Part 2, Chapter 9

I have described the peculiar ceremony attending the burial of youth in Mizora. Old age, in some respects, had a similar ceremony, but the funeral of an aged person differed greatly from what I had witnessed at the grave of youth. Wauna and I attended the funeral of a very aged lady. Death in Mizora was the gradual failing of mental and physical vigor. It came slowly, and unaccompanied with pain. It was received without regret, and witnessed without tears.

I have described the unusual ceremony held for the burial of young people in Mizora. In some ways, there was a similar ceremony for the old. But an old person’s funeral was very different from what I had seen at a young person’s grave. Wauna and I attended the funeral of a very old lady. In Mizora, death came as the mind and body gradually weakened. It came slowly and without pain. People welcomed death without regret and witnessed it without tears.

The daughters performed the last labor that the mother required. They arrayed her body for burial and bore it to the grave. If in that season of the year, autumn leaves hid the bier, and formed the covering and pillow of her narrow bed. If not in the fall, full-blown roses and matured flowers were substituted.

The daughters performed the last task their mother required of them. They prepared her body for burial and carried it to the grave. If it was autumn, leaves covered the bier and formed the covering and pillow for her narrow bed. At other times of year, fully opened roses and mature flowers were used instead.

The ceremony was conducted by the eldest daughter, assisted by the others. No tears were shed; no mourning worn; no sorrowful chanting. A solemn dirge was sung indicative of decay. A dignified solemnity befitting the farewell to a useful life was manifest in all the proceedings; but no demonstrations of sorrow were visible. The mourners were unveiled, and performed the last services for their mother with calmness. I was so astonished at the absence of mourning that I asked an explanation of Wauna.

The eldest daughter led the ceremony, with help from the others. No one shed tears, wore mourning clothes, or chanted sorrowfully. They sang a solemn funeral song about decay. The whole ceremony had a dignity and solemnity fitting for a farewell to a useful life. But no one showed any signs of sorrow. The mourners wore no veils and calmly performed the final services for their mother. I was so surprised by the absence of mourning that I asked Wauna to explain it.

"Why should we mourn," was the surprising answer, "for what is inevitable? Death must come, and, in this instance, it came in its natural way. There is nothing to be regretted or mourned over, as there was in the drowning of my young friend. Her life was suddenly arrested while yet in the promise of its fruitfulness. There was cause for grief, and the expressions and emblems of mourning were proper and appropriate. But here, mourning would be out of place, for life has fulfilled its promises. Its work is done, and nature has given the worn-out body rest. That is all."

“Why should we mourn,” came the surprising answer, “what is inevitable? Death must come, and in this case, it came naturally. There is nothing to regret or mourn, unlike the drowning of my young friend. Her life was suddenly cut short while it still held the promise of fulfillment. There was reason to grieve, and expressions and symbols of mourning were fitting. But here, mourning would be out of place, because this life has fulfilled its promises. Its work is done, and nature has given the worn-out body rest. That is all.”

That sympathy and regret which the city had expressed for the young dead was manifested only in decorum and respectful attendance at the funeral. No one appeared to feel that it was an occasion for mourning. How strange it all seemed to me, and yet there was a philosophy about it that I could not help but admire. Only I wished that they believed as I did, that all of those tender associations would be resumed beyond the grave. If only they could be convinced. I again broached the subject to Wauna. I could not relinquish the hope of converting her to my belief. She was so beautiful, so pure, and I loved her so dearly. I could not give up my hope of an eternal reunion. I appealed to her sympathy.

The city showed its sympathy and sorrow for the young person who had died only through its respectful behavior and attendance at the funeral. No one seemed to feel that it was a time for mourning. It all seemed so strange to me. Yet there was a way of thinking behind it that I could not help but admire. I only wished they believed, as I did, that all those tender bonds would be renewed after death. If only they could be convinced. I brought up the subject again with Wauna. I could not give up hope of persuading her to share my belief. She was so beautiful, so pure, and I loved her so dearly. I could not give up hope that we would be reunited for eternity. I appealed to her sympathy.

