God Manifest/Part 1/Chapter 2 Section 4

by Oliver Prescott Hiller

SECTION IV.

GOD'S GOODNESS, WISDOM, AND POWER, MANIFEST, ABOVE ALL, IN THE JOYS AND GLORIES OF THE LIFE ETERNAL.

Thus far, we have been occupied with the contemplation of that part of the spiritual universe, which is within man, while he lives in this world,— namely, his mind, with its various powers and affections, and their delights. This is truly a part of the spiritual universe, for it is spirit, though at present enwrapped in a garment of clay. But, in the providence of the good Creator, the time at length comes, when the spirit is divested of its material covering, and then ascends into its own proper sphere of pure spiritual existence, where, with capacities and joys indefinitely enlarged, elevated, and perfected, it continues to live on through eternity.

This separation of the spirit from the material body, we call death. But it is not, in fact, death; it is only separation. The part which remains behind, and which alone is visible to the material eye, namely, the body, is dead, because that which gave it life has departed from it, namely, the spirit. But the material body is not the man, and therefore it cannot with propriety be said that the man is dead. The material body is no essential part of man; it is merely a garment, as it were, which the man wears, while he lives here among material things, and which is necessary to him while he continues in this world. But when the time comes for him to rise into the pure spiritual state of existence, he leaves that garment behind, as a thing now useless, a thing too gross to be taken with him into that spiritual sphere. This is the true theory and view of death. It is simply a separation of the spiritual from the material part. The spirit, or the man himself, continues to live on, for it is a thing immortal; and in a higher and happier state, too, of existence,—as presently we shall see. But first let the point be made plain, that the spirit, and the spirit alone, is the essential man; for then it will be clearly seen, that, if the spirit does not die, the man does not die, but lives for ever.

In considering a man, what do we estimate him by—his body or his mind? In choosing a friend, do we consider at all his material body? is it not solely his character that we prize him for, that is, his mental or spiritual part, his intellect, his affections? It is possible we may have a friend,—a correspondent, for instance,—whom we have never seen, and yet whom we highly esteem and love, from the fine mind and beautiful spirit displayed in his letters. Do we ask or care what his material body is, whether large or small? We may have a kind of natural curiosity about this, but it is really no essential matter. The friend, the man, the whole man, to us, is the mind and spirit. Was Napoleon any the less intellectually great because his body was small? would he have been made any greater, by his maierial body being larger? Thus the body, we see, is no part of the essential man at all. We may try this in another way,—which, though it may appear somewhat ludicrous, is not the less logical. Does it alter a man's essential character at all, to cut off one of his limbs? After the surgeon has performed the operation, is he not precisely the same man he was before—with the same ideas, sentiments, affections, abilities? There may be indeed, a temporary state of excitement upon him, in consequence of pain he may have undergone: but when that subsides, he will be the same man as before. Now suppose the other limb cut off: would he not be still essentially the same man? Then suppose both the arms removed: does that have any effect on the ruling character of the individual? We have only to go one step farther: suppose a cannon-ball were to take off his head. Will even that change his mind or character,—still more, destroy it? Why should it do so? If a knife or a cannon-ball, taking off both legs, has no effect on the character, but he is the same man still; if another ball taking away the arms, leave the man precisely the same as before—a brave and high-minded officer, for instance—by what rule of proportion will the third ball change that mind, or destroy it altogether, when two balls had no effect upon it at all? No! the spirit is indestructible and intangible by any material force. We may thus reason satisfactorily, that the material body is no essential part of the man; that though part after part of it be taken away, precisely the same mind remains, and that mind we feel and see to be the man and the whole man. We esteem and love our friend just as highly and as dearly, after he has been wounded, as before. And why should not our love follow him still, even though his body be hurt to the death?

If this be so, namely, that the mind or spirit is the man and the whole man—if the material body is no essential part of man—then it follows, that, as before remarked, the death of the material body is not the death of the man at all; it is merely the effect produced on the material body by the separation of the man from it—a separation caused by the body's being so injured by violence or disease, as that the spirit can no longer inhabit it. The body lies lifeless, because the man or spirit which before occupied it and gave it life and motion, has left it: just as a thrown-off garment, which has arms and is in the shape of a man, lies motionless, when the man has withdrawn himself from it. The man himself is not dead; he is still living, though invisible, because the spirit is not visible to the material eye. But think you he is invisible to God's eye? think you that he is invisible to the eyes of angels and of other spirits, who, like himself, have left the material body and the material world? Why cannot spirit see spirit, as well as matter see matter? The man has simply exchanged one world for another; he has left the comparatively small company of the inhabitants of this material globe, and joined that of the immensely more populous world of spirits, whither myriads and millions have been departing every year for ages.

The inhabitants of this world come and go in succession; "one generation passeth away and another cometh;" and the numbers dwelling at the same time on the earth do not greatly vary from age to age, though there is always a small increase. But with the spiritual world, it is all coming and no going; there is nowhere else to go to; there are but two worlds, the material and the spiritual, and when men leave this world, they enter into that, and there they remain. How full, then, must that world be, when each month and day is thus pouring its thousands into it,—perpetual addition and no subtraction! And if so full and populous, how much richer and more delightful must life be, in that world than in this! for when there is congeniality, numbers, we know, add to enjoyment, and greatly enhance it. The common proverb, "the more, the merrier," expresses this truth. Dr. Johnson, we may remember, declared, in his warm manner, that he could not live out of London,—that it was the only place in the world fit to live in: (as the Frenchman, also, says of Paris.) The reason was, that there he was in the midst of a large circle of literary men, men of congenial tastes, with whom he found exquisite enjoyment: and such a circle was not to be met with in a small town. But in the spiritual world, in how much greater a degree must these advantages exist! How much grander must be the circle of lofty intellects there collected! so that when Johnson departed from this world—which he seemed so unwilling to leave,—in the midst of how much nobler a company of congenial spirits may we trust he found himself! There was Newton, and Milton, and Addison (who on his death bed, had sent for the young Earl of Warwick, that he might "see how a Christian could die")!—there was Shakspeare, and Spencer, and Chaucer,—there were all the great lights of other lands and other ages: these scattered rays all collected, as it were, into one focus of intellect—what a brilliant society must it be! What "Royal Society," what "Academy of Sciences" on earth, could approach it in excellence? And what delights must attend such companionship! How pleasant would it be, to behold the sages of past time assembled thus together in high converse! How interesting to see the eyes of Milton, no longer blind, flashing with his lofty soul, and to hear Shakespeare's voice, in soft response, uttering bright thoughts in the pure spirit's-tongue,—the mind's own language! How charming would it be, to witness a meeting of Dante and his revered Virgil, and to behold them visiting together those scenes of the eternal world—or others more real than they—which the former in his great poem has in so striking a manner pictured them as doing! How interesting to behold Galileo, Copernicus, and Newton conversing together on the high truths of science; and now, in their more advanced state of wisdom, considering not merely the outward system of the universe, not only the fact that world revolves round world by the power of gravitation,—but inquiring together into the secret soul of that mighty power,—seeking to know the essential nature of that attraction which holds particles and worlds together,—and tracing it through nature up to spirit; and through spirit up to God, the sole Source of all activity and life!—to God, who is ever pouring out from Himself that stream of attractive love, which conjoins the souls of His creatures to each other and then to Himself—and which thence, perchance, produces that attraction of cohesion and gravitation, which knits together particles into beautiful globes, and then binds all to the Sun itself, God's representative in the material creation. Or again,—to come down to later times,—how delightful to contemplate the good Howard, and Oberlin, and the faithful follower in their footsteps, the devoted Elizabeth Fry,—with the gentle spirit of Fenelon to spiritualize and bless the lovely company—all meeting together, and walking through sweet scenes of heavenly peace, meditating and conversing on the goodness and Divine benignity of their Heavenly Father, their Lord and Saviour,—that Saviour, who not merely, like Howard, traversed foreign lands, but came down from heaven to earth, that he might "bring out the prisoners from the prison, and them that sit in darkness out of the prison-house," that He might "deliver men from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God," and who at length even "gave his life a ransom for many!" How sweet would be such a communion of beatified spirits! How blessed, beyond conception, must be such a re-union of the good and pure of all ages,—the "general assembly and church of the first-born, who are written in heaven!"

