Life Without and Life Within; or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems.
cannot prove to herself the existence of a God; she cannot prove her own
immortality; she cannot prove the beauty of virtue, or the deformity of
vice; her own consciousness, the first ground of this belief, cannot be
compassed by the reason, that inferior faculty which the Deity gave for
practical, temporal purposes only. This consciousness is divine; it is
part of the Deity; through this alone we sympathize with the
imperishable, the infinite, the nature of things. Were reason
commensurate with this part of our intellectual life, what should we do
with the things of time? The leaves and buds of earth would wither
beneath the sun of our intelligence; its crags and precipices would be
levelled before the mighty torrent of our will; all its dross would
crumble to ashes under the fire of our philosophy.
God willed it otherwise; WHY, who can guess? Why this planet, with its
tormenting limitations of space and time, was ever created,--why the
soul was cased in this clogging, stifling integument, (which, while it
conveys to the soul, in a roundabout way, knowledge which she might
obviously acquire much better without its aid, tempts constantly to vice
and indolence, suggesting sordid wants, and hampering or hindering
thought,)--I pretend not to say. Let others toil to stifle sad distrust
a thousand ways. Let them satisfy themselves by reasonings on the nature
of free agency; let them imagine it was impossible men should be
purified to angels, except by resisting the temptations of guilt and
crime; let them be _reasonably_ content to feel that
"Faith conquers in no easy war;
By toil alone the prize is won;
The grape dissolves not in the cup--
Wine from the crushing press must run;
And would a spirit heavenward go,
A heart must break in death below."
Why an _omnipotent_ Deity should permit evil, either as necessary to
produce good, or incident to laws framed for its production, must remain
a mystery to me. True, _we_ cannot conceive how the world could have
been ordered differently, and because _we_,--beings half of clay; beings
bred amid, and nurtured upon imperfection and decay; beings who must not
only sleep and eat, but pass the greater part of their temporal day in
procuring the means to do so,--because WE, creatures so limited and
blind, so weak of thought and dull of hearing, cannot conceive how evil
could have been dispensed with, those among us who are styled _wise_ and
_learned_ have thought fit to assume that the Infinite, the Omnipotent,
could not have found a way! "Could not," "evil must be incident"--terms
invented to express the thoughts or deeds of the children of dust. Shall
they be applied to the Omnipotent? Is a confidence in the goodness of
God more trying to faith, than the belief that a God exists, to whom
these words, transcending our powers of conception, apply? O, no, no!
"_Have faith in God!_" Strive to expand thy soul to the feeling of
wisdom, of beauty, of goodness; live, and act as if these were the
necessary elements of things; "live for thy faith, and thou shalt behold
it living." In another world God will repay thy trust, and "reveal to
thee the first causes of things which Leibnitz could not," as the queen
of Prussia said, when she was dying. Socrates has declared that the
belief in the soul's immortality is so delightful, so elevating, so
purifying, that even were it not the truth, "we should daily strive to
enchant ourselves with it." And thus with faith in wisdom and
goodness,--that is to say, in God,--the earthquake-defying,
rock-foundation of our hopes is laid; the sun-greeting dome which crowns
the most superb palace of our knowledge is builded. A noble and
accomplished man, of a later day, has said, "To credit ordinary and
visible objects is not faith, but persuasion. I bless myself, and am
thankful, that I lived not in the days of miracles, that I never saw
Christ, nor his disciples; then had my faith been thrust upon me, nor
could I enjoy that greater blessing pronounced upon those who believe
yet saw not."
I cannot speak thus proudly and heartily. I find the world of sense
strong enough against the intellectual and celestial world. It is easy
to believe in our passionless moments, or in those when earth would seem
too dark without the guiding star of faith; but to _live_ in faith, not
sometimes to feel, but always to have it, is difficult. Were faith ever
with us, how steady would be our energy, how equal our ambition, how
calmly bright our hopes! The darts of envy would be blunted, the cup of
disappointment lose its bitterness, the impassioned eagerness of the
heart be stilled, tears would fall like holy dew, and blossoms fragrant
with celestial May ensue.
But the prayer of most of us must be, "Lord, we believe--help thou our
unbelief!" These are to me the most significant words of Holy Writ. I
_will_ to believe; O, guide, support, strengthen, and soothe me to do
so! Lord, grant me to believe firmly, and to act nobly. Let me not be
tempted to waste my time, and weaken my powers, by attempts to soar on
feeble pinions "where angels bashful look." In _faith_ let me interpret
the universe!
MEDITATION SECOND.
"Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath
hedged in?"--_Job_ iii. 23.
