CHAPTER VI

DISHARMONIES IN THE INSTINCT OF SELF-PRESERVATION

The instinct of self-preservation in animals—Man’s instinctive love of

life—Indifference to life during childhood—Buddhist legend on

instinctive self-preservation and the fear of death—Fear of death

treated in literature—Confessions of Tolstoi regarding the fear of

death—Other opinions on the subject—The fear of death an instinctive

phenomenon—Development in man of a love of life—Treatment of the

aged—Murder of old people—Suicide of old men—Absence of harmony

between the love of life and the conditions of human existence—The

part played by the fear of death in religions and systems of

philosophy

It is not to be wondered at that man’s social instinct exhibits so many

imperfections and disharmonies, seeing that it is still in an unsettled

condition, and is a recent acquisition. On the other hand, we should

expect to find that love of life and the instinct of self-preservation

had reached a high degree of harmony, since these have been in process

of development throughout the whole animal series that culminated in

man. Even in the lowest forms of life many contrivances exist for

purposes of protection. Creatures, the bodies of which are merely

microscopic drops of protoplasm, the living material, may be protected

by shells from external influences which threaten their destruction.

Plants protect themselves, sometimes by means of thorns which prevent

them from being eaten, sometimes by secretions either merely irritant in

character or actually poisonous. Among animals the means employed for

self-preservation are even more numerous. Shields and shells, the

secretion of fluids exhaling unpleasant odours, or facilitating escape

by clouding the water, as in the case of the ink of the cuttlefish,

offensive weapons, strong teeth, and many other characters, serve no

other purpose than to protect the individual life. The exposition of

this subject would involve writing a complete treatise on the

comparative anatomy of plants and animals.

Among lower animals the preservation of life is accomplished without

mental connivance, conscious or unconscious. Soon, however, protective

instincts begin to appear. Simple cases of these are flight at the

approach of danger, protection by a covering of slimy froth secreted by

the creatures themselves, or built up from this excreta, or from foreign

matter. Such facts show that the love of life and the instinct of

self-preservation are almost universal in the living world.

All these devices for the avoidance of danger and escape from death

could have been developed in animals before these had any distinct idea

as to what death was. We know that some animals can distinguish between

living and dead prey. Some carnivora recognise the smell of dead bodies.

Those which are accustomed to feed on living creatures refuse all

others, detecting the difference by the absence of movement. As in such

cases the idea of death is imperfect, it is easy to deceive the

creatures by offering carcases artificially set in motion, or living

prey rendered motionless by some means or other. In order to escape from

enemies so readily imposed upon, many insects when alarmed become

motionless and feign death; and that may be regarded as yet another

instance in the category of natural means for the protection of

individual life.

Moreover, the higher animals, such as mammals, exhibit a profound

ignorance of death, many of them remaining completely undisturbed in the

presence of dead companions, or even devouring the latter at the risk of

contracting a fatal disease. Rats, for instance, eat the bodies of rats

which have died of plague, and while appeasing their hunger themselves

contract the disease which they transmit to other animals, particularly

to human beings. Unlike those animals, however, which are indifferent to

the death of their kind, there are others that instinctively shrink at

seeing the dead bodies of their own species. Horses on passing a dead

horse show signs of discomfort, and attempt to run away. Bullocks when

witnessing the slaughter of others also exhibit evidences of distress

and fear. In spite of these examples, however, it is quite certain that

animals, even those highest in the scale of life, are unconscious of the

inevitability of death, and of the ultimate fate of all living things.

This knowledge is a human acquisition.

In man, the instinct of self-preservation is well developed. Hardly

appreciable during infancy, it manifests itself in a marked degree in

young children. At the sight of a human corpse, children become

panic-stricken, as though confronted by a wild beast or snake.

In young adults this instinct of self-preservation, which is closely

connected with an instinctive fear of death, is not fully developed. It

often takes some special circumstance to awaken it, such as a dangerous

illness, an accident, or the perils of war. Young people who while in

good health believe their lives to be in danger, often take it to heart

so as to make themselves really ill. Relating his impressions during the

siege of Sebastopol, Tolstoi, who at that time was only twenty-six years

of age, writes as follows: “Notwithstanding the distractions offered by

various and urgent duties, the instinct of self-preservation, and the

longing to quit this horrible place of death was present in the hearts

of all. This desire was equally strong in all; in those mortally

wounded, and in the volunteer rushing with all his might into the centre

of the fray to open a path for the horse of the general, in the general

himself as he directed and controlled his men. The officer of marines,

in the middle of a battalion in action, crushed so that he could hardly

breathe, felt it equally with the wounded man carried on a stretcher by

four soldiers until, further progress being impossible, he had been set

down just under the Nicolai battery, or the artilleryman who had served

his gun for sixteen years.” In the normal course of life, however, the

young do not show an instinctive clinging to life in any marked degree.

They often risk their lives for trifling reasons, and commit all sorts

of indiscretions hurtful to life or health without a thought of the

consequences. They may be inspired by the highest motives, but they are

equally ready to fritter strength away in the gratification of the

lowest appetites. Youth is the age of disinterested sacrifice, but also

of indulgence in all kinds of excesses, alcoholic, sexual and others.

Youths seem to think that they will always attach the same value to

life, and that between death at thirty years of age and death at sixty,

there is a difference only of time. As their love of life is

indifferently developed, young people are often extremely exacting, the

pleasure they enjoy being but moderate, whilst the suffering provoked in

them by the slightest annoyance is intense. They consequently become

epicureans in the lowest sense of the word, or else abandon themselves

to exaggerated pessimism.

“Edite, bibite, post mortem nulla voluptas” was the motto of German

students, greedy for pleasure, and unknowing that a love of life

develops with age in every human being. On the other hand, in order to

keep the balance between joy and sorrow, youth, true to its instincts,

undervalues the former and exaggerates the latter, thus arriving at a

pessimistic view of life, and declaring that existence is a misfortune

in itself. It is significant that Schopenhauer published his theory of

pessimism at the age of thirty-one. His successor, R. Hartmann, when

twenty-six years old, proclaimed that human existence is an evil which

one should get rid of at all costs. Optimistic theories, on the other

hand, have been set forth either by persons advanced in years or by

persons whom special circumstances have caused to appreciate the joy of

living. As a counterbalance to the pessimism of German philosophers,

Duhring formulated a theory of optimism in his book “Der Wert des

Lebens,” but was himself blind at the time. Sir John Lubbock published

some years ago a book entitled “The Pleasures of Life,” which opens with

the following sentence: “Life is a great gift.” His attitude towards

life is entirely opposed to that of the pessimists, but then he

formulated it at the age of fifty-three.

It has long been recognised that the old attach a higher value to life

than do the young. J. J. Rousseau, for instance, says: “Life becomes

dearer to us as its joys pass away. The old cling to it more closely

than the young.”[132]

This reflection is absolutely correct, and is proved by a number of

facts. I once knew very intimately a scientific man who had passed a

very unhappy youth. Being hypersensitive to pain, he tried to assuage it

by every means in his power. Some trifling annoyance sufficing to throw

him into a state of utter prostration, he was in the habit of resorting

to the aid of narcotics. In order to escape from mental anguish he

inoculated himself with poisons. By the time he had arrived at an

advanced age his hypersensitiveness gave place to feelings much less

acute. He ceased to resent the ills of life so bitterly as he did in his

youth; while he came to appreciate better the positive side of life, and

even in moments of unhappiness he did not contemplate putting an end to

his existence.

In youth he was pessimistic, and insisted upon the preponderance of evil

over good. As he became older, his attitude towards existence became

entirely modified.

I do not say, however, that it is necessary to be old in order to

realise the misfortune of death. “He who pretends to face death without

fear is a liar,” said J. J. Rousseau. “That all men fear to die is the

great law dominating the thinking world, and without which all living

things would soon cease to exist. This fear is a natural impulse, and is

not merely an accident but an important factor in the whole order of

things.”[133]

One often hears people express their indifference to death, but an

examination into their real feelings on the subject soon shows the true

state of affairs. I once happened to be present when a lady, already

well advanced in years, expressed a wish for death, and said that she

had no fear of it whatever. On acquiring a fuller knowledge of her case,

I recognised that she was seriously ill, and that she regarded death as

the only possible termination to her sufferings. As soon as she found

that recovery was possible, she manifested intense delight at the

prospect of a prolonged life freed from incessant pain.

Instinctive love of life, and fear of death, which is only a

manifestation of the former, are of an importance in the study of human

nature impossible to over-estimate; it is therefore necessary to

consider a few instances throwing light upon the subject. Even the

ancients were interested in the problem. The subject is perhaps as well

dealt with in a Buddhist legend as anywhere.[134] “The young Prince

Çakya-Mouni, the founder of the Buddhist faith, being desirous of

discovering the true meaning of life, expressed a wish to leave the

world and devote himself to a religious life. In order to turn him from

his purpose, his father built him a magnificent palace, wherein he could

indulge in every sort of pleasure, and in which he would be protected

from all sorrow. Under this system he never saw old people, nor those

who were diseased, nor the dead. In spite of being thus strictly

guarded, the young prince often contrived to escape into the outer world

in order to drive about. During his first drive, he met a broken-down,

decrepid old man, with varicose veins, decayed teeth, a wrinkled skin,

and grey hair, bent double with age like the roof of a house, leaning

upon a stick; all traces of youth had departed from him, only

inarticulate words came from his throat, his procumbent body resting on

the stick, and his limbs and every part of them trembling.” Having

learnt from his coachman that this was an old man, and that “in all

living creatures age creeps upon youth,” that every one came to it and

that “there was no way out of it,” the prince was so deeply impressed

that he said to his coachman, “What a misfortune to be a weak foolish

person, whose intelligence, blinded by the pride of youth, sees nothing

of old age. Turn round my chariot. I would return. What are games and

pleasures to me whose body is the future dwelling-place of old age?”

Another time Çakya-Mouni met on the road a man consumed by fever, his

body weakened, his breathing difficult. Informed by his coachman that

the man was suffering from disease, the young prince exclaimed; “Health,

then, is a mere dream, and the fear of disease takes a terrible form.

What wise man, having seen such a phase of human existence, could

continue to be gay and happy?” Shortly after Çakya-Mouni went out for

the third time, and “saw a dead man placed on a bier covered by a pall,

surrounded by his relations, all weeping, lamenting, wailing, their hair

disordered, placing dust upon their heads, and beating their breasts.”

The violent emotion produced by the sight of the dead man caused the

prince to say to himself: “Woe to youth threatened with old age! Woe to

health, the prey of every kind of disease! Woe to the life of man which

lasts but a little while! Woe to the attractions of pleasure which

seduce the hearts of the wise.” These reflections of Çakya-Mouni are the

basis upon which Buddhism is founded, and that religious philosophy is

impregnated with pessimistic doctrines relating to human life.

Modern pessimists hold views resembling Buddhism. Schopenhauer from

early youth was engrossed by the great problems of human life. His

mother, in a letter to him[135] reproached him with “grumbling at the

inevitable,” which shows that at twenty-seven years of age he had

revolted against the idea of death. The problem of mortality was one of

those in which he was most deeply interested, and his fear of disease

and death was such that he left Berlin at the first outbreak of cholera

in 1831 (influenced by the death of Hegel, who succumbed to the

disease), and went to live at Frankfort, a town unvisited by the

epidemic. He affirms[136] that “the greatest, and generally speaking the

worst, misfortune that can befall any one is to die, and there is no

fear equal to the fear of death.” It was the impossibility of escape

that suggested to him the idea of a pessimistic philosophy.

