Admitting, Then, The Hypothesis Of The Universal Distribution
Of Life, Has Anyone The Hardihood To Believe That This Is
Either The Best Or Worst Of Worlds?
Must we not suppose that
life exists in every stage of progress, in every state of
imperfection, and, conversely, of advancement?
Have we still
the audacity to believe with the ancient Israelites, or as
the Church of Rome believed only three centuries ago, that
the universe was made for us, and we its centre? Or must we
not believe that - infinity given - the stages and degrees of
life are infinite as their conditions? And where is this to
stop? There is no halting place for imagination till we
reach the ANIMA MUNDI, the infinite and eternal Spirit from
which all Being emanates.
The materialist and the sceptic have forcible arguments on
their side. They appeal to experience and to common sense,
and ask pathetically, yet triumphantly, whether aspiration,
however fervid, is a pledge for its validity, 'or does being
weary prove that he hath where to rest?' They smile at the
flights of poetry and imagination, and love to repeat:
Fools! that so often here
Happiness mocked our prayer,
I think might make us fear
A like event elsewhere;
Make us not fly to dreams, but moderate desire.
But then, if the other view is true, the Elsewhere is not the
Here, nor is there any conceivable likeness between the two.
It is not mere repugnance to truths, or speculations rather,
which we dread, that makes us shrink from a creed so shallow,
so palpably inept, as atheism. There are many sides to our
nature, and I see not that reason, doubtless our trustiest
guide, has one syllable to utter against our loftiest hopes.
Our higher instincts are just as much a part of us as any
that we listen to; and reason, to the end, can never
dogmatise with what it is not conversant.
End of Tracks of a Rolling Stone by Henry J. Coke
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