animals and plants which people the earth. There is not an insect
hidden in the grass of the fields which has not been described, which
has not had its just place in creation assigned to it; there is not
a blade of grass which has not been reproduced by the pencil of the
naturalist.
Beyond all this, science has penetrated far beyond the reach of our
vision. It has invented a marvellous instrument which has unveiled an
entire world to our astonished gaze, a world whose existence we never
should have suspected without its aid. The world thus revealed to us
is that of infinitely little things. We know that myriads of living
creatures, both animals and plants, exist in a drop of water; that
those creatures, in all their prodigious littleness, have a complete
existence, and are as well organized as those of great size which are
analogous to them, and that the physiological functions of all these
imperceptible beings are fulfilled as perfectly as our own.
Just as we have penetrated into the life of infinite littleness, so we
have pierced the depths of celestial space, and scrutinized with our
eyes the magnified image of the stars which revolve at an incalculable
distance above us. The telescope shows us the surface of the moon, the
depths of its ravines, and the rough serrated edges of its enormous
mountains, furrowed with deep circular crevasses. We can cast our eyes
over the lunar disc as if it were a distant landscape of our own globe.
We can even, thanks to the magnifying powers of the telescope, form an
idea of the aspect of the surfaces of those planets which are almost
lost in the infinite distances of the heavens.
After this faint and incomplete sketch of that which human science has
been able to accomplish, it might be supposed that every inhabitant of
the earth is impatient to make all this knowledge his own, that every
one must desire to fill his mind with its treasures. Alas! the great
majority of the human species is ignorant of even the elements of
all this. Take away the ten millions of individuals, to whom we have
already alluded, and who, numerically, are hardly to be counted in
considering the population of the globe, all people imagine that the
earth is a flat surface which extends to the limits of the horizon, and
is covered with a blue cupola, called _heaven_. If you assert that the
earth revolves, they laugh, and point to the motionless earth, and the
sun which _rises_ on the right hand and _sets_ on the left, a manifest
proof that the sun comes and goes. The poets will have it that the sun
rises from his bed in the morning, and returns to it in the evening.
People believe that the stars which shine by night, in the celestial
vault, are simply ornaments, an agreeable spectacle, made to please our
eyes, and that the moon is a beacon. Nobody inquires into the causes
of the rain or fine weather, of heat or cold, of the winds or the
tides. Every one shuts his eyes to natural phenomena, so as to avoid
the trouble of explaining them. Nature is a shut book for the majority
of mankind, who live in the midst of the most curious and various
phenomena, but who occupy themselves in eating and drinking, and trying
to harm their fellows.
It is a sorrowful spectacle to behold humanity thus preoccupied by
its more material necessities, and utterly without interest in any
mental exertion, and one grieves to think that such is the condition
of almost all the inhabitants of the globe. How far is he superior to
the great mass of his fellows, who has cultivated his mind, enriched
it with various and useful ideas, and appropriated to himself at least
one branch of the varied tree of the exact sciences. What breadth and
power must be acquired by a mind thus fortified! Strive, O my reader,
to study and to learn. Initiate yourself into the secrets of nature,
try to understand all that surrounds you, the universe and its infinite
productions, admire the power of God in learning the wonders of His
works. Then shall you not approach the tomb with your soul void as on
the day of your birth. At the supreme hour of death you will be wise,
instructed, and, finding yourself nearer to the sublime essence of
superhuman beings, you will be eager to follow them into the ethereal
spheres.
In order to elevate and perfect the soul, it is not sufficient only
to apply ourselves to the practice of moral virtues and to learning;
we must also endeavour to understand God, the Author of the universe.
Therefore, let men enter into the temples, and prostrate themselves
before God according to the forms and rites of worship in which they
have been reared. All religions are good, and ought to be respected,
because they permit us to pay the homage of gratitude and heartfelt
submission to the Author of nature.
