Life Without and Life Within; or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems.
that he saw not. He lived as well as he knew how.
And now that he would fain give himself up to the new oracle in his
bosom, and to the inspirations of nature, all his old habits, all his
previous connections, are unpropitious. He is bound by a thousand chains
which press on him so as to leave no moment free. And perhaps it seems
to him that, were he free, he should but feel the more forlorn. He sees
the charm and nobleness of this new life, but knows not how to live it.
It is an element to which his mental frame has not been trained. He
knows not what to do to-day or to-morrow; how to stay by himself, or how
to meet others; how to act, or how to rest. Looking on others who chose
the path which now invites him at an age when their characters were yet
plastic, and the world more freely opened before them, he deems them
favored children, and cries in almost despairing sadness, Why, O Father
of Spirits, didst thou not earlier enlighten me also? Why was I not led
gently by the hand in the days of my youth? "And what," you ask, "could
I reply?"
Much, much, dear H----, were this a friend whom I could see so often
that his circumstances would be my text. For no subject has more engaged
my thoughts, no difficulty is more frequently met. But now on this poor
sheet I can only give you the clew to what I should say.
In the first place, the depth of the despair must be caused by the
mistaken idea that this our present life is all the time allotted to man
for the education of his nature for that state of consummation which is
called heaven. Were it seen that this present is only one little link in
the long chain of probations; were it felt that the Divine Justice is
pledged to give the aspirations of the soul all the time they require
for their fulfilment; were it recognized that disease, old age, and
death are circumstances which can never touch the eternal youth of the
spirit; that though the "plant man" grows more or less fair in hue and
stature, according to the soil in which it is planted, yet the
principle, which is the life of the plant, will not be defeated, but
must scatter its seeds again and again, till it does at last come to
perfect flower,--then would he, who is pausing to despair, realize that
a new choice can never be too late, that false steps made in ignorance
can never be counted by the All-Wise, and that, though a moment's delay
against conviction is of incalculable weight the mistakes of forty
years are but as dust on the balance held by an unerring hand. Despair
is for time, hope for eternity.
Then he who looks at all at the working of the grand principle of
compensation which holds all nature in equipoise, cannot long remain a
stranger to the meaning of the beautiful parable of the prodigal son,
and the joy over finding the one lost piece of silver. It is no
arbitrary kindness, no generosity of the ruling powers, which causes
that there be more joy in heaven over the one that returns, than over
ninety and nine that never strayed. It is the inevitable working of a
spiritual law that he who has been groping in darkness must feel the
light most keenly, best know how to prize it--he who has long been
exiled from the truth seize it with the most earnest grasp, live in it
with the deepest joy. It was after descending to the very pit of sorrow,
that our Elder Brother was permitted to ascend to the Father, who
perchance said to the angels who had dwelt always about the throne, Ye
are always with me, and all that I have is yours; but this is my Son; he
has been into a far country, but could not there abide, and has
returned. But if any one say, "I know not how to return," I should still
use words from the same record: "Let him arise and go to his Father."
Let him put his soul into that state of simple, fervent desire for truth
alone, truth for its own sake, which is prayer, and not only the sight
of truth, but the way to make it living, shall be shown. Obstacles,
insuperable to the intellect of any adviser, shall melt away like
frostwork before a ray from the celestial sun. The Father may hide his
face for a time, till the earnestness of the suppliant child be proved;
but he is not far from any that seek, and when he does resolve to make a
revelation, will show not only the _what_, but the _how_; and none else
can advise or aid the seeking soul, except by just observation on some
matter of detail.
In this path, as in the downward one, must there be the first step that
decides the whole--one sacrifice of the temporal for the eternal day is
the grain of mustard seed which may give birth to a tree large enough to
make a home for the sweetest singing birds. One moment of deep truth in
life, of choosing not merely honesty, but purity, may leaven the whole
mass.
FRAGMENTARY THOUGHTS FROM MARGARET FULLER'S JOURNAL.
I gave the world the fruit of earlier hours:
O Solitude! reward me with some flowers;
Or if their odorous bloom thou dost deny,
Rain down some meteors from the winter sky!
_Poesy._--The expression of the sublime and beautiful, whether in
measured words or in the fine arts. The human mind, apprehending the
harmony of the universe, and making new combinations by its laws.
* * * * *
_Poetry._--The sublime and beautiful expressed in measured language. It
is closely allied with the fine arts. It should sing to the ear, paint
to the eye, and exhibit the symmetry of architecture. If perfect, it
will satisfy the intellectual and moral faculties no less than the heart
and the senses. It works chiefly by simile and melody. It is to prose as
the garden to the house. Pleasure is the object of the one, convenience
of the other. The flowers and fruits may be copied on the furniture of
the house, but if their beauty be not subordinated to utility, they lose
the charm of beauty, and degenerate into finery. The reverse is the case
in the garden.
