Chapter XXVI: Part VI: They Sang (22)

“Be it known to all, that by the breaking up of the dangerous Rigirocks on the Weggis mountain some of the inhabitants were threatened with the complete destruction of all their possessions. In this extremity and distress they turned to heaven, and, with firm confidence in the gracious Mother of all the angels, they here sought and found help; for instantly the loosening of the rocks ceased, and all became quiet again. Therefore, as a perpetual memorial of praise and thanksgiving to God and the Mother of Mercy, they have consecrated and hung up this tablet, _anno_ 1753.”

This was clearly forty‐two years before the fatal mud‐slide which destroyed so much, and it would be most interesting to know whether the later victims turned hitherward for succor; but of this no record exists in the church. In the above painting the Blessed Mother, holding the divine Infant in her arms, is represented standing in the centre of the rock‐wall, with S. Michael on one side and S. Lawrence on the other, just as if they had been visible. Had we only beheld this tablet before, with what different eyes should we have looked at this face of rock yesterday from the cemetery below, as also during our ascent! And what proof such a picture and inscription give of the strong faith of the Weggis population in the unseen world under whose blessed protection they live in peace and confidence! Whilst we tarried, peasant after peasant came in. One, an old woman, took out her rosary, and told her beads leisurely; another, younger and busier, laid down her basket, prayed for a few minutes with recollection, and then went on to her work; but what most struck us was a little girl of about twelve, who also had her basket, full of fruit and flowers, and had been there before we arrived for Mass. She waited until we left, and then evidently thought that we had finally departed. Unexpectedly, however, I returned to look at the tablet again, and I beheld the little maiden in the act of dropping some money into the poor box, blushing modestly when her eyes caught mine. I asked, and found that she was a Weggis child—one of the number that climb the mountain like antelopes up to this hotel daily to sell their “fresh figs,” “peaches,” and “flowers”—for they offer them in good English—the majority of whom first pay their visit to the Blessed Sacrament in this church, and leave some little offering for themselves or their parents. She was a blue‐eyed, intelligent girl—one who had made her first communion two years previously, and approached the Holy Sacrament _manchmal_—many times, she said, during the course of the year.

As time went on, experience taught us that the children of the Rigi are one of its most distinctive characteristics. Intelligent, bright‐ countenanced, and yet modest, they are the most attractive race of juveniles to be met with in Switzerland, and, as yet, are unspoiled by contact with the stranger crowd. They form the most remarkable contrast to those of the Bernese Oberland, where the grandeur of Grindelwald and other spots is so much marred by the swarms of sickly beggar‐children that there flock round one from all quarters. Here, on the contrary, they are brimful of health and intelligence, and never once during all our wanderings in the forest cantons did a beggar, old or young, ever cross our path. So much for the popular fallacy, or rather calumny, which says that prosperity, comfort, and thrift are alone to be found in the Protestant cantons, and that beggary, want, and uncleanliness mark the entrance into the Catholic districts. Like many such sayings, it does not bear investigation; but when even the most just‐minded start on their travels with prejudiced minds, it is astonishing how readily they accept the opinions of men whose want of observation they despise at home. Above all, should the question be anything concerning Catholicity, their wilful blindness surpasses all belief. Some exceptions to this rule there certainly are, increasing, too, each year, like the celebrated Dr. Arnold, for instance, who frankly admitted that he had found nothing in Switzerland to justify such a verdict being passed on its Catholic population, and was generous enough to acknowledge this.

Nor are the children who cover the Rigi, selling fruit and flowers, idlers in any way. The law requires their attendance at school up to the age of eight all the year round, but from eight to twelve only during the winter months. This arrangement has been made in order that they may accompany their parents to the upland _châlets_, or, as often happens, mind the cattle alone on the higher pastures. A most interesting class they are, and one must ardently pray that nothing may ever change or modernize them, according to the present ideas of so‐called “civilization”!

For several days we took up our abode at Kaltbad, and never had cause for one moment’s regret. The hotel is in itself a marvel of material comfort and luxury at such an altitude; the air brisk, invigorating, and yet balmy, and the views simply lovely. Who can forget the terrace facing the Uri‐Rothstock, Tittlis, and many another peak and pass, and overhanging Vitznau, whence we could even distinguish my favorite red standard floating over its hotel, as the steamers came and went to Lucerne or Fluelen, and the light smoke of the engines told that the trains were creeping up towards us? Sometimes, it is true, the lake and all below were hidden by the clouds that settled in thick masses over the water or floated beneath us in light, vapory forms, while the heights and summits opposite shone, like Kaltbad, in brilliant sunlight; making us more fully realize the great elevation we were inhabiting in such tranquillity.

