SPIRITUAL METAMORPHOSES. To die ;-to sleep: To sleep! perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub, HAMLET. THE various phenomena which are displayed during the progress of that peculiar and startling event, which destroys the body and bears the soul of man out of our sphere of vision, are calculated to call into lively action the deepest feelings of our nature and for this reason, mainly, they have rarely been subjected to the strict scrutiny of a philosophical analysis. Man is not at one and the same moment an emotive and a philosophic being. Emotion and philosophical investigation involve the exercise of totally different faculties, and are brought about by totally different causes. And hence, those who gather around the dying to watch the final change, and to see the spirit throwing off like an old garment the shattered body, and passing away into a new and invisible state of being, are in no proper state of mind to mark with curious eyes the striking phenomena which come to light at that awful hour. Divesting ourselves, however, of this common and proper feeling, and putting on the sombre robes of philosophy, let us approach this scene of wonders in order to mark the process by which the spirit is set free, and to watch the progress of that spirit as it enters upon another state of existence. Let us notice each change as it passes over the face of the soul, and scan with strained vision its retreating flight toward those shining portals which separate mortality from immortality. Disease, fastening upon the body, and wearing out those energies which once gave beauty and consistency to the form, soon reaches a vital point of attack. The soul learns speedily that the physical frame which has been its habitation, is a decaying and ruined tenement. The pulse grows rapidly feebler-the senses duller-the powers of the body more and more languid in their action-till at last they suddenly cease to act; and at that instant the spirit abandons its ruined habitation, and passes out of sight. Then follows a speedy dissolution-the body decays-the members fall apart and grace and beauty and strength soon melt away into a shapeless and worthless mass of earth! But, abandoning these merely physical phenomena, let us turn our vision to the soul, which by this process of ejection is made shelterless; and seek to discover its condition in that new existence which it is in this way compelled to enter-trusting meanwhile that we may thus cast some gleam of light, however feeble, on that path which by a common law of nature we shall all alike be compelled sooner or later to tread. The idea that the soul abandons the body at the precise moment at The soul which visible death takes place, may or may not be true. may linger fondly around that wonderful machine by which its own powers have been developed, and may even descend with it into the tomb, there to watch in silence the gradual process of dissolution. It is more probable, however, that this separation actually occurs at the moment at which it seems to occur-when the heart ceases to beat. The world, in which the spirit on its departure from the body is to commence a separate existence, must be altogether spiritual, since none but spiritual existences could inhabit such a sphere as would be adequate to the reception of a disembodied soul. Whether that world can occupy any particular portion of space, may fairly be questioned, since our idea of space is wholly non-essential to our idea of spirit. The soul may linger in the atmosphere around us, or be shot forth into vacuity, or pass at once into that sphere where other spirits have gone before it, and where it may enter at once into the full fruition of that new state of being. What will be the first thought flashing across a spirit at the moment of its disembodiment! Evidently, a consciousness of the awful change which has taken place in its own condition. In cases of disease, and even of sudden death, this change will have been partially foreseen: and the soul will thus have been in some slight measure prepared by anticipation for the actual occurrence. One of the most peculiar features of this change will be the loss of sensation, and of the sensesthose faculties which are the guides and educators of the intellect through life. Subsequent to this will come the idea of separation, not only from the body which has been so much the object of thought and care, but also from relations and relatives, associates and associations of every kind, and lastly from both place and time. Let us now strive to form some conception of the soul at this stage in the process of transformation. One idea occupies its thoughts-it is wholly swallowed up in that separation, complete and eternal separation from all it loves, hates, hopes, fears, delights in, feels, thinks about, knows, comes down upon it with a louder voice than thousands of thunders, and thrills it with a depth of emotion past all language or conception-as if every thought, and feeling, every perception and emotion which have played upon it through a life-time, were condensed into one awful feeling, and were pouring their concentrated energy into its very centre ! We have seen the mind prostrated by the loss of a single friendnay, even by the loss of gold. We have seen our boasted reason shattered at the slightest touch. What then will be the issue when friends and fortunes, hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, even life itself, are torn up, perhaps instantaneously, out of the bosom of the soul; and it is cast, all quivering and bleeding, out into the broad universe, without a tie to bind it anywhere? What can be the issue of this awful, awful change, if we suppose it to be fully and instantaneously realized by the soul, but disorder, derangement, disorganization, death? To this momentous question there can be but a single answer in the minds of those who believe the soul to be immortal-and that, an answer to which the view we have just presented, offers the least appa rent justification. That the soul must pass through such a scene as this, seems certain-and it is as certain that it is neither injured nor destroyed by this overwhelming feeling, but still continues to maintain a permanent existence. We are therefore compelled to conclude that the departure of the soul from the scenes of this life is gradual, and not instantaneous; and that it is preserved from the inevitably fatal consequences of an instantaneous separation by a gradual removal, in some manner beyond our comprehension, of earthly objects from our sight. Another remarkable phenomenon, which occurs during the transformation of the soul, is the fact that, by the loss of sensation and of the senses, it is deprived of every means of obtaining knowledge respecting things external to itself. We know that the soul derives its knowledge of external objects from the senses, and that it possesses, so far as we can see, no other means of obtaining such knowledge. How then, when it is deprived of the senses, can it gain any idea of whatever is around it? When ushered into the spirit world, though it be surrounded and welcomed by millions of spirits, how can it obtain any conception of them, or of the world into which it has entered? A man without senses, though possessing the genius of an angel, would go through life without gaining a single idea of this state of being. Will not, then, the soul, deprived