The Day After Death (New Edition). Our Future Life According to Science

Beyond all this, science has penetrated far beyond the reach of our vision. It has invented a marvellous instrument which has unveiled an entire world to our astonished gaze, a world whose existence we never should have suspected without its aid. The world thus revealed to us is that of infinitely little things. We know that myriads of living creatures, both animals and plants, exist in a drop of water; that those creatures, in all their prodigious littleness, have a complete existence, and are as well organized as those of great size which are analogous to them, and that the physiological functions of all these imperceptible beings are fulfilled as perfectly as our own.

Just as we have penetrated into the life of infinite littleness, so we have pierced the depths of celestial space, and scrutinized with our eyes the magnified image of the stars which revolve at an incalculable distance above us. The telescope shows us the surface of the moon, the depths of its ravines, and the rough serrated edges of its enormous mountains, furrowed with deep circular crevasses. We can cast our eyes over the lunar disc as if it were a distant landscape of our own globe. We can even, thanks to the magnifying powers of the telescope, form an idea of the aspect of the surfaces of those planets which are almost lost in the infinite distances of the heavens.

After this faint and incomplete sketch of that which human science has been able to accomplish, it might be supposed that every inhabitant of the earth is impatient to make all this knowledge his own, that every one must desire to fill his mind with its treasures. Alas! the great majority of the human species is ignorant of even the elements of all this. Take away the ten millions of individuals, to whom we have already alluded, and who, numerically, are hardly to be counted in considering the population of the globe, all people imagine that the earth is a flat surface which extends to the limits of the horizon, and is covered with a blue cupola, called heaven. If you assert that the earth revolves, they laugh, and point to the motionless earth, and the sun which rises on the right hand and sets on the left, a manifest proof that the sun comes and goes. The poets will have it that the sun rises from his bed in the morning, and returns to it in the evening. People believe that the stars which shine by night, in the celestial vault, are simply ornaments, an agreeable spectacle, made to please our eyes, and that the moon is a beacon. Nobody inquires into the causes of the rain or fine weather, of heat or cold, of the winds or the tides. Every one shuts his eyes to natural phenomena, so as to avoid the trouble of explaining them. Nature is a shut book for the majority of mankind, who live in the midst of the most curious and various phenomena, but who occupy themselves in eating and drinking, and trying to harm their fellows.

It is a sorrowful spectacle to behold humanity thus preoccupied by its more material necessities, and utterly without interest in any mental exertion, and one grieves to think that such is the condition of almost all the inhabitants of the globe. How far is he superior to the great mass of his fellows, who has cultivated his mind, enriched it with various and useful ideas, and appropriated to himself at least one branch of the varied tree of the exact sciences. What breadth and power must be acquired by a mind thus fortified! Strive, O my reader, to study and to learn. Initiate yourself into the secrets of nature, try to understand all that surrounds you, the universe and its infinite productions, admire the power of God in learning the wonders of His works. Then shall you not approach the tomb with your soul void as on the day of your birth. At the supreme hour of death you will be wise, instructed, and, finding yourself nearer to the sublime essence of superhuman beings, you will be eager to follow them into the ethereal spheres.

In order to elevate and perfect the soul, it is not sufficient only to apply ourselves to the practice of moral virtues and to learning; we must also endeavour to understand God, the Author of the universe. Therefore, let men enter into the temples, and prostrate themselves before God according to the forms and rites of worship in which they have been reared. All religions are good, and ought to be respected, because they permit us to pay the homage of gratitude and heartfelt submission to the Author of nature.

The Christian religion is good, because it is a religion. The religion of Mahomet is good, because it is a religion. For the same reason Buddhism and Judaism are good, and the religion of the wild Indians who worship the sun in the depths of their forests.

The fourth practical rule which we derive from the principles and theories which we have laid down, is that the remembrance and commemoration of the dead should be preserved. Let us not efface from our hearts the memory of those whom death has snatched from us. To forget them is to cause them the most cruel anguish, and to deprive ourselves of the aid and guidance which they can give us here below.