Then, the mornings spent in the “Wilderness,” which is represented _nowadays_ by fir‐trees, descendants of those the three sisters knew, but at present embedded in velvety turf on the hillside, with seats and tables carefully placed at the best points of view! And the dear little church to turn into at all times and hours, with the lamp ever burning, and never quite empty! The afternoons we devoted to longer excursions, ascents and descents in all directions. That to the _Kulm_, or Summit, was made by rail, despite its terrors and perils. The young people insisted on our making the experiment, but they could not succeed in persuading us elders to return, except on foot! The Kaltbad world seems to go through the ordeal unconcernedly; but nervous and uncomfortable work it must always be, no matter how custom may familiarize them with it. One spot especially is most alarming, where the precipice seems to go straight down from the railroad to the plain many thousand feet below. As a matter of course, the sunset at the _Kulm_ is the great _event_ on the Rigi—one, however, which altogether depends upon the weather. We were most fortunate in catching a clear atmosphere, and consequently distinct horizon. Then, sleeping at the large hotel at the top, we included the famed sunrise in the same excursion. Oh! for the pen of poet to describe either of these sights properly. They are among those grand scenes which nature holds so completely in her own keeping that no rush of commonplace humanity can ever lower or vulgarize them. Crowds from all countries were present, yet we saw nothing save the glorious panorama before us—the sun sinking grandly behind the Jura Mountains in the west, or rising majestically from behind the Sentis far away in Appenzell, after having first heralded his approach by coloring with the light touch of “rosy‐fingered morn” the Finster‐Aarhorn, Wetterhorn, Monk, and Jungfrau, as they stand in gradual succession, facing the east, in the Bernese Oberland.

Here, too, were all the scenes of that famous Swiss history which we had been studying within the last few days—the town of Schwytz in the Urschweiz, bright and cheerful on its fresh, green meadows; Lomerz, where Stauffacher commenced the great revolution; the small lake of Egeri, the site of the battle of Morgarten; Kappel, on this side of the Zurich line of hills—the Albis—with its monument to Zwingle, who was killed here in battle against the Schwytzers; Königsfelden, further north, the scene of Albrecht’s murder, and, later, the site of the sanguinary Agnes’ convent; Küssnacht at our feet, with Tell’s Chapel close by, the object of my guide’s pilgrimages, and where the fatal arrow is said to have entered Gessler’s heart; the Lake of Sempach, and Lucerne towards the northwest—every spot, in short, hallowed by some memory sacred to Swiss patriotism or piety.

A circumference of three hundred miles is said to be included in this panorama, dotted here and there with thirteen lakes, distinguishable in clear weather. But it needs a mountaineer’s eye to detect this number, for, though they certainly do exist, as proved by the map, even the youthful sight of George C—— and his sister failed to count more than eleven. The other two had “to be taken on trust,” on the word of the guides, who declared that particular gleams of sunlight rested on distant waters. But it is not the number of lakes or the extent of view which gives such renown to this favorite spot. It is the grand poetry of its nature, the interest of its associations, and that great, indescribable influence which the poet addresses as

“Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate
With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon.”

Amongst the pleasantest of many pleasant memories, that of Sunday at Kaltbad stands forth pre‐eminent. The weather was brilliant, and high and low appeared in corresponding costume. It cannot be said that in the hotel proper the day was altogether sanctified or edifying; for, except the Catholics, the English Protestants, and a rare few others, the foreigners show little outward sign of remembering the day. Indeed, one lady ingenuously confessed her surprise that we should be so careful about attending church, considering that _she_ never thought of it whilst “taking the waters,” as she liked to fancy she was doing at Kaltbad. “Who did?” she asked; and certainly it looked as if the majority were of her way of thinking. Not the peasants, however, and let us hope that their example may yet influence the strangers. Alas! alas! how one trembles, lest the reverse may be the result of this inroad of “civilized” multitudes to their midst! But so far no harm seems to have come of the contact. As the hour for Mass drew near, men and women were to be seen coming from various points, and when we reached the church it was so full that a large overflow of the congregation had taken up their position in the little porch outside. It seemed as though the history of the past century would repeat itself over again; that a new church would become necessary, and another new tablet be put up, telling future generations that the present one had “proved insufficient for the number of Alpine inhabitants and pilgrims.” No sight could be prettier, considering the locality, the bright sun, and all these people in their Sunday dress. In the latter particular, however, one peculiarity had a singular effect, namely, that on the Rigi “full dress” for the men seems to consist in the absence of their outer coats, and the Sunday distinction is shown only by the snow‐white linen of their shirt‐sleeves and collars. All had their alpenstocks and their prayer‐books, which they read devoutly during the whole time. Anna and I also remained outside, as there was no room within; but we heard every word distinctly, and could see the altar through the open door and windows. The service began by an oblation of the Mass and the Acts of Faith, Hope, and Charity in German, in the very manner and words used in so many other countries, but notably in all the churches of Ireland. This was followed by a good sermon, in which the preacher chiefly urged the necessity of “keeping holy the Sabbath day,” of living in peace and concord, but likewise of holding fast to the principles of religion, “like their forefathers of old,” of whose virtues and steadfastness he spoke in glowing language. It was the first sermon we had had an opportunity of listening to in these parts, and it was very curious to hear, even in a small out‐of‐the‐way place of this kind, such allusions thus brought in as a matter of course, and so thoroughly in accordance with Herr H——’s predictions. At its termination we were surprised to see half a dozen of the hotel guests rise and leave; but these, we later learnt, were Lutherans, who, having no chaplain of their own, find no difficulty in coming to the preliminary part of the Catholic service, though they consider it their duty to leave before Mass commences. It was a curious instance of liberalism, and of the little essential antagonism German Protestants entertain towards the Catholic Church. At the end of Mass a prayer was said in German in honor of the Five Sacred Wounds, joined in by all, after which the congregation dispersed, some to the front of the hotel, and others in various directions. On these days alone a few picturesque costumes appear, but they are generally from other parts, as the Rigi boasts of nothing special of this kind. To‐day two women in bright bodices covered by silver buttons and crosses, and with silvered head‐dresses, enlivened the group of women—relations of the clerk coming, they said, to visit this spot from Bürglen, a long distance on the other side of the lake, and beyond Sachslen, the sanctuary of “Bruder Klaus.”