And is this merely a fancy? Is it a mere baseless supposition, that the intellectual and good do thus meet after the death of their material bodies, in a spiritual state of existence? Independently of proofs from the pages of Revelation, (which, for the present, we are not taking into consideration) is there no law of the mind, which makes this probable, nay, certain? It has been before shown, by argument, that the mind is the man,—that what is called death does not affect the mind at all, but only the material body; that, therefore, after death the mind or the man is the same as before, with his thoughts and affections essentially the same. Now, this being the case, will not the law of mental attraction, which draws congenial spirits together here, act with equal or greater force in a purely spiritual state of existence? Then, by the proper operation of that law, will not the good and the intellectual seek each other's society, there as here? But, in that world, the possibilities and the opportunities for such friendly meetings must be indefinitely greater than in this. Here, the law of space interferes: here, lands, seas, and mountains intervene between the man of science or of benevolence, and his fellow, whom he longs to see and to converse with. But not so in the world of spirit. There, is no barrier of fixed space interposed between those who desire to enter into communion. There, is no distance except that which is produced by disagreement in thought and feeling; no dividing lines but those of opposition of character and uncongeniality of mind. Between the good and the evil, indeed, there is a "great gulf fixed," because they are, in their own natures, "wide as the poles asunder." But those, with whom there is harmony and oneness of spirit, and who wish to be in each other's society, there is nothing to separate, and therefore they cannot but come together, and enter into high and sweet communion.

Moreover, as already shown, in that world there is not succession of generations, as in this, but simultaneous existence of all who have ever lived. In this world of time, by the operation of the law of succesion, the great and good of different ages cannot personally know each other. One goes, before another comes. Homer had passed away from earth, centuries before his admirer and imitator, Virgil, was born. Dante died, when Petrarch was but a youth, not old enough to know his great predecessor. And when Shakspeare passed from the stage of this life's drama, Milton was but a boy of eight years old. Thus, men of great and lofty minds, who happen to live in different times, cannot meet on earth; and consequently great geniuses are commonly solitary beings in their own generation, and have few or no congenial spirits with whom to exchange high thoughts and sympathies. They flourish "alone in their glory," and that glory too often a barren and joyless fame. But how different must it be in the other state of existence—in the spiritual and eternal world! When the man of genius dies, or, in other words, departs from this earth, and enters upon the spiritual state of existence, he but goes to join the great society of lofty spirits that are already assembled there, and, as it were, waiting for him. When the good man leaves this lower world, he goes to join "the spirits of just men made perfect," who have gone before him, "the innumerable, company of angels." He departs from London or Boston, or other city of this earth, only to enter into the "city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem." And how much more populous, how much more glorious, must that heavenly city be than any earthly one! Had the pious Johnson fully reflected upon this great truth,—had he not been oppressed by gloomy fears, arising in part from his melancholic temperament,—had he seen whither he was going,—O, could he have wished still to stay under the dun skies of even his loved London, carrying about, too, the load of a diseased and worn out body? Would he not have joyfully thrown off that load, at the call from above,—and soaring on the wings of faith and love have darted away into the realms of light, like the eagle ascending to the sun? And there what joys would have awaited him! what joys, we may say did await him—for we may hope and trust that long ere this he has entered upon "his reward," notwithstanding his apprehensions. There would he meet with all the great and good, with whom he had communed in spirit through their works. There would he see, "face to face," those noble spirits whom, before, he had but, as it were, "seen through a glass darkly;" there, those whom he had "known but in part," he would now "know, even as also he would be known." How happy such a consociation of the wise and good! how far beyond the joys of earth, must be the blessedness of such a union in heaven!

Here, then, we may perceive what an immense increase of happiness must take place in the other life from this source alone. But there are numerous other sources of such increase. And first among these is the great exaltation of all our powers, faculties, and feelings, on rising out of this material world and body into the purely spiritual sphere. Let us consider this.

The spirit of man, while dwelling in this material sphere of existence, is burthened with the weight of its clay covering,—is oppressed, as it were, under this coat of armour, which it is obliged to wear, while struggling with the perils and fighting the battles of this earthly life. How often is the mind drawn from its high contemplations by the sufferings of the body! How often is the spirit weighed down by the cares and troubles incident to this earthly pilgrimage—by the pressure of circumstances, derived solely from our relation to material things! How often is "the spirit willing," when "the flesh is weak!" But, at death, we throw off these incumbrances, we drop our heavy armour, we leave behind us the day covering we wore; and, as we ascend into the pure spiritual sphere, we mount at the same time into loftier regions of thought and feeling,—as the balloon, relieved of its ballast, mounts above the clouds, into the blue serene of the heavens. How delightful a thought is this, and how rational! We know, even in this state of existence, how loftily the thought soars at times. What sublime flights does genius rise to, in its happier moments! and most men, not entirely sunk in depravity, have periods of elevated perception and affection. But, here, all must come down again. Even Shakspeare at times forgets himself, and "Homer nods." The body, with its wants and cares, is able to bring down the loftiest spirit. But when loosed from the body, not only will the spirit's flight be higher, but more sustained. With nothing of outward pressure or force to weigh and draw it down, how will the lofty mind hold on it's course rejoicing! how will the winged genius, now re-plumed, soar and mount from height to height, as the morning lark rising from the meadow's bosom mounts up and up, and pours forth its sweetest melody, when invisible in the heavens! And yet more, how will the winged heart,—winged with love and devotion—then rise, not like the lark, with short, successive flights, but like the eagle, with a steady, strong ascent, up even to the throne of God!

Sir Walter Scott's last words, it is said, were these; "I feel as if I were to be myself again." During his latter years on earth, disease had laid upon him its paralyzing hand, and well nigh taken away all strength both of body and mind. The torch of genius, which, had lighted the world, became dimmer and dimmer, till at length Death put his extinguisher upon it, and it disappeared. But was it out? No! it was but covered over for a moment. Disease, like the "thief" in the candle, had dimmed its shining, but the fire was still all there; and Death had put his cold hand upon it, as if to extinguish it—but in vain: as well might human hand smother the forked lightning. The immortal flame was not kindled on earth, and no earthly power could extinguish it: it was immaterial, and therefore no material force could affect it. Bodily Disease, indeed, could clog the flame, and hinder, for a little, its outshining; but Death, his associate, when he laid-on his hand to put it out for ever,—did but snuff the candle,—taking away at the same moment the "thief" and the gross particles that nourished it,—and at once the relieved flame blazed up into the heavens, to be dimmed and darkened no more, but to shine on, we trust, brightening for ever.

