it is not what we can do. Mutable as is our nature, it delights in the immutable: and we expect as much constancy as if all time, to say nothing of our own changeableness, had not shewn that ever "the fashion of this world passeth away."
And this alone would be to me the convincing proof of the immortality of the soul, or mind, or whatever is the animating principle of life. Whether it be the shadow cast from a previous existence, or an intuition of one to come, the love of that which lasts is an inherent impulse in our nature. Hence that constancy which is the ideal of love and friendship—that desire of fame which has originated every great effort of genius. Hence, too, that readiness of belief in the rewards and punishments of a future state held put by religion. From the commonest flower treasured, because its perfume out lives its beauty, to our noblest achievements where the mind puts forth all its power, we are prompted by that future which absorbs the present. The more we feel that we are finite, the more do we cling to the infinite.