Not wishing to disturb our Anglican friends, who were singing hymns and performing their service in one of the drawing‐rooms of the house, Anna and I sauntered past the “Wilderness,” until we reached the Käuzli. The atmosphere was most clear, and the landscape so enchanting that a rest here seemed a fitting and heavenly portion of our morning worship. Weggis lay below; its church and the children’s corner, where I had stood lately gazing upwards in this direction, were at our feet, and Lucerne, with its girdle of battlemented walls at the upper end of the lake, further north, its houses and boats distinctly visible in the transparent atmosphere. The peasants could be seen here and there returning to their gray‐roofed _châlets_, but, save the tinkling bells of the light‐limbed cattle browsing in our neighborhood, no sound broke the perfect stillness of the scene. All at once the peal of Lucerne Cathedral came booming to us across the waters! It was eleven o’clock, which in those cantons is the Angelus hour, and in a moment the deep‐toned bell of Weggis sent its sound up to our very resting‐place. Then swiftly the echo was caught up by the churches of all the numberless pretty villages that here cover the land, until the whole country seemed to sound as with but one note. A more thrilling instance of faith and practice it were impossible to imagine, and, looking down at such a moment at this fruitful, prosperous district, one felt as if our Lord had already heard its prayers, and in his mercy blessed it.

Our afternoon walk was this day directed to the other Rigi sanctuary, “Maria zum Schnee,” or Mary of the Snow, the same mentioned in the Kaltbad tablet, and which, from Wordsworth’s beautiful poem, has obtained a more world‐wide name than its pretty neighbor; though in the locality itself no difference in celebrity is admitted between the two. The only striking distinction is that whilst Kaltbad has but the one simple appellation, “Mary of the Snow” rejoices in a _pet_ name, by which it is more generally known on the Rigi, where Klösterli, or “the little convent,” is its familiar and every‐day title. It lies deep in a southern fold of the mountain, unseen from Kaltbad, but only a couple of miles distant; so that it is a favorite walk with those visitors whose strength is unequal to the longer excursions. This year the charms of the mountain‐road have been sadly interfered with by the blasting of rocks necessary to the making of the railway branch to the Scheideck, and another line up from Arth to the Staffel, besides the building of an additional hotel, all which modern material improvements make one look forward with trepidation to their future effect on the old inhabitants. In a few years more these heights will be one vast mountain‐city—a new phase of life, which may have its own poetic side, it is true, and bring health and advantage to humanity in general, but which, during two or three months of the year, so completely changes the old character of the beautiful mountain that its friends of twenty and thirty years’ standing say they can no longer recognize its former simplicity. Hence our musings were somewhat melancholy, as we wandered on above the new railway‐line, until, from a bend in the hill, we unexpectedly came in sight of a completely new scene, the curious _Mythen_ rocks rising above Schwytz, in the distance, and Klösterli itself lying peacefully below us, as if sheltered from all harm in a dell beneath the _Kulm!_ It seemed a spot exactly made for snow, and one could almost fancy it buried at times under the soft embrace of some snow‐white drift. Whether the name first came from this circumstance of its position, or from its connection with the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore at Rome, we had no opportunity of ascertaining; but, whatever the cause, the name and connection seemed most appropriate. Certain it is that the painting which is the chief ornament of S. Maria zum Schnee is a copy of the one at the great basilica, and, moreover, that the church at Klösterli has been, as is fitting, affiliated to the one in Rome. The festival is kept on the same day, the 5th of August, and the Rigi church was consecrated by a Papal Nuncio in 1700, and endowed since then with many privileges by Pope Clement XII., so that the link in interest and connection has never been wanting. Mr. C—— knew all the particulars, and as we descended the steep pathway to Klösterli he recalled to us the beautiful tradition about the foundation of Santa Maria Maggiore. He reminded us how a Roman senator and his wife having been converted to Christianity, the latter had a dream which made her believe they ought to build a church in honor of the Blessed Virgin. Her husband, however, dismissed the idea as a fancy of her brain, until, having had the same dream for three successive nights, his wife on the last occasion understood that she ought to choose the site which should be covered with snow on the following morning. Her husband, still unwilling, accompanied her in the search, when, not far from the house, they found the top of the Esquiline Mount completely covered with a fine crust of snow! This occurred on the 5th of August, and, bringing conviction to the husband’s mind, he at once consented to give up his fortune for the purpose, and built on the spot the Basilica, which now covers the extent of ground marked out by the fall of snow. Another version states that it was the result of a vision which the pope, S. Liberius, and John, the patrician, had on the same night, and which was confirmed the following morning, the 5th of August, by a miraculous fall of snow, which extended over the space the church was to occupy. Certain it is that the fall of snow occurred, on this very spot too, and that the recollection of this wonderful origin is still kept alive in Rome. On the Feast of Santa Maria ad Nives, on the 5th of the hot month of August, a shower of white leaves is made to fall on the congregation attending High Mass at the great Basilica. What affiliation, therefore, could be more fitting for a mountain chapel? With renewed interest we hurried to the spot. The village consists entirely of a few inns, the convent—where live the Capuchin fathers who have care of the church—and of the church itself, much larger than that at Kaltbad, and which forms the centre of the whole place. The old character is maintained up to the present time, these inns being still most homely—very different from the luxurious abodes elsewhere on the mountain—and the convent in reality an hospice for pilgrims, which at once gives the impression of a higher aim than mere pleasure‐seeking. The Capuchin fathers, who glide about with serious mien in their brown habits, add to the solemnity, further increased by the depth of the valley “making sunset,” as the sailors say, to the place long before it happens on the surrounding heights. It has nothing cheerful or peculiarly attractive to the general public, so one might hope that it would escape the contagion of a worldly spirit. This year the gloom has been added to by a dreadful accident connected with the unwelcome railway, and one heard of little else on the spot. A young lady who was sitting with her father outside the Sonne Hotel, writing at one of the small tables, was suddenly struck by a large stone, thrown by the blasting of a rock close by, and died in less than half an hour. She was to have gone away from Klösterli on the previous day with the rest of her family, but had remained a while longer merely to take care of him. His grief, consequently, was overwhelming. It was a melancholy inauguration of the “iron road,” and for the moment made a deep impression on all concerned. But it is much to be dreaded that it will not be a lasting one. The father, to whom we spoke, shook his head gravely, as he pointed to the railway works, expressing his fears that from a place of pilgrimage they would soon convert his dearly‐ loved Klösterli into a simple _Curort_, or, in modern parlance, a _Sanatorium_. He complained of its baneful influence already; for, though the peasants are thoroughly good and pious, the immense influx of tourists gives them little time for devotions during the summer season, especially in the month of August, when the church festival occurs. They, the monks, belong to the large Capuchin convent at Arth, from which two or three have been sent here at the special request of the commune, ever since the foundation, to take care of this church and attend to the wants of the pilgrims. But the numbers of the latter are diminishing from the above causes, and hospitality has this year been chiefly bestowed on invalid priests, who here seek change of air for weeks at a time. The procession similar to that from Weggis, which used to come up from Arth for the 5th of August, making the Stations on the way, did not take place this time. Nor had the people leisure, either, for their old games, which followed the church services as a matter of course. Sad and melancholy, he seemed fearful of this inroad of materialism and the many temptations to which the poorer classes may be exposed. The tranquillity of the spot will doubtless be ruined by the puffing engine and obtrusive railway, and we could not but rejoice doubly that the “haven of rest” at Kaltbad lies safely hidden away behind its rocks out of reach of such disturbance. But so many have been the prayers answered and hearts cured within the last two centuries by the intercession of holy “Mary of the Snow” that it is hard to believe so favored a sanctuary, though this may perhaps be a moment of transition, will be altogether swept away or lose its holy influence on so essentially pious a population. The church is crowded with _ex‐votos_, many of them the same seen by Wordsworth in 1820, when he sang in the following strain of

