? These and other rules, which the bee has hitherto followed with such admirable but unconscious wisdom, his uninstructed reason would be slow to deduce from obvious first principles. He would perhaps be no better a mathematician than man himself, with whom centuries succeeded one another before he had followed the discursive and mazy track to the point whence is seen the just and convenient architecture of the bee.

We can hardly suppose that under such circumstances he would not become a confirmed skeptic; rejecting all truths which his peculiar reasonings would not demonstrate; and failing by reason to demonstrate those truths which to him are of the greatest consequence. All this would not be because he had reason, nor because he exercised it, but because he exercised it imperfectly. And yet he would seem to use it very much as some modern philosophers recommend.

II.

WHEN the merchant who trades abroad is about to launch upon the ocean the ship which contains perhaps the whole of his fortune, he is naturally anxious as to what may be its fate while entrusted to the winds and waves, and is solicitous to provide, so far as he can, against the possibility of ruin by its loss. His course is therefore to go to the insurance office, inform the agent what he is about to do, and ask for indemnity against risk.

The insurance office was established for the express purpose of alleviating such disasters as his would be, should his fears be realized, and his case is taken into immediate consideration. The agent regards the route of the proposed voyage, and the seas over which the ship is to pass; the season of the year in which she sails, and the storms that are commonly incident thereto; he deliberates on the propriety of insuring, and if the risk be not too great, fixes the premium to be paid by the merchant. Upon the receipt of this sum, he gives him a writing, binding the company in case the vessel does not arrive safely at the destined port, to pay to the merchant the estimated value of the ship and cargo.

Now the sum which the company receives on this occasion is but a small part of what they may be obliged to return, and which they must pay to the merchant in case the ship insured does not arrive at the end of her voyage. Yet by such transactions as these neither the company is impoverished nor by his loss is he who adventures undone. The company is not impoverished, because in the whole extent of its transactions it receives from those who do _not_ lose as much as its funds are diminished by those who _do_. The loser himself is not undone, because by contributing his share, and enabling the company to carry on its mitigating operations, he becomes, upon his loss, entitled to a full portion of relief. And indeed in this manner it happens that loss falleth lightly upon many, rather than heavily upon few; and those who, to the benefit of mankind, would trust their all to be carried down to the sea in ships, are not deterred therefrom by the fear of possible ruin.

When the astronomer, for the convenience of the navigator, in enabling him to ascertain his place upon the trackless ocean, determines what will take place at immense distances from our earth, and calculates at what exact though distant periods of time the satellites that revolve about Jupiter may with the telescope be ascertained to pass through the planet's shadow, his conclusions are all founded on a knowledge of causes, and of their methods of operation. The observations of KEPLER and HERSCHEL, and the sublime reasonings of NEWTON and LAPLACE, founded on fact or on axioms, and tending to pertinent conclusions, are all concerned in these useful calculations. Not so in proceedings like those to which we have referred. There parties act not more from their knowledge of causes than their ignorance of them. Neither the insurer nor the insured knows what favorable winds may waft the ship prosperously on her voyage, nor what tempestuous seas may threaten her with destruction. Did the one know that in the end she would be lost, he would not insure. Did the other know that she would arrive safely at the end of her voyage, he would not desire to be insured. But while the one has hopes and the other fears, yet both are ignorant. They are able, by the judicious exercise of the faculties which GOD has given them, to adopt a course which, without impairing the welfare of the one, shall tend to secure the safety of the other.

The principle which in these cases determines the insurer whether to insure, and if so at what premium, is a principle upon which the pursuit of happiness very often requires us to act. This principle is, that where a case is under consideration where particular causes cannot be taken into account, we are most strongly to expect such an event as has happened or as we know will happen, in the greatest number of possible cases; unless some particular reason appears which we are certain should make us expect a different result. The principle has a deep foundation in the nature of the human mind; and nowhere is the mutual adaptation between the mind and the external world more clearly seen. Properly applied, it teaches man to look for an existence beyond the grave.

For, in the first place, we find it _necessary_ that he should desire immortality. The prospect of annihilation must always strike the mind with horror. By nature it is capable of conceiving, of appreciating and desiring, future as well as present happiness. Its ideas and desires cannot be bounded by a day or a year, but extend onward, without the possibility of arriving at a limit. Whenever therefore the imagination is presented with a termination of enjoyment, however distant in the field of duration it may be, the mind at once starts back with a feeling of present unhappiness.