The literatures as well as the philosophies of all periods have

dealt with the problem of death. Edmond de Goncourt tells in his

“Journal” how, in conversation with his friends, this question was

always recurring. The following is an account of one of these

conversations:[137] “Our old established dinner of five took place

to-day. Flaubert was missing, so there were only Tourguéneff, Zola,

Daudet, and me. The ethical ennui of some of us, the physical

sufferings of the others, led the conversation to death, which we

discussed until eleven o’clock, sometimes passing to other subjects,

but always coming back to the gloomy topic. Daudet declared that in

his case it was an obsession, _a poisoning of his life_, and that he

never moved into a new house without looking round for the place

where his coffin would come to lie. Zola told us that his mother had

died at Médan, and that, as the staircase proved too narrow, the

coffin had had to be lowered from a window; he declared that he

never looked at that window without wondering who would be taken out

that way next, he or his wife. “Yes,” he said, “ever since that day

death has always been in the background of our thoughts, and very

often during the night, looking at my sleepless wife, I feel that

like me she is thinking of it, and we lie quietly without saying

aloud what is in our minds—for shame, yes, for very shame—_Oh! it is

terrible, that thought—and the terror of it becomes visible!_ There

have been nights when I have leapt suddenly out of bed, and held

myself for a second or two in a state of abject terror.”

Jean Finot[138] was told in confidence by E. de Goncourt that if he

could banish the thought of death from his mind life would be relieved

of an almost intolerable burden. Jean Finot also relates that in the

course of a memorable evening spent with Victor Hugo at the house of the

latter, nearly all of the distinguished persons who were present, when

questioned as to their ideas on the subject of death, frankly admitted

that the thought of it inspired them with fear and sadness. Amongst

modern authors Count Léon Tolstoi has dealt most with the problem of

death. In many of his works whole pages of memorable reflections on the

subject are to be found, but the most harrowing and terrible picture he

ever painted is contained in his “Confessions.”[139] The reader will

pardon my propensity for quoting passages relating to death. He will

recall the account of the Siege of Sebastopol already quoted by me, in

which every one was described as fearing death when faced by danger; but

this fear, as the author was a young man of twenty-six, was not wholly

absorbing.

Shortly before he attained his fiftieth year, Tolstoi became bitterly

tormented by the thought of death. He describes the beginning of this

mental crisis in the following words: “First there came moments of

perplexity, of arrest of vital force, as though I had lost the power of

living and moving; I felt utterly lost, and fell into a state of

complete dejection. This passed away, however, and I continued to live

on as before. Before long the moments of perplexity became more

frequent; the arrest of my living energies was always manifested by a

renewal of the same questions, ‘Why? and What comes after?’”[140] For

some time Tolstoi did not pay much attention to his mental condition,

but by degrees he began to analyse it, and reached the following

conclusion: “The fact is that life is a blind alley. I had lived, worked

and marched onward, and had arrived at the edge of an abyss, and nothing

remained to me but to fall into it. And yet I could neither stop nor

retrace my footsteps, nor shut my eyes in order not to see suffering and

inevitable death. It was a void, a complete annihilation.”[141] “In this

condition I felt that I must cease to live, and, fearing death, I had to

employ various ruses to prevent myself from taking my life.”[142] “I

could attach no reasonable meaning to any action of my life. I was

merely astonished to think I had failed to realise the position from the

beginning. All that, I said to myself, must have been patent to all the

world long ago. If not to-day, then to-morrow, disease and death—they

are already here—will attack elderly persons—me—and there will remain

only corruption and worms. My deeds, whatever they may be, will be

forgotten sooner or later, and I shall be no more. Why then take pains

about anything? How a man can know all this and yet go on living amazes

me. One can only go on living just so long as one is intoxicated with

life; once sober, however, one cannot fail to see what an idiotic fraud

it all is. It is also true that there is nothing even amusing or

intelligent about it; it is simply stupid and cruel and nothing more.”

Seeing no way out of this, Tolstoi turned his reflections on family

love: “My family ... I say to myself ... but then my family, my wife,

and children are also merely human beings! They live under the same

conditions as I myself. They have the choice between living a lie or

facing the horrible truth. Why then should they live at all? Why should

I love, cherish, and protect them? In order that they may experience the

same despair, or that they may go through life like idiots? Loving them,

I cannot conceal the truth from them; every step forward in knowledge

leads to this truth; and the truth is death.”[143] To conclude this

series of quotations, which must have given the reader some idea of the

love of life and the fear of death, I shall give one more example,

taken, not from the pen of a master but from daily life.[144] It refers

to the death in the Christian community of a “minister of God, who was

pious as a S. Francis of Assisi, candid as a young girl, of a rigid

asceticism, and renowned for his charity.” Logically speaking, the death

of such a man should have been peaceful. Had he been a fictitious

character, his author would not have described his death except in the

conventional fashion. This is what really occurred, according to the

letters of an intimate friend of the dying man, who wrote as follows:

“Our poor friend is fighting death inch by inch in a way that is

positively tragic. He who was so full of resignation, so serene, so

perfectly at peace with his own soul, _is terrified by the approach of

death_. It is a _horrible sight_, that moves one to tears. We are

powerless not only to afford him physical relief but to console the

terrible anguish which assails the clear intellect that clings so

desperately to life, and which death will claim while fully alive. ‘I

could still,’ he cried, ‘give a course of lectures on theology or

political economy, and I must die.... It is terrible to be fully

conscious.... How much better it would be if I could not think!... And

what is it that we ask of God? Eternal happiness! It is just as if one

of your workpeople came and asked you for a thousand francs for a day’s

work!’ You would answer him, ‘What nonsense you talk, you must be mad,

my friend!’ _It is hard to die._ I confess to you, my friend, that this

makes one reconsider religion and philosophy.... The goodness of God is

not what we think ... _there is a mystery over us_.... Is death then

truly the King of Terrors for those who have led good lives?”

What is this love of life which makes death so terrible? It is a very

interesting question, and Tolstoi himself has published an essay on “the

fear of death.”[145]

He tries to prove that the feeling arises from a false conception of

life. “Those who fear death,” he says, “fear it because it seems an

empty darkness, but the darkness and emptiness present themselves merely

because they have a false conception of life.”[146] According to Tolstoi

man should have no greater fear of death than of any of the other

changes to which it is subjected by life. “No one is afraid of falling

asleep,” he says, “and yet the phenomena of sleep are like those of

death—there is the same loss of consciousness. Man does not fear sleep,

although the arrest of consciousness is as complete as in death.”[147]

Tolstoi thinks that the fear of death is a superstition, and that it

disappears when we see life as it is.[148]

Tokarsky,[149] another Russian writer, a few years ago published a

treatise on the fear of death, and tried to show how little reason there

was for it. The writer was a physician for the insane, and knew himself

to be afflicted with an incurable and fatal disease. His observations on

the fear of death were probably based on his own feelings. Judging from

the evidence of a number of persons who had been in mortal danger,

Tokarsky declared that death had no terror, and that it was unnecessary

to fear it.

Tokarsky’s theory was supported in recent years by Finot[150] whose

arguments in its favour were similar to those of his predecessor. He

held that man himself created the fear of death, and that the prospect

of an unknown future played a considerable part in it. “Beyond that

which we see,” says Finot, “there is always something that we cannot

see, and it is the invisible that we fear.”[151] The idea that death is

generally attended by pain seems to Finot quite erroneous, and he comes

to the conclusion that “our ignorances and prejudices are responsible

for the creation of this superstition, so terrible to contemplate, so

far removed from the truth.”[152] Instances which have occurred of

people threatened with death and suddenly restored to life, give proofs,

according to Finot, that death, far from being painful, is attended by

pleasant sensations. With regard to this, Heim, a Swiss savant, says

that tourists who have had serious falls while mountaineering, and have

been so near to death that they experienced all the premonitory

symptoms, felt above all a sensation of ecstasy.

It cannot be denied that some forms of death are pleasant, but it is no

less certain that in many other cases, and these too the majority—the

sensation of approaching death is, on the contrary, extremely painful.

This question, however, is not necessarily connected with the fear of

death that may come to those who are not yet about to die. But it is

precisely the latter mode of fear that is so important a factor in human

life. Men who are dying of starvation do not feel painfully hungry at

the moment of death. The actual pain of hunger lasts only for a limited

period, probably, in the case of man, only about twenty hours, after

which it is succeeded by a condition of lassitude and general weakness,

which however is different from painful hunger. The fear of death is

similar, for in certain cases it does not last up to the end of life.

The pain of thirst, on the other hand, is much more persistent, lasting

up to the end.

Finot discussed the instinctiveness of the fear of death. “The

question,” he wrote, “is important. For if the fear be instinctive, it

is independent of our will and not to be controlled by reason. It would

then break out in every case at the approach of death. Now the evidence

of many persons who have no more than escaped mortal danger is clearly

against the view.”[153] Hunger is certainly instinctive, and yet is not

always felt when the body is exhausted by want of food or menaced by

death from starvation.

Closer investigation leaves no doubt but that the fear of death is truly

an instinct. In some of the higher animals it exhibits itself in the

same fashion as other instincts. The intimate friend, whom I have

already mentioned, was for years in constant expectation of death, and

faced its approach with perfect calmness. Believing that he had played

his part in life to the best of his power, not only did he think it

quite natural that he should cease to live, but he regarded the

possibility of a decrepid and painful old age with the greatest possible

repugnance. In his case, neither reason nor desire led to a fear of

death. When, however, it was definitely diagnosed that he suffered from

a disease which might prove fatal, there was aroused in him a certain

sensation which must have been the fear of death. Analysis of Tolstoi’s

statements in his “Confessions” makes it clear that his sensations on

reflecting that he too would cease to be, and that there would be left

only corruption and worms, were no other than the instinctive fear of

death, a fear that his reason was powerless to control. To follow

Tolstoi in telling any one that the fear of death is a form of

superstition which must be subdued by the intelligence, is no better

than to attempt to console a woman about to undergo ovariotomy by

telling her that as in future she will be unable to bear children she

ought to subdue her sexual instincts. She will find out that her desire

is not under control of the will but is a pure instinct.

The fear of death has long been recognised as an instinct.

Schopenhauer,[154] for instance, interpreted it in that way. According

to him, “from the point of view of intelligence there is no ground for

fearing death. Reason, which is the outcome of knowledge, does not

present death to us as an evil. It is certainly not the rational,

conscious part of ourselves which fears death; the _fuga mortis_ which

pervades all living beings is an emanation of the blind will.” This

“blind will” is no other than a pure instinct which is independent of

our rational will.

I need not pursue the subject, but I may recall that Lord Byron came to

the conclusion that the fear of death is an instinctive manifestation of

the soul. In “Cain” he expressed this view sufficiently clearly:—

I live,

But live to die; and living, see nothing

To make death hateful, save an _innate clinging_,

A loathsome, and yet all _invincible_

_Instinct of life_, which I abhor, as I

Despise myself, yet cannot overcome—

And so I live.

Later on in the same poem Byron makes Cain say of his father Adam:—

Ere he plucked

The knowledge, he was ignorant of death.

Alas, I scarcely now know what it is;

And yet I fear it, fear I know not what.

It is then indubitable that among the instincts of man there is one

which loves life and fears death. This instinct develops slowly and

progressively with age. In that respect it is astonishingly different

from other instincts. When hunger or thirst or sexual desire is

gratified a sensation of satisfaction is experienced, and this readily

passes into satiety or even indifference. The mood lasts for a certain

time, and then the instinctive needs reawaken. The instinct of life,

however, behaves very differently. In most human beings it develops

slowly and becomes stronger and stronger as the years pass by. In

childhood and early youth we are very anxious to “grow up,” but when we

are adult we have no desire to grow old. We are greatly disturbed by the

appearance of wrinkles and grey hair. Instead of being glad to have

finished a great part of our mortal career, we feel sad at being nearer

the inevitable end. Old age, as it usually presents itself, is marked by

ugly features, and often by repugnant or even horrible characters.

Little children are usually terrified by the appearance of very old

persons, and it is a familiar nursery threat to send for an old man.

The murder of the aged is a custom widespread amongst the lower races.

The natives of Fiji bury their old men alive, on the pretext that they

have become utterly useless. The custom is in existence throughout

Melanesia, and occurs in New Caledonia and in most of the adjacent

Polynesian islands. Old age is universally despised in that part of the

world. The natives of Australia respect old people so long as they

retain their activity, but once they become unable to take care of

themselves they are abandoned. Often they are killed and eaten, and this

custom is favoured by their religious beliefs.[155] The ancient

inhabitants of Germany, according to the investigations of Grimm,

“killed the old and the sick, and often buried them alive.”

