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The observations which follow have been made by persons accustomed to observe the dying. But deaths occasioned by maladies which destroy consciousness, or reason, or speech, must not be included in these observations. In order to judge of the thoughts which occupy the dying we must consider those who preserve the integrity of their intellectual faculties until their latest breath. They always die calmly. Consumptive patients, the wounded, those who die from an affection of the stomach or of the intestinal tube, of those slow fevers which consume the strength without impairing the intellectual faculties, these generally remain in the full possession of their intelligence to the last, and die with great tranquillity, even satisfaction. In almost all these cases death is preceded by a gradual decline of strength and sensation, so that the individual has hardly any consciousness of the change he is about to undergo, and looks forward to the moment of death with perfect indifference.
There is a period, which frequently lasts for several hours, during which, life having completely left the body, it is already a corpse which is under the eyes of the spectators, and yet that corpse still moves and speaks. But the soul which survives in the body, really dead, is not the soul of the terrestrial man, but of the superhuman being. The dying person has the consciousness, and perhaps even the prevision of the ineffable happiness which awaits him in that new world upon whose threshold he is standing, and he expresses his happiness by his words and looks. In a sigh of supreme joy he exhales his last breath. This extraordinary state, in which the dying are partly on earth, and partly in the new world to which they are destined, explains the touching eloquence, the sublime words which sometimes come from their feeble lips. An uneducated poor man will express himself upon his death-bed with eloquence incomprehensible to those who are listening to him. It also explains the prophecies, justified by subsequent events, which have been uttered by the dying. They have a knowledge of things of which, in their ordinary condition as belonging to the human species, they could not possibly have had any notion. Therefore, we ought to treasure up their last words with pious care, and scrupulously fulfil the wishes which they express.
In Moldavia, when a peasant has escaped death in a severe illness, after having been on the brink of the grave, his friends press around his bed to ask him what he had seen in the other world, and what news he has for them from their dead relatives. Then the poor invalid interprets his visions for them as well as he can.
A modern writer, who has left some small books on spiritualist philosophy, M. Constant Savy, relates in his "Pensées et Méditations," an extraordinary dream which he had when he was, apparently, at the point of death. We transcribe this curious and interesting document from M. Pezzani's work:—
"I felt very ill," writes Constant Savy, "I had no strength, it seemed to me that my life was making efforts to resist death, but in vain, and that it was about to escape. My soul detached itself little by little from the matter spread all over my frame; I felt it retiring from all those parts with which it is so intimately united, and, as it were, concentrating itself upon one single point, the heart, and a thousand obscure, cloudy thoughts about my future life occupied me. Little by little nature faded from before me, taking irregular and strange forms, I almost lost the faculty of thinking, I only retained that of feeling, and this feeling was all love, love of God and of the beings whom I had most cherished in Him; but I could not manifest this love; my soul, withdrawn to one single point in my body, had almost ceased to have any relation with it, and could no longer command it. My soul experienced some distractions still, caused by the pain of the body, and the grief of those who surrounded me, but these distractions were slight, like the pains and the perceptions which caused them. My life was now attached to matter by one only of the thousand links which had formerly bound it, and I was about to expire.
"Suddenly, no doubt to mark the passage from this life to the other, there came a thick darkness, to which succeeded a brilliant light. Then, O my God! I saw Thy day, that daylight I had so much desired! I saw them, all assembled together, those beings whom I had so dearly loved, who had inspired me during my life in this world after they had left me, and who had seemed to me to dwell in my soul, or float about me. They were all there, full of joy and happiness. They were waiting for me, they welcomed me with delight. It seemed to me that I completed their life and that they completed mine! But what a difference was there in the happiness I now felt from the sensations of the world I left! I cannot describe them! They were penetrating without being impetuous; they were mild, calm, full, unmixed, and yet they admitted the hope of a yet greater happiness!
