The silence of the dead is one of the most impressive and affecting things connected with the separate state of the soul. We hear the voice of a dying friend, in some last wish, or charge, or prayer, or farewell, or in some exclamation of joy or hope; and though years are multiplied over the dead, that voice returns no more in any moment of day or night, of joy or sorrow, of labor or rest, in life or in death.
The voices of creation return to us at periodical seasons. The early spring bird startles us with her unexpected note; the winter is over and gone. But no periodical change brings back the voices of departed friends. A member of the family embarks on a long voyage; but, be it ever so long, if life is spared, the letter is received, in which the written words, so characteristic of him, recall his looks and the tones of his voice. Years pass away, and the sound of his footsteps is at the door again, and his voice is heard in the dwelling. But of the dead there comes no news; from the grave no voice, from the separate state no message. With our desire to speak once more to the departed, and to hear them speak, we feel that they must have an intense desire to speak to us. We wonder why they do not break the silence. There is so much of which they could inform us; it would be such a relief, we think, to have one word from them, assuring us that they arrived safely, and are happy, and, above all things, granting us their forgiveness for the sins which now have awakened sorrow. But we wait, and look, and wonder, in vain.
When we think of the number of the dead, this silence appears impressive. Their number far exceeds that of the living. Could they be assembled together, and could those now alive be set over against them, upon an immense plain, to a spectator from above we should be a small company in comparison with them. Should they lift up their voices together, ours could not be heard. Yet from that vast multitude we never hear a voice,—not even a whisper,—nor see a sign. Standing in a cemetery a few miles distant from the great city, you hear the low, muffled roar from the streets and bridges, reminding you of the living tide which is coursing along those highways. But with eight thousand of the dead around you in that cemetery, and a world of spirits, which no man can number, just within the veil, you hear nothing from them. No one comes back to tell us of his experience; no warning, nor comfort, nor counsel, ever reaches our ears. Whatever our trouble, or our joy may be, our need or prosperity; however long and painful the absence of the departed may have been; however lonely we may feel, wishing for some word of remembrance and love; and though we visit the grave day by day, and call on the name of the departed, and use every art of endearment to pierce the veil between us,—there is the same determined, cold, lasting silence. "To go down into silence" is a scriptural phrase for the state of the dead.
Our feelings seek relief from those vague, uncertain thoughts respecting the dead which we find occasioned by the gentle manner in which death most frequently occurs. The breath is shorter and shorter, and finally ceases, yet so imperceptibly, that, for a moment, it is uncertain whether the last breath has expired. There is no visible trace of the outgoing of the soul. Could we see the spirit leave the body, we should feel that one of the mysteries of death is solved. Could we trace its flight into the air, could we watch its form as it disappeared among the clouds, or melted away in a distance greater than the eye can comprehend, we should not, perhaps, ask for a word to assure us respecting the state of the soul. But there is no more perfect delineation of the appearances which death presents to us, than in the following inspired description: "As the waters fail from the sea, and the flood decayeth and drieth up, so man lieth down and riseth not; till the heavens be no more, they shall not awake, nor be raised out of their sleep." We see the lying down, the fixedness of the posture, the utter disregard, in the cold remains, of every thing which passes before them; and these remains are like the channels of a river, or the flats of the sea, when the tide has utterly forsaken them. The soul is like those vanished waters, as to any manifestation that it continues to exist.
We miss the departed from his accustomed places; we expect to meet him at certain hours of the day; those hours return, and he is not there; we start as we look upon his vacant place at the table, or around the evening lamp, or in the circle at prayers. No tongue can describe that blank, that chasm, which is made by death in the family circle, or the variations in the tones of sorrow and desire with which those words are secretly repeated, day after day, and night after night: "And where is he?"
Is there any assignable cause for the silence of the dead?
We cannot, with certainty, assign the reason for it, and we do not know why the dead are not suffered to reappear to us. We can, nevertheless, see great wisdom and use in this silence, and in our perfect ignorance respecting their state.
It is the arrangement of divine Providence that faith, and not sight, shall influence our characters and conduct.—It would be inconsistent with this great law if we should see or hear from the dead.
The object of God, in his dealings with us, is to exalt the Bible as our instructor. If men were left to visions and voices, in which there is so much room for mistake and delusion, the confusion of human affairs would be indescribably dreadful. Every man would have his vision, or his message, the proof, or the correctness, of which would necessarily be concealed from others, who might have contrary directions, or impressions; and human affairs would then be like a sea, in which many rivers ran across each other.