Chapter XXIX: Letter XXVI: The Choice of a Profession (4)

‘There studious let me sit,
And hold high converse with the mighty dead;
Sages of ancient time, as gods revered,
As gods beneficent, who bless’d mankind
With arts, with arms, and humanized a world.
Roused at th’ inspiring thought, I throw aside
The long-lived volume; and, deep-musing, hail
The sacred shades, that slowly-rising pass
Before my wondering eyes. First Socrates,
Who, firmly good in a corrupted state,
Against the rage of tyrants single stood,
Invincible! calm Reason’s holy law,
That voice of God within th’ attentive mind,
Obeying, fearless, or in life or death:
Great moral teacher! Wisest of mankind!
Solon the next, who built his commonweal
On equity’s wide base; by tender laws
A lively people curbing, yet undamped
Preserving still that quick peculiar fire,
Whence in the laurel’d field of finer arts,
And of bold freedom, they unequall’d shone,
The pride of smiling Greece and human kind.
Lycurgus then, who bow’d beneath the force
Of strictest discipline, severely wise,
All human passions. Following him, I see,
As at Thermopylæ he glorious fell,
The firm devoted chief,[C] who proved by deeds
The hardest lesson which the other taught.
Then Aristides lifts his honest front;
Spotless of heart, to whom th’ unflattering voice
Of freedom gave the noblest name of Just;
In pure majestic poverty revered;
Who, e’en his glory to his country’s weal
Submitting, swell’d a haughty rival’s[D] fame.
Rear’d by his care, of softer ray appears
Cimon sweet-soul’d; whose genius, rising strong,
Shook off the load of young debauch; abroad
The scourge of Persian pride, at home the friend
Of every worth and every splendid art;
Modest and simple, in the pomp of wealth.
Then the last worthies of declining Greece,
Late call’d to glory, in unequal times
Pensive appear. The fair Corinthian boast,
Timoleon, happy temper! mild and firm,
Who wept the brother while the tyrant bled.
And, equal to the best, the Theban Pair,[E]
Whose virtues, in heroic concord join’d,
Their country raised to freedom, empire, fame.
He too, with whom Athenian honor sunk,
And left a mass of sordid lees behind,
Phocion the Good; in public life severe,
To virtue still inexorably firm;
But when, beneath his low illustrious roof,
Sweet peace and happy wisdom smooth’d his brow,
Not friendship softer was, nor love more kind.
And he, the last of old Lycurgus’ sons,
The generous victim to that vain attempt,
To save a rotten state, Agis, who saw
E’en Sparta’s self to servile avarice sunk.
The two Achaian heroes close the train:
Aratus, who a while relumed the soul
Of fondly lingering liberty in Greece;
And he, her darling as her latest hope,
The gallant Philopœmen; who to arms
Turn’d the luxurious pomp he could not cure;
Or toiling on his farm, a simple swain;
Or, bold and skilful, thundering in the field.
‘Of rougher front, a mighty people comes!
A race of heroes! in those virtuous times
Which knew no stain, save that with partial flame
Their dearest country they too fondly loved:
Her better Founder first, the light of Rome,
Numa, who soften’d her rapacious sons;
Servius the king, who laid the solid base
On which o’er earth the vast republic spread.
Then the great consuls venerable rise.
The public Father[F] who the private quell’d,
As on the dread tribunal sternly sat.
He whom his thankless country could not lose,
Camillus, only vengeful to her foes.
Fabricius, scorner of all-conquering gold;
And Cincinnatus, awful from the plough.
Thy willing victim,[G] Carthage, bursting loose
From all that pleading Nature could oppose,
From a whole city’s tears, by rigid faith
Imperious call’d, and honor’s dire command.
Scipio, the gentle chief, humanely brave,
Who soon the race of spotless glory ran,
And, warm in youth, to the poetic shade
With Friendship and Philosophy retired.
Tully, whose powerful eloquence a while
Restrain’d the rapid fate of rushing Rome.
Unconquer’d Cato, virtuous in extreme;
And thou, unhappy Brutus, kind of heart,
Whose steady arm, by awful virtue urged,
Lifted the Roman steel against thy friend.
Thousands besides the tribute of a verse
Demand; but who can count the stars of heaven?
Who sing their influence on this lower world?
‘Behold, who yonder comes! in sober state,
Fair, mild, and strong, as is a vernal sun;
’Tis Phœbus’ self, or else the Mantuan swain!
Great Homer too appears, of daring wing,
Parent of song! and, equal by his side,
The British Muse; join’d hand in hand they walk,
Darkling, full up the middle steep to fame,
Nor absent are those shades, whose skilful touch
Pathetic drew th’ impassion’d heart, and charm’d
Transported Athens with the moral scene;
Nor those who, tuneful, waked th’ enchanted lyre.
‘First of your kind! society divine!
Still visit thus my nights, for you reserved,
And mount my soaring soul to thoughts like yours.
Silence, thou lonely power! the door be thine;
See on the hallow’d hour that none intrude,
Save a few chosen friends, who sometimes deign
To bless my humble roof, with sense refined,
Learning digested well, exalted faith,
Unstudied wit, and humor ever gay.
Or from the Muses’ hill will Pope descend,
To raise the sacred hour, to bid it smile,
And with the social spirit warm the heart?
For though not sweeter his own Homer sings,
Yet is his life the more endearing song.’