And how delightful is the thought, that these great geniuses (provided always that goodness was joined with greatness), who have been successively the lights of their age, and whose works, still remaining with us, we peruse with such admiration and delight, are yet shining, and with increased splendour, in a higher sphere; still, perhaps, producing works of high thought and feeling, fit to delight and instruct the dwellers in those purer regions, as they instructed and delighted their fellow-men, while here on earth. And if we reflect, must it not be so? can it be otherwise? Is it possible that Milton's strain has ceased?—that his lofty soul utters no more those thoughts of truth in forms of beauty, which here on earth we call by the name of poesy but which in the heavens may have another name more perfectly expressive of the purer thoughts and words that "breathe and burn" in that celestial atmosphere? can he have lost these powers? If so, then Milton has ceased to be Milton: the mind is the man;—the mind changed, the man is changed: the mind destroyed, the man no longer exists. But it has been already shown, by rational argument, that the death of the body can have no power over the mind, that it cannot affect the mind's essential character, that a bullet or a knife or mortal corruption cannot touch the spirit. If this be true, then it follows that Milton's death, that is, his departure from this material sphere or release from the material body, had no effect on Milton's self, that is, on his essential mind and character. Consequently, he is Milton still; and it must be that he retains the same wide grasp of thought, the same loftiness of conception, the same ardour of soul, and the same love of the beautiful as a clothing for all these,—in a word, all the faculties that he manifested while on earth; only, as before shown, immensely exalted and expanded by his elevation into a purely spiritual sphere of existence. And if he possess those faculties, must he not use them? are there any powers given, to remain unexercised, whether here or hereafter? Then, will he not continue his great productions—only in a style suited to those purer regions into which he has now ascended, and fitted for angelic ears? While here on earth, he wrote of "Paradise Lost;" and well he might, for the present sad condition of the world is such as continually to remind us that Paradise has indeed been lost. But may he not now well write of Paradise Found? Has he not there a subject for his amplest powers, and quite equal to them in their most exalted state? And now, too, will he paint, not from memory of imagination, but from sight and realization. He may stand now on "Mount Zion," by "the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem," and survey the goodly landscape, and transfer, if he can, to the canvas of his verse those glorious scenes. Let him paint that group of angels standing there in their bright beauty, conversing together in love, among the trees of that celestial paradise. Let him picture that circle of blooming innocents, youths and maidens, born indeed on earth, but called away by their Heavenly Father's love to His own blest mansions, too soon to know aught of any other parent or any other home; let him portray their beauteous countenances,—let him pen, if he can, and weave into his verse, that joyous song they are now singing, of love to each other, and gratitude to their kind Father and Lord. Let him describe the shining of those silver streams that flow softly through the "vales of heaven," and whose distant gleam now reaches his eye, as they wind their way among the beds of rich-scented flowers. Let him picture the holy city, itself, the New Jerusalem,—as he now beholds it with his own spiritual sight—with its golden streets, its gates of pearl, its jasper wall, and "foundations garnished with all manner of precious stones." But above all, let him tell the tale,—never tiresome or too oft repeated to angel's ears,—of man's redemption and salvation; the tale of Infinite Love, descending to our poor earth, and putting on a form of humanity, that with its arm it might reach mankind just sinking into the yawning gulf of perdition, and rescue them and raise them to heaven. Here is a theme for the Spirit-Milton's mightiest powers,—a theme inexhaustible, on which he may pour forth verse moulded to celestial rhythm, and set to heavenly melodies,—as long as he has to live, that is, for ever—and yet not compass the full glories of his subject, for it is infinite and Divine.

But let us turn-now and consider some lofty spirits of another class, who have passed from earth—some of them in the prime of life, and in the full glow of their powers. Mozart, the musical wonder of the world—who, in his fifth year, as it is asserted, produced compositions difficult of execution even to practised performers,—whose susceptible nature was so delicate and finely tuned that discords and harsh sounds were sometimes known actually to throw him into convulsions,—this Mozart died at the early age of thirty-six. The body was worn out by the too active spirit. As the swan is said to sing its own death-song, so Mozart composed, with a melancholy prescience, his own requiem. With tears in his eyes, he affirmed to his anxious wife that he was writing the dirge far himself. He did not live to finish it. And what need had he of it? What need that any should sing a hymn for the repose of his soul? But let them, if they choose. Let them toll the "passing-bell,*—let them fill the cathedral vault and the "long-drawn aisles" with solemn harmonies, till they echo from the fretted roof. It may soothe themselves and calm their saddened souls, but will it reach his ear? He is listening now to higher melodies, to sweeter harmonies. He is ascending from the shadow into the light; and as he rises, new strains break upon his spirit-ear, new and delicious sounds, to which the softest of earth were harsh. Ravished, he listens—when, from another quarter of the heavens, strains yet sweeter steal upon the blessed air, and, mingling with the first, form a harmony so exquisite, that his rapt soul seems to melt within him with delight;—when, from a third quarter, and a fourth, celestial music bursts out to swell the glorious concert,—till the whole heavens with all their angels seem to be pouring forth a united and uplifted song of joy and praise, that rises swelling to the throne of the Supreme. Where now is the sound of his requiem? Where now the regret for the earth-born music he has left behind? He has found in its place the music of heaven.

Have we supposed too much? Not, upon the rational premises which have been before laid down,—namely, that death has no effect on the spirit, but only on the body—that the essential character of the mind continues unchanged, except that it is purified and exalted, when released from the presence of matter:—these considerations, perfected by that further and still more delightful one, that all the good and great of all ages, congenial spirits, meet, by the law of mental attraction, meet and associate after death—these principles combined were sufficient to account for the high concert we have supposed, as meeting the rapt ear of the released Mozart. For how many great masters of the musical art,—how many fine souls attuned to harmony,—must have passed from earth into the spiritual sphere, in the ages before Mozart? To name but one, Handel:—Handel was already there, and had been there for more than thirty years.^[1] While on earth, he had composed his sublime "Messiah:" would he hot be able to prepare and utter a still more perfect strain of glorification and praise, when ascended into those loftier worlds, and inspired by the very presence, as it were, of Him whom he adored and sought to celebrate? And now, Mozart himself would join the glorious company that sung "the song of Moses and the Lamb"—enriching with the high faculties which God had given him, now purified and exalted, even that celestial choir. In a few years, too, another noble spirit is added to the band, the immortal Haydn. Immortal, we term him—not as being such merely in name and fame, but in fact. Every man, indeed, in a certain sense, is immortal and undying: man never dies,—the body, only, dies. Yet, as life is scarce worthy of the name, unless it be good and happy—therefore, the wicked are called morally dead, and only the good and wise are said to have life eternal, and thus to be immortal. When, therefore we term Haydn the immortal—we mean to convey the distinct idea that he took with him into the spiritual state of existence all the good and great qualities and powers, which he manifested here—all, in a word, that characterized and constituted the man, Haydn. Thus he continues to live on—thus he is immortal. And what a glorious addition would that be to the spiritual choir! Haydn humbly and beautifully acknowledged, while on earth, that his musical powers, ay, and his very works, too, were not his own,—not of or from himself, but from heaven and from God. This appears from the following touching incident related of him. A little while before his death, he was invited by a musical society of Vienna to attend the performance of his own fine oratorio, the "Creation." The warm reception he met with, weakened as he was by age, affected him much; but he was still more deeply affected by the music. At that part of the piece where occurs the sublime passage, "And God said, Let there be light, and there was light"—it is related, that overpowered by the harmony which he had himself created, the tears ran down the old man's cheeks, and lifting his arms to heaven he exclaimed, "Not—not from me, but thence does all this come." He sunk under the power of his emotions, and was obliged to be carried from the hall.