The Christian religion is good, because it is a religion. The religion
of Mahomet is good, because it is a religion. For the same reason
Buddhism and Judaism are good, and the religion of the wild Indians who
worship the sun in the depths of their forests.
The fourth practical rule which we derive from the principles and
theories which we have laid down, is that the remembrance and
commemoration of the dead should be preserved. Let us not efface from
our hearts the memory of those whom death has snatched from us. To
forget them is to cause them the most cruel anguish, and to deprive
ourselves of the aid and guidance which they can give us here below.
The ancients sedulously kept up the memory of the dead. They did not
put the idea of death away from them with terror, like the modern
peoples; on the contrary, they loved to invoke it. Among the Greeks and
Romans the cemeteries were places of meeting, used for festivals and
promenades. The Orientals of our days preserve this ancient tradition.
Their cemeteries are perfectly kept gardens, whither festive crowds
resort on festal occasions. They visit the relatives and friends who
are buried in the shrubberies and the flower-beds, and revel in the
pleasures of life amid the pretty dwelling-places of the dead.
In Europe we know nothing of this wholesome philosophy. But we may
remark, that peasants, unlike dwellers in cities, who are not brought
into familiar daily contact with nature, are far from shunning the idea
of death, or avoiding the cemeteries where their relatives and friends
rest. They recall the remembrance of their dead, they speak to them,
they question them, they consult them, as though they were still seated
by the family fireside.
The custom of funeral repasts, which dates from the time of primitive
man, is still observed in several countries. On returning from the
cemetery the company seat themselves before a well-spread table, in
the house of the deceased, and wish him a happy journey to the land
of shadows. In our cities, it is "_the people_" who hold it a duty
to carry flowers to the graves of their relatives. Among the higher
classes of society people hold themselves exempt, in general, from
this pious care, and they are wrong. Piety towards the dead, and
reverent commemoration of them, are prescribed by the laws of nature.
Finally, we would impress upon the reader, as a consequence and a
practical rule resulting from all that has gone before, that he ought
not to fear death. Let him regard with firm heart and tranquil eye that
moment which all men dread so much. We have said that death is not a
conclusion, but a change, we do not perish, we are transformed. The
grub which seems to die, enclosed within a cold shell, does not die,
but is born again, a brilliant butterfly, to flutter joyously in the
air. Thus it shall be with us. Though our miserable frames remain on
earth, and restore their elements to the common reservoir of universal
matter, our souls shall not perish. They shall be born again, brilliant
creatures of the celestial ether. They shall leave a world in which
pain and evil are the constant law, for a blessed domain where every
condition of happiness shall be realized. Why, then, should we dread
death? If we do not desire it, we ought at least to await it with
hope and tranquillity. Death must unite us to those beings whom we
have loved, whom we do love, and whom we shall love for ever. What an
immense source of consolation during the remainder of our life! What a
store of courage for the terrible moment of our own end! The beloved
dead, who have never ceased to be present to our memory, have done us
the sad, supreme service of softening the anguish of death to us. The
sadness of our last moments will be calmed by the thought that they
are awaiting our coming, that they are ready to receive us on the
threshold of the other life, that they are gone before to lead us into
the new domain of existence beyond the tomb!
The fear of death, which is so prevalent among men generally, loses
its intensity when the last hour has come. Those who are accustomed to
witness death know that the last agony is rarely severe. He who dies
after a long and honourable existence knows at that solemn moment that
he is going to a new and better world. He is happy, and his words and
looks express happiness. The only thought which makes him sorrowful is
the grief which his loss must occasion to those whom he loves and is
about to leave.
The observations which follow have been made by persons accustomed to
observe the dying. But deaths occasioned by maladies which destroy
consciousness, or reason, or speech, must not be included in these
observations. In order to judge of the thoughts which occupy the dying
we must consider those who preserve the integrity of their intellectual
faculties until their latest breath. They always die calmly.