It is especially the case that this desire will not allow the mind to be consoled for the supposed termination of its existence by the possession of some other enjoyment. The object is something which cannot be supplanted by any other. It is indeed the mind's susceptibility to be gratified by its connection with other objects, which is the foundation of this desire. It desires continued existence in proportion as it feels the loveliness by which it is surrounded, and of the actions which it is invited to perform. It never so much feels the vanity of any pleasure as when that pleasure is about to terminate. Very far then must the possession of other enjoyments be from compensating for the want of this! Nay, so much livelier as is the joy which the present seems to offer, so much severer will be the pang when the mind looks forward to futurity.

The hurry of novelty and the splendor of dazzling objects may induce temporary forgetfulness, but forgetfulness is not consolation; and of little worth must be that freedom from misery which is only in proportion as the mind loses its activity. It is indeed in some degree to run into the very evil we dread, to escape the consciousness of knowing we must be subject to its consequences. Beside, in spite of such means the mind will often be aroused to a more painful remembrance of its mortality. The opiates which for a time may lull, are yet preparing morbid sensibilities to be restless under the oblivious influence, and to awaken at length to a more acute feeling of the pain that has been suppressed. Yet who can believe there is a single faculty in the mind which must ever desire, without rational hope, and whose despair must be without solace?

Of most of the affections which are implanted in the heart of man, we can discover the end and scope by an observation of them in particular. And of these, where do we find one whose nature is to fix itself on an object for whose attainment one cannot rationally hope, and for whose denial he cannot be consoled? If not in possession, the mind commonly cherishes an expectation of obtaining it. If this seem impossible, the desire reverts to something else, upon which it fixes itself while the mind as soon becomes indifferent to the possession of the former. However long, however deeply, any affection may have been fixed, and however well-founded the hope, or well enjoyed the possession, in which it has been cherished, yet the blow which severs it rarely inflicts a wound too deep to be healed. Time gradually soothes; other objects invite; till at length the sigh called forth by Memory is 'pleasant yet mournful to the soul.' Now by what application of these principles of probability are we required to believe that the desire for immortality is an exception to the universality of the rule we have been exhibiting? All other affections, attachments, and desires we find to come within it. Love, filial affection, fondness for glory or wealth, patriotism--all tend to constitute a moral system which should be capable of happiness. If there be an exception to the rule, it is the desire for immortality. But if there _be_ an exception, how does it happen that we find such long-continued uniformity? We are ignorant of any particular difference in the case, which should make it an exception. How then can we doubt?

If desire be fixed on an object for a time unattainable, the faculty of enjoyment is meanwhile increasing in power, and preparing the mind for a livelier relish of what has been withheld. When it is attained, there is also the influence of contrast to enhance the consciousness of enjoyment. Even grief at severest loss, when softened by time, adds a pleasing interest to contemplation. But after what lapse of time shall the mind's horror at annihilation be softened into mournful complacency? What present pleasure, hope being expelled, can be contrasted with former pain produced by the prospect of annihilation, without renewing that pain in the mind? And to what purpose would the power of enjoying the prospect of immortality be increased, if the prospect itself be hid in the blackness of darkness?

III.

If we might imagine the time when all mankind, proceeding on the supposition of the total want of evidence that the soul is immortal, had lost that glorious and animating hope, which is indeed the ground of all others, to what state of despair must we not imagine them to be reduced? What more total overthrow of every principle of action could possibly be conceived? How many things are there in this world which man was made to love? How many actions, how much noble labor, invite men to their performance, offering a full reward? How interesting to the virtuous mind to behold their array! How exciting to its energies, to anticipate the results to which it may attain! There are forests to be removed, fields to be cultivated, marts to be established, cities to be built; roads and artificial rivers are to be constructed, and fleets sent forth upon every sea, to bring together the productions of every handicraft, and the fruits of every clime. While this is going on, the mind is also to be employed in bringing the great agent-power to bear on the whole in the most efficient manner. Earth and air, fire and water, are to be brought in subjection, and made to yield their mighty assistance in the gigantic work which man has to do. The force of gravity and of expansion is to be guided upon engines of wood, of iron, and of polished brass, and these, with strokes and evolutions of wheels, cylinders, and pistons, and with every strong, every gentle, every delicate and complex movement, must be made to imitate the works of men's hands; but with such prodigious force and rapidity, and yet with such nice exactness, as shall infinitely outvie them all. The mind of man itself is to be wrought up to a higher state of perfection. Colleges and other seminaries of learning are to be founded, and books are to be written; the secrets of nature are to be laid open, and pictures of them to be presented to every man's view. The darkness of ignorance and barbarism is to be chased away, and the light of science and virtue to be let in upon the mind. Improvement is continually to be advanced, and humanity is to be raised higher and higher toward that eminence of perfection whose peaks rise one above another, over broader and more extended regions.

