Life Without and Life Within; or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems.
There was much satisfaction in surveying its rich contents, if merely on
account of their splendor and elegance, which, though fantastic to our
tastes, presented an obvious standard of its own by which to prize it.
The rich dresses of the imperial court, the magnificent jars, (the
largest worth three hundred dollars, and looking as if it was worth much
more,) the present-boxes and ivory work, the elegant interiors of the
home and counting-room,--all these gave pleasure by their perfection,
each in its kind.
But the chief impression was of that unity of existence, so opposite to
the European, and, for a change, so pleasant, from its repose and gilded
lightness. Their imperial majesties do really seem so "perfectly
serene," that we fancy we might become so under their sway, if not
"thoroughly virtuous," as they profess to be. Entirely a new mood would
be ours, as we should sup in one of those pleasure boats, by the light
of fanciful lanterns, or listen to the tinkling of pagoda bells.
The highest conventional refinement, of a certain kind, is apparent in
all that belongs to the Chinese. The inviolability of custom has not
made their life heavy, but shaped it to the utmost adroitness for their
own purposes. We are now somewhat familiar with their literature, and we
see pervading it a poetry subtle and aromatic, like the odors of their
appropriate beverage. Like that, too, it is all domestic,--never wild.
The social genius, fluttering on the wings of compliment, pervades every
thing Chinese. Society has moulded them, body and soul; the youngest
children are more social and Chinese than human; and we doubt not the
infant, with its first cry, shows its capacity for self-command and
obedience to superiors.
Their great man, Confucius, expresses this social genius in its most
perfect state and highest form. His golden wisdom is the quintescence of
social justice. He never forgets conditions and limits; he is admirably
wise, pure, and religious, but never towers above humanity--never soars
into solitude. There is no token of the forest or cave in Confucius. Few
men could understand him, because his nature was so thoroughly balanced,
and his rectitude so pure; not because his thoughts were too deep, or
too high for them. In him should be sought the best genius of the
Chinese, with that perfect practical good sense whose uses are
universal.
At one time I used to change from reading Confucius to one of the great
religious books of another Eastern nation; and it was always like
leaving the street and the palace for the blossoming forest of the East,
where in earlier times we are told the angels walked with men and
talked, not of earth, but of heaven.
As we looked at the forms moving about in the Museum, we could not
wonder that the Chinese consider us, who call ourselves the civilized
world, barbarians, so deficient were those forms in the sort of
refinement that the Chinese prize above all. And our people deserve it
for their senselessness in viewing _them_ as barbarians, instead of
seeing how perfectly they represent their own idea. They are inferior to
us in important developments, but, on the whole, approach far nearer
their own standard than we do ours. And it is wonderful that an
enlightened European can fail to prize the sort of beauty they do
develop. Sets of engravings we have seen representing the culture of the
tea plant, have brought to us images of an entirely original idyllic
loveliness. One long resident in China has observed that nothing can be
more enchanting than the smile of love on the regular, but otherwise
expressionless face of a Chinese woman. It has the simplicity and
abandonment of infantine, with the fulness of mature feeling. It never
varies, but it does not tire.
The same sweetness and elegance stereotyped now, but having originally a
deep root in their life as a race, may be seen in their poetry and
music. The last we have heard, both from the voice and several
instruments, at this Museum, for the first time, and were at first
tempted to laugh, when something deeper forbade. Like their poetry, the
music is of the narrowest monotony, a kind of rosary, a repetition of
phrases, and, in its enthusiasm and conventional excitement, like
nothing else in the heavens and on the earth. Yet both the poetry and
music have in them an expression of birds, roses, and moonlight; indeed,
they suggest that state where "moonlight, and music, and feeling are
one," though the soul seems to twitter, rather than sing of it.
It is wonderful with how little practical insight travellers in China
look on what they see. They seem to be struck by points of repulsion at
once, and neither see nor tell us what could give any real clew to their
facts. I do not speak now of the recent lecturers in this city, for I
have not heard them; but of the many, many books into which I have
earlier looked with eager curiosity,--in vain,--I always found the same
external facts, and the same prejudices which disabled the observer from
piercing beneath them. I feel that I know something of the Chinese when
reading Confucius, or looking at the figures on their tea-cups, or
drinking a cup of _genuine_ tea--rather an unusual felicity, it is said,
in this ingenious city, which shares with the Chinese one trait at
least. But the travellers rather take from than add to this knowledge;
and a visit to this Museum would give more clear views than all the
books I ever read yet.
The juggling was well done, and so solemnly, with the same concentrated
look as the music! I saw the juggler afterwards at Ole Bull's concert,
and he moved not a muscle while the nightingale was pouring forth its
sweetest descant. Probably the avenues wanted for these strains to enter
his heart had been closed by the imperial edict long ago. The
resemblance borne by this juggler to our Indians is even greater than we
have seen in any other case. His brotherhood does not, to us, seem
surprising. Our Indians, too, are stereotyped, though in a different
way; they are of a mould capable of retaining the impression through
ages; and many of the traits of the two races, or two branches of a
race, may seem to be identical, though so widely modified by
circumstances. They are all opposite to us, who have made ships, and
balloons, and magnetic telegraphs, as symbolic expressions of our wants,
and the means of gratifying them. We must console ourselves with these,
and our organs and pianos, for our want of perfect good breeding,
serenity, and "thorough virtue."