Note 46, page 142.

Whoever has attempted to concentrate his thoughts in fixed contemplation upon the origin of the human race, the object of our present existence, and our prospects beyond it, upon the character and plan of the divinity, and the mode of his being, must have felt a painful vagueness, a dizzying sense of the weakness of our powers, very naturally preparing us for superstitious and terrific views of the first cause. But when, in the clear light of reason, I look upon his creation, on his star-spangled firmament, and the glory of his works, I should as soon doubt my own existence, as the perfect wisdom and goodness of the author of my being. All religion, which does not strengthen our confidence in this, must be a dreary illusion. Horrible dreams, dating their origin from the associations of childhood, and the rant of wild and visionary ministers, may sometimes interpose, in the uncertain moments between sleeping and waking, as among the gloomy presentiments and partial delirium of ill health. But every rational mind must finally settle to repose in that glorious persuasion, which instantly irradiates the moral universe with perennial sunshine. ‘The Lord reigneth; let the earth rejoice.’ In this or any other world, in our present or any other forms of conscious being, we may advance upon the unexplored scenes with a full confidence that we can never travel beyond the beneficence and equity of the infinite mind.

One of the standing themes of Christian pulpits is the puerile and absurd views, which the common creed of the Greeks and Romans presented of the rabble divinities of their Pantheon; deities, who fought, intrigued, made love, and intoxicated themselves; deities, who had great power in a valley, and none on the adjoining hills; deities, who were conquered, and transferred with their territory, and became in consequence subservient to their conquerors. I have heard discussions of this kind in the discourse of the sabbath morning: and, in that of the evening, views of Christian theology, scarcely less narrow and unworthy of the Supreme Being. I am compelled to believe, from reading and observation, that the mass of the people, in all churches, have had no other conception of the divinity, than that of a being molded much like themselves. We cannot avoid discovering, that their ideas of a God are gross, material, local, partial; that they behold him, as the God of their place, party and passions. Converse with the fiercer sects, and you perceive, that their views immediately become vague, as soon as they contemplate the Almighty occupied with concerns beyond their sect. It seems beyond their thoughts, to realize, that their denomination bears to the species little more than the proportion of a drop to the ocean: and that the Supreme Being cannot be rationally supposed more concerned about them, than any other equal number of his children.