The modern civilised world has certainly made considerable progress. The

old are no longer killed; they are tolerated, and accorded liberty to

commit suicide. In many countries work is often refused to the old on

the plea that they are not strong enough for it, and at the same time

they are refused admission to almshouses on the pretext that they are

not yet old enough. Dealing with the question of the average life and of

the normal life, Paul Bert[156] expressed himself with regard to the

aged as follows: “They deserve congratulations, care and consideration,

_but the prolongation of their lives does not demand any special

solicitude from society_.”

However, in spite of the characters of old age which make it horrible

and useless, and at best no more than to be tolerated, and in spite of

the physical and intellectual weakness that accompany it, the

instinctive love of life is preserved in the aged in its strongest form.

To make quite certain about this I have visited almshouses for the aged,

and it was easy to see that all the inmates hoped that their days might

be prolonged. In a Home occupied by fairly well-educated persons, I

discovered that one and all felt as if they were continually being

threatened by death, as if they were convicts awaiting the day of

execution. At the Salpêtrière, where there are a number of very old

women, septuagenarians are regarded almost as young girls. The great

ambition of women of eighty is to live to one hundred, and the desire to

live is almost universal.

This seems a contradiction of another fact demonstrated by statistics,

that age increases the frequency of suicide. It is certain that more old

men commit suicide than young men, but on careful inquiry into the

statistics of the subject, it becomes evident that the chief incentive

to suicide does not lie in the cessation of the will to live, but in the

difficulties experienced by old people of earning a living, and in the

frequent presence of disease in the aged. Deprived of the means of

existence, refused the shelter of charitable institutions, old men are

apt to fall back upon a rope or the fumes of charcoal. Statistics

relating to the suicide of the aged show that the greatest number of

victims belong to the poorer classes. The suicide of rich old men is

generally prompted by the presence of incurable disease. There is,

however, need for much wider inquiry into the subject. It would be

interesting, for instance, to obtain more detailed information regarding

the motives which urge the old to put an end to themselves. In recent

times the suicide of Max von Pettenkofer aroused public attention. After

a distinguished scientific career, he resigned his post of Professor at

the University of Munich at the age of seventy-six. He went to live a

little way outside the town on a property where he devoted himself to

gardening and other country pursuits. Although a sufferer from diabetes,

his intellect remained unimpaired, but he became a prey to extreme

melancholy, owing to the death of some friends to whom he was greatly

attached. Moreover, during the latter part of his life he suffered from

a septic affection of the neck. This disease, not fatal in itself, was

the indirect cause of Pettenkofer’s death, which occurred by suicide at

the age of eighty-three. The _post-mortem_ examination[157] showed a

fairly well preserved organic system, healthy, with the exception of

chronic inflammation of the membranes of the brain and atheroma of the

cerebral arteries. The circumstances relating to this particular case of

suicide are unusually well known, and yet there are many obscure points

about it which are of the highest importance. The chronic meningitis

from which the aged scientist suffered conclusively precluded the theory

that the motives which led him to commit suicide were prompted by the

phenomena of normal life. On the other hand, instances are not wanting

of old men of good education and refined surroundings who cling

tenaciously to life, even at a much more advanced age than the Munich

professor.

The instinctive love of life resembles the sexual instinct in a great

many women. Just as the love of life goes on increasing when the best of

life is past, sexual pleasure is often unfelt by women until their

beauty is already faded.

Another character common to the love of life and the sexual instinct is

that they both persist throughout old age, although they can no longer

be satisfied.

Edmond de Goncourt relates in his diary that at his réunions of literary

celebrities (Zola, Daudet, and Tourgéneff), the conversation turned most

frequently upon the subjects of love, life and women. “Death or love,

strangely enough,” says Edmond de Goncourt, “are always what we talk

about after dinner.”[158] Old age was even then knocking at the doors of

the distinguished writers mentioned, and so it is quite natural that

their interest should have been wholly absorbed by the two instincts

which exhibit such enigmatic and paradoxical tenacity.

We saw in the preceding chapter how disharmonious is the sexual instinct

which often only develops at, and nearly always persists until, a period

of life when its normal and regular functional activity is no longer

possible. We saw, too, the ill resulting from this disharmony in the

reproductive apparatus. The ill, however, although serious, only amounts

in that case to an inconvenience which can be endured.

Far worse is the disharmony of the instinctive love of life which

manifests itself when death is felt to be near at hand. It is then

incomprehensible and particularly terrible, and humanity, from time

immemorial, has sought the key to the tragic puzzle, and tried by all

the means in its power to unravel the mystery. The religions of all

times have been concerned with the problem. “Religion,” says Guyau,[159]

“consists for the most part of meditation upon death. If we had not to

die there would probably be still more superstitions among men, but

there would probably be no systematised superstitions nor religions.”

Philosophy also has tried to solve the question of death. Some ancient

philosophers held the opinion that philosophy is only a meditation upon

death. Socrates and Cicero[160] have well said that “the life of a

philosopher is a continual meditation upon death.” In our own day

Schopenhauer developed the same theory. “Death,” he said,[161] “is the

real inspiring genius of philosophy.... Without death it is doubtful if

philosophy would exist at all. It is therefore quite natural that a

special essay on Death should preface the last, the most serious, and

the most important of my books.”

Judging from the facts set forth in the last three chapters, there can

be no doubt but that the human constitution, although in many ways

perfect and sublime, exhibits numerous and serious disharmonies, which

are the source of all our troubles. Not being so well adapted to the

conditions of life as orchids are, for example, in the matter of their

fertilisation by the mediation of insects, or the burrowing wasps for

the protection of their young, humanity resembles rather those insects

the instinct of which guides them towards the flame which burns their

wings.

Even at a time when humanity had attained no definite knowledge of

itself, a vague suspicion prevailed as to the existence of disharmonies,

and an effort was made to remedy the evil. The following chapters will

show what man has done with a view to remedying the natural disharmonies

of his constitution.

PART II

ATTEMPTS TO DIMINISH THE ILLS ARISING FROM THE DISHARMONIES OF THE HUMAN

CONSTITUTION

(RELIGIOUS AND PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS)

CHAPTER VII

RELIGIOUS ATTEMPTS TO COMBAT THE ILLS ARISING FROM THE DISHARMONIES OF

THE HUMAN CONSTITUTION

Animism as the foundation of primitive religions—The Jewish religion

in relation to the doctrine of immortality of the soul—The religions

of China—Ancestor-worship in Confucianism—The conception of

immortality in Taoism—The persistence of the soul in the Buddhist

religion—The paradise of the Chinese Buddhists—Ancestors worshipped as

gods—Influence of religious faith on the fear of death—Pessimism of

the doctrine of Buddha—The meaning of Nirvâna—Resignation as preached

by Buddha—Objections to the immortality of the soul—Irritability of

the tissues and cells of the body—Religious hygiene—Religious means of

controlling the reproductive functions and of preventing

diseases—Failure of religions in their attempts to combat the ills

arising from the disharmonies of the human constitution

Humanity did not await the discovery by science of the existence of

disharmonies before trying to find remedies for them. The will to live,

to preserve health, to satisfy the instincts and to make them act in

unison, have driven mankind, in the very earliest days of reflection, to

invent remedies for the imperfection of the human constitution.

I have shown that, even in the case of animals, the instinct as to

choice of food does not save them from certain harmful substances. Man

himself has for long recognised that this instinct of his is no safe

guide, and has tried to discover surer methods of distinguishing between

substances that are useful as foods and substances that may cause

disease or death. The best wisdom of primitive man must have been given

to the observation of the effects of substances which had been eaten,

and to a consequent framing of dietary rules.

The reproductive functions, in the same way, must have attracted the

notice of man in very early times, as he must have found the harm that

came from a blind following of instinctive desire.

Above all other reasons, man must have been impelled by his instinctive

love of life and fear of death to find some way out of his dangerous

situation. To preserve his life, man must have sought wise choice of

food and control of sexuality.

Since the dawn of intelligence, man has tried to judge the unknown from

the analogies given by what he knows best, that is to say, by his own

self. Thus he came to attribute to everything around him qualities like

his own qualities, and motives like his own motives. He came to think

not only that all living beings were possessed of will and intelligence,

but that inanimate things conducted themselves like human beings.

Such a primitive idea is the basis of what Tylor has called “Animism,”

the foundation of the philosophy and religion of savage and civilised

man alike. When a man was seen to die, it was plain that he did not

entirely disappear, but merely became transformed into a new condition.

The dead body was not alive as we are, but, none the less, it was alive

in a fashion of its own. This was the answer to the desire for the

preservation of life, to the fear of death, that is to say, of total

extinction. It is practically identical with faith in immortality and a

future life.

The animistic conception is almost world wide. It is plain that it

afforded the most efficacious palliative for minds revolting against the

inevitability of death, and that it harmonised with our intense will to

live. “Such child-like ignoring of death,” wrote Tylor,[162] “such

child-like make-believe, that the dead can still do as heretofore, may

well have led the savage to bury with his kinsman the weapons, clothes,

and ornaments that he used in life, to try to feed the corpse, to put a

cigar in the mouth of the skull before its final burial, to lay

playthings in the infant’s grave. But one thought beyond would carry

this dim blind fancy into the range of logical reasoning. Granted that

the man is dead, and his soul gone out of him, then the way to provide

that departed soul with food or clothes or weapons is to bury or burn

them with the body.”

It is needless to recapitulate the various animistic customs which were

in vogue among primitive peoples, and which have left marked traces

amongst nearly if not all civilised races. The details may be found in

the works of several authors, notably Tylor, Lubbock, and

Waitz-Gerland.[163] I shall mention only a few, choosing those that seem

most plain. The Turanians of Eastern Asia bury with their dead all sorts

of implements, such as axes and flints, and food, such as meat and

butter, believing that the departed will have need of these during the

long voyage in the land of the spirits. A Tasmanian, on being asked why

spears were buried with the dead, replied, as if the answer were

self-evident, “Of course for the use in combat of him who has fallen

asleep.” The Greenlanders place bows and other weapons in the tombs of

their men, and knives, needles, and other instruments for sewing are

buried with their women, in the full belief that such objects will be

useful in the other world. In the Congo region, the curious custom

exists of leaving a hole in the grave over the mouth of the dead body,

and once a month passing into this hole meat and drink.

Many races are not content to place merely inanimate objects in the

graves. The Caribbeans, believing that the human spirit after death is

carried to the kingdom of dead souls, sacrifice slaves on the tombs of

their chiefs, in order that the latter may be attended in the next

world. With the same object they bury dogs and weapons. The negroes of

the Gold Coast, at the funeral of a great man, kill women and slaves

that he may be provided for in the next world. Moreover, they bury with

him his finest apparel, his gilded fetishes, and corals and pearls, so

that the dead man may continue to make use of them.

Tylor states that such animistic conceptions occur amongst all savages

without exception. According to Herbert Spencer, if we take groups of

the human race, such as tribes, societies, and nations, we find abundant

evidence that all, or nearly all, have a belief, vague or clear, in the

resurrection of a double of the dead man. It has been suggested that the

origin of this widespread belief is the image of the departed that comes

to us in dreams. These images are taken as real visits of the dead.

In civilised races there are numerous relics of the old beliefs. The

Spaniards set bread and wine on the graves of their relatives on the

anniversaries of their deaths. The Bulgarians hold a feast of the dead

on Palm Sunday. They eat and drink well, and then leave the remains of

the banquet on the graves of their relatives that these may consume them

in the night.

Saint-Foix[164] relates that when Bertrand du Guesclin was buried at St.

Denis, in 1389, several horses were sacrificed. The Bishop of Auxerre

first blessed them, laying his hands on their heads, and then they were

killed. At Treves, in 1781, at the burial of General Frederic Casimir,

his horse, according to the custom of the Teutonic Order, was led in

front of the bier, and when the General had been laid in the tomb, the

horse was killed and buried with him.[165]

Although the sacrifice of men and animals is no longer made by civilised

peoples at burials, many funeral customs have an obviously animistic

origin. In Russia, for instance, rice is placed alongside the corpse,

and pine branches are strewed along the way to be traversed by the

procession. The wreaths of “immortelles,” used so largely at funerals by

the modern French, have an extremely ancient origin. They were employed

by the Romans, and probably their use implied a conception of a future

life in a region where plants and flowers grew.

