Life Without and Life Within; or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems.
In the little instance with which we began, no help _was_ asked, unless
by the sight of the timid little boy's old jacket. But the license which
this seemed to the well-clothed woman to give to rudeness, was so
characteristic of a deep fault now existing, that a volume of comments
might follow and a host of anecdotes be drawn from almost any one's
experience in exposition of it. These few words, perhaps, may awaken
thought in those who have drawn tears from other's eyes through an
ignorance brutal, but not hopelessly so, if they are willing to rise
above it.
CASSIUS M. CLAY.
The meeting on Monday night at the Tabernacle was to us an occasion of
deep and peculiar interest. It was deep, for the feelings there
expressed and answered bore witness to the truth of our belief, that the
sense of right is not dead, but only sleepeth in this nation. A man who
is manly enough to appeal to it, will be answered, in feeling at least,
if not in action, and while there is life there is hope. Those who so
rapturously welcomed one who had sealed his faith by deeds of devotion,
must yet acknowledge in their breasts the germs of like nobleness.
It was an occasion of peculiar interest, such as we have not had
occasion to feel since, in childish years, we saw Lafayette welcomed by
a grateful people. Even childhood well understood that the gratitude
then expressed was not so much for the aid which had been received as
for the motives and feelings with which it was given. The nation rushed
out as one man to thank Lafayette, that he had been able, amid the
prejudices and indulgences of high rank in the old _regime_ of society,
to understand the great principles which were about to create a new
form, and answer, manlike, with love, service, and contempt of selfish
interests to the voice of humanity demanding its rights. Our freedom
would have been achieved without Lafayette; but it was a happiness and a
blessing to number the young French nobleman as the champion of American
independence, and to know that he had given the prime of his life to our
cause, because it was the cause of justice. With similar feelings of
joy, pride, and hope, we welcome Cassius M. Clay, a man who has, in like
manner, freed himself from the prejudices of his position, disregarded
selfish considerations, and quitting the easy path in which he might
have walked to station in the sight of men, and such external
distinctions as his State and nation readily confer on men so born and
bred, and with such abilities, chose rather an interest in their souls,
and the honors history will not fail to award to the man who enrolls his
name and elevates his life for the cause of right and those universal
principles whose recognition can alone secure to man the destiny without
which he cannot be happy, but which he is continually sacrificing for
the impure worship of idols. Yea, in this country, more than in the old
Palestine, do they give their children to the fire in honor of Moloch,
and sell the ark confided to them by the Most High for shekels of gold
and of silver. Partly it was the sense of this position which Mr. Clay
holds, as a man who esteems his own individual convictions of right more
than local interests or partial, political schemes, that gave him such
an enthusiastic welcome on Monday night from the very hearts of the
audience, but still more that his honor is at this moment identified
with the liberty of the press, which has been insulted and infringed in
him. About this there can be in fact but one opinion. In vain Kentucky
calls meetings, states reasons, gives names of her own to what has been
done.[41] The rest of the world knows very well what the action is, and
will call it by but one name. Regardless of this ostrich mode of
defence, the world has laughed and scoffed at the act of a people
professing to be free and defenders of freedom, and the recording angel
has written down the deed as a lawless act of violence and tyranny, from
which the man is happy who can call himself pure.
With the usual rhetoric of the wrong side, the apologists for this mob
violence have wished to injure Mr. Clay by the epithets of "hot-headed,"
"visionary," "fanatical." But, if any have believed that such could
apply to a man so clear-sighted as to his objects and the way of
achieving them, the mistake must have been corrected on Monday night.
Whoever saw Mr. Clay that night, saw in him a man of deep and strong
nature, thoroughly in earnest, who had well considered his ground, and
saw that though open, as the truly _noble_ must be, to new views and
convictions, yet his direction is taken, and the improvement to be made
will not be to turn aside, but to expedite and widen his course in that
direction. Mr. Clay is young, young enough, thank Heaven! to promise a
long career of great thoughts and honorable deeds. But still, to those
who esteem youth an unpardonable fault, and one that renders incapable
of counsel, we would say that he is at the age when a man is capable of
great thoughts and great deeds, if ever. His is not a character that
will ever grow old; it is not capable of a petty and short-sighted
prudence, but can only be guided by a large wisdom which is more young
than old, for it has within itself the springs of perpetual youth, and
which, being far-sighted and prophetical, joins ever with the progress
party without waiting till it be obviously in the ascendant.
Mr. Clay has eloquence, but only from the soul. He does not possess the
art of oratory, as an art. Before he gets warmed he is too slow, and
breaks his sentences too much. His transitions are not made with skill,
nor is the structure of his speech, as a whole, symmetrical; yet,
throughout, his grasp is firm upon his subject, and all the words are
laden with the electricity of a strong mind and generous nature. When he
begins to glow, and his deep mellow eye fills with light, the speech
melts and glows too, and he is able to impress upon the hearer the full
effect of firm conviction, conceived with impassioned energy. His often
rugged and harsh emphasis flashes and sparkles then, and we feel that
there is in the furnace a stream of iron: iron, fortress of the nations
and victor of the seas, worth far more, in stress of storm, than all the
gold and gems of rhetoric.