"What hope," I asked, "can you offer those whose lives have been only successive phases of unhappiness? Why should beings be created only to live a life of suffering, and then die, as many, very many, of my people do? If they had no hope of a spiritual life, where pain and sorrow are to be unknown, the burdens of this life could not be borne."

"What hope," I asked, "can you offer those whose lives have been one misery after another? Why are beings created only to suffer and then die, as so many of my people do? Without hope of a spiritual life free from pain and sorrow, they could not bear the burdens of this life."

"You have the same consolation," replied Wauna, "as the Preceptress had in losing her daughter. That daring spirit that cost her her life, was the pride of her mother. She possessed a promising intellect, yet her mother accepts her death as one of the sorrowful phases of life, and bravely tries to subdue its pain. Long ages behind us, as my mother has told you, the history of all human life was but a succession of woes. Our own happy state has been evolved by slow degrees out of that sorrowful past. Human progress is marked by blood and tears, and the heart's bitterest anguish. We, as a people, have progressed almost beyond the reach of sorrow, but you are in the midst of it. You must work for the future, though you cannot be of it."

“You have the same consolation the Preceptress had when she lost her daughter,” Wauna replied. “Her daughter’s daring spirit cost her her life, but it was also her mother’s pride. The daughter had a promising intellect. Yet her mother accepts her death as one of life’s sorrows and bravely tries to overcome the pain. As my mother has told you, long ago the history of all human life was nothing but a succession of sorrows. Our own happy state developed slowly from that sorrowful past. Human progress is marked by blood and tears and the heart’s deepest anguish. We, as a people, have progressed almost beyond the reach of sorrow, but you are in the midst of it. You must work for the future, though you cannot be part of it.”

"I cannot," I declared, "reconcile myself to your belief. I am separated from my child. To think I am never to see it in this world, nor through endless ages, would drive me insane with despair. What consolation can your belief offer me?"

"I cannot accept your belief," I said. "I am separated from my child. The thought that I will never see my child again, in this world or throughout eternity, would drive me insane with despair. What comfort can your belief offer me?"

"In this life, you may yearn for your child, but after this life you sleep," answered Wauna, sententiously. "And how sweet that sleep! No dreams; no waking to work and trial; no striving after perfection; no planning for the morrow. It is oblivion than which there can be no happier heaven."

"In this life, you may long for your child, but after this life you sleep," Wauna said solemnly. "And how sweet that sleep is! No dreams, no waking to work and hardship, no striving for perfection, no planning for tomorrow. It is oblivion, and no heaven could be happier."

"Would not meeting with those you have loved be happier?" I asked, in amazement.

"Wouldn't it be happier to meet the people you've loved?" I asked in amazement.

"There would be happiness; and there would be work, too."

"There would be happiness, and there would be work, too."

"But my religion does not believe in work in heaven," I answered.

"But my religion doesn't believe in work in heaven," I replied.

"Then it has not taken the immutable laws of Nature into consideration," said Wauna. "If Nature has prepared a conscious existence for us after this body decays, she has prepared work for us, you may rest assured. It might be a grander, nobler work; but it would be work, nevertheless. Then, how restful, in contrast, is our religion. It is eternal, undisturbable rest for both body and brain. Besides, as you say yourself, you cannot be sure of meeting those whom you desire to meet in that other country. They may be the ones condemned to eternal suffering for their sins. Think you I could enjoy myself in any surroundings, when I knew that those who were dear to me in this life, were enduring torment that could have no end. Give me oblivion rather than such a heaven.

“Then it has not taken the unchanging laws of Nature into account,” said Wauna. “If Nature has prepared a conscious existence for us after this body decays, she has prepared work for us too. You can be sure of that. The work might be grander and nobler, but it would still be work. How restful our religion is in comparison. It promises eternal, undisturbed rest for both body and mind. Besides, as you say yourself, you cannot be sure of meeting the people you want to meet in that other country. They may be the ones condemned to eternal suffering for their sins. Could I enjoy myself anywhere, knowing that those dear to me in this life were enduring endless torment? Give me oblivion rather than such a heaven.