“Our Lady Of The Snow.

“Meek Virgin Mother, more benign
Than fairest star upon the height
Of thy own mountain set to keep
Lone vigils thro’ the hours of sleep,
What eye can look upon thy shrine
Untroubled at the sight?

“These crowded offerings, as they hang
In sign of misery relieved,
Even these, without intent of theirs,
Report of comfortless despairs,
Of many a deep and cureless pang
And confidence deceived.

“To thee, in this aërial cleft.
As to a common centre, tend
All sufferings that no longer rest
On mortal succor, all distrest
That pine of human hope bereft,
Nor wish for earthly friend.

“And hence, O Virgin Mother mild!
Though plenteous flowers around thee blow,
Not only from the dreary strife
Of winter, but the storms of life,
Thee have thy votaries aptly styled
Our Lady of the Snow.

“Even for the man who stops not here,
But down the irriguous valley hies,
Thy very name, O Lady! flings,
O’er blooming fields and gushing springs,
A holy shadow soft and dear
Of chastening sympathies!

“Nor falls that intermingling shade
To summer gladsomeness unkind;
It chastens only to requite
With gleams of fresher, purer light;
While o’er the flower‐enamelled glade
More sweetly breathes the wind.

“But on!—a tempting downward way,
A verdant path, before us lies;
Clear shines the glorious sun above;
Then give free course to joy and love,
Deeming the evil of the day
Sufficient for the wise.”

In our walk hither along the brow of the hill we had talked to some pretty, bright‐eyed children running about to call in their father’s cattle, asking their names and other questions; but, returning the same way, all our thoughts and attention were given to the distant sound of avalanches, which the C——s declared came to us across the mountain‐tops from the region of the great Oberland range. Anything more sublime it were difficult to conceive in the fading light and soft hues of the sunset twilight. We had quite forgotten the children, but they had been thinking of us, and, passing on by their _châlet_, little Aloysius (a fair‐haired boy of three years old) was seen skipping down the green slope with a paper in his hand. It was a mysterious proceeding, especially when he came and eagerly presented it to me. But my surprise was greater on reading it to find that it consisted of prayers printed at Einsiedeln: the first teaching how to offer up one’s intention with the Masses that are being said all over the world; another to be said when present during the offertory of the Mass; and a third, when unable to attend in person, for daily recital at home in union with the priest at the altar. The little fellow evidently prized it, as taught by his mother, and it was fortunate that I was able to promise him it should hold a place amongst my treasures, and that I would say the beautiful prayers daily, which I have never failed to do. But he could not altogether know how much happiness his act caused me, chasing away the gloomy fears of the Capuchin father, and giving bright hope that a true spirit of piety will grow up with the rising generation.