KLOPSTOCK AND META.[36]
The poet had retired from the social circle. Its mirth was to his
sickened soul a noisy discord, its sentiment a hollow mockery. With
grief he felt that the recital of a generous action, the vivid
expression of a noble thought, could only graze the surface of his mind.
The desolate stillness of death lay brooding on its depths. The friendly
smiles, the tender attentions which seemed so sweet in those hours when
Meta was "crown of his cup and garnish of his dish," could give the
present but a ghastly similitude to those blessed days. While his
attention, disobedient to his wishes, kept turning painfully inward, the
voice of the singer suddenly startled it back. A lovely maid, with
moist, clear eye, and pleadi ng, earnest voice, was seated at the
harpsichord. She sang a sad, and yet not hopeless, strain, like that of
a lover who pines in absence, yet hopes again to meet his loved one.
The heart of Klopstock rose to his lips, and natural tears suffused his
eyes. She paused. Some youth of untouched heart, shallow, as yet, in all
things, asked for a lively song, the expression of animal enjoyment. She
hesitated, and cast a sidelong glance at the mourner. Heedlessly the
request was urged: she wafted over the keys an airy prelude. A cold rush
of anguish came over the awakened heart; Klopstock rose, and hastily
left the room.
He entered his apartment, and threw himself upon the bed. The moon was
nearly at the full: a tree near the large window obscured its radiance,
and cast into the room a flickering shadow, as its leaves kept swaying
to and fro with the breeze.
Vainly Klopstock sought for soothing influences in the contemplation of
the soft and varying light. Sadness is always deepest at this hour of
celestial calmness. The soul realizes its wants, and longs to be in
harmony with itself far more in such an hour than when any outward ill
is arousing or oppressing it.
"Weak, fond wretch that I am!" cried he. "I, the bard of the Messiah! To
what purpose have I nurtured my soul on the virtues of that sublime
model, for whom no renunciation was too hard? Four years an angel
sojourned with me: her presence vivified my soul into purity and
benevolence like her own. Happy was I as the saints who rest after their
long struggles in the bosom of perfect love. I thought myself good
because I sinned not against a bounteous God, because my heart could
spare some drops of its overflowing oil and balm for the wounds of
others: now what am I? My angel leaves me, but she leaves with me the
memory of blissful years and our perfect communion as an earnest of that
happy meeting which awaits us, if I prove faithful to my own words of
faith, to those strains of religious confidence which are even now
cheering onward many an inexperienced youth. And what are my deeds and
feelings? The springs of life and love frozen, here I lie, sunk in
grief, as if I knew no world beyond the grave. The joy of others seems
an insult, their grief a dead letter, compared with my own. Meta! Meta!
couldst thou see me in my hour of trial, thou wouldst disdain thy chosen
one!"
A strain of sweet and solemn music swelled on his ear--one of those
majestic harmonies which, were there no other proof of the soul's
immortality, must suggest the image of an intellectual paradise. It
closed, and Meta stood before him. A long veil of silvery whiteness fell
over her, through which might be seen the fixed but nobly-serene
expression of the large blue eyes, and a holy, seraphic dignity of mien.
Klopstock knelt before her: his soul was awed to earth. "Hast thou
come, my adored!" said he, "from thy home of bliss, to tell me that thou
no longer lovest thy unworthy friend?"
"O, speak not thus!" replied the softest and most penetrating of voices.
"God wills not that his purified creatures should look in contempt or
anger on those suffering the ills from which they are set free. O, no,
my love! my husband! I come to speak consolation to thy sinking spirit.
When you left me to breathe my last sigh in the arms of a sister, who,
however dear, was nothing to my heart in comparison with you, I closed
my eyes, wishing that the light of day might depart with thee. The
thought of what thou must suffer convulsed my heart with one last pang.
Once more I murmured the wish I had so often expressed, that the sorrows
of the survivor might have fallen to my lot rather than to thine. In
that pang my soul extricated itself from the body; a sensation like that
from exquisite fragrance came over me, and with breezy lightness I rose
into the pure serene. It was a moment of feeling almost wild,--so free,
so unobscured. I had not yet passed the verge of comparison; I could not
yet embrace the Infinite: therefore my joy was like those of
earth--intoxicating.
"Words cannot paint, even to thy eager soul, my friend, the winged
swiftness, the onward, glowing hopefulness of my path through the fields
of azure. I paused, at length, in a region of keen, pure, bluish light,
such as beams from Jupiter to thy planet on a lovely October evening.
"Here an immediate conviction pervaded me that this was home--was my
appointed resting place; a full tide of hope and satisfaction similar to