Nothing can be more philosophical, or consoling, than the Scripture views of what has been called a _particular providence_. But, as we hear it generally expounded from the press, the pulpit, and in common conversation, it offers views of the divine Being and government, scarcely less weak, monstrous and unworthy, than those entertained by the ancient pagans. What a conception, to suppose that a perfect law, as wise and equitable in its general operation, as infinite wisdom and goodness could ordain, could be continually infringed, to meet countless millions of opposing prayers and interests! What a view of God, to imagine, that earnest and concurrent prayers can at any time divert him from his purpose, and change his plans! What palpable misinterpretation of the Scriptures, to suppose, that they give any countenance to such debasing conceptions of God! Hear rigid sectarians converse, and you discover, that they think little of the divine providence, which has no reference to their individual interests and concerns. From the tone of their conversations, it is but too manifest, that they have an interior confidence, that they can obtain of the divine power, almost what they will.

The testimony of church history and the experience of time testify, that the million, under all degrees of light, shrink from the difficult and philosophical idea of the real Jehovah of the Bible; and form, instead, the easy and natural image of a limited, partial, changeable God, whom importunity can easily induce to swerve from his purpose; and who is, in many respects, such a being as themselves. It is the embodied conception of their own narrow views, assigned to a local habitation. To him the countless millions of other lands, and other forms of worship, are not, like them, as children. Unable to rise to the Supreme Being, they have brought Him down to them.

A few minds, from age to age, elevated by endowment and circumstances far above their cotemporaries, have not only embraced, in common with others, the easy and simple sentiments of Him, which the heart entertains, but have raised their contemplations so high, as to behold Him in the light of truth--have seen Him, in some sense, _as He is_--have been filled with awe and confidence, in the view of his immutability, and with filial and cheerful resignation, in seeing in the universe, its order, mutations and variety, in the mixed condition of man, in a word, in every feature of the natural and moral creation, as in a mirror, a perfect transcript of the divine perfections--a pattern of an archetype without a shade of defect. Instead of bringing the Divine Being down to them, they have raised themselves up to Him. The veil, that screens his glory from the feeble vision of the multitude, has been removed. Being assured, that He has made of one blood all nations, that dwell on the earth, they have seen it to be impossible, that He should look upon one portion of his children with more favor than on another. They have seen, in the superior light and advantages of one part of the species over another, not the indication, of what is technically called _special favor_, but the natural result of the operation of his universal laws. They have seen, that if the inhabitants of one region are enabled to rise higher in the intellectual scale, and pay him a more spiritual and worthy homage--the simple inhabitants of _distant, barbarous isles_ have an organization admitting them to be as happy as their natures will admit, and as full of enjoyment as their measure can contain. If they are unable to offer an intellectual worship, the service of their minds, their hearts are formed for fervent admiration and worship of the thunderer--the being, who raises fruits and flowers, and hangs out his bow on their clouds. They see, in all this, _that God, also, hath set one thing over against another_.

Note 47, page 144.

The wisdom of allowing any place to the imagination, among the faculties to be nurtured, I have often heard called in question. The extremes of opinion frequently meet in the same point. The most earnest declaimers against the indulgence of the imagination are commonly found among the class of strict religionists. It is, at the same time, a strong and prominent trait in the system of Mr Owen ‘the philosopher of circumstances,’ and his followers, that we ought to eradicate this faculty, if possible, or at least suppress its exercise; and reduce all mental operations to the cultivation of the reasoning powers. For me, I hold, that we are as much indebted to the author of our being for granting us this faculty, as any other. I see nothing wrong, or unphilosophical in cultivating it to the utmost extent; provided our imaginings would be innocent, if we could render them realities; unless it can be shown, that the indulgence of this faculty enervates the mind, and unfits it for encountering the stern duties and trials of life. So far from believing this to be the natural tendency of its allowed exercise, my experience has led me to suppose, that persons, strongly endowed with this faculty, are most likely to show energy for the discharge of common duties; and constancy and cheerfulness in encountering trials. Are the southern people of Europe, for example, less firm in conflicting with danger and sorrow, or more feeble and remiss in the discharge of duties, than the northern nations, admitted to be far less imaginative? Within the range of my experience, I find those possessed of the most vivid imagination, the most prompt to duty, and the most cheerful in sorrow. The moody advocates of pure and exclusive reason lay feeling, one of the strongest impulses to duty, out of the question; and would extinguish one of the surest supports in sorrow, the power of creating a bright internal world for ourselves, when the external world is involved in unavoidable gloom.