The ancients sedulously kept up the memory of the dead. They did not put the idea of death away from them with terror, like the modern peoples; on the contrary, they loved to invoke it. Among the Greeks and Romans the cemeteries were places of meeting, used for festivals and promenades. The Orientals of our days preserve this ancient tradition. Their cemeteries are perfectly kept gardens, whither festive crowds resort on festal occasions. They visit the relatives and friends who are buried in the shrubberies and the flower-beds, and revel in the pleasures of life amid the pretty dwelling-places of the dead.

In Europe we know nothing of this wholesome philosophy. But we may remark, that peasants, unlike dwellers in cities, who are not brought into familiar daily contact with nature, are far from shunning the idea of death, or avoiding the cemeteries where their relatives and friends rest. They recall the remembrance of their dead, they speak to them, they question them, they consult them, as though they were still seated by the family fireside.

The custom of funeral repasts, which dates from the time of primitive man, is still observed in several countries. On returning from the cemetery the company seat themselves before a well-spread table, in the house of the deceased, and wish him a happy journey to the land of shadows. In our cities, it is "the people" who hold it a duty to carry flowers to the graves of their relatives. Among the higher classes of society people hold themselves exempt, in general, from this pious care, and they are wrong. Piety towards the dead, and reverent commemoration of them, are prescribed by the laws of nature.

Finally, we would impress upon the reader, as a consequence and a practical rule resulting from all that has gone before, that he ought not to fear death. Let him regard with firm heart and tranquil eye that moment which all men dread so much. We have said that death is not a conclusion, but a change, we do not perish, we are transformed. The grub which seems to die, enclosed within a cold shell, does not die, but is born again, a brilliant butterfly, to flutter joyously in the air. Thus it shall be with us. Though our miserable frames remain on earth, and restore their elements to the common reservoir of universal matter, our souls shall not perish. They shall be born again, brilliant creatures of the celestial ether. They shall leave a world in which pain and evil are the constant law, for a blessed domain where every condition of happiness shall be realized. Why, then, should we dread death? If we do not desire it, we ought at least to await it with hope and tranquillity. Death must unite us to those beings whom we have loved, whom we do love, and whom we shall love for ever. What an immense source of consolation during the remainder of our life! What a store of courage for the terrible moment of our own end! The beloved dead, who have never ceased to be present to our memory, have done us the sad, supreme service of softening the anguish of death to us. The sadness of our last moments will be calmed by the thought that they are awaiting our coming, that they are ready to receive us on the threshold of the other life, that they are gone before to lead us into the new domain of existence beyond the tomb!

The fear of death, which is so prevalent among men generally, loses its intensity when the last hour has come. Those who are accustomed to witness death know that the last agony is rarely severe. He who dies after a long and honourable existence knows at that solemn moment that he is going to a new and better world. He is happy, and his words and looks express happiness. The only thought which makes him sorrowful is the grief which his loss must occasion to those whom he loves and is about to leave.

The observations which follow have been made by persons accustomed to observe the dying. But deaths occasioned by maladies which destroy consciousness, or reason, or speech, must not be included in these observations. In order to judge of the thoughts which occupy the dying we must consider those who preserve the integrity of their intellectual faculties until their latest breath. They always die calmly. Consumptive patients, the wounded, those who die from an affection of the stomach or of the intestinal tube, of those slow fevers which consume the strength without impairing the intellectual faculties, these generally remain in the full possession of their intelligence to the last, and die with great tranquillity, even satisfaction. In almost all these cases death is preceded by a gradual decline of strength and sensation, so that the individual has hardly any consciousness of the change he is about to undergo, and looks forward to the moment of death with perfect indifference.