"I did not see Thee, my God! Who can see Thee? But I loved Thee more than I had loved Thee in this world! I comprehended Thee better, felt Thee more strongly, the traces of Thee which are everywhere, and on everything, appeared more plain and bright to me, I experienced such admiration and astonishment as I had never hitherto known, I saw more distinctly a portion of the wonders of Thy creation. The bowels of the earth hid no more secrets from me, I saw their depths, I saw the insects and other creatures which dwell in them, the mines known to men, and undiscovered by them, the secret ways and channels of the earth. I reckoned its age in its bosom as one counts that of a tree in the heart of its trunk; I saw all the water-courses which feed the seas; I saw the reflux of these waters, and it was like the motion of the blood in a man's body; from the heart to the extremities, from the extremities to the heart; I saw the depths of the volcanoes; I understood the motions of the earth and its relations with the stars, and, just as if the earth had been turned round before my eyes that I might be made to admire Thy greatness, O my God! I saw all countries with their various inhabitants, and their different customs, I saw every variety of my species, and a voice said to me: 'Like thyself, all these men are the image of the Creator; like thyself, they are ever journeying towards God, and conscious of their progress!' The thickness of the forests, the depth of the seas could not hide anything from my eyes; I had power to see everything, to admire all, and I was happy in my happiness, in the happiness of the dear objects of my tender love. Our joys were in common. We felt ourselves united by our former affections which had now become much more deep, and by the love of God: we drew happiness from one and the same source; we were but one, we each and all enjoyed this happiness, which was far too great to be expressed. I am silent now, that I may feel it more deeply."22
It is easy for us to verify to ourselves the fact that men who are condemned by nature to a premature death, are endowed with a great serenity of mind. This moral condition is, in our opinion, an indication that they have the presentiment or even the anticipated possession of the new life which awaits them after death. Why are consumptive people so gentle and sensitive? We believe it is because, being already half out of this world, they are partially endowed with the moral attributes of superhuman beings. They are, as it is well known, always confident in their destinies, they make projects of happiness, and for the future, when their last hour is striking, they feel hope and joy when the by-standers are thinking of their burial. It is customary to explain this anomaly by saying that persons in consumption do not understand the gravity of their illness, but we believe that they have, on the contrary, a confused notion of their state, that nature reveals to them the approach of an existence of cloudless happiness, and that it is this secret conviction which gives them hope and confidence in the future. The future which they foresee is not of this world, but the future of the heavens. This applies not to consumptive persons only. Every man destined to die young seems to be marked with that inner stamp of the soul which lends him now a gentle and charming melancholy, anon vivacity or sensibility which his parents admire, and which is too often only an indication that he is not to remain with them. The charming qualities of many young people are often only the precursors of their death.
"When they have so much intellect, children have brief lives," says Casimir Delavigne. "Whom the gods love, die young," said the Greeks.
Let us, then, not fear death; but await it, not as the end of our existence, but as its transformation. Let us learn by the purity of our life, by our virtues, by the culture of our faculties, by our knowledge, by the exercise of the religion of our ancestors, to prepare ourselves for the critical moment of that natural revolution which shall usher us into a blessed sojourn in the ethereal spheres on the day after death.
EPILOGUE
IN WHICH WE SEEK FOR GOD, AND IN OUR SEARCH, DESCRIBE THE UNIVERSE
THE author now asks his reader's leave to relate a conversation which took place between himself, and a friend named Theophilus, to whom he had confided the manuscript of "The Day After Death," in order to obtain his opinion and impressions of the work. He will allow the interlocutors to express themselves in the ordinary form of dialogue.
Theophilus, (who comes into the Author's study, and lays the manuscript upon the table). I have read your work, and I will tell you presently my impressions of the details, but I must in the first place point out the great deficiency of the book.
The Author. What is wanting in it?
Theophilus. God.