They who decry the indulgence of the imagination, must, of course, object to the endowment of poets and painters; and equally to the pleasure derived from reading poetry, and contemplating paintings. The whole empire of these kindred studies is that of the imagination. Let us try the alleged puerility of indulging this faculty. No one will deny, that it is the highest wisdom to seek to be as happy, as we innocently may. When a mental faculty is employed in creating within us a celestial world, peopled with nobler beings, acting from higher motives, and showing a happier existence; and in substituting the beautiful possible for the tame real; if we find innocent happiness in this celestial castle-building, are we not employing reason, only in a different direction from the common? When any one can prove to me, that it is puerile, to make ourselves happy, and from sources always within our own control, then I will admit, that ideal pleasures are unworthy of a reasonable being. Prove only, that the indulgence of the faculty enervates the mind, and indisposes it for duty and constancy in suffering, and I will grant at once, that it should be stifled, or its action restricted or suppressed. So far from believing this to be the fact, I would counsel him, whom I most love, to seek in her whom he would select for his wife, a cheerful and active imagination. It is an egregious mistake, that mathematicians and practical men have generally been found destitute of a good development of this faculty. Contrary to the vulgar and hackneyed theme of pulpit declamation, I have found on examination, that some of the most energetically charitable women, I have ever known, were veteran novel readers; as have also been some of the most profound lawyers that have ever adorned the judgment seat in our country.

Note 48, page 145.

It is not exactly true, that this faculty can be subjected to the complete control of the will. I know of no point in metaphysics, connected, also, with an important question in rhetoric, upon which less light has been thrown, than the question, how far, and in what way the imagination can be cultivated: and by what methods brought under the control of the will. A system of useful and practical rules for this result is, as far as my reading extends, a desideratum. Dr Johnson, it is well known, believed, that a man’s muse was _sua dextra_, his own will, industry and habits, and that by a vigorous effort over himself, he could write, for example, at any time. This may be true in efforts, in which imagination is not required; but, where the vivid exercise of this faculty is requisite to excellence, it is not true. Let the most amply endowed poet suffer under mental depression, dyspepsia, a concurrence of small misfortunes and petty vexations. Let him write in a smoky apartment, and look abroad upon a leaden sky, marked with the dulness of winter, without its storms and congenial horrors. He may repair to his rules. He may apply the whip and spur, and invoke the nimble fancies from the vasty deep, and the muses from their hill, but they will not answer, nor come at his bidding.

The imagination may be cultivated to a certain extent; and brought by rules and intense concentration of mind, in a certain degree, under the control of the will. Those, who would nurture it, ought intensely to study those rules. But, after all, to be able to exercise it in high measures of vivacity, is an endowment, in the bestowment of which nature has been more capricious than in almost any other. Even when possessed in copious measures, its province lies so intermediate between corporeal and mental influence, between the prevalent temperament of the period of its action, and the concurrence of external circumstances beyond our control, that we can easily see, why the wise ancients, who thought more justly upon these subjects, and more profoundly than the moderns seem to be willing to apprehend, attributed the successful efforts of the muses to a superior and celestial influence. He, who pushes the theory of our control over this faculty beyond truth, adopts an error, nearly if not quite as dangerous, as he, who holds, that we have no control over it at all.