* * * * *
_Nature._--I would praise alike the soft gray and brown which soothed my
eye erewhile, and the snowy fretwork which now decks the forest aisles.
Every ripple in the snowy fields, every grass and fern which raises its
petrified delicacy above them, seems to me to claim a voice. A voice!
Canst thou not silently adore, but must needs be doing? Art thou too
good to wait as a beggar at the door of the great temple?
_Woman--Man._--Woman is the flower, man the bee. She sighs out melodious
fragrance, and invites the winged laborer. He drains her cup, and
carries off the honey. She dies on the stalk; he returns to the hive,
well fed, and praised as an active member of the community.
* * * * *
_Action symbolical of what is within._--Goethe says, "I have learned
to consider all I do as symbolical,--so that it now matters little to me
whether I make plates or dishes." And further, he says, "All manly
effort goes from within outwards."
* * * * *
_Opportunity fleeting._--I held in my hand the cup. It was full of hot
liquid. The air was cold; I delayed to drink, and its vital heat, its
soul, curled upwards in delicatest wreaths. I looked delighted on their
beauty; but while I waited, the essence of the draught was wasted on the
cold air: it would not wait for me; it longed too much to utter itself:
and when my lip was ready, only a flat, worthless sediment remained of
what had been.
* * * * *
_Mingling of the heavenly with the earthly._--The son of the gods has
sold his birthright. He has received in exchange one, not merely the
fairest, but the sweetest and holiest of earth's daughters. Yet is it
not a fit exchange. His pinions droop powerless; he must no longer soar
amid the golden stars. No matter, he thinks; "I will take her to some
green and flowery isle; I will pay the penalty of Adam for the sake of
the daughter of Eve; I will make the earth fruitful by the sweat of my
brow. No longer my hands shall bear the coal to the lips of the inspired
singer--no longer my voice modulate its tones to the accompaniment of
spheral harmonies. My hands now lift the clod of the valley which dares
cling to them with brotherly familiarity. And for my soiling, dreary
task-work all the day, I receive--food.
"But the smile with which she receives me at set of sun, is it not worth
all that sun has seen me endure? Can angelic delights surpass those
which I possess, when, facing the shore with her, watched by the quiet
moon, we listen to the tide of the world surging up impatiently against
the Eden it cannot conquer? Truly the joys of heaven were gregarious and
low in comparison. This, this alone, is exquisite, because exclusive and
peculiar."
Ah, seraph! but the winter's frost must nip thy vine; a viper lurks
beneath the flowers to sting the foot of thy child, and pale decay must
steal over the cheek thou dost adore. In the realm of ideas all was
imperishable. Be blest while thou canst. I love thee, fallen seraph, but
thou shouldst not have sold thy birthright.
"All for love and the world well lost." That sounds so true! But genius,
when it sells itself, gives up, not only the world, but the universe.
Yet does not love comprehend the universe? The universe is love. Why
should I weary my eye with scanning the parts, when I can clasp the
whole this moment to my beating heart?
But if the intellect be repressed, the idea will never be brought out
from the feeling. The amaranth wreath will in thy grasp be changed to
one of roses, more fragrant indeed, but withering with a single sun!
* * * * *
_The Crisis with Goethe._--I have thought much whether Goethe did
well in giving up Lili. That was the crisis in his existence. From that
era dates his being as a "Weltweise;" the heroic element vanished
irrecoverably from his character; he became an Epicurean and a Realist;
plucking flowers and hammering stones instead of looking at the stars.
How could he look through the blinds, and see her sitting alone in her
beauty, yet give her up for so slight reasons? He was right as a genius,
but wrong as a character.
* * * * *
_The Flower and the Pearl._---- has written wonders about the mystery of
personality. Why do we love it? In the first place, each wishes to
embrace a whole, and this seems the readiest way. The intellect soars,
the heart clasps; from putting "a girdle round about the earth in forty
minutes," thou wouldst return to thy own little green isle of emotion,
and be the loving and playful fay, rather than the delicate Ariel.
Then most persons are plants, organic. We can predict their growth
according to their own law. From the young girl we can predict the
lustre, the fragrance of the future flower. It waves gracefully to the
breeze, the dew rests upon its petals, the bee busies himself in them,
and flies away after a brief rapture, richly laden.
When it fades, its leaves fall softly on the bosom of Mother Earth, to
all whose feelings it has so closely conformed. It has lived as a part
of nature; its life was music, and we open our hearts to the melody.
But characters like thine and mine are mineral. We are the bone and
sinew, these the smiles and glances, of earth. We lie nearer the mighty
heart, and boast an existence more enduring than they. The sod lies
heavy on us, or, if we show ourselves, the melancholy moss clings to us.
If we are to be made into palaces and temples, we must be hewn and
chiselled by instruments of unsparing sharpness. The process is
mechanical and unpleasing; the noises which accompany it, discordant and
obtrusive; the artist is surrounded with rubbish. Yet we may be polished
to marble smoothness. In our veins may lie the diamond, the ruby,