And would not he—who thus from earth had devoutly looked to heaven, and acknowledged it to be the true source and fountain of all lofty harmonies—would not he, when through the gate of death he reached that heaven itself find himself in the midst of those essential harmonies? instead of having left music behind him, would he not find himself now at music's very fountain-head? And with what ecstatic delight, may we suppose, he would enter into that lofty company of congenial souls, and with what raptures would they then pour forth their celestial music, "having every one of them harps," and singing "a new song" of thanksgiving and praise to their blessed Redeemer, Saviour, and God!

We may thus perceive the truth and rationality of the view, that, by the event which is called death, instead of losing anything, all (to the good at least) is gain; that in passing from this world or state of existence into the other, we pass from a world, beautiful and populous though it be, into one vastly more populous, and doubtless far more beautiful, also, since spiritual realities must be more vivid, and perfect than material forms; that, from the fact of that world being independent of time and space, the good and wise of all ages do, as Addison elegantly expresses it, "become cotemporaries," and by the law of spiritual attraction are drawn into delightful society and companionship; further, that by the dropping of the material body with its diseases, wants, and cares, and entering into a purely spiritual state of existence, all the faculties and affections must become immensely expanded and exalted, and consequently that joys and delights must increase in the same proportion. To these considerations may be added yet another, namely, that the same law of mental attraction, which brings together the good, will also serve to remove the evil from their contact and presence, thus ensuring their security and peace. In this lower world, as we know, the good and the wicked are necessarily commingled, and more or less brought into association and connection with each other. This is a necessary effect of the law of space, which belongs to material existence, and which here prevails over the law of mental attraction. Within the same city, or on any certain portion of the earth*s surface, there may dwell both good and bad: and in consequence, they cannot but sometimes cross each other's paths, and come into disagreeable collision. This is one of the necessary, and, no doubt useful trials of our present probationary state of existence. But still it is a defective condition of things, and goes to show that this world was not intended as our permanent abode, nor, from its very nature, can be made a place of perfect happiness. Not so with the spiritual world. There, no such hard law of fixed space has power to separate kindred spirits, while it brings into unpleasant contact such as are dissimilar and uncongenial. Being a purely spiritual state, the laws of the spirit alone have influence; the law of mental attraction and repulsion alone has force. The effect is, that like are brought to like, while such as are uncongenial, by the same law are removed from each other: being different and distant in character, they will be in fact distant and absent and out of view; for there, nearness and distance are but the effect of spiritual nearness or spiritual distance, that is, similarity or dissimilarity of character. Consequently, the good and the evil cannot but be separated: there cannot but be "a great gulf" between them,—because good and evil, or love and hate, are opposites. We may perceive, then, how great will be the increase of happiness in the future life from this cause alone. Not only will the good of all times be "cotemporaries" and consociates, with hearts elevated and faculties enlarged, but they will be in peace, and secure from all disturbance from the wicked.

Add to this, that by the operation of the same law, there can be no more partings in that future life. It is the stern law of space and matter, which so often, in this world, separates those who love each other and who long to be together, and causes the heart's pang and tear of parting. But there it cannot be so. There being nothing to cause separation but dissimilarity of mind and heart, the very wish of two to be together brings them together: the very affinity and nearness of heart to heart, of itself consociates and conjoins: being one in spirit, they cannot but be united. What a Joyous state is this! how greatly superior to this earthly state of existence must be the one where such a law, the law of love, alone prevails!

And now, there is one grand consideration more to be presented, to complete the view. It is the idea of Eternity! It is the thought that this happy state is to continue—doubtless with constant additions and perfectings—on, on, for ever. How grand a thought is this,—if we can but expand our minds to grasp it! In this material world, not only are we liable to painful partings, but there is ever before us the certain prospect of death. And though to the good man this is not a sad prospect, except from the thought of temporary separation from those he loves and may leave behind—for he knows that death is but a continuation of life,—yet this prospect necessarily tends to curtail his plans of operation, and in a greater or less degree influences all his thoughts, feelings, and actions. Old age, too, with its weakness, is before him, and often in the midst of his activities creeps upon him, and, before he is aware, palsies the arm or the intellect. These are defects inherent in the very nature of matter, and therefore are of necessity attached to a material state of existence. While the lofty and immortal spirit remains connected with the material part, it suffers from the comparative heaviness, dullness, and weakness of its inferior companion. But when it is released by the friendly hand of death, and shakes off its clay covering and burthen,—how it plumes itself afresh, and mounts and soars, as into its native heaven. As the pretty butterfly, bursting from its dull chrysalis state, rises into summer sunshine, and wings its way from flower to flower, rejoicing in its new life,—so must the freed spirit rejoice in the warmth and light and glory of its new existence. No more death, nor disease, nor weakness, is before it or possible to it. Being of a purer nature and substance, more perfect, nearer to the Divine—it is superior to those imperfections of matter. Decay cannot touch it: time has no effect upon it. It stands in the strength and beauty with which God has endowed it, an image of its glorious Maker, immortal and eternal. Boiling ages will only add to its perfections,—not dim in the least its lustre, nor diminish its power. When ten thousand years have passed away, it will be still shining on, like the star Sirius in the heavens. It is written, "they that are wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and those that turn many to righteousness, as the stars for ever." And so will it be. The good and great of various ages, clustered together, will form, as it were, constellations in the spiritual firmament, giving light to that inner sphere, and sending down, perchance, many rays to illumine the mental darkness of this world, also. And they will shine on, "as stars for ever." For ever! what a thought is that! In this world a man of "threescore years and ten," is counted old,—one of a hundred years, as aged in the extreme. But in the spiritual world, there are men of a thousand years old, and probably of five and six thousand years. And these are but just born, as it were,—they are but infants,—taking into consideration their whole future life. When a hundred thousand years shall have passed, indeed, they will but be in the commencement of their existence; for what is a hundred thousand years, compared with eternity? Nay, when a million of years shall have passed away,—or ten millions,—still will they be but in the morning of life: in truth, it will be a perpetual morning, for there will still be ever the whole day, so to speak, of existence before them: the evening of that grand day will be no nearer than at first. Indeed, that evening will never come; life will be an eternsd morning, because derived from Him who is "the bright and the Morning Star."

This thought of eternity, indeed, is as solemn as it is sublime. Ccmsider what we are laboring for! Consider for what it is we are toiling on through temptations, trials, afflictions of body and of mind, sorrows and distresses of many kinds, to which we are subjected in this life:—^to purify and prepare us for that glorious life beyond the grave I Is not the mag^ nificent reward well worth all the pains, though they were multiplied a thousand-fold? And to the thinking man, is not the prospect most ample encouragement to bear up and bear on, steadily and manfully, for the few remaining years, till the purifying furnace is passed quite through, and we emerge at length out of its smoke and flame, into the glorious sunlight of a heavenly paradise? There, the trees wave softly in delicious airs, and the flowers bloom eternal, and prospects and vistas ever new and ever more charming will open on the ddighted sight, and troops of loving and joyous Jfriends will throng about us, all things around breathing perpetual peace, joy, and love; and, from above, the Lord's blessed coimtenance looking down and smiling upon all! It is—^it is a glorious prospect and ample encouragement, and we will strive and struggle on, till the happy time comes.