A thousand external circumstances, which it would require a volume to enumerate, must concur with a certain easy and strong excitability in the physical and mental frame; and that excitability called into action by the right sort of stimulants, to impart happy and vigorous action to the imagination. Milton affirmed, that his muse was most propitious in the spring. As far as I can judge, the season of reproduction, and the awakening of the slumbering powers of nature, in the aroma and brilliancy of vegetation and flowers, acts too voluptuously on the senses, to give the highest and best direction to the imagination. The Indian summer days of autumn, with the associated repose of nature, the broad and crimson disk of the sun enthroned in the dome of a misty sky, the clouds sleeping in the firmament, the gorgeous coloring of the forests, the flashing fall of the first leaves, and the not unpleasing sadness of the images, called up by the imperceptible decay of nature, and the stealthy approach of winter, seem to me most favorable to heavenly musing. A cloudless morning, a beautiful sun, the glittering brightness of the dew drops, the renovated freshness of nature, morning sounds, the mists rolling away from the path of the sun, a bland southwest breeze, good health, self-satisfaction, the recent reception of good news, and the right train of circumstances all concur to put this faculty into its happiest action.

Every one is acquainted with the unsparing ridicule bestowed on Bayes, in Buckingham’s Rehearsal, for announcing, that he always took physic, before he wrote. Yet the dull coxcomb had reason and truth on his side. Mental action is more dependent upon corporeal, and the ethereal powers upon the right disposition of that organized clod, the body, than most are willing to acknowledge. Who has not felt, when first going abroad from severe sickness, the new aspects of nature, a fullness of heart, and the crowding of innumerable images upon the thoughts, which have no place in the mind, after a turtle feast or a full dinner? When the digestive powers are oppressed with morbid accumulation, the wheels of mental movement, as every one knows, move heavily. Students, orators, painters, poets, imaginative men must live as near famine as may be, and the most useful stimulants are coffee and tea. Every one has read, that Byron’s inspiration was gin. It may be, that the detestible combination of terebinthine and alcoholic excitement may have aroused from the mouldy and terrene dormitories of his brain the images of Don Juan, and the obscene, irreligious, anti-social, and fierce thoughts, that abound in his works. But I would hardly believe, on his own assertion, that he wrote the Prisoners of Children under such an influence. The muse of alcohol is accursed; and her influence is too corroding, dreggy, and adverse to life, to originate ideas worthy of being handed down in immortal verse. If these baleful aids were resorted to at all, I should consider opium a thousand times preferable to alcohol.

I know, from my own experience, that this reality of actual and present existence may be imparted to the creations of the imagination, by long habits of subjecting it to the control of the will. The enjoyment, resulting from reality, may be more intense, but it is, also, more tumultuous and feverish. I know of no happiness, more pure, prolonged and tranquil, more like what we may imagine to be the bliss of higher intelligences, than to be able to create this sunshine of the soul, this fair and celestial world within ourselves, and make ourselves free denizens of the country. From these fairy mansions labor, care and want are excluded. The obstacles and impediments of time, distance, and disease, both of body and mind, are excluded. The inhabitants, walking in the light of truth and the radiance of immortal beauty, from sin and death forever free, unite the wisdom of angels to the simplicity and affectionate confidence of children.

Note 50, page 146.

No people, in my estimation, are farther from true wisdom, than they, who denounce these pleasures of the imagination, as the puerile follies of weak minds. They who are most prompt to bring the charge, are generally destitute of the faculty, and its kindred endowments themselves; and seem to desire that other minds should be reduced to their own scale of sterility. Puerile, to avail ourselves of the power of rendering ourselves innocently happy! To me the puerility belongs to those who mostly abstain from contemplating the few gleams of sunshine, that we can behold between the cradle and the grave. ‘But these joys are unreal!’ What is there in the _vain show_ of life, that is not so? See the greedy scramble of ambition, after honor, wealth and distinction, the painted baubles of insects, who hold all by the frail tenure of life! Life itself, what is it, but a dream, sometimes illumined by the rainbows of imagination and hope?

Note 51, page 149.

