Natural science tells us that the white light of the sun is composed of the seven colors of the spectrum in combination, which colors may be readily separated by the refraction of the prism. All objects possess, in a greater or less degree, the power of decomposing light and absorbing colors. Now a ray of sunlight falling upon any given object is in a measure decomposed, a portion of its integral colors is absorbed, and the remainder or complementary colors thrown off—reflected upon the eye, producing by their combination what we call the color of the object. Thus, a ray thrown upon a pure white object is absorbed not at all, but wholly reflected as it came, and the consequence is the proper combination upon the retina of all the colors, producing—a white object. On the contrary, a ray falling upon what we call a black object, is wholly absorbed, and the consequence is a total absence of light, or blackness. So a red object absorbs all the orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet of the sunlight, reflecting upon the eye only the red, which is perceived as the color of the object. And so on through all the combinations of the spectrum. Only material substances can either absorb or reflect: therefore is spirit again excluded; for how can it act upon the eye save through those agencies with reference to which the eye itself was constructed, and which, as we have shown, it cannot possibly affect? To sum up the whole argument in a single sentence, the physical senses are dependent, for their perceptions, entirely upon the action of matter, and hence spirit, which is not matter, can in no way affect them.
But here we are met by the record of Holy Writ, which declares that in those former times spirits did often appear to men. Aye! and so there were miracles in those days. But all these things are done away with. Moreover did not those spirits find it necessary in every case to clothe themselves with the image of some living form in order to make themselves perceptible to human eyes? So that it was really the form within which the spirit was ensconced that was perceived, and not the spirit itself. And how shall we know what gases of the physical world these spirits were permitted, through a special interposition of the Deity and for the furtherance of His divine ends, to assemble together into a concrete form for their temporary dwelling and as a medium through which to communicate with man? And who is so irreverent as to suppose that God would now, in these days, give spirits special permission to return to earth and take upon themselves such forms for the mere purpose of tipping tables and piano-fortes, rapping upon doors, windows, and empty skulls, misspelling their own names, and murdering Lindley Murray, and performing clownish tricks for the amusement of a gaping crowd?
But whence arises this great delusion? Simply from our total lack of knowledge of the glory of that heaven upon which we all hope to enter. 'Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into the imagination of man to conceive' the glory of God, the splendor, the magnificence, the supernal beauty of the Celestial. We know indeed that we shall enter upon a world whose immensity, whose sublimity, whose awful beauty shall far surpass the experience of man; but not even the wildest imagination, fed by all the knowledge that astronomers have gained of world beyond world, and system beyond system, of spheres to which our world is but a speck, and of fiery meteors and whizzing comets sweeping their way with the speed of thought for thousands of years through planet-teeming space—not even such an imagination, in its farthest stretch, is able to conceive the glory of that dwelling place which shall be ours. If to-day we were permitted to peer but for a moment into that heavenly abode, then should we see how impossible, to the soul which has once entered upon that beatific state, would be a thought of return to this grovelling earth. There their aspirations are ever upward and onward toward the Great White Throne, with no thought for the things left behind, even were there not a 'great gulf fixed' between earth and heaven.
And how often do we hear the opinion expressed that the souls of the just do pass, 'in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye,' from the things of earth to the full burst of heavenly beauty and sublimity, shooting like the lightning's flash from its prison house of clay to the presence of its God. Reasoning from analogy, which, in this connection, where both experience and revelation are dumb, is the only basis we can rest upon, such a passage would be to the soul instant annihilation; the shock would be too great for even its enlarged susceptibilities. It must become gradually accustomed to the new sights and sounds, and so pass slowly up from one stage of perception and knowledge to another in regular gradation, to the climax of its revelation.
Reader, did you ever come suddenly from a darkened room into the full blaze of noonday? In such a case the eye is dazzled, blinded for a moment, and must gradually accommodate itself to the unaccustomed light before its gaze can be clear and steady. So, too, the ear long shut up in profound silence is deafened by an ordinary sound. Even so the soul, suddenly entering upon the unaccustomed and stupendous sights and sounds of the spiritual world, would be blinded, dazzled, as I have said, to annihilation. It is necessary that its newly awakened faculties, which during its long earthly life have lain in a comatose state, should not be too suddenly called into action, lest they be overpowered by the awful revelation. Like the bodily senses, they require time and gentle though steadily increasing action to develop them, and assimilate them to their new surroundings in their new field of action.