There is a period, which frequently lasts for several hours, during which, life having completely left the body, it is already a corpse which is under the eyes of the spectators, and yet that corpse still moves and speaks. But the soul which survives in the body, really dead, is not the soul of the terrestrial man, but of the superhuman being. The dying person has the consciousness, and perhaps even the prevision of the ineffable happiness which awaits him in that new world upon whose threshold he is standing, and he expresses his happiness by his words and looks. In a sigh of supreme joy he exhales his last breath. This extraordinary state, in which the dying are partly on earth, and partly in the new world to which they are destined, explains the touching eloquence, the sublime words which sometimes come from their feeble lips. An uneducated poor man will express himself upon his death-bed with eloquence incomprehensible to those who are listening to him. It also explains the prophecies, justified by subsequent events, which have been uttered by the dying. They have a knowledge of things of which, in their ordinary condition as belonging to the human species, they could not possibly have had any notion. Therefore, we ought to treasure up their last words with pious care, and scrupulously fulfil the wishes which they express.

In Moldavia, when a peasant has escaped death in a severe illness, after having been on the brink of the grave, his friends press around his bed to ask him what he had seen in the other world, and what news he has for them from their dead relatives. Then the poor invalid interprets his visions for them as well as he can.

A modern writer, who has left some small books on spiritualist philosophy, M. Constant Savy, relates in his "Pensées et Méditations," an extraordinary dream which he had when he was, apparently, at the point of death. We transcribe this curious and interesting document from M. Pezzani's work:—

"I felt very ill," writes Constant Savy, "I had no strength, it seemed to me that my life was making efforts to resist death, but in vain, and that it was about to escape. My soul detached itself little by little from the matter spread all over my frame; I felt it retiring from all those parts with which it is so intimately united, and, as it were, concentrating itself upon one single point, the heart, and a thousand obscure, cloudy thoughts about my future life occupied me. Little by little nature faded from before me, taking irregular and strange forms, I almost lost the faculty of thinking, I only retained that of feeling, and this feeling was all love, love of God and of the beings whom I had most cherished in Him; but I could not manifest this love; my soul, withdrawn to one single point in my body, had almost ceased to have any relation with it, and could no longer command it. My soul experienced some distractions still, caused by the pain of the body, and the grief of those who surrounded me, but these distractions were slight, like the pains and the perceptions which caused them. My life was now attached to matter by one only of the thousand links which had formerly bound it, and I was about to expire.

"Suddenly, no doubt to mark the passage from this life to the other, there came a thick darkness, to which succeeded a brilliant light. Then, O my God! I saw Thy day, that daylight I had so much desired! I saw them, all assembled together, those beings whom I had so dearly loved, who had inspired me during my life in this world after they had left me, and who had seemed to me to dwell in my soul, or float about me. They were all there, full of joy and happiness. They were waiting for me, they welcomed me with delight. It seemed to me that I completed their life and that they completed mine! But what a difference was there in the happiness I now felt from the sensations of the world I left! I cannot describe them! They were penetrating without being impetuous; they were mild, calm, full, unmixed, and yet they admitted the hope of a yet greater happiness!

"I did not see Thee, my God! Who can see Thee? But I loved Thee more than I had loved Thee in this world! I comprehended Thee better, felt Thee more strongly, the traces of Thee which are everywhere, and on everything, appeared more plain and bright to me, I experienced such admiration and astonishment as I had never hitherto known, I saw more distinctly a portion of the wonders of Thy creation. The bowels of the earth hid no more secrets from me, I saw their depths, I saw the insects and other creatures which dwell in them, the mines known to men, and undiscovered by them, the secret ways and channels of the earth. I reckoned its age in its bosom as one counts that of a tree in the heart of its trunk; I saw all the water-courses which feed the seas; I saw the reflux of these waters, and it was like the motion of the blood in a man's body; from the heart to the extremities, from the extremities to the heart; I saw the depths of the volcanoes; I understood the motions of the earth and its relations with the stars, and, just as if the earth had been turned round before my eyes that I might be made to admire Thy greatness, O my God! I saw all countries with their various inhabitants, and their different customs, I saw every variety of my species, and a voice said to me: 'Like thyself, all these men are the image of the Creator; like thyself, they are ever journeying towards God, and conscious of their progress!' The thickness of the forests, the depth of the seas could not hide anything from my eyes; I had power to see everything, to admire all, and I was happy in my happiness, in the happiness of the dear objects of my tender love. Our joys were in common. We felt ourselves united by our former affections which had now become much more deep, and by the love of God: we drew happiness from one and the same source; we were but one, we each and all enjoyed this happiness, which was far too great to be expressed. I am silent now, that I may feel it more deeply."22