The belief in life after death, so widespread in the world, has been the

foundation of all religions. I cannot follow this question here as

closely as it deserves. To investigate it elaborately would take more

space than this volume affords, and more knowledge than I possess.

However, it is important to my argument to insist that, among races that

have inhabited very different parts of the earth, that have had very

different manners and have passed through different stages of

civilisation, the conviction has been strong that death is not the end

of all, but only a door leading from one kind of existence to another.

Because of the high importance of the existence of this conviction,

however, I must discuss some of the criticisms that have been made as to

its universality.

It has been asserted repeatedly that the idea of a future life was not a

part of the Jewish religion, as formulated in the Bible. Haeckel has

recently repeated a common opinion that belief in the immortality of the

soul was absent from the oldest and purest form of the Jewish religion.

“There is not to be found,” he said, “either in the Pentateuch or in

those more ancient parts of the Old Testament which were written before

the Babylonian captivity, any idea of the persistence of the human

soul.” This is true only within limits. No doubt the books of Moses

contain no reference to a future life nor to heaven and hell in the

sense of modern creeds, but it is no less true that the ancient Jews

shared with other races the conception of a survival after death. “Like

almost all primitive nations,” wrote Renan,[166] “the Hebrews believed

in a kind of double personality, in a shadow pale and thin which, after

death, descended underground and passed a sad and colourless existence

in the sombre halls of the dead. The dead dwelt there, without feeling,

or knowledge, or memory, in a world without light, abandoned by God. At

the most the old Hebrews hoped to obtain for themselves a quiet

resting-place, a pleasant couch for the time when they would be with the

dead. It comforted them to picture themselves as lying amongst their

ancestors in quiet communion.”

Ancestor-worship, which is associated closely with the idea of a future

life, appears repeatedly in the Pentateuch. Jacob, when he felt death

coming upon him, called his son Joseph and said unto him, “Bury me not,

I pray thee, in Egypt; but I will lie with my fathers, and thou shalt

carry me out of Egypt, and bury me in their burying-place.” According to

Chantepie de la Saussaye,[167] “we are coming to recognise more and more

how strongly the children of Israel, and in fact all other peoples, were

tinged with animism and ancestor-worship.”

It is very remarkable how the idea of a future life, which was vague in

the early days of Israel, grew more and more clear. Ezekiel (sixth

century B.C.), when he had “seen the visions of God,” prophesied of

things to come, and declared that God would breathe life into the dry

bones of the dead. The Book of Daniel (second century B.C.) expressed

the same idea in a stronger fashion: “And many of them that sleep in the

dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life and some to

shame and everlasting contempt” (Daniel xii. 2). “It is plain,” said

Renan,[168] after quoting these words, “that Israel had now reached the

last stage in the secular development of her ideas, and had reached the

conception of the kingdom of God, as synonymous with the future world

and the resurrection. As the conception of a soul distinct from the body

was foreign to her, she could not conceive of a future life apart from

resurrection of the body.”

Still later, in the Talmud, the conception of a future life is clothed

with details. Paradise is depicted as a region filled with sweet odours,

while hell is an unclean place, thick with mire and smoke. According to

the Talmud, in the life beyond the grave, “there is neither eating nor

drinking; the good sit there with crowns on their heads and see God in

bliss.”[169]

At the date of the Cabalistic philosophy, the Jews had embraced the

doctrine of transmigration of souls, and had come to believe that the

spirit of Adam had entered David and would pass on to the Messiah. Some

human souls passed into the bodies of animals, into the leaves of trees,

or even into stones.

It is plain that the idea of a future life was a part of the Jewish

religion.

It has been said, also, that the idea of a future life was absent from

the religions of the Chinese. Büchner,[170] for instance, who came to be

almost the official representative of the materialism of the second half

of last century, asserts that “Buddhism, that famous religion, the most

widespread and one of the most ancient, which counts among its followers

nearly a third of the inhabitants of the earth, ignores completely the

immortality of the soul.” Haeckel, also, in the “Riddle of the

Universe,” a volume that sums up the materialism of the end of the last

century, makes a similar statement. “The higher oriental religions

include no belief whatever in the immortality of the soul; it is not

found in Buddhism, the religion that dominates 30 per cent. of the

entire human race; it is not found in the ancient popular religion of

the Chinese, nor in the reformed religion of Confucius which succeeded

it.”[171]

This question demands a somewhat closer investigation. It has been

thoroughly proved that the basis of the ancient religion of the Chinese

was no more than an extreme development of ancestor-worship. Every

important event in family affairs was accomplished “in the presence of

the ancestors.” It was a bond with relatives beyond the grave. As in

other cases of animism and ancestor-worship, meats were offered to the

dead, and objects were buried with them to be of service to them.

According to A. Réville,[172] the Chinese as a whole “fully recognised

the conception of personal survival after death; if there were no other

reason for stating this, it would be enough to point out that offerings

of real food would be incomprehensible, if made to persons supposed to

be non-existent or reduced to complete unconsciousness.” As they offer

to the dead, food and clothing and precious things, it is plain that the

Chinese think of life beyond the grave as not very different from this

life. “The dead maintain their interest in the affairs and persons and

food that was familiar to them.”

As the idea of immortality became developed further, the Chinese

modified their customs. Instead of offering to the dead material

objects, as is still done by many peoples, they came to substitute

emblems. “Houses and clothing and food imitated in paper, and dolls of

paper and straw to represent slaves, are burned, so that the spiritual

forms of these objects may be offered to the spirit they wish to

honour.”[173]

One of the chief motives of ancestor-worship is fear lest the dead, if

neglected, may visit their wrath on the living by sending plagues and

pestilence upon them.[174]

The worship of the dead had laid hold of the Chinese so firmly that even

Confucius, notwithstanding his intelligence and scepticism, paid it a

large tribute. “Confucius the philosopher,” said Réville, “regarded it

as a duty to offer to his ancestors the gifts of food that princes had

sent to him desiring to honour him.”[175]

Confucius and his followers were reticent and ambiguous in their

references to a future life, but that attitude did not prevent them from

“observing the customs and ceremonies as carefully as if they had had a

confident faith in the immortality of the soul.”[176] Although Lao-tseu

himself believed neither in heaven nor hell, and professed the most

rationalistic views, his disciples none the less accepted the doctrine

of immortality, and even came to believe in rewards and punishments

after death.

The followers of Lao-tseu, the Taoists, devoted themselves specially to

the problem of immortality. They made efforts to discover an elixir that

would be capable of prolonging earthly life to eternity. “One of the

chief claims of Taoism,” wrote Réville, “was the possession of a

specific against death. It was true that they admitted this to be not

only very difficult to obtain, but still more difficult to employ.

However, if certain rules were observed strictly they were at least

confident of great prolongation of life. It was only the very few

Taoists who had reached perfection who could hope to pass into the

better world without being subjected to the pains of death.”[177] “And

so some of the masters of Taoism, such, for instance, as Chang-Tao-Ling,

ascended to heaven without dying, by climbing a lofty peak and vanishing

into the skies.”[178]

The ordinary Taoists accepted fully the idea of immortality. They

“taught the doctrine of purgatory for those who were not evil. To arrive

at this, Lao-tseu simply expanded and applied to mankind generally an

idea that was already familiar to him, the conception of the

transmigration of one soul through several successive bodies. By means

of such expiatory transformations, a man who had not reached it directly

through the holiness of his life, could attain the immortality of genii

and the blessed.”[179]

It was believed for long that the Taoists, following the teaching of

their master, did not recognise a hell. But this opinion has had to be

abandoned, because the “Taoist clergy have provided, in the temples

dedicated to the tutelary deities of their cities, paintings

illustrating the torments prepared for the guilty by the ten courts of

justice that sit in the depths of an ocean hidden in the interior of the

earth.”[180]

Clearly then, many Chinese, both Taoists and followers of Confucius,

believe in the existence of a world beyond the grave. However, the

denial of immortality has been ascribed to Buddhists in particular.

Buddha accepted the Brahmanist doctrine of transmigration of the soul.

This has been established clearly on the evidence of several documents

of admitted authenticity. Orthodox Buddhism is somewhat vague on the

immortality of the soul. Buddha himself avoided making a decisive

statement on this matter. In such circumstances “those who were

terrified at annihilation, and who could not give up the hope of eternal

happiness, interpreted the silence of Buddha according to their own

desire, and inferred that he did not forbid them to hope.”[181]

There are many instances of the evasions of Buddhist teachers when they

were pressed with this disturbing question. Pasénadi, the king, once met

Khémâ, the nun, a disciple of Buddha, renowned for her wisdom. The king

put to her the following question: “Does the Perfect One (Buddha) exist

after death?” “The Sublime One, O great king, has not revealed to us the

existence of paradise beyond the grave.” “Then the Perfect One exists no

longer now that he is dead, O reverend lady?” “Neither, O king, has the

Sublime One revealed that He who is perfect does not exist now that He

is dead.” “Am I to believe, then, O reverend lady, that the Perfect One

still lives, although He is dead, and at the same time does not live? Am

I to believe, O wise lady, that the Perfect One being dead, neither

exists nor does not exist?”[182]

Take again the mode in which Soumirmitá,[183] “the son of a god, and

surrounded and preceded by a crowd of gods,” worshipped Bouddha

(Tathâgata): “Thou art the physician, skilful to save, and who givest

the gift of life everlasting.”

The Buddhists, as they were not given clear doctrines on this subject,

very naturally followed their inclinations by accepting the idea of life

beyond the grave. And certainly Buddhism does not teach annihilation of

the body after death, although this has been lightly taken for granted.

On the contrary, it is so persuaded of survival after death as being the

rule, that it grants only to rare and elect souls the privilege of at

length laying down the burden of continuous life.[184]

The Chinese Buddhists retained the fundamental conceptions of the

ancient religion of their land and continued to worship their ancestors

and to seek the readiest path to immortality. They soon came to

transform Nirvâna into paradise, and to inculcate in the Chinese race

the doctrine of future rewards and punishments. “The Buddhist

monasteries in China for the most part possessed a set of little rooms,

in which there were depicted, in vivid colours, crowded scenes from the

eighteen hells of tribulation and lamentation. For there exist under the

earth eight hells filled with the torments of fire, and ten with the

equally terrible horrors of ice.”[185]

The paradise of the Chinese Buddhists, or Ni-pan (Land of the Pure), is

a region abounding in “gold and silver, and precious stones. Rivers of

crystal run on golden sands covered with splendid lotus-flowers and

traversed by delightful paths. Lovely music is always to be heard. Three

times a day a shower of blossoms falls. There are to be seen there

gorgeous birds, pheasants, and parrots, and many others; and these,

every quarter of an hour, in a choir of melodious voices, trill out the

beauties of religion and recall to their hearers the Buddha, Dharma, and

Sungha. These are some of the wonders prepared for those who are born

again after death. Into that land neither sin nor any evil enters.”[186]

I need no longer accumulate details to show the falseness of the view

that a third of humanity profess materialism to the exclusion of any

belief in survival after death. On the other hand, it is quite certain

that the vast majority of mankind is convinced that death puts no

definite term to existence, and that this life is no more than a passing

stage leading to a life to come. However, although many simple races

believe that the future life is merely a continuation of this life, the

more subtle-minded races present the future life as filled with delights

for the good and with torments for the wicked.

Such an idea of the next world, which is very generally accepted, is

probably the basis of religions. From it have come the conceptions of

supreme beings and divinities Many facts go to show that the primitive

gods were no other than the relatives and ancestors of the living, now

dead, yet living in another world and ruling the affairs of this world.

Wicked ancestors became transformed into evil spirits, while good

ancestors became mild and benevolent deities.

