A new basis of belief in immortality / by John S. Farmer.

  • Farmer, John S.
Date:
1882
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Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: A new basis of belief in immortality / by John S. Farmer. Source: Wellcome Collection.

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    satisfy the average mind of to-day be found els.ewhere ? I trow not. And had Spiritualism done nothing more than this it 'vvould be fairly entitled to our respect and consideration, seeing that by palpable de- monstration and example it shows that the destiny of our race is not the grave; that life, and not death, is the goal to which we are hasten- ing, and for which we should prepare. CHAPTEE I. THE EXISTING BREACH BETWEEN MODERN CULTURE AND THE POPULAR FAITH. “ One queetion more than others all From thoughtful minds implores reply; It is, as breathed from star and pall, What fate awaits us when we die ?”—IF. E. Algof. “Religion is for the time hard pressed by the vigorous pioneers of Science, and in this strait experimental evidence of the existence of Modern Spiritual i)henomena would assist her beyond measure.”—liobert Dale Owen. “ There is neither standing still nor retrogression In the laws of Eternal Governance, And Death Itself which prompts thee to repine, la no evU unto thee nor unto thine. But a step from Good to Better—an advance.”—C/iar/cs Maekay. THE SUBJECT PROPOSED. The doctrine of immortality is being, and is likely to be, increasingly pressed upon the thoughtful consideration of all who are cognisant of, and care to think about, the tendency of modern culture, and its in- fluence upon the constitution and development of modern society. Of all the questions of the times this is, beyond others, the most vitally important, inasmuch as it is intimately connected with, and essential to, the welfare and happiness of the great human world. Upon this issue depends all that makes life valuable and worth the living; and without the hope, or rather the hiowledf/e, of the continuity of life, existence would seem at best but a sublime mockery—the dreary shadow of a blank and hopeless despair. For what is life to man, with all his desires, his hopes, his labours, and his fears, if the passing hour be the end and aim of all being ? Every day his fon'dest hopes are seemingly blighted, his efforts rendered fruitless, liis intentions misunderstood, his love despised. He gathers thorns where he had hoped for figs, thistles for grapes, and in the flushed moment of expectancy his aspirations elude his grasp and melt into thin air. If this present stage of being is the only one, if our only heritage is this “passing show,” then Life has indeed no meaning, and is an enigma as cruel as inexplicable, and over the thres- hold of existence should be written the mournful despairing legend— ‘•Lasciato ogui sperauzi, voi ch'entrato. If this is indeed the cruel truth, that man, standing as he does at the apex of the visible creation—its highest development—is doomed to retrace his steps, lying down with hopes blighted by disappointments ; with keen memories of misfortunes, mistakes, and failures ; with a