This is some of the work which man has to do; and with what delight in the employment of his faculties, and with what gratifying prospects of the ends to be attained, does he address himself to the task! In the glow of his ardor, he encounters difficulties, grapples with burdens, and exults in the exercise of his powers, as he advances in the accomplishment of the 'prize of the high calling' before him. And what is it which encourages him in all this? which is the foundation of his exultation? Strike from his mind the belief in its endless existence, and every thing becomes worthless. How short is the time of action which this world affords, compared with the endless future; how strong the desire to range through that future; and oh! how deep the despair, if that great desire be without hope! Tell me not there are those who disbelieve in any future state of the soul, who yet preserve their cheerfulness and equanimity; who interest themselves in the concerns of life, and are as active as others in its pursuits. Can any experience convince us that these have a source of enjoyment equal to that which blesses his expectation who anticipates a triumph over death? Can a part be equal to the whole, or the finite compared with the infinite? If men have been able to fix their affections alone on that which earth affords, it is not because the things of this world have swelled to the full compass of the soul, but because she has been cast down from her sphere, and her aspirations trampled in the dust.

To the infidel, Nature must wear a repulsive aspect; for _why_ should she create a phantom joy, which must soon vanish for ever? The pleasantness of spring, the voice of early birds, these should be to him the emblems of mourning, the music of a dirge. To him, the sun and stars are but torches, to light him to regions of eternal darkness and silence. GOD in HIS mercy preserve us from a belief such as his!

THE 'RICH POOR MAN:' A FRAGMENT.

NOW whether he be poor or rich, Is one to him--he cares not which; In sweet simplicity he lives, Happy in what the present gives.

AN EVENING HYMN.

BENEATH the star-lit skies, Treading the dew-gemmed sod, I look to Thee, FATHER ALMIGHTY! and these tearful eyes Through mortal shadows would thy glory see!

My spirit long hath bent To earthly idols, while Faith's single eye Gazing upon the treasures thou hast lent, Turns from its goal beyond the glowing sky.

Ingratitude hath chilled Affection's gushing fountain, till it flows Sluggishly onward, like a stream distilled Where blackened rocks and gathered sands oppose.

And Hope renews her flight Only to mourn her desolate return; Since not beyond the veil of mortal night She strives the land of beauty to discern.

And Love hath forged its chain-- A glittering band that dazzles to subdue! The thirsting captives in its lengthened train Turn from the fount of Heaven to earthly dew!

And Thought hath bent its wing From its high journeying, awhile to sit Within its gilded cage; a captive thing, Pleased with the trifles that before it flit.

And from the harp of life Grief hath her wild, discordant measures wrung; She saw death conquer in the fearful strife, And on the air her notes of sadness flung.

Even as the withered flower Looks up for evening's damp, reviving breath, So in this calmly bright and solemn hour My spirit struggles with the bands of death.

From thy resplendent throne Eternal Father! grant one lucid ray Upon the path which I must tread alone, Unless thy smile illume the clouded way.

To thy returning child Bend a propitious ear! Accept my prayer, Through CHRIST the crucified, the undefiled, Whose cry of anguish rent the midnight air.

And now the stars look down With softer glances, and the dew-drops roll With ringing melody from night's pale crown: These are Thy smiles to my awakened soul!

_Boston, Mass._ H. J. W.

THE DOOMED SHIP.

BY ROBERT L. WADE.

THERE was much of bustle and activity, and hurrying to and fro, in the streets of the usually quiet little town of Salem, on a fine October morning, 1740. The sun had not yet risen, but the eastern horizon, in token of its approach, was stained with a faint crimson hue, and a few of the most brilliant gems that deck the firmament were yet burning brightly in the broad expanse above. The morning had long been looked forward to with anxiety. The colonies were yet in their infancy, and every unusual circumstance had a tendency to create excitement; but to us of later times it may seem strange, and perchance cause many a one to smile, when he reads, that all this busy stirring was occasioned by the expected departure of a packet-ship.