It is easy for us to verify to ourselves the fact that men who are condemned by nature to a premature death, are endowed with a great serenity of mind. This moral condition is, in our opinion, an indication that they have the presentiment or even the anticipated possession of the new life which awaits them after death. Why are consumptive people so gentle and sensitive? We believe it is because, being already half out of this world, they are partially endowed with the moral attributes of superhuman beings. They are, as it is well known, always confident in their destinies, they make projects of happiness, and for the future, when their last hour is striking, they feel hope and joy when the by-standers are thinking of their burial. It is customary to explain this anomaly by saying that persons in consumption do not understand the gravity of their illness, but we believe that they have, on the contrary, a confused notion of their state, that nature reveals to them the approach of an existence of cloudless happiness, and that it is this secret conviction which gives them hope and confidence in the future. The future which they foresee is not of this world, but the future of the heavens. This applies not to consumptive persons only. Every man destined to die young seems to be marked with that inner stamp of the soul which lends him now a gentle and charming melancholy, anon vivacity or sensibility which his parents admire, and which is too often only an indication that he is not to remain with them. The charming qualities of many young people are often only the precursors of their death.

"When they have so much intellect, children have brief lives," says Casimir Delavigne. "Whom the gods love, die young," said the Greeks.

Let us, then, not fear death; but await it, not as the end of our existence, but as its transformation. Let us learn by the purity of our life, by our virtues, by the culture of our faculties, by our knowledge, by the exercise of the religion of our ancestors, to prepare ourselves for the critical moment of that natural revolution which shall usher us into a blessed sojourn in the ethereal spheres on the day after death.

EPILOGUE

IN WHICH WE SEEK FOR GOD, AND IN OUR SEARCH, DESCRIBE THE UNIVERSE

THE author now asks his reader's leave to relate a conversation which took place between himself, and a friend named Theophilus, to whom he had confided the manuscript of "The Day After Death," in order to obtain his opinion and impressions of the work. He will allow the interlocutors to express themselves in the ordinary form of dialogue.

Theophilus, (who comes into the Author's study, and lays the manuscript upon the table). I have read your work, and I will tell you presently my impressions of the details, but I must in the first place point out the great deficiency of the book.

The Author. What is wanting in it?

Theophilus. God.

The Author. But–

Theophilus. (Interrupts him.) You are going to remind me that you frequently mention the sacred name, that Providence, the Author of nature, the Creator of the worlds, and so on, are words you constantly employ. That is true, but it is equally true that you restrict yourself to these vague expressions, that you say nothing about the person of God, that you assign to Him no place in the world which you range over in company with more or less spiritualized souls. Why this reserve? Since you tell us that entirely spiritualized souls inhabit the sun, why do you not tell us where your system places God, the sovereign master of those souls! What is your motive for leaving aside a question of such great importance?

The Author. I have several. In the first place, I have everybody's motive. The idea of God which must be formed in order to place Him in harmony with the boundless immensity of this universe which is His work, so far surpasses the limit of the human intellect, it is so overwhelming to our mind, that we stop, powerless and even frightened at our boldness, when we venture to ask ourselves, what is God?