The Author. But–
Theophilus. (Interrupts him.) You are going to remind me that you frequently mention the sacred name, that Providence, the Author of nature, the Creator of the worlds, and so on, are words you constantly employ. That is true, but it is equally true that you restrict yourself to these vague expressions, that you say nothing about the person of God, that you assign to Him no place in the world which you range over in company with more or less spiritualized souls. Why this reserve? Since you tell us that entirely spiritualized souls inhabit the sun, why do you not tell us where your system places God, the sovereign master of those souls! What is your motive for leaving aside a question of such great importance?
The Author. I have several. In the first place, I have everybody's motive. The idea of God which must be formed in order to place Him in harmony with the boundless immensity of this universe which is His work, so far surpasses the limit of the human intellect, it is so overwhelming to our mind, that we stop, powerless and even frightened at our boldness, when we venture to ask ourselves, what is God?
Theophilus. Nevertheless, I am surprised at your hesitation. When a system of the universe is to be constructed, one does not pause in the task, and I can hardly believe that when you venture, as you do, to place on the ladder-steps of your theory all the elements of the solar world—the planets and their satellites, stars and asteroïds, plants, men and animals, creatures visible and invisible, bodies and souls, matter and spirit—you have not assigned a place to the Creator. Have you classified everything in this immense edifice of the worlds, except its Sovereign Architect?
The Author. No, my friend, you are not mistaken; God has His place in my system.
Theophilus. Why, then, have you not said so! Why have you kept silence on this point?
The Author. My book contains so many daring assertions, I have already exposed myself so fully to the animosity of both the learned and the ignorant, that I feared to furnish an additional pretext to their diatribes.
Theophilus. That is not a reason. If you dread discussion and fear detraction, why do you take up your pen at all? You were at liberty to keep your ideas on the origin and the destiny of man to yourself, but, when you decided on submitting them to the public, you became bound to explain all your mind on the subject. If you believe in your system, you must explain it without any reserve.
The Author. Your words are wise, and I ought therefore to bow to them, and follow your imperative advice. Nevertheless I cannot make up my mind to do so, absolutely. I am going to propose a middle course to you. In confidence, and between ourselves, I will explain my ideas about God to you, I will tell you in what part of the immense universe I place this dazzling personality. If the idea seems to you absurd, untenable, or even too hazardous, you will frankly tell me so, and thus duly warned, I will keep my theory to myself; if not–
Theophilus. (Interrupting him.) An excellent plan. There can be no objection to that. Go on, I am listening.
(At this point, Theophilus seats himself, his elbow resting on a book, and a cigar in his mouth, and composes himself to listen, with an expression of grave attention, dashed with suspicious severity, suitable to the arbitrator in a literary and philosophical matter.)
The Author. You want to know, my dear Theophilus, where I place God? I place Him at the centre of the universe, or, I had better say, at the central focus, which must exist somewhere, of all the stars which compose the universe, and which, carried along by a common motion, circulate in concert around this central focus.
Theophilus. Forgive me, but I do not seize your meaning exactly.
The Author. You will understand it presently. Remember, to start from, that I place God at the common focus of the actual motion of the entire universe. But, where is the common focus? In order to know that, we must first of all know the universe, and all the order of its movements.
Theophilus. All that is explained in the course of your work.
The Author. No, my friend, you are mistaken. In my work I have spoken of the solar system only, and a very incomplete and insufficient idea would be gained of the universe by contemplating that system alone. We must not, as is too often done, confound the world and the universe. The world is our world, that is to say, the solar system, of which we form a part; the universe is the agglomeration of all the worlds or systems similar to our world, or solar system. In the manuscript which you have just read, I have only been able to expound one little corner, one insignificant fraction of the universe.
Theophilus. You call the solar world a little corner.