On the other hand, is not the thought (^ eternal existence a most grave one— ^ most sad one— when we contemplate a man, who is going a downward path, to* wards that gloomy region where are no paradises and no flowers, but a desert sterility; where peace is unknown, but there exist ceaseless rages, revenges, quarrelings, blasphemies;— where are assembled the robbers d by Google and murderers of all times, the cunning, the deceitful, the malicious, the cruel, of all ages, hating, tearing, and torturing each other? For it must he so. Observe the principles that have been laid down. Death can make no change whatever in the character, because it touches only the body not the mind, only the material not the spiritual part. Those, therefore, whose lives have been given up to evil and wickedness, to private or public crime, to ambition, sensuality, avarice, selfishness, and who have thus cherished and indulged various bad passions, till those passions have become a constituent part of their minds and characters—must, at death, take all their passions with them, for they are their very selves—they make the man. And as all the faculties and feelings, when passing into the spiritual sphere of existence, become indefinitely strengthened, whether in good or in evil, therefore the wicked cannot but be even worse there than here: as good men become angels, so bad men become demons. All observation and experience, even in this world, go to establish and confirm the truth of this view: continued indulgence strengthens and deepens evil, as constant effort enlarges and perfects goodness. What a fearful picture, then, does eternity hold up to the evil! as sad and dreadful, as to the good it is charming and delightful.—But let us return: for it was not our purpose, in this connection, to dwell upon the evils of existence, in any of their forms,—that subject being reserved for another place; but rather to speak of the good, the beautiful, and the happy things of life, in order to make manifest the wisdom and goodness of Him who created them.

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Thus far we have dwelt chiefly on the joys of the spiritual state of existence—the delights of heart and soul, which must arise from the free communication of pure affections amongst the good, and the pleasant interchange of lofty and noble thoughts amongst the intellectual and wise. But we must now go from the inward to the outward,—from the joys to the splendors and the glories of that spiritual state of existence. For life, to be perfect, must have an outer as well as an inner phase. There must be delights for the eye and the ear, as well as joys for the soul: there must be gratifications for the spiritual senses, as well as for the higher and more interior faculties. For it must be that man has senses there as well as here,—in the spiritual body as well as in the material. For what part of man is it that sees and feels now? is it the body, or the spirit through the body? That it is not the body that properly feels, is plain from this,—that when the spirit leaves it, at death, the body feels no more; you may hold a picture before the glazed eye, but it sees nothing; you may whisper in its ear, or play the sweetest music by its side, and it gives no sign of regard; you may pierce it with a knife, and it gives no proof of feeling. Plainly, then, it was not the body itself, but the spirit, that saw, heard, and felt in and through the body. The senses, then, belong properly to the spirit,—which is in fact the man himself, the material body being but a coat or covering which the man wears and acts through, while inhabiting the material world. If, then, the senses belong truly and properly to the spirit, which is, as it were, within the material body,—then, when man throws off the material body at death, he of course retains, together with the spirit, the senses as well as the more interior faculties.

This being so,—then, plainly, in the spiritual world there must be objects for those spiritual senses. There must be light for the spiritual eye, sound for the spiritual ear, charming and beautiful objects of every kind. But, it may be inquired, whence is the light that illumines that world? it cannot surely be from our natural sun, for that cannot shine into the spiritual world. No! God Himself is the Sun of the spiritual world, and the source of the light there. This may be rationally seen, if we reflect that truth is, in fact, mental or spiritual light. This we have an intuitive perception of, and hence the common expressions, "an enlightened man," "an enlightened nation:" it is no light of the natural sun, that we here speak or think of, but the light of the mind, spiritual light, the light of truth, which flows from the God of truth, the "Sun of Righteousness." Our minds or spirits, even here, are enlightened from that inner Sun,—plainly not from this natural one; for if that were the case, we should be no longer able to think when the sun was down,—whereas at midnight, we know, the light of the mind often shines brightest: as the poet says, "midnight is the noon of thought:"—it is because that light is from a Sun that never goes down, the Lord Himself, the "God of glory." While we are enveloped with our material body, we see indeed that light and that Sun only with the mind's eye—the internal eye; but after death, we shall see it with the external eye, also, because the eye of the spirit is one with the eye of the mind, being only, as it were, its external form or manifestation. Such, then, must be the namely, the Lord Himself. And that light must be as much more brilliant than the light of this natural world, as God Himself is brighter and more glorious than the sun which He has made and hung np for our lamp in the heavens.

Following up this thought, we may readily perceive that there must also be heat or warmth from that Sun, which is love, as its light is truth. Of this, too, we have an intuitive perception, and hence the common phrases, a "warm heart," "ardent affection," "burning passion," and the like. We know, too, that the face actually flushes and grows warm, by the power of ardent feelings. Hence, then, the heat of the spiritual world. From the same source is that vital heat in man, which, as is known, remains nearly the same in winter as in summer: this is so, for the same reason that man has intellectual light at midnight—namely, because it is independent of the natural sun, and is from the spiritual Sun, which is ever the same; for there is no winter there, as "there is no night there."

But carrying out the analogy still further, it may be plainly seen, that as this material globe itself, with all that it contains, is produced from the natural sun,—so the spiritual world, derived from the Spiritual Sun, will contain indefinite and innumerable objects, analogous to those in this world, though of a spiritual, not material, substance. Hence there must be objects there, as there are here, but far more beautiful and charming, inasmuch as spirit is a higher and more perfect kind of existence than matter, being derived from a Divine Sun, infinitely more perfect and glorious than this. Thus will the landscapes of heaven be diversified with every beauty; under that beaming Sun, the soil of spiritual mould will bring forth exquisite fruits and flowers; and Eden, in more than its primitive loveliness, will again appear.

But now the question may be asked, where is that heaven? where is that spiritual world? Is it above the sun—beyond the stars? That cannot be; for the stars, as astronomy makes known to us, are all around the earth, below as well as above, and on every side of us. In fact, the terms above and beneath, considered exactly and scientifically, mean simply off from the earth and towards the earth's centre, respectively. No! the spiritual world is within, rather than above; it is an inner sphere, rather than a distant upper sphere. What is interior is called higher, from a spiritual idea of its being of a higher nature, that is, more perfect; as God Himself is called "Most High," not as being most high in space, but most high in character, in nature—most interior, most perfect. To see that the spiritual world is in a manner within the natural, we have only to consider man's own soul or spirit, and its position in relation to the material body. We feel the spirit as within the body. When we press the hand upon the forehead in the effort of deep thought, we have a consciousness that the thinking principle is there within. When the heart is touched with feelings of pity and compassion, or deeply affected with grief, we press our hands upon our bosoms, with a distinct perception that the meltings of tenderness or the pangs of sorrow are within us. When the whole spirit is excited in the moment of great action, it is the inner man that is stirred, and its emotion is communicated in a thrill through the bodily frame. Thus the spirit of man is perceived to be within the material body.

But to descend, now, to the lower animals. They also have a kind of soul or spiritual principle, though not, indeed, like man's, immortal. For they possess instinct, and a certain kind of perception, though limited in its range; they have feelings of pain and pleasure; they are affected with attachment and aversion, and anger, and other passions. Now these are attributes of spirit; for they certainly do not belong to mere matter, which is a thing of itself entirely unconscious and inanimate. Here, then, we have a second portion of a spiritual world, present within the material.

