those of the body. The latter may be diminished, as by the loss of a hand or a foot, while the mind remains whole as before; and it is certain, that, by the influence of food and air, all the materials of which our bodies consist are continually changing, while the mind is conscious of its own constant identity. Therefore, when a person properly speaks of his own self, he does not mean his body, but his mind; and there is no reason to suppose, that the mind, which is a being distinct from the body, even while it is connected with it, should not be able to exist without it.

These considerations of the difference between the mind and the body lead us on to the second of the beforementioned assertions, that the effect of death upon the body cannot be supposed to extend to the mind. If we examine those changes in the existence of man, which we call death, we find that they consist in the separation of the parts of the body, and its dissolution into the material elements of which it is composed. These changes take place in the body, which is an object of our senses, capable of being divided into parts, and composed of different materials; whereas the mind is not an object of our senses, even while we are alive; and the mere thought of the simple and self-conscious principle within us being divided into parts, and resolved into different ingredients, implies an utter absurdity. suppose the annihilation of the mind, by death, would be supposing something, of which all our experience of material and immaterial objects affords us not one example.

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Moreover it has been shown, that we have no reason to suppose that the existence of the mind depends on that of the body. Therefore the mere circumstance, that the dead body is no longer a fit instrument of the mind, cannot be a ground for doubting the continuance of the latter after death. The same remark applies to instances of sickness, in which the organs, by which the mind acts, are injured or debilitated; which seems to be the case in all those instances, which are improperly called diseases of the mind. For it is not the mind which is diseased, but the corporeal instruments, which the mind needs for a healthy exercise of its powers in this life. But surely the skill of the painter is not impaired by the loss of his pencil; and his talent still remains the same, although the want of practice may have lessened his skill.

But it may be asked, what becomes of the mind in a deep sleep, in a swoon, or similar state, in which all consciousness ceases. I answer, first, that it is not quite certain, that a living person ever is in a state in which all consciousness is entirely gone, although he himself may think so. In this, however, he may be deceived by the great contrast there must be in the feelings of a person, who is suddenly reduced from a state, in which he possesses an immense variety of ideas, to a condition, in which he retains nothing but the simple idea of his own self; and who, afterwards, suddenly recovers his former state, in which numberless other objects repress and outshine the thought of himself, in the same manner as we for

get our dreams in awaking. But suppose, that, in a swoon or a similar state, our consciousness be entirely lost; is not this very fact, that our mind is capable of missing some of its faculties without ceasing to exist, or losing the power of resuming them after some time, -is not this very fact (which we in part experience after every sleep) a satisfactory evidence, that there is no event in nature, whatever be its effect on our body, or on particular faculties of our mind in its connexion with the body, from which there is any thing to be feared for the existence of the mind itself?

After having shown, that the dissolution of the body cannot be supposed to extend to the mind of man, let us now examine our third assertion, that the order of nature, as well as the essential qualities of the human mind, affords sufficient evidence of its immortality.

Every observer of nature must be struck with that sovereign order, which assigns to each class of beings a certain rank in creation, according to their peculiar powers and abilities. This scale of perfection in the universe is most obvious in those three immense classes of things, which are commonly called the three kingdoms of nature. The mineral, which is bound to the earth by the law of gravitation, is less perfect than the plant, which is, in some degree, superior to that law, as, by its organic growth, it rises above the ground, supporting itself for some time, and perpetuating its seeds. Still higher in the scale of perfection appears the animal. Being free from that material connexion, which confines the plant to the earth, it moves, and has life in itself, to perceive, and feel,

and be governed by its own desires. Thus we observe, in the various classes of being, a tendency of creative nature toward freedom and perfection. But this end is evidently not accomplished in the creation of minerals, plants, and animals, particularly in two respects. There is, among all these beings, not one that can rise beyond that finite degree of perfection, which nature has assigned to the whole species it belongs to. The plant cannot become an insect, nor the insect a bird. In the second place, there is not one among those beings, on whose own determination it depends to fulfil or frustrate the design of nature. The lioness, that defends her young at the expense of her own life, can no more refrain from making this sacrifice, than the violet-seed can refuse to bring forth violets. There are, accordingly, two faculties which are not found in the beings that belong to the three kingdoms of nature; namely, the capacity for infinite improvement, and free agency. This free power of striving after infinite perfection is the characteristic endowment of man, which raises him above animal nature to the kingdom of spirits. The universal law of progression, which, in the inferior creation, assigns to every species of beings a certain degree of perfection, which they must attain, and cannot surpass,

this same divine law applies also to man, though not as a necessary impulse, but as a moral precept; and not only as a general regulation for the whole race, but as an injunction adapted to the particular capacity of each individual. Nature has made it to depend on the free will of each human being, either to rise in

perfection without end, by virtue, or to sink, by passion, even below the brute. The destination of man for free and endless improvement is manifest in all his mental endowments; in his innate longing after a state of perfection and happiness unattainable in this life; in his intellect, which is capable of infinite enlargement; in the power of his feelings to rise in devotion to the Father of spirits; and in his free will, which enables him to aspire by virtuous exertion above every earthly condition and desire, even above every degree of excellence he has already attained. Truly, if there exists in nature any design, with sufficient power to carry it into effect, if there is any faith in the clearest natural evidences, we may be as certain of the destination of our minds for immortality, as of our eyes for seeing and of our lungs for breathing. In opposition to these inferences from the analogy of nature, it has been observed, that, in old age, the powers of the mind decrease in proportion to the decay of the body. But a more exact observation of human nature shows, that, whenever the natural unfolding of our faculties is not impeded by accident or wilful neglect, our mind is capable of continual increase through the free exertion of the individual; and that the gradual decline of the body, instead of impairing the mind, is in some respects favorable to its developement, by purifying and refining its operations.

One of the most striking proofs of the fitness of the mind of man for an immortal existence, independent of his body and his animal life, consists in the