The Author. Yes. Our whole solar system, the sun, with its immense following of planets and asteroïds, with the satellites of those planets, with the comets which from time to time come sweeping on, to fall into the burning furnace of the radiant star, all that, compared with the universe, is no more than an ear of corn in a huge granary, than a grain of sand upon the shore, than a drop of water in the ocean. The terrible vastness of the universe is such that it is absolutely inaccessible to our measurement, and it is for us the image of the infinite, or the infinite itself. Now, my friend, attend to me. Most certainly God, as to His nature, is absolutely inconceivable by our minds. His essence escapes us, and always must escape us. We can only affirm that He is infinite in His moral perfections, and in His intellectual power. But if, on the one hand, God is The Infinite in the moral order, and if, on the other hand, the universe is The Infinite in the physical order; if one is The Infinite in spirit, and the other is The Infinite in extent, these two ideas, although in themselves inaccessible to human intelligence, are nevertheless of the same order, and may be regarded in contiguity. It is then possible, without laying one's self open to the charge of presumption or absurdity, to place the Infinite, which is called God, in the Infinite which is called the Universe, in other words, to locate the person of God at the common focus of the worlds which compose the Universe.
Theophilus. Your reasoning is just. But you must prove, or, if you prefer the phrase, you must teach me that the universe is truly The Infinite by its extent. I could not admit that assertion without very convincing evidence.
The Author. Very well. Lend me your best attention, and excuse me if my demonstration resembles a lecture on astronomy. I have said that our solar system is only a little corner of the universe. When you look at the vault of the sky on a bright clear night, you see it thickly strewn with stars, which, you will at once acknowledge, it would be impossible to count. But all that you see with the naked eye is next to nothing. Take a good telescope, and direct it to any part of the sky. There where a moment before you saw nothing, you will now discern legions of stars, bright spots will come out upon the darkness of space, like diamonds upon the velvet lining of a casket, each of them a star, exactly like those which we see at night in the sky. And now, let me ask you, do you know what a star is?
Theophilus. Yes, I know from your manuscript, and I had already known, that the stars which we see by night, but which the greater light of the sun hides from us in the day-time, are self-luminous orbs, each the centre of attraction and the lamp to the particular world it lights, and which revolves around it. As a whole company of planets, satellites, asteroïds, and comets revolve round our sun, receiving heat, motion, and light from that great central orb, so, the stars dispersed throughout space, communicate motion and activity to a vast aggregate of planets and satellites. These planets, which revolve round the stars, constitute stellar worlds, analogous to our solar world. We cannot see the planets, which accompany these stars, by reason of their smallness, and the prodigious distance between us and them, beyond the reach of the most powerful telescopes; we only see the suns which govern them, i.e., the stars. But the existence of the fixed stars, like our sun, implies the existence of planets revolving around them.
The Author. Perfectly correct. Thus, our solar world is not unique, it is only one member of the family of stellar worlds, which resemble our world in the disposition and the motions of the stars within them. The universe is composed of the agglomeration of them all. You know all this, but there is one fact which, as it is the result of recent discoveries, you may not be aware of; it is, the great variety of disposition or of physical aspect presented by certain stars, in which a kind of overturn of that which constitutes nature on our globe has taken place. While they remain similar to our world in the order of their movements, certain stars differ widely in the forces which govern nature in them.
Theophilus. Pray explain your meaning.
The Author. While our solar system is governed by a single central star, there are stellar systems which are governed by two, three, and even four suns. It is evident that worlds which have two or three centres of light and heat must present physical and mechanical peculiarities of which we have no idea. There are also other differences proper to many of the stellar worlds. The light of our sun and of the greater number of the stars is constant: it never undergoes either augmentation or diminution. But this is not the case with many of those distant suns which we call stars. We see their light alternately fade and revive; sometimes they shine brightly, then become almost imperceptible, and anon brilliant again. Some of them become altogether extinct. The decrease in lustre of several stars has been noted by different astronomers.23
Stars which have been observed in other times no longer exist.24 Others have suddenly appeared, shone with excessive lustre, and at the end of some years have been seen no more.