But still further, and descending still lower, there is what is termed the "vegetative soul"—that principle which gives life to all the vegetable creation. This is indeed neither an immortal nor a conscious principle, yet it is certainly a living one, and therefore must belong to the world of spirit, taking the term in its most extensive sense. For observe, there are but two kinds of created existence, spirit and matter: all things must belong either to the one or the other. Now, life is not properly an attribute of matter: if it were, then, wherever there were matter, there would also be life. But this is not the case. We may see dead trees standing side by side with living ones, of the same genus and species: thus showing clearly that it is not to matter itself, or any particular form or arrangement of the particles of matter, that life belongs, but to something distinct from either. In the one case the "vegetative soul" is present, in the other it is absent: therefore the one tree is living, and the other dead. Since, therefore, the living principle does not belong to matter, it must, as before said, be of the nature of spiritual existence. Here, then, the vegetative souls of all trees and flowers and of the whole vegetable kingdom, form a third portion of a present spiritual world.

In this view, we may perceive, that the spiritual world is not to be thought of as far distant from us in space, whether above or beneath, but rather as here present, acting upon and animating the whole material world whether human, bestial, or vegetable: nay, its presence and influence may be said to extend still lower, and affect also the mineral creation, giving to it those forces which may be termed mineral life; as chemical affinity, magnetic power, and attraction of cohesion and of gravitation. Thus the spiritual world may be thought of as a vast soul, of which the material world is the body: and that soul is within that body, as the spirit is within the body of man.

Man's soul, then, we perceive, is a part of the present spiritual world: and may be said with truth, to be already in that spiritual world, even while animating the body and looking out upon this material world. When man dies, then,—that is, when the spirit separates itself from the material part, and so "shuffles off this mortal coil,"—it has not to travel any distance to reach the spiritual world—it is at once in that world. Indeed it was in it before—because it was of it; yet unconsciously, because it exerted its consciousness through material organs. But after death the spirit is wholly and consciously in the spiritual world, thus in its own proper state of existence. It is now under the light of another sun,—a spiritual sun. It sees around it the objects of another world, the veritable spiritual world, of which it had heard and thought so much, while here on earth. And those objects, as before observed, must be as much more beautiful and magnificent than the objects of this material world, as the Sun from which they are all derived, is more perfect than our natural sun,—or as spirit is more perfect than matter. So, also, the spirit then beholds the inhabitants of that world, constituted of the myriads and millions of men, who from the beginning of time have passed out of this material sphere into the spiritual, and thus have entered upon the scene of their eternal existence. All these spiritual objects, whether things or men, are invisible to us now, simply because our sight, which in itself is spiritual, looks at present through the organism of material eyes. But as soon as we are withdrawn from this organism, or drop this day by death, it will be like dropping scales from the eyes, and we shall find ourselves at once looking upon magnificent scenes,—in the presence of great companies of spirits,—and standing under the light of the spiritual Sun, "the Sun of Righteousness,"—under the very Eyes, as it were, of our God.

Such is the answer to the question, "Where is the spiritual world?"

But now, before we can get a complete view of the glories of the spiritual state of existence, and of the life eternal, we must take a still wider range of thought. It is to be remembered, that we have all the time been speaking of but one spiritual world, as of but one natural world. In describing the spiritual world, as so vastly populous,—as containing at once the men of all past generations,—a vast sea, as it were, having a thousand inlets and no outlet,—into which fresh streams of humanity are ever pouring, and which keeps all that it receives;—in all this, we still had reference only to that spiritual world which is connected with our own earth, and which is the receptacle of the successive generations that people our own globe.

But are we to forget that there are other earths besides ours,—other peopled worlds in our own solar system, and beyond it, to an indefinite number? Our earth, vast and populous as we are used to think it, is after all but a small world, and even a minute one, compared with some. The planet Saturn is one thousand times as large as our earth, and Jupiter no less than thirteen hundred times as large. If we consider our earth as vast, what shall we think of these? if we consider our world populous, what must be the population of these immense orbs? And what the immensity and populousness of the spiritual worlds (to use, for distinctness, the plural term) connected with those planets, and which have been receiving the influx of those vast populations, as one generation after another passed into them by death, from the time of their creation. Here, a new field of thought seems to open up, very enlarging to our ideas. Estimating the population of our globe at eight hundred millions, and supposing the numbers of the two planets to be proportioned as their sizes,—the population of Jupiter will amount to the enormous number of about one billion, or a million of millions. And estimating the period of a generation at thirty at thirty-three years, then, some three billions (3,000,000,000,000) of people—must pour from that one planet into the spiritual world, in each century. What, then, must be the population of spirits now assembled there, if that planet has been in in existence several thousand years, or as long as ours!

But this is only the beginning. A similar kind of calculation is to be made for Saturn, for Uranus, for the newly discorered and extreme planet Neptune (all much larger than our earth): Neptune—which though newly discovered, is not newly existent, for it is now known to have long been influencing, by its attractive power, the course of the neighbouring planet Uranus, and probably had been doing so for thousands of years before the latter was itself discovered. Yes! cold, distant Neptune has doubtless its millions and myriads of millions of intelligent and happy beings, thinking themselves perhaps, as we are apt to think ourselves, the chief and most interesting people in the universe. And they, too, have, doubtless, their joys and sorrows, their hopes and fears, their diseases and recoveries. There, also, as here, are tears shed at the death of little infants, of adults, and of old men, as these, from time to time, take their departure to the spiritual world: though, indeed, it may be, that being more highly spiritual in their views than the people of our earth, they may consider death in its true aspect, namely, as a simple mode of entrance upon a new life: if so, their tears soon cease to flow. Still, thousands and tens of thousands must be daily pouring from the planet Neptune into the spiritual state of existence; and what a vast world must these thousands and millions of Neptunian spirits now collected, constitute. And being, no doubt, of a different genius and character from the inhabitants of our earth,—therefore, as difference of character constitutes distance in the spiritual state, those collected spirits, that Neptunian spiritual orb (so to speak) would probably appear at a distance from the spirits of our earth. Thus the spiritual worlds, formed from the departed spirits of the different planets, would probably appear distant from each other, and in various different situations, somewhat as the planets themselves now appear in different places in our nocturnal sky. "In my Father's house are many mansions," said the Saviour. The heavens of the good after death may perhaps be as numerous and various as the different genera and species of goodness existing with the inhabitants of all the different worlds in the universe. In the Scriptures, the term is used continually in the plural number, as if to convey the distinct idea of there being many and various societies of the good; this we read, "The heaven, even the heavens are the Lord's;" "Praise Him, ye heavens of heavens:" and so in other passages.

But now where are we? In speaking of the planet Neptune, we are still within the limits of our own solar system. This system, however, is but one of thousands. Every twinkling star in the heavens is a sun, like our own, and the centre, doubtless, of a similar system,—giving light to numerous planetary worlds revolving round it. And, by parity of reasoning, each of these orbs must have its own spiritual world, into which are continually pouring, through the gates of death, the inhabitants of those orbs, the good forming a heaven, and the evil, a hell, of their own. The star Sirius, the brightest of the fixed stars, the size of which, it has been estimated, cannot be much less than fourteen times that of our sun—what a grand and beautiful system of planets must be sweeping round that brilliant orb! And equally grand must be the system of spiritual worlds corresponding to those several planets, and peopled from them:—as grand, did we say? ay, as much more grand and vast, as our own spiritual world, formed from the departed spirits of all the successive generations of men that have lived on this globe, is vaster and more populous than this earth with its present number of co-temporary inhabitants: and as much more beautiful and perfect must those spiritual worlds connected with the Sirian system, be than the natural worlds and planets of that system, as our own spiritual world and heaven is, by our former showing, a far more perfect state than earth,—being formed of those whose faculties and affections have been indefinitely expanded and elevated by passing the barrier of death, and throwing off the burthen of this material state. Here, then, what a sublime view opens upon us! we will speak no more of the spiritual world—we will speak henceforth of the spiritual universe—composed of as many spiritual worlds, as there are stars and planets in the material universe. And who knows but those spiritual orbs may shine to the eyes of spirits, in distant beauty, just as the innumerable stars that spangle the sky, glitter and twinkle with their sparkling light before the sight of the rapt astronomer at his midnight vigils? Is it not reasonable to think so? Truth, as before shown, is spiritual light, and therefore to spiritual eyes must shine, as natural light to natural eyes. The various heavens, therefore, constituted of those who are filled with truth and love, and who thus are truth and love, as it were, in very form, would be seen to pour forth light to the eyes of spirits and angels in other heavens, as the countless stars and planets in our sphere shine distantly to us, and we to them. And may not this be the hidden allusion contained in the beautiful passage already quoted, "They that are wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever?"—"There are more things in heaven and earth," says the far-seeing poet, "than are dreamt of in our philosophy-"

