we now distinguish each other by the outward form,
physical proportion, and combination of looks, tones of voice, and
other the like particulars. Every one has his individuality in
these respects, by which he is separable from others. It may be
hastily inferred, then, that if we are to know our friends
hereafter it will be through the retention or the recovery of
their sensible peculiarities. Accordingly, many believe the soul
to be a perfect reflection or immaterial fac simile of the body,
the exact correspondence in shadowy outline of its gross
tabernacle, and consequently at once recognizable in the
disembodied state. The literature of Christendom we may almost say
of the world teems with exemplifications of this idea. Others,
arguing from the same acknowledged premises, conclude that future
recognition will be secured by the resurrection of the material
body as it was in all its perfection, in renovated and unfading
prime. But, leaving out of view the inherent absurdity of the
doctrine of a physical resurrection, there is a fatal difficulty
in the way of both these supposititious modes of mutual knowledge
in another world. It is this. The outward form, features, and
expression sometimes alter so thoroughly that it is impossible for
us to recognise our once most intimate companions. Cases are not
rare of this kind. Let one pass in absence from childhood to
maturity, and who that had not seen him in the mean time could
tell that it was he? The trouble arising thence is finely
illustrated by Shakspeare in the motherly solicitude of Constance,
who, on learning that her young son has been imprisoned by his
uncle, King John, and will probably be kept until he pines to
death, cries in anguish to her confessor,

"Father cardinal, I have heard you say
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:
If that be true, I shall see my boy again;
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more."

Owing to the changes of all sorts which take place in the body,
future recognition cannot safely depend upon that or upon