57. Allied to this assumption there is another in the materialistic argument as we have stated it. If in the body there be no other material than the visible particles, and in the brain no other material than a certain quantity of phosphorus and other things, such as we know them in the common state, and if individual consciousness depends upon the structural presence of these substances in the body and brain, then when this structure falls to pieces there are of course reasonable grounds for supposing that such consciousness has entirely ceased. But it is the object of this volume to exhibit various scientific reasons for believing that there is something beyond that which we call the visible universe; and that individual consciousness is in some mysterious manner related to, or dependent upon, the interaction of the seen and unseen.
58. There remains yet that part of the argument which hints that individual consciousness is less permanent than matter, inasmuch as such consciousness frequently departs from the universe for six or eight hours and then returns to it again. In one sense this is unquestionably true, while, however, there is a potential or latent consciousness or possibility of consciousness that remains behind.[29] It will be seen in the sequel that this fact of latent consciousness will be used by us to strengthen our argument in favour of a future state.
59. We may conclude, as the result of this discussion, that the connection between mind and matter is a very intimate one, although we are in profound ignorance as to its exact nature.
The intimacy of this connection is a doctrine almost universally held by modern physiologists. Just as no single action of the body takes place without the waste of some muscular tissue, so, it is believed, no thought takes place without some waste of the brain. Nay, physiologists go even further, and assert that each specific thought denotes some specific waste of brain matter, so that there is some mysterious and obscure connection between the nature of the thought and the nature of the waste which it occasions. In like manner memory is looked upon as dependent upon traces, left behind in the brain, of the state in which it was when the sensation remembered took place. Thus Professor Huxley in his Belfast address (1874) tells us: ‘It is not to be doubted that those motions which give rise to sensation leave on the brain changes of its substance which answer to what Haller called “vestigia rerum,” and to what that great thinker David Hartley termed “Vibratiuncules.” The sensation which has passed away leaves behind molecules of the brain competent to its reproduction—“sensigenous molecules,” so to speak—which constitute the physical foundation of memory.’
60. It will be inferred from what we have said that one of the essential requisites of continued existence of the individual is the capability of retaining some sort of hold upon the past: and, inasmuch as we are unable to contemplate such a thing as a finite disembodied spirit, or, to speak more precisely, an unconditioned finite spirit, it is further evident that this hold implies an organ of some sort. This we conceive to be a perfectly general proposition. We do not limit ourselves in making it to any particular arrangement of bodily form, or to any particular rank of finite organised intelligence. From the archangel to the brute we conceive that something analogous to an organ of memory must be possessed by each. This is, in fact, merely a corollary to what has been stated in [Art. 54] above, and does not require any further discussion.
61. But if one general requisite of independent and responsible life be a connection with the past, another is the possibility of action in the present. A living being must have in his frame the capacity of varied movement. He must possess an organisation in which there is the power of calling internal forces into play at irregular intervals dependent on his will. We cannot imagine life to be associated with a motionless mass or with a mass which moves in an invariable manner.
The living being need not always be in motion, but he must retain the capacity of moving. He need not always be thinking, but he must retain the capacity of thought. He need not always be conscious, but he must retain the capacity of consciousness.
To sum up—it thus appears that there are two general conditions of organised life. There must in the first place be an organ connecting the individual with the past, and in the next place there must be such a frame and such a universe that he has the power of varied action in the present. We particularly request our readers to keep well in mind these two propositions, since it is upon them that our argument will ultimately in great part be built.
62. We come now to a very important part of our inquiry. It will be necessary to discuss that which we term the Principle of Continuity, and desirable to begin by defining exactly what is meant by us when these words are used.[30] Let us introduce our definition by one or two illustrative examples.
Take a particular problem of astronomy, for instance, and, beginning at the very commencement, let us suppose an early Egyptian or Chaldean astronomer to be observing the sun in the middle of summer. Day after day, for perhaps a week, he has noticed that this luminary rises over a certain place and sets over a certain other place, and he conceives that he has now obtained some definite information regarding the sun. His idea is, that the sun will go on always doing the same thing, and he therefore predicts to his fellows, who are less observant than himself, exactly where it will rise and where it will set. They join him in observing the luminary for a week or more, and the sagacity of our primeval astronomer is triumphantly vindicated: the sun is found doing as nearly as possible that which had been predicted of it.