Those heavens, moreover—that spiritual firmament, which thus becomes visible to man after death, when he enters on the spiritual state,—will be real heavens, the true heavens: whereas this material firmament over our heads and which we call "the heavens," is, as science well knows, not really such. Those planets and worlds plainly cannot be the abode of angels or spiritual beings at all, but, by the deductions of all just analogy, they are earths like our own, inhabited by men like ourselves; being material and not spiritual, they must of necessity be the habitation of material beings, that is to say, of beings clothed with material bodies. In fact, our sun and planets must appear as heavens to them, precisely as they appear heavens to us. Why, then, it might be asked, do we call that firmament and those worlds "heavens" at all? and why have they been always so called by the ancients, as by the Greeks and Romans for instance, as well as by the moderns? This custom springs, doubtless, from an interior and spiritual idea, an idea derived from the spiritual world;—the some cause that makes us speak of truth as light, and of love as warmth, and also that causes us to speak, of God as above, or on high. According to the views just presented,—to the eye of the spirit the real heaven would appear as on high, stretched far and wide, in glittering beauty, just as the natural firmament appears to us; and this idea, flowing into our minds from the spiritual world, we receive and involuntarily apply to the firmament above and around us, and call it "the heavens:"—for it does in a manner correspond to and represent the real heavens. And, doubtless, it is of Divine Providence that we do entertain this idea. The world without was created a picture and image of the world within: everything in nature is representative of something in spirit,—of something in the mind of man; and thence it is, that the poet is able so freely and easily to borrow images from nature, when he wishes to typify the thoughts and feelings of the mind. And it would be well, if, whenever we looked upon nature, we could see in it not only an image of God the Creator, and of His goodness and wisdom, but also an image of that spiritual world, that heaven, which is His kingdom and dwelling-place. Thus would the mind be elevated from the natural to the spiritual, be lifted from earth to heaven. Now this has place, in a degree, with all: they look upon the starry firmament, and, from the secret spiritual idea before mentioned, think of it as heaven. It is not indeed really heaven, but it may be considered an image of it, and as presenting to our eyes an appearance somewhat similar to that which the real heavens present before the eyes of spiritual beings. By this thoughht, the outer and the inner worlds, the representative heavens and the real heavens, are brought into connection in the mind, and our ideas are thus elevated from matter to spirit, from time to eternity.

It is true, indeed,—when the idea strikes one, that the thought of his childhood was not the real truth, that the pleasant belief of the spangled firmament over his head being heaven and the abode of angels, cannot be correct—he is at first pained at the reflection. He is as one waked from a pleasant dream, and before whom a sweet illusion has been dissipated. It is well. Let him turn, then, his thoughts to that world where there is no illusion, where all is real and is what it appears; where the real and true heavens ever shine in resplendent beauty, and where, if found worthy of a place there, he may not only be able to look forth and behold those celestial worlds scattered all around him, star beyond star in endless succession, and in countless multitudes—as he beholds the stars of this firmament, now—but he may also perhaps be allowed to visit them, and roam from world to world, and from galaxy to galaxy, in that spiritual firmament,—till his mind is filled with a knowledge and a delight, far surpassing all the treasures and pleasures of earthly science.

Contemplating, now, the joys and glories of the spiritual world, and the life eternal—as they have been thus imperfectly sketched—what conclusion remains to be drawn in reference to the great point, which is the aim of all our remarks,—the existence of a Divine Creator, and His Power, Wisdom, and Goodness. In our First Chapter, we presented an outline view of the Material Universe, and called attention to its beauty, richness, order, and immensity, and to the proofs of exquisite skill, wondrous wisdom and power, and tender goodness, everywhere discernible. In the preceding Sections of this Second Chapter, we adduced instances of wisdom, goodness, and happiness in man as he exists in this world,—as being visible manifestations and certain proofs of the Wisdom and Goodness of Him, from whom, as it was argued, all man's excellences and blessings most be derived. But here, in contemplating the glories of the Spiritual Universe,—as made visible to the eye of enlightened reason cleared by faith,—and in considering the greatly exalted wisdom, goodness, and felicity of man, when passed into that spiritual state, and raised from earth to heaven—we behold all these things, as it were, in a magnified form. Consequently, the evidences of the divine wisdom and goodness are magnified and multiplied in like proportion. If the beauties and charms of a natural landscape bear witness to the power and the benevolence of Him who formed it—how much more those of a heavenly landscape! If the elegance and nicety of structure visible in earthly objects, be proofs of the Divine skill and benignity,—how much more the exquisiteness of those spiritual realities, of which material things are but as the shadows! If the order and the vastness of this natural universe excite our admiration and wonder, at the infinity of the wisdom and power of the great Architect, what shall we feel in reflecting upon the splendor and the immensity of that Spiritual Universe,—which, though at present invisible to our material organs, will one day be seen by our spiritual ones, and is even now visible to the eye of right reason and of faith?—that Spiritual Universe, which, as before shown, must have been, from the beginning, and still is, and will continue to be, the vast receptacle of all the countless generations of men that are successively born, dwell, and die, on all the innumerable worlds and system of worlds in the material universe around us; and which consequently must be as much more vast and populous than that material universe, as the generations that have existed in all time exceed in numbers that existing at any one time. In like manner, if in contemplating the intellectual power of a Newton, and the benevolence of a Howard, we saw manifest proofs of the profundity of the Wisdom, and the abundance of the Goodness, of the Being who made them both, and who gave them all their intellect and feeling,—how much stronger is the light of testimony that beams from the beatified spirits of Newton and Howard, and from their countenances shining with the light and love of heaven, as we can now behold them in thought, existing in the eternal world! Lastly, if from the happiness of man as he is in this life,—the sportive innocence of infancy, the merriment of boyhood, the delightful hopes and happy loves of youth, the domestic and social pleasures and the exciting activities of manhood, and the peace of old age,—if from all these joys, we could draw arguments to prove the love of our good Creator and Heavenly Father who provided them all,—what conclusion is to be drawn from the immensely increased and exalted happiness which the good man enjoys, when, having passed the gate of death, he enters on his eternal inheritance? What but the purest and intensest love, in the Divine Mind, could have inspired the idea (if we may use such an expression) of forming a grand and beautiful dwelling-place above, into which, having passed through a necessary preparatory stage of existence, might at length be gathered His intelligent creatures, to be blessed with the most exalted joy and happiness, close to Himself, for ever? Can anything that man can do, be said to merit any such eternal blessing? Is it not a mere gift derived from the purest beneficence and love? What Wisdom, too, in carrying out the grand design—and what plenitude of power! Thus, then, it is, especially, in the contemplation of the joys and glories of the spiritual state of existence and the life eternal, that the goodness, wisdom, and power of the Divine Creator are seen to be the most clearly and abundantly manifested.