Consumptive patients, the wounded, those who die from an affection
of the stomach or of the intestinal tube, of those slow fevers which
consume the strength without impairing the intellectual faculties,
these generally remain in the full possession of their intelligence to
the last, and die with great tranquillity, even satisfaction. In almost
all these cases death is preceded by a gradual decline of strength and
sensation, so that the individual has hardly any consciousness of the
change he is about to undergo, and looks forward to the moment of death
with perfect indifference.
There is a period, which frequently lasts for several hours, during
which, life having completely left the body, it is already a corpse
which is under the eyes of the spectators, and yet that corpse still
moves and speaks. But the soul which survives in the body, really dead,
is not the soul of the terrestrial man, but of the superhuman being.
The dying person has the consciousness, and perhaps even the prevision
of the ineffable happiness which awaits him in that new world upon
whose threshold he is standing, and he expresses his happiness by his
words and looks. In a sigh of supreme joy he exhales his last breath.
This extraordinary state, in which the dying are partly on earth,
and partly in the new world to which they are destined, explains the
touching eloquence, the sublime words which sometimes come from their
feeble lips. An uneducated poor man will express himself upon his
death-bed with eloquence incomprehensible to those who are listening
to him. It also explains the prophecies, justified by subsequent
events, which have been uttered by the dying. They have a knowledge of
things of which, in their ordinary condition as belonging to the human
species, they could not possibly have had any notion. Therefore, we
ought to treasure up their last words with pious care, and scrupulously
fulfil the wishes which they express.
In Moldavia, when a peasant has escaped death in a severe illness,
after having been on the brink of the grave, his friends press around
his bed to ask him what he had seen in the other world, and what news
he has for them from their dead relatives. Then the poor invalid
interprets his visions for them as well as he can.
A modern writer, who has left some small books on spiritualist
philosophy, M. Constant Savy, relates in his "_Pensées et
Méditations_," an extraordinary dream which he had when he was,
apparently, at the point of death. We transcribe this curious and
interesting document from M. Pezzani's work:--
"I felt very ill," writes Constant Savy, "I had no strength, it
seemed to me that my life was making efforts to resist death, but
in vain, and that it was about to escape. My soul detached itself
little by little from the matter spread all over my frame; I felt
it retiring from all those parts with which it is so intimately
united, and, as it were, concentrating itself upon one single
point, the heart, and a thousand obscure, cloudy thoughts about my
future life occupied me. Little by little nature faded from before
me, taking irregular and strange forms, I almost lost the faculty
of thinking, I only retained that of feeling, and this feeling was
all love, love of God and of the beings whom I had most cherished
in Him; but I could not manifest this love; my soul, withdrawn to
one single point in my body, had almost ceased to have any relation
with it, and could no longer command it. My soul experienced some
distractions still, caused by the pain of the body, and the grief
of those who surrounded me, but these distractions were slight,
like the pains and the perceptions which caused them. My life was
now attached to matter by one only of the thousand links which had
formerly bound it, and I was about to expire.
"Suddenly, no doubt to mark the passage from this life to the
other, there came a thick darkness, to which succeeded a brilliant
light. Then, O my God! I saw Thy day, that daylight I had so much
desired! I saw them, all assembled together, those beings whom I
had so dearly loved, who had inspired me during my life in this
world after they had left me, and who had seemed to me to dwell
in my soul, or float about me. They were all there, full of joy
and happiness. They were waiting for me, they welcomed me with
delight. It seemed to me that I completed their life and that they
completed mine! But what a difference was there in the happiness I
now felt from the sensations of the world I left! I cannot describe
them! They were penetrating without being impetuous; they were
mild, calm, full, unmixed, and yet they admitted the hope of a yet
greater happiness!