of the bodily senses, go into the world of spirits and there live, deaf, dumb, torpid, thoughtless? To this query, there can be but one of two answers-either the soul, after having thrown off the body, comes at once into a full and perfect knowledge of spiritual things, as if a veil had been removed from it—or it is furnished by the Creator with a new class of faculties-spiritual senses, analogous to our physical ones-by means of which it obtains knowledge of spiritual objects, just as now by means of the physical senses it obtains knowledge of things temporal. To the former of these suppositions there are several serious objections. What human mind could bear up against being so suddenly ushered into the midst of the glories and terrors of eternity-glories and terrors of which the strongest mind, stretched to the utmost limit of its powers, can form no adequate conception! It is barely possible to conceive how any soul can endure a complete, though gradual separation from the scenes and the associations of this life; but if we add to the force of this thought the triple force of eternity with all its horrors and splendors, all equally overwhelming, falling on the shelterless and astonished soul-how, how can it escape being crushed and annihilated by the blow? But this supposition implies, farther, that the body is rather a clog, than a help to the soul-that like a closely-drawn veil it obstructs instead of assisting the soul in obtaining knowledge. That this idea is radically incorrect, is plain. Can it be supposed that the Creator would fetter the soul by connecting with it anything which would prevent or impede its action? Yet he has connected with it a body, not however to act as a clog and hindrance to it, but rather as a means of educating and developing its powers. Such is the manifest office and ministry of our bodily organization. Is it then proper to presume that, when these means become defective, the soul will come at once without any intervening medium, to a perfect and absolute knowledge of external objects? Or does it not seem requisite that some other medium, analogous to the senses, should still be employed to give a new development and education to the intellect? Such, we believe, will be the case. We believe that, when the soul is deprived by death of these physical instructions, it will be furnished with new spiritual senses which will operate, as the bodily senses have done, to bring about a higher development of all its faculties and powers. But this supposition implies, in the third place, that the soul at death obtains a full conception of the absolute nature and essence of things. It is however the province of the Deity alone to possess any knowledge of things in the absolute. All human knowledge is merely relative, and therefore more or less transient. Even our own souls in their absolute nature are wholly unknown to us, our notions of them being formed, not from any knowledge of their own inherent nature, but by studying their various developments and manifestations. So of matter, though we are surrounded by it in millions upon millions of forms, and are ourselves made of it, yet of its real nature and essence we have not even the slightest conception-nay, men are even doubting whether it be not a combination of certain powers or forces, each of them as mysterious and undefinable as matter itself. Since then all human knowledge is merely relative, and since it is a characteristic of all human knowledge that it requires to be transfused into the soul through some intervening medium, why may we not suppose that this same characteristic must belong to all relative knowledge? For this reason, we believe that the soul will be endowed at death with a series of spiritual senses, more subtle and powerful than these bodily organs, through which it may obtain a newer and higher kind of knowledge, and by means of which it may be purified and elevated nearer and nearer to the Infinite Creator. These senses, like our physical senses, will require education in order to develop their powers and agencies. The soul must therefore commence a new childhood, in which it will be occupied in the development of these new faculties, and in the exploration of its new home. Thus eternity will dawn upon it with a new and ever-increasing light; and not until it has existed for a period of ages upon ages, will it have discovered any large proportion of the mysteries and truths of that new state of being. Indeed we know of no valid objection either in scripture or in reason to the thought that it will thus pass on through continued gradations of being, ever approaching nearer and nearer the absolute, and winging its perpetual flight in an ever decreasing circle round and round the eternal and absolute Deity. And here we pause, feeling that we have scarce commenced the development of the many thoughts suggested by this great and interesting theme. Our theory, so far as we have stated it, teaches, first, that the transition of the soul from this state of being to another is gradual, not instantaneous-secondly, that it will be endowed at death with a new series of faculties, somewhat analogous to our senses, which will aid in its development in that new state of being-and thirdly, that the tendency of all knowledge, and hence of the soul itself, is from the Relative, which consists in the outward manifestations of things, to the Absolute, which contains the real essence of all knowledge and truth. A REMINISCENCE. I OFTEN love to pause awhile in the midst of my daily avocations, and suffer my thoughts to take a random stroll among the many reminiscences which cluster around my past life. It is an idle, but a very pleasant way of passing time, to yield my reason up to memory, and to live over again the varied scenes which memory summons into view. Men who are colder and harsher than I am, often chide me for loving the past so much-and it is very just-but still I know that the bustling and busy present has never yielded me one half the pleasure which an occasional remembrance of the past affords. And besides, in the sweet language of another, All my remembrances of the past, however, are not so full of pleasure or of interest. There are scenes in the panorama of memory over which there hangs a pall of sorrow which I rarely draw aside. Let me, however, gain thy heart awhile, dear reader, as I relate a simple incident, the occurral of which has cast a painful shadow over my past life, and which even now causes bitter tears to fall upon this paper as I write. A gayer party never freighted the passing hours with joy and song, than that which had assembled together one pleasant summer-a dozen in number at the noble mansion of Major Moulton, in the centre of the Empire State. We had been drawn together-some from the distant metropolis, others from a nearer city, and others from the surrounding neighborhood-to pass a week or two in pursuing those rural pleasures which throw a peculiar charm around the life of the opulent farmer. Beguiled by the winning smiles and friendly words of Amy Moulton, the only daughter of our host, I had gladly abandoned for a season my classic studies to partake of the enjoyment which the occasion offered. With me came my only associate and classmate, Henry D, the son of a distinguished lawyer in the western section of our State. Forgetting our books, and gladly throwing off the severe restraints |