Church Song.

“And when they had said an hymn, they went forth to the Mount of
Olives.”—S. MARK xiv. 26.
“Hymnum cecinit, ut et nos similiter faciamus.”—S. CHRYSOSTOM.

The Disciple.

A world I’d give to hear thee sing
That song!
Too long
Is life until it bring
The breaking of the bonds that cling
About this deadly flesh.
Sweet Lord, refresh
My weary, longing soul;
And this sad banishment condole
With one faint echo of that strain
Of melody divine, which must remain
Yet murmuring through space
Of all creation’s bound;
And so controls
The harmony that rolls
In floods of majesty and grace
Throughout thy dwelling‐place,
From tuneful lyres
Of angel choirs,
From ceaseless rapturous songs
Of shining saintly throngs,
That every sound
Heaven hears doth merely seem
Made to accompany thy theme.
Wondrous Singer, O my Lord and King!
Tell me, who taught thee how to sing
So sweet a strain?

The Master.

I heard my Mother’s voice one morn,
Whilst yet in womb unborn,
Chanting the canticle of praise
She still in heaven doth raise;
And when a boy, oft at her knee,
She did the tuneful mystery
Unfold to me.
Wouldst hear me sing?
’Tis no hard thing.
Go, hearken to the singing of my Bride
With whom my Presence ever doth abide;
Who is a Mother unto thee,
Like as the Virgin, full of grace, to me.
Her voice, in melody her own,
If thou wilt mark its heavenly tone,
Hath cunning art
To make thy heart
Hear mine again.

A Discussion With An Infidel.

XVIII. Personal Continuance.

_Reader_. The next question you treat, doctor, regards the immortality of the human soul, or, as you call it, “personal continuance.” In your opinion the spirit and the body, the soul and the brain, are so intimately and inseparably connected that a soul without a body, as “force without matter,” can never exist. I remember having already answered some of the grounds of this opinion; but as you make “personal continuance” the subject of a special chapter, I presume that it is in this chapter that you have condensed the strength and substance of all your arguments. How do you, then, establish your position?

_Büchner_. “A spirit without a body is as unimaginable as electricity or magnetism without metallic or other substances” (p. 196).

_Reader_. Unimaginable! Of course, a spiritual substance is not the object of imagination. Perhaps you mean that it is unthinkable, inconceivable, or unintelligible; which I deny.

_Büchner_. “Unprejudiced philosophy is compelled to reject the idea of an individual immortality and of a personal continuance after death. With the decay and dissolution of its material substratum, through which alone it has acquired a conscious existence and become a person, and upon which it was dependent, the spirit must cease to exist” (_ibid_.)

_Reader_. Beware of fallacies, doctor. You have not yet proved that the human soul needs a material substratum. Again, you merely assume that it is _through the body_ that the soul has acquired a conscious existence, whilst the fact is that the soul _through itself_ is conscious of its own existence in the body. Moreover, the soul does not become a person through the body it informs, but, on the contrary, confers on the body the privilege of being a part of the person. Lastly, the spirit is not dependent upon the body, except for the sensitive operations; and you cannot assume that the soul depends upon the body for its own being. Hence your conclusion is yet unproved.

_Büchner._ “All the knowledge which this spirit has acquired relates to earthly things; it has become conscious of itself in, with, and by these things; it has become a person by its being opposed against earthly, limited individualities. How can we imagine it to be possible that, torn away from these necessary conditions, this being should continue to exist with self‐consciousness and as the same person? It is not reflection, but obstinacy, not science, but faith, which supports the idea of a personal continuance” (pp. 196, 197).

_Reader._ I am rather amused than embarrassed at your identifying reflection with science and obstinacy with faith, as I know that you are absolutely incapable of accounting for such a nonsensical ranting. It is not true that “all the knowledge acquired by our soul relates to earthly things.” We have already discussed this point, and shown that our knowledge of earthly things is only the alphabet of human knowledge. Nor is it true that our soul “has become conscious of itself by such things.” Consciousness is, even objectively, an immanent act, and the soul cannot be conscious of its own self, except by looking upon itself. No one can say _I perceive_ without a knowledge of the _I_; and therefore the soul knows its own self independently of the perception of other earthly things. But, as there are philosophers who account for self‐consciousness by the primitive accidental sensations experienced by the child, I will suppose with you that our soul becomes conscious of its own existence by means of such sensations. Does it follow from this that the union with the body is “a necessary condition” for the existence of the soul? Such a conclusion would be absurd. For it latently assumes that the soul must lose its consciousness of self by losing the instrument of its first sensation. Now, to assume this is at least as absurd as to assume that by losing any of your senses you lose all the knowledge already acquired through them, or that by going out of Germany you cease to know everything that is German.