"I did not see Thee, my God! Who can see Thee? But I loved Thee
more than I had loved Thee in this world! I comprehended Thee
better, felt Thee more strongly, the traces of Thee which are
everywhere, and on everything, appeared more plain and bright to
me, I experienced such admiration and astonishment as I had never
hitherto known, I saw more distinctly a portion of the wonders of
Thy creation. The bowels of the earth hid no more secrets from me,
I saw their depths, I saw the insects and other creatures which
dwell in them, the mines known to men, and undiscovered by them,
the secret ways and channels of the earth. I reckoned its age in
its bosom as one counts that of a tree in the heart of its trunk;
I saw all the water-courses which feed the seas; I saw the reflux
of these waters, and it was like the motion of the blood in a man's
body; from the heart to the extremities, from the extremities to
the heart; I saw the depths of the volcanoes; I understood the
motions of the earth and its relations with the stars, and, just
as if the earth had been turned round before my eyes that I might
be made to admire Thy greatness, O my God! I saw all countries
with their various inhabitants, and their different customs, I saw
every variety of my species, and a voice said to me: 'Like thyself,
all these men are the image of the Creator; like thyself, they are
ever journeying towards God, and conscious of their progress!' The
thickness of the forests, the depth of the seas could not hide
anything from my eyes; I had power to see everything, to admire
all, and I was happy in my happiness, in the happiness of the
dear objects of my tender love. Our joys were in common. We felt
ourselves united by our former affections which had now become
much more deep, and by the love of God: we drew happiness from one
and the same source; we were but one, we each and all enjoyed this
happiness, which was far too great to be expressed. I am silent
now, that I may feel it more deeply."[22]
It is easy for us to verify to ourselves the fact that men who
are condemned by nature to a premature death, are endowed with a
great serenity of mind. This moral condition is, in our opinion, an
indication that they have the presentiment or even the anticipated
possession of the new life which awaits them after death. Why are
consumptive people so gentle and sensitive? We believe it is because,
being already half out of this world, they are partially endowed with
the moral attributes of superhuman beings. They are, as it is well
known, always confident in their destinies, they make projects of
happiness, and for the future, when their last hour is striking, they
feel hope and joy when the by-standers are thinking of their burial.
It is customary to explain this anomaly by saying that persons in
consumption do not understand the gravity of their illness, but we
believe that they have, on the contrary, a confused notion of their
state, that nature reveals to them the approach of an existence of
cloudless happiness, and that it is this secret conviction which gives
them hope and confidence in the future. The future which they foresee
is not of this world, but the future of the heavens. This applies not
to consumptive persons only. Every man destined to die young seems
to be marked with that inner stamp of the soul which lends him now a
gentle and charming melancholy, anon vivacity or sensibility which his
parents admire, and which is too often only an indication that he is
not to remain with them. The charming qualities of many young people
are often only the precursors of their death.
"When they have so much intellect, children have brief lives," says
Casimir Delavigne. "Whom the gods love, die young," said the Greeks.
Let us, then, not fear death; but await it, not as the end of our
existence, but as its transformation. Let us learn by the purity of
our life, by our virtues, by the culture of our faculties, by our
knowledge, by the exercise of the religion of our ancestors, to prepare
ourselves for the critical moment of that natural revolution which
shall usher us into a blessed sojourn in the ethereal spheres on the
day after death.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[22] Quoted by M. Pezzani, in his "_Pluralité des Existences de
l'âme_," pp. 261-263.
[Illustration]
EPILOGUE.
IN WHICH WE SEEK FOR GOD, AND IN OUR SEARCH, DESCRIBE THE UNIVERSE.
THE author now asks his reader's leave to relate a conversation which
took place between himself, and a friend named Theophilus, to whom
he had confided the manuscript of "The Day After Death," in order to
obtain his opinion and impressions of the work. He will allow the
interlocutors to express themselves in the ordinary form of dialogue.
_Theophilus_, (who comes into the Author's study, and lays the
manuscript upon the table). I have read your work, and I will tell you
presently my impressions of the details, but I must in the first place
point out the great deficiency of the book.
_The Author._ What is wanting in it?
_Theophilus._ God.