And this is my theory. The soul, when freed from the body, floats gently upward, deaf, dumb, and blind—paralyzed, as it were, into a state of neutral existence. Splendid sights may spread around it, wave after wave of eternal sound may roll in upon it, but it sees not, hears not, feels not, not having yet acquired the new faculties of perception. After a certain space of time—which may be days or weeks or months in duration—through its secret chambers steals a thrill of sentient emotion; it recognizes its own existence, and the dawn of that eternal life for which it was created. Slowly one sight after another begins faintly to glimmer before it, as objects emerge from the gloom of some darkened cell to eyes that are becoming accustomed to the darkness. Anon, low, faint murmurs of sound steal in upon it, far distant at first, but gradually swelling as it approaches, till at last, around the freed spirit peals the full orchestral glory of eternity. And so it goes on, passing slowly from stage to stage, apprehending new sights, new sounds, and comprehending new truths. And so it shall go on, through all the cycles of eternity, constantly approaching nearer to the Godhead, yet never to become God.
Do you ask me how can these things be? Let us draw an illustration from nature. The science of acoustics tells us that an organ pipe of a certain length gives forth the deepest, or as musicians would say, the lowest sound that art can produce; that all beyond this given length is nothingness, and gives out no sound. What shall we say then? that doubling the length of the tube destroys the vibration of the imprisoned air? Nay, verily, the air still vibrates, sound is still produced, but the note is below the gamut of the natural ear, which was created to comprehend only sounds within a certain compass: its capacity goes no farther, and any sound pitched either above or below that compass we cannot perceive. In proof of this is the simple fact that a cultivated ear—that is, an ear of enlarged capacity, can readily catch the faintest harmonics of a guitar, to which others are totally deaf.
Again: I have stood by the Falls of Niagara, and listened in vain for that deep, unearthly roar of which so much has been written and sung. The rush and the gurgle of the waters was there, the sweeping surge of the mighty river, but Niagara's hollow roar was absent. Again and again my ears were stretched to catch the awful sound, till the effort became almost painful, but in vain. And yet the sound was present, ay! eternally present, but the note was just beyond the gamut of my ear. Standing thus for some moments, gazing and listening with the most earnest attention, nature, through her hidden laws, wrought a miracle in my person. The long-continued strain enlarged the capacity of the ear, even as the muscles of the arm are strengthened by frequent and energetic action, or as a faculty of the mind itself is developed by exercise. Lower and lower sank the scale of my aural conceptions, till, as it approached the keynote of the cataract, a low murmur began to steal in upon me, deeper than the deepest thunder tones, and seemingly a thousand miles distant. Louder and louder it swelled, nearer and nearer it approached as the hearing faculty sank downward, till the keynote was reached, and then—the rush and gurgle of the waters was swept away, and in its place resounded the awful tones of earth's deepest basso profundo. Then for the first time I realized the terrible sublimity of Niagara—the voice of God speaking audibly through one of the mightiest works of His creation.
And as, musing, I moved away from the appalling scene, the thought rushed into my mind that perhaps my experience of a few moments might be that of the soul when entering upon the sublimities of the future state. Hence my theory, which may go for what it is worth, or, as the Yankees would say, is 'good for what it will bring.'
Reader, do you never feel an intense longing to live over again the scenes of your youth? to begin at some certain period long gone by, and taste again the sweets that have passed away forever? It is one of the bitterest feelings of the heart that years are slipping away from us one by one; that the delights of our youth have gone, never to return, and that we 'shall not look upon their like again;' that the days are fast coming on when we shall say we have no pleasure in them, and that we are rapidly verging upon the 'lean and slippered pantaloon.' Were there any future rejuvenation, when we might stand again upon the threshold of life and look over its fair fields with all the joy and hope of anticipation, old age would lose all its dreariness, and become but a brief though painful pilgrimage through which we were to pass to joy beyond. But since this can never be, old age is the rust which dims the brightness of every earthly joy, and is looked forward to by youth only with a shudder.