Very many peoples offer prayers to their ancestors and treat them as

gods. The Kaffirs pray and sacrifice to their dead relatives, believing

that the spirits of the dead haunt their late dwelling-places, and,

according to their characters, help or torment their descendants. As

they are able to cause good or evil after death, these play the part of

gods. But, as Lubbock points out (“Origin of Civilisation”), it must be

remembered that the god of a savage is only a being like unto himself,

although probably rather more powerful, and I shall show that there are

many intermediate stages between true gods and mere dead parents whose

malice is to be feared, or whose kindness is to be supplicated.

The North American Indians[187] pray to the spirits of their

forefathers for good weather or luck in hunting, and fancy when an

Indian falls into the fire that the ancestral spirits pushed him in to

punish neglect of the customary gifts, while the natives of Louisiana

are said to have even gone so far as to build temples for dead men. In

Polynesia “at Tanna, the gods are spirits of departed ancestors, aged

chiefs becoming deities after death, presiding over the growth of yams

and fruit-trees, and receiving from the islanders prayer and offerings

of first fruits.”[188] In the Malay Islands “the souls of deceased

ancestors are looked to for prosperity in life and help in distress.”

In Africa ancestor-worship is well developed. The Zulu warriors,

“aided by the amatongo,’ the spirits of their ancestors, conquer in

the battle. Even the little children and old women, of small account

in life, become at death spirits having much power, the infants for

kindness, the crones for malice. But it is especially the head of each

family who receives the worship of his kin.”[189] The Zulu adores his

father, when he is a chief, above all others, and is convinced that a

father remembering his love for his children, will not forget them

when he is dead. “The Zulu follows up the doctrine of divine ancestors

till he reaches a first ancestor of man and creator of the world, the

primeval Unkulunkulu.”[190]

So great is the number of instances that it is too difficult to choose

from them. The fundamental idea is always identical, although details

and accessories vary, as one passes from the hardly idealised relatives

of negro tribes and goes progressively to the “Father Almighty, Maker of

heaven and earth” of the Nicene Creed.

The conception of a future life in the form of immortality or some

kindred state, associated with the conception of many gods or of one

God, has been developed to satisfy the craving for life and to combat

the fear of death, that is to say, to defeat the greatest contradiction

in the constitution of man. I must now inquire how far the different

religions have been successful in this object.

Many primitive races have absolute faith in the tenets of their

religion, and believe in the promise of life beyond the grave as in a

certain fact. Thus the aborigines of the Fiji islands are convinced that

they will be born again, in another world, in the exact condition in

which they leave this life; and so they wish to die before being

afflicted with any infirmity. As it is very difficult to reach old age

without being the victim of some illness or infirmity, when a man feels

the approach of age, he tells his children that the time has come for

him to die. If he himself fails to give this notice, the children

undertake the duty. A family council is called, the day is appointed,

and the grave made ready. The old man is allowed to choose between being

strangled and being buried alive. The following instance will show the

strength of a belief in life to come. Hunt, an English traveller, quoted

by Lubbock, received a visit from a young native of Fiji, whose purpose

was to give an invitation to the funeral of his mother which was to take

place next day. Mr. Hunt accepted the invitation and joined the

procession, but as he was surprised to see no dead body, inquired about

it from the son. The son pointed out his mother, walking in the

procession and as gay and animated as any of the others. Mr. Hunt stated

his surprise, and asked why he had been deceived by being told that the

mother was dead, when she was plainly as much alive and as well as any

one else. He received the reply that the death festival was about to be

celebrated; that presently they would bury her; that she was old, and

that his brother and he, thinking that she had lived long enough, and

should be put to death, had obtained her cheerful consent.

This case is far from being solitary, because many villages have been

described as containing no inhabitants of a greater age than forty

years, all those older having been buried. It is not difficult to

understand that death should have no terrors for persons possessed of a

faith as strong as this. The American Indian, according to Lubbock, has

very little fear of death. He does not fear transference to a realm in

which, as he has been told all his life, there is no sorrow and

abundance of joy.

I know a case of a young girl of the Catholic faith who believed so

firmly in the joys of Paradise that, when stricken with a mortal

illness, she awaited death with a great impatience. Before she died, she

cried out that “already she could see the beautiful flowers and hear the

sweet music of the birds that fill heaven.”

But it is rare to find faith so strong in such a case. More often faith

is not strong enough to subdue the fear of death, and in proof of this I

may recall the instance of the clergyman already given.[191] Stricken

with an incurable disease, he, in spite of his religion, underwent

extreme agony, and could not reconcile himself to the idea of death. The

fear of death showed itself so strongly in this case that I have chosen

it as a characteristic instance of the feeling.

It is only with fanatics and simple or primitive persons that blind

faith can subdue this instinctive fear. For this reason, since the most

ancient times, religions have sought out something more than the promise

of paradise to mitigate this chief disharmony of our nature. In this

connection the doctrines of Buddha are those most interesting. Here I

shall not deal with that modified and transformed Buddhism, in which, as

I have already shown, there was a return to the doctrine of future life,

with its hell of torments and heaven filled with delights.

Buddha made no reference to the great blot on human life. His doctrine,

in its original form, was extremely pessimistic. Take, for instance,

some of his sayings on this subject: “Miserable in truth is this world,

in which there is beginning, birth, growing old, death, disappearance

and renewal. But we know not how to escape from this world, full of

horror though it be. Alas, because of old age, illness, death, and their

like, we know not who shall put an end to this world, which is so full

of horror. To all who are, there comes old age, and illness, and death,

and their like.”[192]

When the Buddha came upon the sorrows of the world, as I have already

described (p. 119), he reflected as follows: “Woe upon youth, threatened

by old age! Woe upon health, which so many maladies destroy! Woe upon

the life of man, which lasts but a little space! Woe on the temptations

of the flesh, which lure the heart of the wise! Would that there were

neither old age nor illness, nor death and the pains of death, which

come from the five elements of life (Skandhas)! Would that there were

neither old age nor illness nor death, which are for ever bound up

together! Nevertheless, when I return again I shall consider

deliverance.”[193]

Having pondered for many days on these problems, Buddha thought that he

had discovered the only solution, and taught men resignation. When a man

was young he would ask of his father: “Lord, would that old age would

never come upon me, and that I should keep for ever the warm colour of

my youth; that I should be always filled with health, and that no

disease should come near me; that my life should be prolonged for ever,

and that death should pass me by! Such an one later on must learn to

give up these longings.”[194]

In his famous “Sermon at Benares,” Buddha gave in brief the outlines of

his doctrines in the following words: “Hear, oh monks! the holy truth of

the springs of sorrow! Sorrow is born of lust of life, that drags us

from incarnation to incarnation, and of pleasure and desire, which seek

their fulfilment hither and thither; the lust of pleasure, the lust of

life, the lust of power. Hear, oh monks! the holy truth of the conquest

of sorrow; it is the killing of this lust by the utter abandonment of

desire, the giving up of all desire, the forgetting of all desire, the

freeing of the body of all desire, until there is no place left for

desire.”[195]

In such a spirit of resignation, Buddha became himself a monk, and lived

according to the strict rules of the pure life that he himself had laid

down (“the belief pure, the will pure, the language pure, the deeds

pure, the means of livelihood pure, the study pure, the attention pure,

the meditation pure”). However, he did not find many kindred souls to

follow the same precepts. Buddhism soon moved away from these original

tenets, and became a religious doctrine of the ordinary kind.

We are inclined to associate with Buddhism the doctrine of Nirvâna, as

if the latter were the goal to which human life should be directed. Many

philosophers, and the pessimists chief among them, naturally with

Schopenhauer at their head, have adopted Nirvâna as the goal of mankind,

as they see the world. However, the word Nirvâna has had many

interpretations put upon it, the which is less surprising as Sanscrit

scholars differ. I do not intend to join in the discussion, as I myself

am not acquainted with Sanscrit, upon which the argument must be

founded. However, I cannot pass it by without comment on the pretext

that it has not yet been settled definitely by specialists, as it is the

case that many thinkers regard Nirvâna as the goal of human existence.

For long Nirvâna was represented as a sort of blank, in which there was

no display of any mental operations. Max Müller,[196] the celebrated

Oxford professor, opposed this interpretation on the ground that,

according to him, in “all passages of Buddhistic origin in which Nirvâna

occurs there is nothing to betoken annihilation. Most of these passages,

if not all of them, would be quite unintelligible if we were to replace

in them the word Nirvâna by the word annihilation.”

Many other specialists share this view, and cannot agree that the goal

of human life was to be annihilation. Rhys Davids, for instance, thinks

that Nirvâna is to be interpreted as a tranquillity of the soul,

possible of achievement in this life, and that the word is best

translated by the term “sanctity.” According to him, Nirvâna does not

mean extinction or annihilation, but rather freedom from the great

passions, such as envy and hate. Pfungst[197] agrees with Max Müller; he

is convinced that the first adepts of Buddha could not have conceived of

Nirvâna as extinction. Dahlmann[198] on the other hand, tries to prove

that Nirvâna in its primitive signification implied the abolition of the

will to live, and really corresponded to annihilation.

I must add, however, that Nirvâna did not occupy a place in Buddhism so

important as has been ascribed to it by several commentators. In many of

the Buddhist authorities mention of Nirvâna is only accidental. In the

“Lalita Vistara,” for instance, the word occurs very seldom, and then

only in unimportant connections. However, the latter document contains a

good deal that serves to explain the conception of Nirvâna.

When the young Buddha, still very exacting, asked his father to obtain

for him perpetual youth, health, life everlasting, and freedom from

death, he added the following words: “Lord, if you cannot give me these

four gifts, at least bring it about that after this life I shall have no

more metempsychoses.”[199]

As I have already stated, Buddhism had embraced the Brahmanistic

doctrine of transmigration of souls. According to the legend, before his

birth as a prince, the Buddha had passed hundreds of earlier existences.

His soul had been the soul not only of fifty-eight kings, but of

eighteen monkeys, four horses, four snakes, three lizards, two fish, and

of other creatures.[200] Such continual transferences of the soul to so

many different animals was a source of perplexity and sorrow to

believers. It was natural that a great thinker like Buddha should have

conceived the desire of sparing himself and his faithful followers so

many transmigrations. He thought of these rebirths as a great evil, from

which a pure life might set one free.

In the poetical language of the Hindoo Buddhists, metempsychosis was

compared to the ocean; the waves that change from moment to moment were

the continual rebirths; our temporary body was the foam of the crests of

the waves, while Nirvâna was the opposite shore. He who reaches Nirvâna

would never again plunge into the great sea of Sangsâra. In a passage

quoted by Rhys Davids, and ascribed to Kâma Sutta, it is stated

expressly that “the sea is an image of the Sangsâra or transmigrations,

while Nirvâna is an island upon it. Once the shores have been reached, a

soul will no longer be plunged in the waves of the ocean, and will be

freed from the successive births of metempsychosis.”

In other words, to avoid being tormented after death by perpetual

rebirths, some of which may be humiliating, it is necessary to live a

pure life and so to secure repose or Nirvâna. Nirvâna is by no means the

cessation of all consciousness, but merely the end of transmigrations.

From such a point of view, it is possible to interpret all, or at least

nearly all, the passages in which Nirvâna is spoken of.

When he was old and full of disease and afflicted with grievous pain,

Buddha, being at the point of death, thought of his disciples and called

them to him and said: “It is not meet that I should enter Nirvâna

without having spoken with those who have cared for me, without speaking

to the community of disciples. By the force of my will I shall subdue

this disease and hold the life within me.” Some time afterwards, the

reverend Ananda went to Buddha and spoke to him, saying amongst other

words as follows: “The Sublime One will surely not enter into Nirvâna

ere he has made known unto the community of disciples his wishes

regarding them.” “Growing more and more feeble, the spirit of Buddha

passed from ecstacy to ecstacy without ceasing, and knew every delight;

then he entered into Nirvâna. And the earth trembled, and thunder rolled

across the skies.”[201]

It is clear that in this passage Nirvâna was associated with death. But

it was with the death of a saint who had lived a pure life.

Metempsychosis would not be inflicted on him, and he would enjoy repose.

It is probable that the term Nirvâna later on came to be applied to the

state of mind of a saint who, by living the pure life, would avoid

transmigration after death.