These successive augmentations and diminutions of luminous brilliance are not uncommon in the stars with which we are acquainted. According to M. Flammarion,25 star ο of the Whale varies very much in luminous intensity and the constellation itself frequently disappears. Star χ of the Swan passes from the fifth to the tenth size under our eyes, the thirtieth star of the Hydra, which is of the fourth size, almost always disappears at intervals of 500 days. These variations must, as M. Flammarion observes, produce strange results. To-day, the radiant star is shedding floods of light and fire upon the planets which it governs, and the soul of that planet is warmed by its burning rays. A few months later, without the least cloud in the sky, the shining of the sun becomes fainter, and then, by degrees, the obscurity increases, until at length the planet is plunged into thick darkness. When the diminution of the light of the sun is periodical, this universal night lasts for a fixed time, at the end of which the light returns, if not, the darkness is dispersed after varying periods. The light grows, little by little, until at length the radiant star reappears in all its primitive brightness. The fine days, the glorious light returns, until the moment when the same fading recommences and the darkness sets in once more.
Can we picture to ourselves the strange alterations which nature undergoes in regions which are subjected to torrid heat and glacial cold by turns? I am convinced that the glacial period which geologists have defined in the history of our globe, during which an extraordinary and sudden lowering of the temperature caused the death of multitudes of living beings, and covered Europe with glaciers from the mountains—was caused by a momentary weakening of the intensity of the sun's light. When it resumed its ordinary brightness, the sun dispersed the ice which had covered the earth with a death mantle.26
I have said that there are double stars, that is to say, worlds illuminated by two suns, and sometimes even by three or four. It is a strange fact that in almost every instance one of these suns is white, like ours, but the second is coloured, blue, red, or green. In the constellation Perseus for example, a double star can be distinctly seen by the aid of a good telescope. The star η is in fact accompanied by a second, which makes part of the same solar system. Now, this second star is blue. In the constellation Ophiochus there is a similar system of double stars, one of which is red and the other blue. The same peculiarity exists in the constellation of the Dragon. In a double star of the constellation of the Bull, there is a red sun, and a blue sun. There are double solar systems red and blue; such are the constellations Hercules and Cassiopœia. Other double solar systems are yellow and green, and sometimes yellow and blue. In all the worlds which are illuminated by these coloured suns, the effect of light must be very strange. No painter could represent them, and indeed we, who know only the white light of our own sun, cannot form any idea of them.
Theophilus. These features of the stellar worlds are very interesting, and I am glad to learn them. But are we not straying from our subject?
The Author. No. After having made you understand that the solar system which we inhabit is only a member of an immense family of other solar worlds, only a small fraction of the universe, I wished to show you by the diversity of those worlds, the facility with which nature varies the forces and the physical conditions proper to the stellar worlds, and consequently the living and inanimate types which make a portion of these different stellar worlds. Now that you understand the prodigious diversity of the solar worlds which compose the universe, I will go on to our principal object. I have not lost sight of my intention of proving to you that the universe has no limits, that in its extent it is really the Infinite. I am now approaching this great question. By the consideration of the stars, I am going to bring out into relief the immeasurable vastness of the universe. Let me speak, first, of the appalling distances which separate the stars from the earth, and the figures will show you that on that side we fall into the Infinite, and then I will speak of the numbers of the stars which people space; and on this side also the abyss of the Infinite will yawn before us. First, as to the distances which separate the stars from the earth, from whence we may logically infer the distances which separate these stars from one another. The distance between the earth and the sun is 38,000,000 leagues, and this shall be our unit, our standard of measurement, by which to estimate the distance of the stars.
I do not know, my dear Theophilus, whether you have formed an exact idea of this extent of 38,000,000 leagues, which lie between us and the sun. In general, we can only conceive prodigious distances such as astronomy deals with, by representing them by the interval of time which certain movable bodies known to us would consume in traversing them. Let us then have recourse to comparisons of this kind. A cannon-ball weighing 12 kilogrammes, exploded by 6 kilogrammes of powder, proceeding at a uniform rate of 500 metres a second, would take 10 years to travel from the earth to the sun.