But your greatest mistake regards the notion of personality. The spirit, you say, “has become a person by its being opposed against earthly, limited individualities.” What does this mean? First of all, the spirit _does not become_ a person, but is itself the source of human personality. Secondly, to be a person, there is no need of other earthly, limited individualities, against which the spirit should be opposed. Any intelligent being, left to itself, with the free disposal of its own self, is a person. _Persona_, says Boethius, _est rationalis naturæ individua substantia_; and this celebrated definition, adopted by all the metaphysicians of the old school, is far from becoming obsolete. It would seem, then, that you speak of personality without knowing in what it consists. To prove that the soul cannot enjoy personal continuance in a state of separation, you should prove that the soul separated from the body _is not an intelligent being having a free use of its faculties_. Whatever else you may prove, if you do not prove this, will amount to nothing.

_Büchner._ “Physiology,” says Vogt, “decides definitely and categorically against individual immortality, as against any special existence of the soul” (p. 197).

_Reader._ Tell the physiologists to keep to their own business. The question of the immortality of the soul is not one of those which can be solved from the knowledge of our organs and their functions. All the physiologist can do is to show the existence in the organs of a principle which animates them, and which at death ceases to show its presence. What becomes of it the physiologist, as such, has no means of deciding. Hence your Vogt is supremely rash in affirming that “physiology decides definitely and categorically against individual immortality.”

_Büchner._ “Experience and daily observation teach us that the spirit perishes with its material substratum” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ Indeed? Let us hear how experience and daily observation teach what you assert. It is extremely curious that mankind should be ignorant of a fact which falls under daily observation.

_Büchner._ “There never has been, and never will be, a real apparition which could make us believe or assume that the soul of a deceased individual continues to exist; it is dead, never to return” (p. 198).

_Reader._ Allow me to remark, doctor, that you change the question. You had to show that experience and daily observation teach that the spirit perishes with the body. To say that there are no apparitions is not to adduce experience and daily observation, but to argue from non‐experience and non‐observation. Not to see a thing is not an argument against its existence, especially if that thing be not the object of sight; and therefore to infer the non‐existence of souls from their non‐apparition is a logical blunder. But, secondly, is it true that “there never has been, and never will be, a real apparition”?

_Büchner._ “That the soul of a deceased person,” says Burmeister, “does not reappear after death, is not contested by rational people. Spirits and ghosts are only seen by diseased or superstitious individuals” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ I do not say that souls, as a rule, reappear, or that we must believe all the tales of old women about apparitions. Yet it is a fact that Samuel’s ghost appeared to Saul and spoke to him; and it is a fact that the witch of Endor, whom Saul had consulted, was already famous for her power of conjuring up spirits, as it appears from the Bible, where we are informed that there were many other persons in the kingdom of Israel possessing a similar power, whom Saul himself had ordered to be slain. If you happen to meet with Martinus Del Rio’s _Magic Disquisitions_, you will learn that in all centuries there have been apparitions from the spiritual world. Devils have often appeared, saints have appeared, and, to make the reality of the apparitions incontrovertible, have left visible signs of their presence, or done things which no mortal man has power to do. I need not descend to particulars; yet I may remind you of the great recent apparition of Lourdes, and of the numberless miracles by which it was accompanied and followed, in the eyes of all classes of persons, including infidels and Freemasons, who left no means untried to discredit the facts, but they only succeeded in enhancing the value of the evidence on which such facts had been previously admitted. Come, now, and tell us that all the witnesses of such public facts are “diseased or superstitious individuals”!

It is therefore proved, by experience and observation, that there are apparitions, and that the human soul remains in existence after its separation from the body. But, although this proof suffices to convince all reasonable persons, philosophers furnish us with other excellent proofs of the immortality of the soul. Are you able to show that all such proofs are inconclusive?

_Büchner._ “There is something suspicious in the great zeal and the waste arguments with which this question has at all times been defended, which yet, for obvious reasons, has rarely experienced serious scientific attacks. This zeal appears to show that the advocates of this theory are rather anxious about their own conscience, since plain reason and daily experience are but little in favor of an assumption which can only be supported on theoretical grounds. It may also appear singular that at all times those individuals were the most zealous for a personal continuance after death whose souls were scarcely worthy of such a careful preservation” (p. 198).

_Reader._ This is vile language, doctor. Our zeal in defending the immortality of the soul arises from the moral importance of the point at issue; and there is nothing “suspicious” about it. Our “waste of arguments” is not yet certified; whereas your waste of words is already fully demonstrated. The immortality of the soul “has _rarely_ experienced serious scientific attacks,” or rather, it has _never_ experienced them, because real science does not attack truth, and therefore all attacks against the soul’s immortality have been, are, and will always be unscientific in the highest degree. “Plain reason,” without the least need of “daily experience,” convinces every thoughtful man that a truth based on good “theoretical grounds” cannot be rejected as a gratuitous “assumption,” especially when it is also supported by undeniable facts. Your closing utterance deserves no answer. Every sensible man will qualify it as downright insolence. Meanwhile, where are your proofs?

_Büchner._ “Attempts were made to deduce from the immortality of matter the immortality of the soul” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ This is simply ridiculous. Who ever admitted the immortality of matter?

_Büchner._ “There being, it was said, no absolute annihilation, it is neither possible nor imaginable that the human soul, once existing, should be annihilated; which would be opposed to reason” (p. 199).

_Reader._ Natural reason does not show the impossibility of annihilation; and therefore it was impossible for philosophers to argue as you affirm that they did. But, since you think that annihilation is quite impossible, how can you evade the argument?

