II.
When the merchant who trades abroad is about to launch upon the ocean the ship which contains perhaps the whole of his fortune, he is naturally anxious as to what may be its fate while entrusted to the winds and waves, and is solicitous to provide, so far as he can, against the possibility of ruin by its loss. His course is therefore to go to the insurance office, inform the agent what he is about to do, and ask for indemnity against risk.
The insurance office was established for the express purpose of alleviating such disasters as his would be, should his fears be realized, and his case is taken into immediate consideration. The agent regards the route of the proposed voyage, and the seas over which the ship is to pass; the season of the year in which she sails, and the storms that are commonly incident thereto; he deliberates on the propriety of insuring, and if the risk be not too great, fixes the premium to be paid by the merchant. Upon the receipt of this sum, he gives him a writing, binding the company in case the vessel does not arrive safely at the destined port, to pay to the merchant the estimated value of the ship and cargo.
Now the sum which the company receives on this occasion is but a small part of what they may be obliged to return, and which they must pay to the merchant in case the ship insured does not arrive at the end of her voyage. Yet by such transactions as these neither the company is impoverished nor by his loss is he who adventures undone. The company is not impoverished, because in the whole extent of its transactions it receives from those who do not lose as much as its funds are diminished by those who do. The loser himself is not undone, because by contributing his share, and enabling the company to carry on its mitigating operations, he becomes, upon his loss, entitled to a full portion of relief. And indeed in this manner it happens that loss falleth lightly upon many, rather than heavily upon few; and those who, to the benefit of mankind, would trust their all to be carried down to the sea in ships, are not deterred therefrom by the fear of possible ruin.
When the astronomer, for the convenience of the navigator, in enabling him to ascertain his place upon the trackless ocean, determines what will take place at immense distances from our earth, and calculates at what exact though distant periods of time the satellites that revolve about Jupiter may with the telescope be ascertained to pass through the planet's shadow, his conclusions are all founded on a knowledge of causes, and of their methods of operation. The observations of Kepler and Herschel, and the sublime reasonings of Newton and Laplace, founded on fact or on axioms, and tending to pertinent conclusions, are all concerned in these useful calculations. Not so in proceedings like those to which we have referred. There parties act not more from their knowledge of causes than their ignorance of them. Neither the insurer nor the insured knows what favorable winds may waft the ship prosperously on her voyage, nor what tempestuous seas may threaten her with destruction. Did the one know that in the end she would be lost, he would not insure. Did the other know that she would arrive safely at the end of her voyage, he would not desire to be insured. But while the one has hopes and the other fears, yet both are ignorant. They are able, by the judicious exercise of the faculties which God has given them, to adopt a course which, without impairing the welfare of the one, shall tend to secure the safety of the other.
The principle which in these cases determines the insurer whether to insure, and if so at what premium, is a principle upon which the pursuit of happiness very often requires us to act. This principle is, that where a case is under consideration where particular causes cannot be taken into account, we are most strongly to expect such an event as has happened or as we know will happen, in the greatest number of possible cases; unless some particular reason appears which we are certain should make us expect a different result. The principle has a deep foundation in the nature of the human mind; and nowhere is the mutual adaptation between the mind and the external world more clearly seen. Properly applied, it teaches man to look for an existence beyond the grave.
For, in the first place, we find it necessary that he should desire immortality. The prospect of annihilation must always strike the mind with horror. By nature it is capable of conceiving, of appreciating and desiring, future as well as present happiness. Its ideas and desires cannot be bounded by a day or a year, but extend onward, without the possibility of arriving at a limit. Whenever therefore the imagination is presented with a termination of enjoyment, however distant in the field of duration it may be, the mind at once starts back with a feeling of present unhappiness.
It is especially the case that this desire will not allow the mind to be consoled for the supposed termination of its existence by the possession of some other enjoyment. The object is something which cannot be supplanted by any other. It is indeed the mind's susceptibility to be gratified by its connection with other objects, which is the foundation of this desire. It desires continued existence in proportion as it feels the loveliness by which it is surrounded, and of the actions which it is invited to perform. It never so much feels the vanity of any pleasure as when that pleasure is about to terminate. Very far then must the possession of other enjoyments be from compensating for the want of this! Nay, so much livelier as is the joy which the present seems to offer, so much severer will be the pang when the mind looks forward to futurity.
The hurry of novelty and the splendor of dazzling objects may induce temporary forgetfulness, but forgetfulness is not consolation; and of little worth must be that freedom from misery which is only in proportion as the mind loses its activity. It is indeed in some degree to run into the very evil we dread, to escape the consciousness of knowing we must be subject to its consequences. Beside, in spite of such means the mind will often be aroused to a more painful remembrance of its mortality. The opiates which for a time may lull, are yet preparing morbid sensibilities to be restless under the oblivious influence, and to awaken at length to a more acute feeling of the pain that has been suppressed. Yet who can believe there is a single faculty in the mind which must ever desire, without rational hope, and whose despair must be without solace?
Of most of the affections which are implanted in the heart of man, we can discover the end and scope by an observation of them in particular. And of these, where do we find one whose nature is to fix itself on an object for whose attainment one cannot rationally hope, and for whose denial he cannot be consoled? If not in possession, the mind commonly cherishes an expectation of obtaining it. If this seem impossible, the desire reverts to something else, upon which it fixes itself while the mind as soon becomes indifferent to the possession of the former. However long, however deeply, any affection may have been fixed, and however well-founded the hope, or well enjoyed the possession, in which it has been cherished, yet the blow which severs it rarely inflicts a wound too deep to be healed. Time gradually soothes; other objects invite; till at length the sigh called forth by Memory is 'pleasant yet mournful to the soul.' Now by what application of these principles of probability are we required to believe that the desire for immortality is an exception to the universality of the rule we have been exhibiting? All other affections, attachments, and desires we find to come within it. Love, filial affection, fondness for glory or wealth, patriotism—all tend to constitute a moral system which should be capable of happiness. If there be an exception to the rule, it is the desire for immortality. But if there be an exception, how does it happen that we find such long-continued uniformity? We are ignorant of any particular difference in the case, which should make it an exception. How then can we doubt?
If desire be fixed on an object for a time unattainable, the faculty of enjoyment is meanwhile increasing in power, and preparing the mind for a livelier relish of what has been withheld. When it is attained, there is also the influence of contrast to enhance the consciousness of enjoyment. Even grief at severest loss, when softened by time, adds a pleasing interest to contemplation. But after what lapse of time shall the mind's horror at annihilation be softened into mournful complacency? What present pleasure, hope being expelled, can be contrasted with former pain produced by the prospect of annihilation, without renewing that pain in the mind? And to what purpose would the power of enjoying the prospect of immortality be increased, if the prospect itself be hid in the blackness of darkness?