"Our punishment comes in this world; but it is not so much through sin as ignorance. The savages lived lives of misery, occasioned by their lack of intelligence. Humanity must always suffer for the mistakes it makes. Misery belongs to the ignorant; happiness to the wise. That is our doctrine of reward and punishment."

"Our punishment comes in this world, but it comes more from ignorance than from sin. The savages lived miserable lives because they lacked intelligence. Humanity must always suffer for its mistakes. Misery belongs to the ignorant, and happiness belongs to the wise. That is our belief about reward and punishment."

"And you believe that my people will one day reject all religions?"

"And you believe my people will one day reject all religions?"

"When they are advanced enough," she answered. "You say you have scholars among you already, who preach their inconsistencies. What do you call them?"

"When they are advanced enough," she answered. "You say you already have scholars among you who preach their inconsistencies. What do you call them?"

"Philosophers," was my reply.

"Philosophers," I replied.

"They are your prophets," said Wauna. "When they break the shackles that bind you to creeds and dogmas, they will have done much to advance you. To rely on one's own will power to do right is the only safe road to morality, and your only heaven."

"They are your prophets," said Wauna. "When they free you from the creeds and dogmas that bind you, they will have done much to help you advance. Relying on your own will power to do right is the only safe path to morality, and your only heaven."

I left Wauna and sought a secluded spot by the river. I was shocked beyond measure at her confession. It had the earnestness, and, to me, the cruelty of conviction. To live without a spiritual future in anticipation was akin to depravity, to crime and its penalty of prison life forever. Yet here was a people, noble, exalted beyond my conceiving, living in the present, and obeying only a duty to posterity. I recalled a painting I had once seen that always possessed for me a horrible fascination. In a cave, with his foot upon the corpse of a youth, sat the crowned and sceptered majesty of Death. The waters of oblivion encompassed the throne and corpse, which lay with its head and feet bathed in its waters—for out of the Unknown had life come, and to the Unknown had it departed. Before me, in vision, swept the mighty stream of human life from which I had been swept to these strange shores. All its sufferings, its delusions; its baffled struggles; its wrongs, came upon me with a sense of spiritual agony in them that religion—my religion, which was their only consolation—must vanish in the crucible of Science. And that Science was the magician that was to purify and exalt the world. To live in the Present; to die in it and become as the dust; a mere speck, a flash of activity in the far, limitless expanse of Nature, of Force, of Matter in which a spiritual ideal had no part. It was horrible to think of. The prejudices of inherited religious faith, the contracted forces of thought in which I had been born and reared could not be uprooted or expanded without pain.

I left Wauna and looked for a secluded place by the river. Her confession shocked me beyond measure. She spoke with sincere conviction, which seemed cruel to me. To live without hope of a spiritual future was like depravity, like crime and its punishment of lifelong imprisonment. Yet here was a people, noble and exalted beyond anything I could imagine, living in the present and obeying only a duty to future generations. I remembered a painting I had once seen that had always held a horrible fascination for me. In a cave sat Death, crowned and holding a scepter, with his foot on a young man’s corpse. The waters of oblivion surrounded the throne and the corpse. The dead man’s head and feet lay in the water, for life had come from the Unknown and returned to it. In my mind, I saw the mighty stream of human life from which I had been swept to these strange shores. All its suffering, its delusions, its frustrated struggles, and its wrongs came before me. I felt spiritual agony at the thought that religion, my religion, was their only comfort, yet it must vanish in the crucible of Science. And Science was the magician that would purify and exalt the world. To live in the present, then die and become dust. To be a mere speck, a flash of activity in the vast, limitless expanse of Nature, Force, and Matter, where a spiritual ideal had no place. It was horrible to think of. The prejudices of inherited religious faith could not be uprooted without pain. Nor could the narrow habits of thought in which I had been born and raised be broadened without pain.