One point more remains to be touched upon. The question might be asked,—how is it to be shown that all these things are the work of a single Being, and not of two or more?—thus satisfying the terms of the proposition, that "there is a Being All-powerful, Wise, and Good, by whom everything exists." The answer is, that the perfect unity and harmony pervading all parts of the creation, are sure proof that it is the work of a single Mind. It is one system of laws, that pervades the universe, and not several systems, and hence the order and symmetry everywhere visible. The planets, in their swift and graceful revolutions about the sun, have no interference with each other, but move round ceaselessly in their respective courses, in perfect concord, and "in solemn silence all," uttering no sound unless it be the unheard "music of the spheres." Occasionally, indeed, eclipses occur; the bright orbs, in passing, throw sometimes their shadows on each other. But what harm is that? It is rather a beauty and a benefit. The occasional variation both directs attention, and bears testimony, to the order from which it is a momentary departure—as the exceptions prove the rule. The value too of the blessings we are continually enjoying, is more justly appreciated, by a temporary withdrawal of them. The gloom which an eclipse of the sun throws over the face of nature, enables us rightly to understand and feel how needful and precious is his light. Moreover, eclipses, as we know, are of great service in sensibly demonstrating some of the great truths of astronomical science. In an eclipse of the moon, for instance, the shadow of the earth thrown upon that body shows manifestly the circular form of our planet. Being ourselves upon the earth, we cannot see its whole globular shape, as we can that of the other planets which we view at a distance; but by means of an eclipse, we are enabled to behold ourselves, as it were, in the mirror of the moon, and thus see our true form and likeness. It was from the eclipses of the moons of Jupiter, that the speed of light was ascertained, and the interesting and wonderful fact made known to man, that this first of natural existences, this earliest messenger, as it were, from the Divine Creator, goes on its useful errands at the enormous rate of 192,000 miles in one second of time. By means of the same eclipses, are astronomers enabled to construct those tables of longitude, by which the mariner ascertains his position on the wide ocean, and thus makes his way in safety over the pathless waters. Thus is it, that out of seeming disorder more perfect order is elicited: out of temporary darkness there comes forth brighter light.

But the great law, the law of gravitation, which regulates so beautifully the order of our planetary system, is not confined to that system: it extends through the whole universe. It may be seen carrying on its operations, and working its magical effects among the most distant orbs that are subject to our observation whether by the naked eye or by means of the highest powers of the telescope. You may see it in those beautiful systems of double and triple stars, that are now known to exist in various parts of the firmament. Those countless suns that fill the heavens, and which were called, of old, "fixed stars," being supposed to be fixed and motionless in their places, are now ascertained to be by no means fixed, but all in rapid motion, revolving round each other in every variety of graceful movement, and in orbits whose immensity is altogether inconceivable. Look up, for instance, on a clear evening, and observe the middle star in the tail of the Great Bear. That is a double star, which, with the small star lying near it, makes a triple system, the bodies composing which revolve round each other, or, rather, round a common centre, in the enormous period of 180,000 years. Still more interesting and wonderful is a system of stars in the constellation Lyra. It is a quadruple system,—one pair of stars, revolving about another pair. The two stars composing one of the pairs, revolve round each other in about a thousand years; those of the other pair, in about two thousand: but one pair revolves about the other pair, as it is estimated, in not less than the inconceivable period of 560,000 years. What a thought is this! How do our little times and seasons shrink into insignificance before these awful periods! How do our little doings of a day lose themselves, and become unnoticeable and invisible, before these tremendous works and movements of the Almighty Creator! Yet, in the workings of these vast and complicated systems of suns, we may note the presence of the same single law, which serves to bind together the various parts of our own solar system, as well as the particles of every orb that goes to compose that system—the great law of attrqction; which as remarked in another place, seems fitly to represent, and, we may believe, is derived from, that law of spiritual attraction that pervades the universe of mind—the great law of love,—wherein is imaged everywhere the character of Him who is Love itself, the good Creator and Father of all.

Here, then, we may see the impress of a Single Mind, in the unity and harmony which pervade the visible universe; while, at the same time, we discern the qualities of that Mind,—its Power, in the grandeur of the plan, its Wisdom in the perfectness of its beauty and order, and its Love in the presence of that great pervading force which draws into intimate connection and union its innumerable parts. It is true, indeed, that Science has not yet grasped all the links of the great chain which binds the universe into a single whole, yet every discovery adds a new link, filling up the intervals, and bringing the scattered parts into more and more perfect connection; and already enough is known to enable it to trace the general course of that chain, even where a part is not directly visible, and to pronounce that it is and must be truly one,—thus verifying, as it were, the truth of old Homer's grand idea, that a golden chain goes forth from the throne of God, and, after encircling the universe, returns again to link itself to His footstool

But now—if the material universe be thus seen to constitute one whole,—what shall be said of the Spiritual universe, and of the connection of the two? for to satisfy completely the terms of the proportion, it should be shown that "everything that exists," whether material or spiritual, is produced from one Divine Being. To this inquiry, then, it may be answered, first, that if the natural universe shows everywhere order and connection between its parts, still more perfect is the order and harmony manifest in the spiritual universe or world of mind. All who have in any degree studied the subject, have observed how closely ideas are associated, one thought leading to another, truth illustrating truth, affection linking itself to kindred affection. Hence we have the expression, "the circle of the sciences." All known truths are seen by the eye of the mind, as connected together, and as arranged, too, in a certain regular and beautiful order. Thus, the truth is generally received or recognised, that the universe of mind is a one, a whole, however various and innumerable its parts. That this mental universe exists or is derived from one God, is manifest from all that has been said in previous Sections, in regard to "God's Wisdom seen in man's wisdom," and "God's Goodness seen in man's goodness." This would not be the case, were not man's wisdom and goodness derived from God: how else should His likeness be there? The work bears on its face testimony to its Author: the child, by the infallible proof of resemblance, points to its Parent.

One powerful witness might indeed be brought to invalidate the testimony in regard to perfect unity and harmony in the world of mind—namely, the existence of evil. But this is too large a subject to enter upon here; a future part of this work will be devoted specially to it, and it will then be our endeavor to show that the existence of evil not only is no proof that there is more than one Creator or Source of all things, nor any argument against His wisdom or goodness, but that, rightly considered, the origin and permission of that existence testify to both.

In regard to the other point, the connection between the worlds of matter and of mind, and their harmony or oneness,—much has been already said in the present Section. And what has been said all goes to show that there is a close and intimate connection existing between the two worlds; that they are not far distant from each other; that they are not in their proper constitution opposed to each other; and that they differ only as being in different degrees or places in the scale of creation. And that, radically distinguished as matter and spirit are, there is yet a close analogy or correspondence between them. From this view it may be seen, that the different constitutions of matter and spirit, or of the material and spiritual worlds, is no argument against their being derived from one and the same Creator, but rather that the close analogy existing between them, different as they are, is strong proof of the truth of that unity of origin.

Thus, then, from these considerations, in addition to those previously offered in the First Chapter and in the foregoing Sections of this,—it may justly be concluded, that "there is a Being All-Powerful, Wise, and Good, by whom everything exists."

1. Handel died in 1750; Mozart, in 1792; Haydn, in 1809.