Who yet has been able to comprehend and describe the nature of the
soul, its connection with the body, or in what part of the frame it is
situated? We know merely that it does exist; but whence it came, and
when it entered into us, and how it is retained, and where it is
seated, and how it operates, are all matters of mere speculation, and
contradictory theories. If, then, we are thus ignorant of this
spiritual essence, even while it forms a part of ourselves, and is
continually present to our consciousness, how can we pretend to
ascertain or to deny its powers and operations when released from its
fleshy prison-house? It is more the manner, therefore, in which this
superstition has been degraded, than its intrinsic absurdity, that has
brought it into contempt. Raise it above the frivolous purposes to
which it has been applied, strip it of the gloom and horror with which
it has been surrounded, and there is none of the whole circle of
visionary creeds that could more delightfully elevate the imagination,
or more tenderly affect the heart. It would become a sovereign comfort
at the bed of death, soothing the bitter tear wrung from us by the
agony of our mortal separation. What could be more consoling than the
idea, that the souls of those whom we once loved were permitted to
return and watch over our welfare?--that affectionate and guardian
spirits sat by our pillows when we slept, keeping a vigil over our most
helpless hours?--that beauty and innocence which had languished into
the tomb, yet smiled unseen around us, revealing themselves in those
blest dreams wherein we live over again the hours of past endearment? A
belief of this kind would, I should think, be a new incentive to
virtue; rendering us circumspect even in our most secret moments, from
the idea that those we once loved and honoured were invisible witnesses
of all our actions.
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