The great principle that he who wrongs one wrongs all, and that no part
can be wounded without endangering the whole, was the healthy root of
Mr. Clay's speech. The report does not do justice to the turn of
expression in some parts which were most characteristic. These, indeed,
depended much on the tones and looks of the speaker. We should speak of
them as full of a robust and homely sincerity, dignified by the heart of
the gentleman, a heart too secure of its respect for the rights of
others to need any of the usual interpositions. His good-humored
sarcasm, on occasion of several vulgar interruptions, was very pleasant,
and easily at those times might be recognized in him the man of heroical
nature, who can only show himself adequately in time of interruption and
of obstacle. If that be all that is wanted, we shall surely see him
wholly; there will be no lack of American occasions to call out the
Greek fire. We want them all--the Grecian men, who feel a godlike thirst
for immortal glory, and to develop the peculiar powers with which the
gods have gifted them. We want them all--the poet, the thinker, the
hero. Whether our heroes need _swords_, is a more doubtful point, we
think, than Mr. Clay believes. Neither do we believe in some of the
means he proposes to further his aims. God uses all kinds of means, but
men, his priests, must keep their hands pure. Nobody that needs a bribe
shall be asked to further our schemes for emancipation. But there is
room enough and time enough to think out these points till all is in
harmony. For the good that has been done and the truth that has been
spoken, for the love of such that has been seen in this great city
struggling up through the love of money, we should to-day be
thankful--and we are so.
THE MAGNOLIA OF LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN.
The stars tell all their secrets to the flowers, and, if we only knew
how to look around us, we should not need to look above. But man is a
plant of slow growth, and great heat is required to bring out his
leaves. He must be promised a boundless futurity, to induce him to use
aright the present hour. In youth, fixing his eyes on those distant
worlds of light, he promises himself to attain them, and there find the
answer to all his wishes. His eye grows keener as he gazes, a voice from
the earth calls it downward, and he finds all at his feet.
I was riding on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain, musing on an old
English expression, which I had only lately learned to interpret. "He
was fulfilled of all nobleness." Words so significant charm us like a
spell, long before we know their meaning. This I had now learned to
interpret. Life had ripened from the green bud, and I had seen the
difference, wide as from earth to heaven, between nobleness and the
_fulfilment_ of nobleness.
A fragrance beyond any thing I had ever known came suddenly upon the
air, and interrupted my meditation. I looked around me, but saw no
flower from which it could proceed. There is no word for it; _exquisite_
and _delicious_ have lost all meaning now. It was of a full and
penetrating sweetness, too keen and delicate to be cloying. Unable to
trace it, I rode on, but the remembrance of it pursued me. I had a
feeling that I must forever regret my loss, my want, if I did not return
and find the poet of the lake, whose voice was such perfume. In earlier
days, I might have disregarded such a feeling; but now I have learned
to prize the monitions of my nature as they deserve, and learn sometimes
what is not for sale in the market place. So I turned back, and rode to
and fro, at the risk of abandoning the object of my ride.
I found her at last, the queen of the south, singing to herself in her
lonely bower. Such should a sovereign be, most regal when alone; for
then there is no disturbance to prevent the full consciousness of power.
All occasions limit; a kingdom is but an occasion; and no sun ever saw
itself adequately reflected on sea or land.
Nothing at the south had affected me like the magnolia. Sickness and
sorrow, which have separated me from my kind, have requited my loss by
making known to me the loveliest dialect of the divine language.
"Flowers," it has been truly said, "are the only positive present made
us by nature." Man has not been ungrateful, but consecrated the gift to
adorn the darkest and brightest hours. If it is ever perverted, it is to
be used as a medicine; and even this vexes me. But no matter for that.
We have pure intercourse with these purest creations; we love them for
their own sake, for their beauty's sake. As we grow beautiful and pure,
we understand them better. With me knowledge of them is a circumstance,
a habit of my life, rather than a merit. I have lived with them, and
with them almost alone, till I have learned to interpret the slightest
signs by which they manifest their fair thoughts. There is not a flower
in my native region which has not for me a tale, to which every year is
adding new incidents; yet the growths of this new climate brought me new
and sweet emotions, and, above all others, was the magnolia a
revelation. When I first beheld her, a stately tower of verdure, each
cup, an imperial vestal, full-displayed to the eye of day, yet guarded
from the too hasty touch even of the wind by its graceful decorums of
firm, glistening, broad, green leaves, I stood astonished, as might a
lover of music, who, after hearing in all his youth only the harp or
the bugle, should be saluted, on entering some vast cathedral, by the