As the importance of Nirvâna lies in its contrast with metempsychosis,

it is easy to see why the precise state of mind involved in it has not

been described exactly. However, a survey of the Buddhistic writings

makes it plain that at least Nirvâna was not associated with

annihilation. In this respect Max Müller’s verdict must be taken as

correct.

Buddha’s attempt to remedy the ills of human life, then, lay in a

complete renunciation of all the joys and pleasures of life, and in

perfect resignation. The mere fact that primitive Buddhism did not

persist, but rapidly passed into an ordinary religion, is sufficient

proof that Buddha did not achieve his purpose. It was the promise of a

life to come that attracted so many men and spread Buddhism over so

large a part of the earth. However, this faith has been able to maintain

itself only in certain strata of society to which the rationalistic

conception of the mental processes has not penetrated. Since the

awakening of the scientific spirit in Europe, it has been recognised

that the promise of a future life has no basis of fact to support it.

The modern study of the functions of the mind has shown beyond all

question that these are dependent on the functions of the body, in

particular of those of the central nervous system. A slight lowering of

the rate of the circulation of the blood, a fleeting anæmia of the

brain, at once arrests consciousness, that is to say, the fundamental

sensation of the individual mental life. Anæsthetics, used in doses so

small that they do not influence certain parts of the nervous system,

as, for instance, those that control the heart and lungs, completely

abolish consciousness. Persons who are put under chloroform for surgical

purposes fall into a state of absolute unconsciousness. Sometimes, after

undergoing painful sensations, especially sensations of oppression, the

patients imagine themselves to be in rapid motion, and in a few moments

have the sensation of falling into an immense gulf, after which comes

nothingness, the annihilation of sensations and of consciousness. In

other cases, patients, without any sensation of catastrophe, lose all

idea of reality, and every psychic and sensorial function is abolished.

Such states are very closely similar to death, which indeed is the

result, in certain rare instances, of the ordinary process of being

chloroformed.

Neither the narcosis produced by chloroform nor that produced by any

other form of anæsthetic, affords any particle of ground for the view

that there is consciousness in any form apart from the body. The action

of morphine sometimes brings about a strange current of happiness and an

apparent weightlessness of the body; but here again there is no

suspicion given as to the existence of any mental phenomena apart from

the body.

Consciousness of personality is of supreme interest from the point of

view of personal immortality, and this mental phenomenon develops only

slowly and progressively in an infant. This fact, again, like the facts

of narcosis, shows the dependence of consciousness on the action of the

bodily organs. Just as our consciousness comes out of nothing in the

first months, or years, of our life, so it will pass into nothing at the

end of our life.

Mental disease confirms this conclusion, and it, too, gives no ground

for the belief in a survival of the mind after death.

Certain internal sensibilities in the depths of our organism survive our

personal consciousness. When the heart has ceased to beat, and when the

anæmic brain is certainly incapable of personal consciousness, some

portions of the body may still retain vitality. The muscular fibres are

still able to contract when they are stimulated, and the white

corpuscles of the blood can still exhibit their specific movements. It

is certain, moreover, that these white corpuscles possess a specific

sensibility, and, by a sort of sense of taste, respond to the kind of

environment that surrounds them. Our consciousness, however, is

absolutely out of touch with the sensations of these globules, which,

however, none the less are part of our organism. It happens, therefore,

that in certain diseases, the white corpuscles, stimulated by the

presence of particular substances, perform extensive movements of

migration within our bodies. Such migration is quite outside the sphere

of consciousness. The corpuscles, directed by their sensibility, are in

constant pursuit of microbes that have entered the body, and yet these

actions, too, are not made known to our consciousness. In the same

fashion, the thousands of active spermatozoa in the male organs and the

ova in the female possess specific sensibility. These reproductive

elements contain the germ of individual consciousness, but it is not

until they have developed into the new generation that it is possible to

impute to them individual consciousness, and the organism that shelters

them has no idea of what it harbours. The sensibility of the white

corpuscles and of the many other cells composing our body, although

certainly a reality, has no part in the absolutely special sensation

that we call individual consciousness, and which is all we think of in

wishing to escape death.

The idea of a future life is supported by not a single fact, while there

is much evidence against it. The phenomenon of intercommunication across

a distance, sometimes called telepathy, may be actual, but affords no

support to the conception of the existence of souls apart from bodies.

It may be that emanations are given off by certain organs, and that

these are capable of being appreciated by the organs of another body at

a distance; but, even if such were the case, we should have to deal

simply with other bodily functions. Moreover, the supposed phenomena

that fall within this category are so rare, so difficult to observe, and

so obscure, that no certain argument for the continuance of existence

after death can be deduced from them.

It is easy to see why the advance of knowledge has diminished the number

of believers in the persistence of consciousness after death, and that

complete annihilation at death is the conception accepted by the vast

majority of enlightened persons.

Apart from their chief function of consoling men for the inevitability

of death, religions have concerned themselves with some of the results

of other disharmonies of the human constitution. From time immemorial

they have claimed the direction of diet, the control of the reproductive

functions and the prevention or cure of all kinds of disease.

The dietary regulations given by the religions are familiar. Even at the

present day, the cookery of many races is regulated by their religion.

The Jewish diet, notably, is regulated by the Mosaic law, down to the

most minute detail. For instance, it was forbidden to eat the blood of

animals. Moses commanded: “Notwithstanding, thou mayest kill and eat

flesh in all thy gates, whatsoever thy soul lusteth after, according to

the blessing of the Lord thy God, which he hath given thee; the unclean

and the clean may eat thereof, as of the roebuck, and as of the hart.

Only ye shall not eat the blood; ye shall pour it on the earth as

water.”[202] Later on: “Only be sure that thou eat not the blood; for

the blood is the life; and thou mayest not eat the life with the

flesh.”[203] “Thou shalt not eat it, that it may go well with thee, and

with thy children after thee, when thou shalt do that which is right in

the sight of the Lord.”[204] The Books of Moses also contain receipts

for the cooking of certain meats. “Eat not of it raw, nor sodden at all

with water, but roast with fire, his head with his legs, and with the

purtenance thereof.”[205]

It has been suggested that these rules were founded on ideas of hygiene

in consonance with the results of modern science. Some of them, it is

true, such as the prohibition of uncooked or partially cooked meat, are

confirmed by our modern knowledge. But the greater number of the Mosaic

rules, as, for instance, the prohibition of the consumption as food of

blood or the flesh of pigs or hares and so forth, are in direct

opposition to a modern knowledge of hygienic diet. Religious cookery has

no more than a historical interest.

The religions have been greatly occupied with the functions of the

reproductive organs. Most of the founders of the great faiths have paid

a keen attention to the disharmonies of this side of our constitution.

They became persuaded of the merit of abstention, which they practised

themselves and preached to others. Buddha, after devoting his youth to

all the pleasures and not being satisfied, passed to absolute

asceticism. He and his adepts formed an order of monkhood, on which an

absolute celibacy was imposed. If a member of the order had intercourse

with a woman, he was considered to be as guilty as a murderer or a

thief. In the Buddhist rules framed even for laymen, “sexual intercourse

outside marriage was forbidden, on the ground that it was

degrading.”[206]

The views of the Christian religion on sexual matters are well known.

The leaders of Christianity abstained from sexual intercourse and

recommended their conduct to others. St. Paul more than once affirmed

his own continence. “For I would that all men were even as I myself; but

every man hath his proper gift of God, one after this manner, and

another after that. I say therefore, to the unmarried and widows, It is

good for them if they abide even as I; but if they cannot contain, let

them marry, for it is better to marry than to burn.”[207]

The religions of savage races are equally concerned with the

reproductive functions. There are many extremely strange facts known

concerning this matter, and among such I may mention that the Sandwich

Islanders have a deity who presides at abortions. This god is made in

the form of an elongated wooden instrument, and is known as “Kapo.” The

upper part of the deity is shaped into a grotesque head, while the lower

portion terminates in a point and serves to induce abortion by entering

the uterus and rupturing the fœtal membranes.[208]

Many other idols are used by savages as protections against disease.

Ploss-Bartels,[209] in his treatise on “Medicine among Primitive Races,”

has described a large collection of talismans of this kind. The ruling

idea in the manufacture of these is that diseases are due to the

presence of evil spirits, who are to be scared away as soon as possible.

The Goldi of Siberia construct straw or wooden figures of men and

animals to absorb the spirits of diseases. The Guilaks make wooden human

figures, on the breasts of which are fashioned images of toads. These

talismans are used as remedies for diseases of the chest and stomach.

In higher forms of religion there remain abundant traces of such

notions. Even Martin Luther declared that disease was supernatural in

origin. “Behold a matter on which there is no room for doubt,” he

stated, “and that is that the plague, fevers, and other diseases are the

work of the devil.” A number of religious ceremonies were specified as

the best remedies for diseases.

The plague has left many deep marks on human history, and it is natural

that a malady so terrible should have attracted serious attention. It

was usually attributed to divine wrath, which was to be appeased by

purification and sacrifice. Human beings were slain on altars to appease

the wrath of God and to lessen the mortality from plague.

Such religious customs have disappeared almost completely with the

advancing culture of man, but traces of them survive and become apparent

on occasions. Quite recently, when the King of England, Edward VII., was

afflicted with an abdominal suppuration, he was given the assistance of

the most highly skilled modern surgery, but at the same time special

services were held in the churches to aid the cure of the royal invalid.

Every one has now come to regard such events as mere relics of old

customs without intrinsic importance. Hygiene in the kitchen and the

prevention of disease are no longer under the control of religion, but

are regulated on scientific knowledge obtained by the experimental

method. I need pay no further attention to these matters. However,

religion is still occupied with the problem of death. The solutions

which as yet it has offered cannot be regarded as satisfactory. A future

life has no single argument to support it, and the non-existence of life

after death is in consonance with the whole range of human knowledge. On

the other hand, resignation as preached by Buddha will fail to satisfy

humanity, which has a longing for life, and is overcome by the thought

of the inevitability of death.

It was to be expected that in such a state of affairs philosophers would

have sought an issue from the dilemma. Certainly many philosophical

theories have been propounded to explain life and death. As the subject

is of extreme importance I shall reserve a chapter for it.

CHAPTER VIII

ATTEMPTS IN SYSTEMS OF PHILOSOPHY TO REMEDY THE ILLS ARISING FROM THE

DISHARMONIES OF THE HUMAN CONSTITUTION

Some philosophical systems are in intimate union with religions—Ideas

of ancient philosophers on the immortality of the soul—The teaching of

Plato—The scepticism of Aristotle—The Stoics—Cicero, Seneca, Marcus

Aurelius—Modern philosophical systems—Pessimism and its origin—Lord

Byron—Theories of Schopenhauer and Hartmann—Mailaender’s philosophy of

deliverance—Criticisms of pessimism—Max Nordau—Ideas of modern

thinkers on death

Systems of philosophy are closely attached to religious doctrine.

Buddhism, for instance, originated in a philosophic theory which

acquired a religious character in the hands of the followers of Buddha.

Similarly, many systems of philosophy are merely religious dogmas which

it has been attempted to support by rational argument apart from

supernatural revelation.

The idea of life beyond the grave has long since furnished one of the

principal bases of various philosophic doctrines, the ultimate object of

which was to solve the problem of death. Ancient philosophy is full of

such. Plato describes the tragic death of his master Socrates, and in

connection with it expresses very clearly his ideas upon death. He puts

these words in the mouth of Socrates in the “Phaedo”: “Far from being

depressed by the death of a friend, I felt, on the contrary, that he was

to be envied; as I witnessed his attitude, and listened to his words,

and noticed the courage with which he faced death, I became convinced

that he did not quit this life without some divine support that drew him

towards another world in which he would find the most perfect happiness

man could wish.”

Plato attributes to Socrates a very definite view as to future

retribution: “In truth,” said Socrates, “if I did not expect to find in

another life gods at once good and wise, and men better than those of

this life, it would be foolish of me not to be disturbed by the approach

of death. But I know that I look to finding myself among just men. I do

not fear to die, because I am confident that something still remains

after this life, and that, according to the old belief, the good will be

treated better than the bad.”