_Büchner._ “There is no analogy between the indestructibility of matter and that of spirit. Whilst the visible and tangible matter sensually exhibits its indestructibility, the same cannot be asserted of spirit or soul, which is not matter, but merely an ideal product of a particular combination of force‐endowed materials” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ You merely rehash the old blunder already refuted in one of our past conversations. If the soul were nothing but a product of material combinations, it would certainly perish when those combinations are destroyed, and there would be no need of annihilation to make it vanish. But if the soul is an active principle, as you must admit, it cannot be a result of material combinations, and consequently it is a special substance, and cannot perish except by annihilation, just in the same manner as matter also cannot perish but by annihilation. Your ground for denying the analogy between the destructibility of matter and that of the spirit is therefore a false supposition. It is plain that there is not only analogy, but absolute parity, and that, if matter were really indestructible, the indestructibility of the soul would thereby be sufficiently established. But we do not avail ourselves of such argument; for we know that matter is destructible. You say that “the visible and tangible matter sensually exhibits its indestructibility”; but a little reflection would have sufficed to convince you that the possible and the impossible are not objects of sensible perception, but of intellectual intuition. Then you say that the soul is an “_ideal_ product of a particular combination of force‐endowed materials”; which is the veriest nonsense. For, were it true that a particular combination of materials produces the soul, such a product would be _real_, not _ideal_. Thus you have succeeded in condensing no less than three blunders into a few lines. But let this pass. Have you anything to add in connection with this pretended argument?

_Büchner._ “Experience teaches that the personal soul was, in spite of its pretended indestructibility, annihilated; _i.e._, it was non‐existing during an eternity. Were the spirit indestructible, like matter, it must not only, like it, last for ever, but have ever existed. But where was the soul before the body to which it belongs was formed? It was not; it gave not the least sign of an existence; and to assume an existence is an arbitrary hypothesis” (pp. 199, 200).

_Reader._ You grow eloquent, doctor, but without cause. We all admit that the soul did not exist before the body was formed. And, pray, how could the soul be annihilated if it did not exist? Are you doomed to utter nothing but blunders?

_Büchner._ “It is in the very nature of things that all that arises should necessarily perish” (p. 200).

_Reader._ By no means.

_Büchner._ “In the eternal cycle of matter and force nothing is destructible; but this only applies to the whole, while its parts undergo a constant change of birth and decay;” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ Try to be reasonable, dear doctor, and lay aside “the eternal cycle,” which has no existence but in your imagination. You promised to argue from experience and observation. Keep your promise.

_Büchner._ “I will. There is a state which might enable us to produce a direct and empirical argument in favor of the annihilation of the individual soul—the state of sleep. In consequence of corporeal changes, the function of the organ of thought is suspended, and the soul, in a certain sense, annihilated. The spiritual function is gone, and the body exists or vegetates without consciousness in a state similar to that of the animals in which Flourens had removed the hemispheres. On awakening, the soul is exactly in the state it was before sleep. The interval of time had no existence for the soul, which was spiritually dead. This peculiar condition is so striking that sleep and death have been termed brothers” (p. 200).

_Reader._ This “direct and empirical argument” may be turned against you. For sleep is not real death; and the animal, when asleep, continues to be animated. If, therefore, the soul remains in the body, even when the organs are in a condition which excludes the possibility of their concurrence to the work of the soul, does it not follow that the soul enjoys an existence independent of the organs? It is true that, while the organs are in such a condition, the soul cannot utilize them for any special work; but it does not follow that “the soul is, in a certain sense, annihilated,” nor that “the spiritual function is gone.” You yourself admit that, “on awakening, the soul is exactly in the state it was before sleep.” I do not care to examine whether the state of the soul is _exactly_ the same; I rather incline to say that it is much better; but, waiving this, it is still necessary to concede that the soul cannot keep its state without preserving its existence, attributes, and faculties, and a direct consciousness of its own being, which can be recollected after sleep, when it has been accompanied, as in dreams, by a certain degree of reflection.

_Büchner._ I expected, sir, that you would appeal to dreams; for “the phenomena of dreaming have been used as arguments against the supposed annihilation of the soul during sleep, by their proving that the soul is also active in that state. This objection is founded upon error, it being well known that dreaming does not constitute the state properly called sleep, but that it is merely a transition between sleeping and waking” (p. 201).

_Reader._ I have not appealed to dreams. I simply mentioned the fact that in certain dreams, where a certain degree of reflection accompanies the acts of the soul, we have the possibility of remembering that we were conscious of our own being. Take away all dreams; you will not thereby lessen the certainty of our direct consciousness of our own being; you will only suppress an experimental subsidiary proof, of which we are in no special need. Moreover, remark, doctor, that “against the _supposed_ annihilation of the soul during sleep” we are by no means bound to bring arguments. It is necessary only to say _Nego assumptum_, and it will be your duty to prove your supposition. I observe, in the third place, that you cannot consistently maintain that dreaming is a state intermediate between sleeping and waking. For, as you affirm that the soul exists in the latter state, and does not exist in the former, you are constrained to affirm that in the middle state the soul cannot be said to exist, and cannot be said not to exist, but partakes of existence and non‐existence at the same time. Now, though you are so thoroughly accustomed to blundering, I am confident that you cannot but shrink from the idea of a non‐existent existence. And thus your definition of dreaming destroys your supposed annihilation of the soul during sleep.

