itself in that other state must be far other than
those which obtain here, for there man is destitute of his bodily
environment. The conditions of such a life are wholly unpicturable,
wholly unimaginable, but not _inconceivable_. These are high matters,
like the truths of sublimest philosophy, wherein it is impious to
intrude with so inferior a faculty as imagination, and demand that an
image or representation of a bodiless existence be presented to it.
What picture does man make for himself of the force of gravitation, nay
of the force which drives the crocuses out of the soil in spring? It
is enough to _know_ that the force is there; it is enough to know that
a man's body is not his _self_. Surely every one who reflects must be
conscious that his body is _his_, just like his clothes; and therefore
not _he_, any more than the raiment wherewith he is covered. Foolish,
then, is it to ask for pictures like children; let us be satisfied to
know with the reason, which we alone of all earth-born creatures
possess, that the body is not _we_ but _ours_, and that we are not mere
ephemerals, but are "going on and still to be".

Now these words of Tennyson exactly express our ethical teaching, that
man is "ever going on and still to be," and that death, so far from
putting a stop to the eternal progress, is but a stage, an incident in
the journey, possibly--for we know so little of these matters--a very
insignificant one. The theory commonly inculcated, certainly commonly
held, is that the fact of death ushers in a perfect transformation
scene, more wonderful than anything thought of or devised by man, nor
should we be accounted irreverent did we describe the language of the
book of Revelation as pantomimic in the exuberance of its splendour.
All sorrow is supposed to cease as if by magic, the sun shines
perpetually, it is eternal noon; the home of the blessed is a wondrous
city, built four-square, whose streets are of pure gold, whose rivers
are of crystal, and whose foundations are laid in precious stones.
Sweetest songs of earth resound in the heavenly courts; yea, even
musical instruments are there, and life would appear to be one
prolonged religious service. Into this celestial blessedness departed
souls enter new-born, and take their allotted places once and for ever;
they never apparently move from them; they grow no better; there is no
room for further development, nor possibility of deterioration, but a
fixed and