Supposing sound to travel at the same rate as on the surface of the air, and at a uniform rate, it would take 15 years to accomplish this journey. If a railway were laid through space between the earth and the sun, a train travelling at express speed, 12½ leagues an hour, would not arrive at its destination until the end of 338 years. This imaginary train, if dispatched from the earth in January, 1872, would arrive at the sun in the year 2210. The light from the sun, which travels 77,000 leagues in a second, takes 7 minutes 13 seconds to reach the earth.
Theophilus. The distance between the earth and the sun is, then, 38,000,000 miles—that is our unit of measurement for the distances of the stars. Now let us hear about these distances.
The Author. I will deal first with those stars which are nearest to us. One of these is a star in the constellation of the Swan. This star is distant from the earth 551,000 times our unit of measurement, that is to say, that we must multiply 551,000 times the distance of the earth from the sun to represent the distance of the star which we are considering, and yet it is one of the nearest to the earth. If we wish to represent this distance by the time occupied in the transit of light, supposing this light to travel, like that of our sun, 77,000 leagues a second, it would take 9½ years to travel from the star to us.
Now, if you wish to know the distance of other stars, and remember that I only speak of the nearest, look at this table, which I found in an astronomical treatise:
DISTANCE OF CERTAIN STARS FROM THE EARTH.
Thus, the star α of the Lyre is distant from us more than 1,330,000 times as far as the earth is from the sun, and its light takes 21 years to reach us. If, by any celestial catastrophe, star α of the Lyre were to disappear, to be annihilated, we should still see it for 21 years, as its light takes that time to reach us.
Theophilus. It is then possible that our astronomers are now observing stars which no longer exist, and are only visible to us because the light which they omitted is still travelling towards the earth.
The Author. Just so. But to continue. I have begun with the stars which are nearest to the earth. There are the stars of first and second magnitude. You know, I suppose, the signification of those terms first, second, and third magnitude in astronomy?
Theophilus. Yes, I know that the word magnitude is only applied to the luminous appearance of the star, and not to its real bulk. A star of the first magnitude is one which forms part of the group of the most luminous stars; a star of the second magnitude is one which comes next in point of brilliancy.
The Author. You must bear in mind that the word magnitude signifies in astronomy the opposite of that which it expresses. The more luminous a star appears to us, the nearer it is to us; the paler and less visible, the farther it is away. The brilliance diminishes in proportion as the figure increases. This is an introversion of terms, sufficiently exceptional to be taken note of, and it ought to be remembered, for fear of mistakes. Hitherto we have considered only stars of the first and second magnitudes. Those of the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth, lead us to the contemplation of such immense distances, that the unit which we have adopted, enormous as it is, is no longer of use. The instruments of celestial observation which may be applied to the examination and measurement of stars of the first and second magnitudes, do not serve for stars of the third and following magnitudes, and, because the small visible diameter of those stars make them appear mere specks of light, measuring instruments are equally inapplicable to them. In estimating the distances of the stars after the third magnitude, a method of comparison, based on the amplifying power of the telescopes successively used, is employed. I cannot enter into details of this method, which we owe to Sir William Herschel, but must content myself with explaining its results, which are as follows in the case of stars of the sixth magnitude. From certain stars of that class, light would take 1042 years to reach us: from others it would take 2700. After the sixth magnitude, the stars can only be discerned by the aid of the telescope, and their distances become perfectly stupefying in immensity. Certain of these telescopic stars are so far from the earth, that their light can only reach us in 5000, and even 10,000 years after it leaves the luminous centre. From the stars of the last category (fourteenth magnitude), light would take 100,000 years to reach the earth, supposing it to travel at the same rate as the light of our sun, i.e., 77,000 leagues per second.