_The Author._ But----
_Theophilus._ (Interrupts him.) You are going to remind me that you
frequently mention the sacred name, that Providence, the Author of
nature, the Creator of the worlds, and so on, are words you constantly
employ. That is true, but it is equally true that you restrict yourself
to these vague expressions, that you say nothing about the person of
God, that you assign to Him no place in the world which you range over
in company with more or less spiritualized souls. Why this reserve?
Since you tell us that entirely spiritualized souls inhabit the sun,
why do you not tell us where your system places God, the sovereign
master of those souls! What is your motive for leaving aside a question
of such great importance?
_The Author._ I have several. In the first place, I have everybody's
motive. The idea of God which must be formed in order to place Him in
harmony with the boundless immensity of this universe which is His
work, so far surpasses the limit of the human intellect, it is so
overwhelming to our mind, that we stop, powerless and even frightened
at our boldness, when we venture to ask ourselves, _what is God?_
_Theophilus._ Nevertheless, I am surprised at your hesitation. When a
system of the universe is to be constructed, one does not pause in the
task, and I can hardly believe that when you venture, as you do, to
place on the ladder-steps of your theory all the elements of the solar
world--the planets and their satellites, stars and asteroïds, plants,
men and animals, creatures visible and invisible, bodies and souls,
matter and spirit--you have not assigned a place to the Creator. Have
you classified everything in this immense edifice of the worlds, except
its Sovereign Architect?
_The Author._ No, my friend, you are not mistaken; God has His place in
my system.
_Theophilus._ Why, then, have you not said so! Why have you kept
silence on this point?
_The Author._ My book contains so many daring assertions, I have
already exposed myself so fully to the animosity of both the learned
and the ignorant, that I feared to furnish an additional pretext to
their diatribes.
_Theophilus._ That is not a reason. If you dread discussion and fear
detraction, why do you take up your pen at all? You were at liberty to
keep your ideas on the origin and the destiny of man to yourself, but,
when you decided on submitting them to the public, you became bound to
explain all your mind on the subject. If you believe in your system,
you must explain it without any reserve.
_The Author._ Your words are wise, and I ought therefore to bow to
them, and follow your imperative advice. Nevertheless I cannot make up
my mind to do so, absolutely. I am going to propose a middle course
to you. In confidence, and between ourselves, I will explain my ideas
about God to you, I will tell you in what part of the immense universe
I place this dazzling personality. If the idea seems to you absurd,
untenable, or even too hazardous, you will frankly tell me so, and thus
duly warned, I will keep my theory to myself; if not----
_Theophilus._ (Interrupting him.) An excellent plan. There can be no
objection to that. Go on, I am listening.
(At this point, Theophilus seats himself, his elbow resting on a
book, and a cigar in his mouth, and composes himself to listen, with
an expression of grave attention, dashed with suspicious severity,
suitable to the arbitrator in a literary and philosophical matter.)
_The Author._ You want to know, my dear Theophilus, where I place God?
I place Him at the centre of the universe, or, I had better say, at
the central focus, which must exist somewhere, of all the stars which
compose the universe, and which, carried along by a common motion,
circulate in concert around this central focus.
_Theophilus._ Forgive me, but I do not seize your meaning exactly.
_The Author._ You will understand it presently. Remember, to start
from, that I place God at the common focus of the actual motion of
the entire universe. But, where is the common focus? In order to know
that, we must first of all know the universe, and all the order of its
movements.
_Theophilus._ All that is explained in the course of your work.
_The Author._ No, my friend, you are mistaken. In my work I have spoken
of the solar system only, and a very incomplete and insufficient idea
would be gained of the universe by contemplating that system alone.
We must not, as is too often done, confound the _world_ and the
_universe_. The _world_ is our world, that is to say, the solar system,
of which we form a part; the _universe_ is the agglomeration of all
the worlds or systems similar to our world, or solar system. In the
manuscript which you have just read, I have only been able to expound
one little corner, one insignificant fraction of the universe.
_Theophilus._ You call the solar world a little corner.