As such views were not derived from a body of revealed truth, it was

necessary to support them by reasoning. Plato therefore went on to try

to convince us of the immortality of the soul by speculative hypotheses.

He recalled the Pythagorean doctrine of metempsychosis, and suggested

that the souls who had abandoned themselves to injustice, tyranny, and

plunder would pass into the bodies of wolves and hawks and falcons, for

souls of that nature could not go elsewhere; while the souls of those

who had practised the social and civic virtues known as temperance or

justice, would inhabit the bodies of peaceful and gentle creatures such

as bees and ants, or would even enter other human bodies and again

become good men.

Plato referred also to the law of contrasts in support of his theory.

“As the most strong often springs from the feeblest, or the most swift

from the slow, so life gives rise to death, and from death life

springs.” “From that which is dead,” said Socrates, “is born all that

lives and has life. And so our souls after death pass to the infernal

regions.” “As we must grant that the dead are born from the living as

much as the living from the dead, it is plain that the souls of dead men

exist somewhere, whence they may return to life.”

By such arguments Plato tried to prove the immortality of the soul, the

fundamental basis of his philosophy, and put them in the mouth of his

master Socrates on his deathbed. In the dialogue he tried to refute all

kinds of objections. But, in spite of the assurance with which he

formulated his doctrine, there may be seen underlying the argument a

note of doubt, and it is just this that distinguishes philosophy from

religion.

It is evident that the whole of Plato’s system was the result of an

effort to solve the problem of death. Again and again he said that the

true philosopher lived only to be ready to die; that being so, he

declared it to be childish for men at the last to shrink from what they

had so long been making ready for. It was himself that Plato wished to

convince of a future life. “I do not seek,” he said, “to persuade all

those who are here of the truth of what I say, although to do so would

greatly please me; what I aim at is to convince myself. Behold me, dear

friend, in pursuit of an argument that, as you see, interests me deeply;

if what I say turns out to be true, it is good to have believed it, and

if there be nothing after death, at least I have gained this, that while

I am still with you, I am not borne down with grief.”

The doubt which was only latent in Plato was much more active in some

other ancient philosophers. Aristotle[210] at one time admitted that

part of the soul was immortal, but that the other part was mortal. The

two parts came together at the beginning of a life and separated at its

end. Later on, however, Aristotle abandoned this theory of the

immortality of the personal consciousness, and argued strongly against

the Platonic theory of the immortality of the soul, although, however,

he still believed in the indestructibility of the “rational spirit,” an

immortal principle.

The Stoics still further developed such a conception. They held that

besides the individual soul there was a universal soul, a presiding

influence in which all others had their being.

Cicero, again, discussing old age and death, tried to establish belief

in a future life. “I am convinced,” said Cicero to Scipio and Laelius,

“that your illustrious fathers, who were so dear to me, are still full

of life, and of the only life worthy of the name; for the body is, as it

were, our prison-house, within which we must accomplish the tasks laid

on us by necessity. When I think of the activity of the human spirit,

its vast memory, its prevision, its store of art and knowledge, and

experience, I am convinced in the depths of my being that an existence

with such qualities cannot be mortal. The soul is continually active,

and its activity comes not to it from without; the soul is a

self-supporting activity, and cannot come to an end. Moreover, as the

soul is a simple substance, unalloyed by any mixture of materials, it

can neither be divided nor made to perish.” By such arguments Cicero

sought to prove the immortality of the soul. “I will tell you,” he said,

“why old age, so far from being grievous to me, is full of delight.” But

in the end, he himself saw the weakness of his proof, and the note of

scepticism appeared in him more strongly than in his predecessors, so

that he came to say as follows: “If I am deceived as to the immortality

of the soul, I am deceived gladly, and I would not have the belief torn

from me while I live. If, when I am dead, all feeling is arrested within

me, as some pretended philosophers hold, at least I have not to fear

that after my death they will come and mock me for my error.”

Scepticism becoming more and more definite, belief in the immortality of

the soul persisted only in the purely religious form. Philosophical

systems freed themselves of it, and replaced it by a vague form of

pantheism.

Seneca tried to support the thesis of immortality, but one gets the

impression strongly that there was no vigour in his belief. He is

content with poetry rather than with reason. “The events of this mortal

life,” he wrote in one of his celebrated “Letters,” “are the mere

prelude of a better and more lasting existence. As our mother’s womb,

bearing us for nine months, shapes us not to live there for ever, but

for our place in this world in which it places us, with the strength to

breathe this air and to withstand surrounding things: so, also, the time

that passes from our infancy to our old age is a preparation for a

second birth. Another beginning and another world await us. Until then,

we could not endure, save from afar, the splendour of the heavens. Learn

then, O man, to face without a shudder the decisive hour, the last hour

of the body, but not of the soul. What you see around you consider but

as the furniture of an inn; soon you are going further on. The day that

you dread as your last day is your birthday into immortality.”

In the midst of these glowing visions, however, Seneca is assailed by

dark and gloomy thoughts. “Yes,” he cried, “all that is must perish;

death comes to every living thing. Every day, every hour, reveals to man

the coming of death; there is always some new lesson to remind him of

the fragility he had forgotten, and from a dream of eternity to turn his

thoughts to the grave.”

These heights and depths of spirit led Seneca towards a new theory in

which he gave a final expression of his views on the great problem of

human existence. “All beings pass through definite stages; they must be

born, grow and die. The stars that we see revolving above us, the earth

on which we are carelessly scattered and which seems to us so solid; all

is threatened and all will come to an end. Old age comes on everything;

although the period is very different, the same end comes to everything.

Everything that now is will cease to be; but for all that the world will

not perish; it will dissolve. Dissolution is destruction for us. As a

matter of fact we think of things only as they concern ourselves; our

degenerate soul, incapable of detaching itself from the body, sees

nothing beyond that; none the less we should endure the idea of the

death of ourselves and of those near to us with a greater fortitude were

we to realise that nature is a constant routine of birth and death, that

all composite bodies must dissolve, that the dissolved substances

reform, and that the creative power of God displays itself in this cycle

of change throughout the universe.” From such a final conception of the

universe he draws the consolation: “A great soul should know how to obey

God and submit willingly to the order of the universe. If it be not for

a better life that we are to quit this life, if not to find a home in

the skies more tranquil and more brilliant, our souls, free from

suffering, will return to the spirit that gave them birth and will

mingle in the great all.”

In other words, abandoning the image of life after death that played so

consoling a part in primitive beliefs, philosophy became content to

advocate resignation to the inevitable laws of nature, and to console

itself with the promise of a vague return to some universal, eternal

principle.

The conceptions of the Stoics, especially in the form presented by

Seneca, found an ardent and brilliant exponent in Marcus Aurelius, whose

“Thoughts” are known to all the world. He had much to say of the problem

of death and of the attitude of the philosopher towards it. “Death,”

said Marcus Aurelius, “like birth, is one of nature’s mysteries. In the

two are present the same elements: in the one case in the phase of

combination, in the other in that of dissolution.” In death “there is

nothing repugnant to the essence of an intelligent being, nor to the

general plan of our nature.” But his ideas on death were vague. “Death

may perhaps be a dispersal or resolution into atoms, or an annihilation

in the sense of extinction or deplacement.” “Alexander of Macedon and

his mule-driver were reduced at death to the same condition, that is to

say they returned alike to the originating principle of the universe, or

one and the other were scattered as atoms.”

Although he was definitely a deist, Marcus Aurelius was undecided as to

the immortality of the soul. “If souls have not disappeared,” he said,

“how can the air contain the eternal generations of them?” “Remember

well,” he said in another place, “that that feeble and composite

creature, your soul, will one day resolve into its atoms; the faint

spark of life will be extinguished, or be assigned to some other

dwelling-place.” Clearly enough, there was no consoling hope of a future

life to be derived from these halting dubieties. It was needful to

replace by some other anodyne the belief that for so long had brought

comfort to poor humanity.

Marcus Aurelius tried to counteract the fear of death by the following

reflection: “To fear death is to fear either being deprived of all

feeling or being subjected to some other kind of feeling. But, if we are

deprived of all feeling, we shall have no evil to fear; if we are to

find new kinds of sensations, our existence will be different, but still

existence.” However, he probably realised the weakness of such a

consolation, for he tried to link the problem of death with the general

principles of human conduct.

As I mentioned in the first chapter of this volume, Marcus Aurelius,

like many of the philosophers of antiquity, held the view that man ought

to live according to the dictates of human nature. The theory recurs

again and again in his “Thoughts.” “The fig tree lives according to its

kind, the dog like the dog, bees like bees, and man like man.” He

expresses this view still more emphatically in the following words: “Man

must live in conformity with the laws of his nature.” “No one will

prevent you from living according to the laws of nature, and nothing can

happen to you that is not in accordance with nature’s universal law.”

“Neither hand nor foot can do that which is contrary to the laws of

nature, because the foot can only fulfil the functions of the foot, and

the hand those of the hand. Similarly with man, to behave as a man is

not to defy nature’s laws, because it is only fulfilling the functions

of man. And that which is not against nature cannot be evil.”

Being full of this theory, Marcus Aurelius applied it to death, which,

being a natural phenomenon, was to be accepted without protest. “For,

after all, nature forges the links and nature breaks them. Is she about

to sever them? Very well, let us then say farewell as if we were taking

leave of our friends, but let there be no tearing of the heart strings,

and let us go willingly, and so avoid being dragged away. This, too, is

in accordance with the laws of nature.” “Philosophy,” according to

Marcus Aurelius, “is to await death peacefully, and to regard it as

merely the dissolution of the elements which compose the human frame.

Such is the law of nature, and whatever is in conformity with nature is

not evil.”

Death, being a phenomenon in conformity with nature, must be submitted

to. “Do not abuse death,” advises Marcus Aurelius, “but accept it with

resignation, as being in accordance with the will of nature. Do we not

pass on from infancy to youth, grow up, and become tall and attain

manhood? Do not our teeth come, our beards grow, and our hair turn

white? If we marry, do we not beget children? Are not all such events in

their due season, and the work of nature? Death comes through the same

agency. It therefore behoves a wise man to approach death with neither

anger, repugnance, nor contempt, but to await it like any other

operation of nature.” _Resignation_, then, is what this form of

philosophy amounts to. Not only must death be accepted as inevitable

when it comes after a long life, but even if it surprise us at an

unexpected time. “He who dies after reaching the uttermost limits of

human life,” says Marcus Aurelius, “has reached no further than he who

comes to a premature end. It is the same in the end, whether there are a

hundred years to look back upon, or whether there are only three.”

In his book on Marcus Aurelius, Renan[211] compares his philosophy of

resignation with the Nirvâna of the Buddhists. “Like Jesus, Çakya-Mouni,

Socrates, Francis of Assisi, and three or four other wise men, Marcus

Aurelius was victor over death. He could laugh at it, because it had no

longer any meaning for him.” But, just as the theories of Buddha became

transformed into a religion which promised the immortality of the soul,

and as Nirvâna gave way to the Paradise of the Easterns with its

delights, so the sceptical resignation of ancient philosophy was

vanquished by Christianity with its promises of a future life and

immortality.

Thus, in the course of the centuries, philosophy has been drowned in the

floods of sentiment and of religious notions, and it has been a labour

of Sisyphus to restore reason to humanity. There is the less need to

follow the stages of this resurrection, as, in the end, they come to

little. For long, philosophical systems set themselves the task of

supporting the dogmas of religion by arguments independent of divine

revelation. The gods were replaced by philosophy or by matter, and an

effort was made to solve the eternal and disquieting problem of death by

proving the immortality of the soul.

The philosophers of the early renaissance of human thought accepted the

chief religious dogmas as established truth. Plotin regarded the

immortality of the soul as a self-evident truth that required no proof.

He argued against a resurrection of the body, but accepted the

transmigration of souls.

Although Spinoza had given up the conception of the immortality of the

soul in the ordinary sense, he accepted the Aristotelian idea that “the

human spirit could not be destroyed absolutely with the body, but left

some eternal remnant.” Death, in his view, was a kind of eternal life, a

merging with the absolute, a return to the immortal and universal

substance.