This pathetic inquiry rises from all parts of the globe, from millions
of human souls, to that heaven from whence the light proceeds. From the
young, full of eager aspirations after virtue and glory; with the glance
of the falcon to descry the high-placed aim,--but ah! the wing of the
wren to reach it! The young enthusiast must often weep. His heart glows,
his eye sparkles as he reads of the youthful triumphs of a Pompey, the
sublime devotion of an Agis;[34] he shuts the book, he looks around him
for a theatre whereon to do likewise--petty pursuits, mean feelings, and
trifling pleasures meet his eye; the cold breeze of selfishness has
nipped every flower; the dull glow of prosaic life overpowers the
beauties of the landscape. He plunges into the unloved pursuit, or some
despised amusement, to soothe that day's impatience, and wakes on the
morrow, crying, "I have lost a day; and where, where shall I now turn my
steps to find the destined path?" The gilded image of some petty victory
holds forth a talisman which seems to promise him sure tokens. He rushes
forward; the swords of foes and rivals bar the way; the ground trembles
and gives way beneath his feet; rapid streams, unseen at a distance,
roll between him and the object of his pursuit; faint, giddy and
exhausted by the loss of his best blood, he reaches the goal, seizes the
talisman; his eyes devour the inscription--alas! the characters are
unknown to him. He looks back for some friend who might aid him,--his
friends are whelmed beneath the torrent, or have turned back
disheartened. He must struggle onward alone and ignorant as before; yet
in his wishes there is light.
Another is attracted by a lovely phantom; with airy step she precedes
him, holding, as he thinks, in her upward-pointing hand the faithful
needle which might point him to the pole-star of his wishes. Unwearied
he follows, imploring her in most moving terms to pause but a moment and
let him take her hand. Heedless she flits onward to some hopeless
desert, where she pauses only to turn to her unfortunate captive the
malicious face of a very Morgana.
The old,--O their sighs are deeper still! They have wandered far, toiled
much; the true light is now shown them. Ah, why was it reflected so
falsely through "life's many-colored dome of painted glass" upon their
youthful, anxious gaze? And now the path they came by is hedged in by
new circumstances against the feet of others, and its devious course
vainly mapped in their memories; should the light of their example lead
others into the same track, these unlucky followers will vainly seek an
issue. They attempt to unroll their charts for the use of their
children, and their children's children. They feed the dark lantern of
wisdom with the oil of experience, and hold it aloft over the declivity
up which these youth are blundering, in vain; some fall, misled by the
flickering light; others seek by-paths, along which they hope to be
guided by suns or moons of their own. All meet at last, only to bemoan
or sneer together. How many strive with feverish zeal to paint on the
clouds of outward life the hues of their own souls; what do not these
suffer? What baffling,--what change in the atmosphere on which they
depend,--yet _not_ in vain! Something they realize, something they
grasp, something (O, how unlike the theme of their hope!) they have
created. A transient glow, a deceitful thrill,--these be the blisses of
mortals. Yet have these given birth to noble deeds, and thoughts worthy
to be recorded by the pens of angels on the tablets of immortality.
And this, O man! is thy only solace in those paroxysms of despair which
must result to the yet eager heart from the vast disproportion between
our perceptions and our exhibition of those perceptions. Seize on all
the twigs that may help thee in thine ascent, though the thorns upon
them rend thee. Toil ceaselessly towards the Source of light, and
remember that he who thus eloquently lamented found that, although far
worse than his dark presentiments had pictured came upon him, though
vainly he feared and trembled, and there was no safety for him, yet his
sighings came before his meat, and, happy in their recollection, he
found at last that danger and imprisonment are but for a season, and
that God is _good_, as he is great.
APPEAL FOR AN ASYLUM FOR DISCHARGED FEMALE CONVICTS.
The ladies of the Prison Association have been from time to time engaged
in the endeavor to procure funds for establishing this asylum.[35] They
have met, thus far, with little success; but touched by the position of
several women, who, on receiving their discharge, were anxiously waiting
in hope there would be means provided to save them from return to their
former suffering and polluted life, they have taken a house, and begun
their good work, in faith that Heaven must take heed that such an
enterprise may not fail, and touch the hearts of men to aid it.
They have taken a house, and secured the superintendence of an excellent
matron. There are already six women under her care. But this house is
unprovided with furniture, or the means of securing food for body and
mind to these unfortunates, during the brief novitiate which gives them
so much to learn and unlearn.
The object is to lend a helping hand to the many who show a desire of
reformation, but have hitherto been inevitably repelled into infamy by
the lack of friends to find them honest employment, and a temporary
refuge till it can be procured. Efforts will be made to instruct them
how to break up bad habits, and begin a healthy course for body and
mind.
The house has in it scarcely any thing. It is a true Lazarus
establishment, asking for the crumbs that fall from the rich man's
table. Old furniture would be acceptable, clothes, books that are no
longer needed by their owners.
This statement we make in appealing to the poor, though they are,
usually, the most generous. Not that they are, originally, better than
the rich, but circumstances have fitted them to appreciate the
misfortunes, the trials, the wrongs that beset those a little lower than
themselves. But we have seen too many instances where those who were
educated in luxury would cast aside sloth and selfishness with eagerness
when once awakened to better things, not to hope in appealing to the
rich also.
And to all we appeal: to the poor, who will know how to sympathize with
those who are not only poor but degraded, diseased, likely to be hurried