_Büchner._ “Certain morbid conditions are still more calculated to prove the annihilation of our spirit. There are affections of the brain, _e.g._, concussions, lesions, etc., which so much influence its functions that consciousness is suspended. Such perfectly unconscious states may continue for months together. On recovery, it is found that the patients have no recollection whatever of the period which has passed, but connect their mental life with the period when consciousness ceased. This whole time was for them a deep sleep, sleep or a mental death; they in a sense died, and were born again. Should death take place during that period, it is perfectly immaterial to the individual, who, considered as a spiritual being, was already dead at the moment when consciousness left him. Those who believe in a personal immortality might find it somewhat difficult, or rather impossible, to explain these processes, or to give some clue as to the whereabouts of the soul during these periods” (p. 202).

_Reader._ It is neither impossible nor difficult to ascertain where the soul is during such periods; for it is in the body all the while. Only the actual conditions of its existence in the body preclude, by their abnormity, the exercise of some faculties. The soul is, in such cases, like the organist, who is unable to elicit the wonted sounds from the organ so long as the pipes are not properly supplied with wind. The patients you allude to are not corpses; and although you affirm that “they _in a sense_ died and were born again,” it is evident that they did not die at all, but only lost the proximate power of performing certain operations. The soul and the body, so long as they are together, must work together. Even the purely intellectual operations, in which the body has no part, are always naturally associated with the imaginative operations, in which the body has a considerable part; and when these latter, through the abnormal condition of the brain, are suspended, the former also are suspended, so far at least as there is question of reflex acts. And this fully accounts for the phenomena accompanying certain morbid states, without resorting to your pretended annihilation of the spirit. Accordingly, if you wish to argue against personal continuance, you must draw your objections from some other source.

_Büchner._ “The annihilation of a personal soul has been protested against upon moral grounds. It was, in the first place, asserted that the idea of an eternal annihilation is so revolting to the innermost feeling of man that it must be untrue. Although an appeal to feelings is not a scientific method of proceeding, it must certainly be admitted that the thought of an _eternal life_ is more terrifying than the idea of eternal annihilation. The latter is by no means repugnant to a philosophical thinker. Annihilation, non‐existence, is perfect rest, painlessness, freedom from all tormenting impressions, and therefore not to be feared” (pp. 204, 205).

_Reader._ This way of reasoning, doctor, is most extraordinary. First, you assume that the moral grounds on which our knowledge of the immortality of the soul is based consist of mere feelings. This is false. Secondly, you do not consider that there are rational tendencies which, whether you call them feelings or not, ought to be taken into account in a philosophic discussion, as they are of such a character that their fulfilment cannot be a matter of doubt. Thirdly, you exhibit _eternal life_ as a synonym of _perpetual torments_; for you suppose that the idea of eternal life is terrific, and that, to be free “from all tormenting impressions,” annihilation is necessary. Thus you conceive that after this life there can be nothing but the torments of hell. This is most certainly true with regard to unrepenting Freemasons; they have nothing else to expect, not even annihilation; and it would truly be better for them if they were annihilated or _had never been born_, as we know from the Gospel. But why should you take for granted that there is no heaven? It is plain that your argument in favor of annihilation is nothing but a miserable sophism. Lastly, I wish to remark, though it is of little importance to the question of immortality, that annihilation, or non‐existence, is _not_ perfect rest, as you imagine. For who is it that rests? Can you have the subject after its annihilation, or the rest without the subject? You see, I hope, that your logic here, too, is at fault.

_Büchner._ “Philosophers, perceiving the loose ground upon which they stand in regard to this question, have, in their endeavors to reconcile philosophy and faith, tried to help themselves by very singular expedients” (p. 205).

_Reader._ Loose ground and singular expedients indeed! Who will believe you?

_Büchner._ “The desire of our nature,” says Carrière, “to solve so many problems requires immortality, and the many sorrows of this earth would be such a shocking dissonance in the world if it were not to find its solution in a higher harmony, namely, in the purification and development of personal individuality. This and other considerations render immortality, from our point of view, a subjective certainty—a conviction of the heart” (p. 206).

_Reader._ Do you consider these words as a very singular expedient to reconcile philosophy and faith? What can you object to the thought they express?

_Büchner._ “Every one may, certainly, have _convictions of the heart_, but to mix them up with philosophical questions is unscientific. Either something accords with reason and experience—it is then true; or it does not accord—then it is untrue, and can find no place in philosophical systems” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ I see your trick, doctor. There are two kinds of convictions of the heart. Some of these convictions are accidental, transitory, not universal, and not invincible; others universal, permanent, and unchangeable. The first kind originates in accidental affections of particular persons in particular circumstances; and this kind of convictions should not be mixed up with philosophical questions. But the second kind owes nothing to accidental circumstances, and shows in its universality and invincibility its universal and unconquerable cause, which cannot be other than our rational nature; and this kind of convictions must be taken into account in the philosophical questions concerning our rational soul; for it is from the nature of the effects that we discover the nature of the causes. Now, “the conviction” which Carrière mentions belongs to this second kind; for it is common to all rational beings, and cannot be shaken off even by those who, like you, try to convince themselves of a future annihilation. We therefore can and must take into account such a conviction when we examine philosophically the nature of the soul.