Philosophers have exhausted themselves in the study of the foundations

of human knowledge with the sole object of demonstrating the truth of

religious dogmas. In spite of his scepticism, Kant tried to prove the

genuineness of human knowledge, and to found on that a conviction of the

future life and of the existence of God. Fichte set himself the same

task, but he was forced to recognise that “immortality cannot be deduced

from natural phenomena,” and that it “is supernatural.” “Although we

cannot understand the possibility of eternal life, it still may be

possible, for it transcends human knowledge.” Hegel reached a

pantheistic conclusion and believed in the human soul being re-absorbed

by the absolute.

These idealistic systems, when they reached their final point, provoked

a reaction consisting in the rejection of all formulas based on

speculation. They were succeeded by a dogmatic materialism, which in its

turn gave place to a sceptical positivism, or rather to a form of

agnosticism. Granted the impossibility of belief in the immortality of

the soul or in eternal life in any shape, the philosophy regarding death

was reduced to the stoical idea that our end is in harmony with the laws

of nature, and that it must therefore be accepted without protest.

Resignation, therefore, in the fullest sense of the word, became the

watchword of human wisdom.

It was only to be expected that certain courageous and independent

thinkers should not agree with this conclusion, and attempt to discover

some other solution of the great problem absorbing mankind. Thence arose

pessimism, the philosophic theory which became so prevalent during the

last century, and which claims so many adherents in the present day.

Pessimism, like belief in the immortality of the soul and the advocacy

of resignation to the evils which beset humanity, is the product of the

East, and India was probably its nursery. A pessimistic view of life is

a salient feature of Brahminism, but Buddhism develops even more fully

the doctrine that everything of this world is evil. That “life is made

up of suffering” is the inexhaustible theme which, whether in the shape

of philosophical argument, or in the more attractive form of poetry, the

Buddhist Scriptures din ceaselessly in our ears.[212]

In Europe, the lyrical poets introduced the pessimistic conception of

the world, attracted by its emotional appeal. At the beginning of the

nineteenth century, Byron struck this sad note, and expressed the view

in the clearest fashion, that if we weighed our hours of joy against our

days of pain, we should perceive clearly that whatever our life had been

it were better not have been. In the following lines his conception of

life is apparent:—

“Our life is a false nature,—’tis not in

The harmony of things, this hard decree,

This uneradicable taint of sin,

This boundless Upas, this all-blasting tree,

Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be

The skies, which rain their plagues on men like dew—

Disease, death, bondage—all the woes we see—

And, worse, the woes we see not—which throbs through

The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.”

“EUTHANASIA.”

In chap. vi. I showed that Byron was haunted by a fear of death which

ultimately led him to a recognition of the instinctive character of the

feeling. He, however, like the other pessimistic poets (Leopardi), did

not regard the world as being merely part of a universal system, and it

was left to philosophy to come to this conclusion.

During the first half of the nineteenth century, Schopenhauer

endeavoured to give a presentation of a pessimistic theory, borrowed

from Hindoo religions and from the views of contemporary poets, in the

form of a rational philosophy. He developed a conception of life

according to which “existence is to be regarded as something one is

better without, as a kind of mistake which should be remedied when

recognised.”[213] According to Schopenhauer existence is wrong, and

results from the gratification of unrestrained desire. “If an attempt be

made to realise the amount of misery, pain, and evil of all kinds, that

the sun shines upon in its daily course, it will be seen how much better

it would be were the earth to exhibit as few phenomena of life as the

moon, and if the surface of the earth were in a similarly crystallised

condition. Human life might equally be interpreted as a useless

disturbance of the exquisite tranquillity of nothingness,” the meaning

of the disturbance being wrapped in impenetrable mystery.[214]

This melancholy state of life was the result of the cosmic process,

which has created so much evil, and which finally evolved the human

species, capable of feeling and appreciating to the full the pain of the

world. The lower animals he regards as happier than man, their senses

being less fully developed, and being unconscious of the worst aspects

of their existence. In man, pleasure is purely a negation, whereas the

sensation of pain is passive, contemplation, a human monopoly, rendering

suffering still more unbearable. “Man’s capacity for pain increases far

more with the passage of time than does his capacity for enjoyment, and

is especially increased by his foreknowledge of death. Animals only fear

death from instinct, without having any real knowledge of it, and

without having the prospect of it always before their eyes, as is the

case with human beings.”[215] Schopenhauer was convinced that happiness

should not be regarded as the aim of life. “The greatest mistake we can

make,” he said in his principal work,[216] “is to imagine that we are

placed here to be happy.” “So long as we continue in this erroneous view

which optimistic doctrines serve to foster, the world will continue to

seem a mass of contradictions to us.” “It would be nearer the truth to

regard pain as the aim of life rather than pleasure.” “The destiny of

all human existence seems to be suffering. Life is wrapped about with

evil, and cannot be protected from it. Life, at its very beginning, is

signalised by tears, its course is fundamentally tragic, and still more

tragic is its end. It is impossible to ignore that all this is meant to

be.” “Death is the real goal of life. Its attainment brings a solution

of all that has gone before.”

The prospect and expectation of death, being products of reason, are

experienced by men and not by animals. “Only in the case of humanity is

the will capable of renouncing and withdrawing from life.”

What is the answer to all these contradictions and the explanation of a

cosmic process which on the one hand leads but to death, and on the

other hand develops the intelligence so as to enable it to fear and

dread the inevitable end? Is the solution to be found in belief in the

immortality of the soul, supported as it is not only by nearly every

form of religion, but by numerous systems of philosophy? Schopenhauer

devotes many pages to the discussion of this question. He neither

supports the doctrine of the resurrection of the body, nor the

immortality of the conscious soul. “Just as the individual has no memory

of prenatal existence, so after death he will remember nothing of his

present life.”[217] “Those who regard birth as the actual beginning of

man’s life must necessarily face death as final, the two being parallel.

No man can therefore regard himself as immortal without forfeiting his

belief in his own birth. Birth and death have the same origin and the

same significance. They represent but one line, extending in opposite

directions. If birth implies an origin from nothingness, then death must

be complete annihilation.”[218]

There is no such thing as individual immortality. But, according to

Schopenhauer, to desire such immortality would merely be to advocate

“the eternal perpetuation of a great mistake. Each individual existence

is a definite mistake, a blunder, something that would better not have

been, and the object of existence should be to end it.”[219]

But if man, as an individual, is mortal, “death only takes away what was

given by birth, that is to say, the principle by which death itself

became possible.”[220] “Consciousness ceases at death, but the cause

which produced that consciousness persists; life comes to an end, but

not the principle which became manifest by life.”[221]

What then is this immortal principle? It is the idea of the species or

genus. Men or dogs, as individuals, perish in due course, but the human

species or the canine species, the man “idea” or the dog “idea,”

endures. Here Schopenhauer reverted to the conception of Spinoza, who,

indeed, denied the immortality of the soul, but none the less believed

in the immortality of the principle of life. This everlasting principle,

according to Schopenhauer, is the will in its widest and most

metaphysical sense, while, on the other hand, the mortal soul is the

reason, a product of the functions of the brain.

The eternal principle of life cannot be defined, because “we cannot pass

outside the limits of our consciousness. And thus the problem of what it

is in itself cannot be resolved.”[222]

Schopenhauer himself recognises that this solution of the problem is not

satisfactory from the point of view of those who desire reassurance of

their immortality. “But,” he continues, “it is better than nothing, for

those who dread death from the point of view of absolute annihilation

should not despise the certainty of the persistence of the most vital

principle of life.”[223] He further remarks that it must be remembered

that nature is interested only in the preservation of the species, being

indifferent to the individual. We ourselves being only a part of nature

ought to further its plans. “If we wish to attain to a wider knowledge

of nature, we must place ourselves more in sympathy with it, and regard

life and death indifferently.”[224] Schopenhauer himself feels that his

theories and arguments are unsatisfactory. When he had reached the full

development of his doctrine, he admitted that it was negative in

character, and that it ended in negation. It spoke only of what it had

to deny and of what ought to be abandoned. It was obliged to regard as

nothingness all that could be acquired in the future. As a consolation,

he added that he meant relative nothingness, and not absolute

nothingness.

As an ultimate aim, there remained nothing but abrogation of the will to

live, and thus misery and wretchedness, which are the inseparable

accompaniments of human life, led to resignation.

As our life is no more than a succession of misfortunes, and as,

according to Schopenhauer, death is the plain conclusion of philosophy,

the end of the individual life must be pleasant. As a general rule, he

said, the death of a well-regulated life is calm and peaceful. But the

privilege of dying willingly, with joy and delight, is reserved for him

who has learned resignation, and has abolished and abandoned his will to

live. For such an one would be willing to die in reality, not merely in

appearance, and would neither desire nor claim a personal immortality.

He would give up readily the existence that we know. Whatever may

replace that existence is nothing from the point of view of

individuality. The Buddhistic faith called the position attained by him

who had given up the will to live, “Nirvâna, or nothingness.”[225]

The natural deduction from this pessimistic doctrine of Schopenhauer

would be to abolish the will to live by abolishing our individual life

by suicide. But such is not the advice of the philosopher. He is far,

however, from agreeing with those who regard suicide as criminal.[226]

He merely does not admit that it solves the question. “He who commits

suicide destroys the individual only, and not the species.” “Suicide is

the voluntary destruction of a solitary phenomenon, without in the

smallest degree affecting the system as a whole.”[227]

The will to live manifesting itself, according to Schopenhauer, by the

creation of new individuals, the philosopher would naturally, in

accordance with his views of life, abstain from bringing others into the

world. Schopenhauer lived and died a bachelor, and, so far as I am

aware, had no children. On the other hand, convinced that the solution

of life’s problem did not lie in suicide, he clung tenaciously to life.

Having relinquished a belief in the immortality of the soul, he fell

back upon a belief in the persistence of some ultimate principle, apart

from conscious life, and held that in resignation and desire for

annihilation (Nirvâna, according to his interpretation of the Buddhist

doctrines) lay the true consolation for all the evils of human

existence.

For a long time Schopenhauer’s views found no echo in the opinions of

other thinkers. Later, however, they became more and more widely

diffused, and philosophic pessimism became quite fashionable. Those who

did not adopt the metaphysical principles of Schopenhauer’s philosophy

agreed with his views on life and on the impossibility of happiness.

Exactly half a century after the publication of Schopenhauer’s principal

work,[228] another German philosopher, E. Hartmann,[229] went a step

further in the same direction. Without agreeing wholly with his

metaphysics, he shared Schopenhauer’s views on the impossibility of

regarding happiness as the true aim of existence. In order to

demonstrate this theory, he examined the three phases of illusion

through which mankind passes. He held that, in the first phase, people

imagined happiness to be attainable during the present life. However,

all that have been regarded as the sources of joy—youth, health, desire,

conjugal love, family love, glory, etc.—end in disillusion. Love itself

is especially submitted to Hartmann’s implacable criticism. According to

him, there can be no question but that “love causes far more suffering

than pleasure to those concerned.”[230] “It cannot be doubted,” he says,

“that reason would prompt a total abstention from love,” and, as a means

to this end, he recommends “the extinction of sexual desire by

castration, if that could be relied upon to destroy desire.”[231] That,

according to Hartmann, “is the only possible means of securing the

happiness of the individual.” It is at the sacrifice of his personal

happiness that man permits himself to love, and so abets the evolution

of the cosmic process.

“When they have become convinced of the impossibility of obtaining

happiness in this world, people persuade themselves that it may be

obtained after death in a transcendental life in another world. This,

however, is only a second phase of illusion, and is based upon faith in

life after death and eternity. It is certain, however, that the

individuality of the organic body as well as that of the mind is only a

delusion which ceases with death.”[232] Hartmann says in conclusion that

“it is therefore plain that the hope of the immortality of the

individual soul is also a mere illusion. And thus the chief support of

the Christian promises is cut away; for men are devoted to their dear

selves, and take little interest in a future happiness in which they

themselves are to have no share.”[233]