Theophilus. Nevertheless, I am surprised at your hesitation. When a system of the universe is to be constructed, one does not pause in the task, and I can hardly believe that when you venture, as you do, to place on the ladder-steps of your theory all the elements of the solar world—the planets and their satellites, stars and asteroïds, plants, men and animals, creatures visible and invisible, bodies and souls, matter and spirit—you have not assigned a place to the Creator. Have you classified everything in this immense edifice of the worlds, except its Sovereign Architect?

The Author. No, my friend, you are not mistaken; God has His place in my system.

Theophilus. Why, then, have you not said so! Why have you kept silence on this point?

The Author. My book contains so many daring assertions, I have already exposed myself so fully to the animosity of both the learned and the ignorant, that I feared to furnish an additional pretext to their diatribes.

Theophilus. That is not a reason. If you dread discussion and fear detraction, why do you take up your pen at all? You were at liberty to keep your ideas on the origin and the destiny of man to yourself, but, when you decided on submitting them to the public, you became bound to explain all your mind on the subject. If you believe in your system, you must explain it without any reserve.

The Author. Your words are wise, and I ought therefore to bow to them, and follow your imperative advice. Nevertheless I cannot make up my mind to do so, absolutely. I am going to propose a middle course to you. In confidence, and between ourselves, I will explain my ideas about God to you, I will tell you in what part of the immense universe I place this dazzling personality. If the idea seems to you absurd, untenable, or even too hazardous, you will frankly tell me so, and thus duly warned, I will keep my theory to myself; if not–

Theophilus. (Interrupting him.) An excellent plan. There can be no objection to that. Go on, I am listening.

(At this point, Theophilus seats himself, his elbow resting on a book, and a cigar in his mouth, and composes himself to listen, with an expression of grave attention, dashed with suspicious severity, suitable to the arbitrator in a literary and philosophical matter.)

The Author. You want to know, my dear Theophilus, where I place God? I place Him at the centre of the universe, or, I had better say, at the central focus, which must exist somewhere, of all the stars which compose the universe, and which, carried along by a common motion, circulate in concert around this central focus.

Theophilus. Forgive me, but I do not seize your meaning exactly.

The Author. You will understand it presently. Remember, to start from, that I place God at the common focus of the actual motion of the entire universe. But, where is the common focus? In order to know that, we must first of all know the universe, and all the order of its movements.

Theophilus. All that is explained in the course of your work.

The Author. No, my friend, you are mistaken. In my work I have spoken of the solar system only, and a very incomplete and insufficient idea would be gained of the universe by contemplating that system alone. We must not, as is too often done, confound the world and the universe. The world is our world, that is to say, the solar system, of which we form a part; the universe is the agglomeration of all the worlds or systems similar to our world, or solar system. In the manuscript which you have just read, I have only been able to expound one little corner, one insignificant fraction of the universe.

Theophilus. You call the solar world a little corner.

The Author. Yes. Our whole solar system, the sun, with its immense following of planets and asteroïds, with the satellites of those planets, with the comets which from time to time come sweeping on, to fall into the burning furnace of the radiant star, all that, compared with the universe, is no more than an ear of corn in a huge granary, than a grain of sand upon the shore, than a drop of water in the ocean. The terrible vastness of the universe is such that it is absolutely inaccessible to our measurement, and it is for us the image of the infinite, or the infinite itself. Now, my friend, attend to me. Most certainly God, as to His nature, is absolutely inconceivable by our minds. His essence escapes us, and always must escape us. We can only affirm that He is infinite in His moral perfections, and in His intellectual power. But if, on the one hand, God is The Infinite in the moral order, and if, on the other hand, the universe is The Infinite in the physical order; if one is The Infinite in spirit, and the other is The Infinite in extent, these two ideas, although in themselves inaccessible to human intelligence, are nevertheless of the same order, and may be regarded in contiguity. It is then possible, without laying one's self open to the charge of presumption or absurdity, to place the Infinite, which is called God, in the Infinite which is called the Universe, in other words, to locate the person of God at the common focus of the worlds which compose the Universe.