A being endowed with such intense emotions, as man; and so placed, as to have them so strongly called forth by the relations he contracts: so much in the dark in regard to his origin, his end and everything about him, conscious, that he must shortly leave home, all that he loves, the view of the earth and the sky, and that body, which long habit has taught him to consider as himself, to molder back to the soil, should naturally be expected to have this tendency to melancholy. Beautifully said the fabulist, ‘that he who formed us, moistened the clay of our structure not with water but tears.’ The natural expression of the human countenance in sleep is shaded with a slight veil of melancholy. It has been observed, that the national music of all people, and, more especially, of the uncivilized tribes, is on a key of melancholy. Most of the voices of the animal tribes are of this cast. The strain of the nightingale is the deepest expression of this sentiment. Religion should be the grand re-agent, in bringing light and cheerfulness to a universe of sadness and death, by presenting new views of that universe, its author, his beneficence, and the ultimate hope of the soul.

‘See truth, love and mercy in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden’s first bloom;
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending.
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.’

Note 52, page 149.

With the honorable exception of some towns and districts in our country, the epitaphs and monumental inscriptions are utterly beneath criticism. The greater portion are from Watts, and the other minor poets, too often little more than extravagant, coarse, miserable conceits. Here and there, a beautiful quotation from the Bible, such as ‘Blessed are the dead, who die in the Lord;’ ‘Man cometh forth, like a flower, and is cut down,’ only serve to render the worthlessness of the remainder more conspicuous by contrast. What adds to the unpleasant effect is, that no inconsiderable portion of them are absolutely misspelt, to say nothing of the punctuation. Strange, that survivors should incur the expense of a slab, and permit a stone-cutter to select, spell, and point the inscriptions. It is to be hoped, that some competent writer will, ere long, take in hand this matter, so vital to the literary reputation of our country, and introduce a thorough and general reform, by wiping away this national stain, and introducing that beautiful and sublime simplicity, which ought always to characterize monumental inscriptions.

Akin to the bad taste of this sort, is the slovenly manner in which our church-yards are kept, in whole sections of the country. Who has not felt pain, at seeing many and even most of these places sacred to memory, in the western county especially, uninclosed, trampled upon by cattle, and the narrow heap of turf disturbed by swine?

Of writers, whose works have been immortalized by the muse of melancholy, I am acquainted, in the French language, with Chateaubriand, who has produced occasional passages of this class not to be surpassed; and Lamartine, whose poetry breathes a rich and deep strain of melancholy. Young’s Night Thoughts, Blair’s Grave, and Porteus ‘on Death,’ are celebrated English specimens of this class of poetry. In our country the Thanatopsis of Bryant ranks quite as high as either of the former writers in this walk. Some of the lines are of exquisite beauty, as paintings of the trophies of the tomb. Another age will do justice to many of the thoughts in the Sorotaphion of a young poet, who has written on the remote shores of Red River.

The first lines of the inscription on the famous Roman statue of Sleep are the sublimest concentration of melancholy thought:

‘It is better to sleep, than wake; and best of all to be in marble.’

The same may be said of that of the orphan nun, who died in the prime of youth and beauty: ‘I was alone among the living. I am alone here.’

But it is in the book of Job, that poetic images, upon which has been thrown the shade of a sublime melancholy, are set forth, with a power and pathos that leave little more, to succeeding writers in that walk, than to study, combine, and reproduce their features. How perfectly has this author given utterance to the groans of one in utter despondency and bereavement! Here the heart speaks its own language, with a simplicity and truth to make its way to every other heart. These features fix the date of this poem at a period antecedent to the settled art of writing, and plagiarizing the shadow of a shade, more conclusively than volumes of criticism. He copied not; but drank at the fountain; feeling deeply, and expressing what he felt.

Note 53, page 150.

When in my travels I pass through a town, or village, which I have not seen, if I have sufficient leisure, the first place which I visit, is uniformly the church-yard. The feeling that I am a stranger, that I know not the scenery, and that it knows not me, naturally induces a sort of pensive meditation, which disposes me for that sojourn. I form certain estimates of the taste and moral feeling of the people, from the forms and devices of the slabs and monuments; and the order in which the consecrated ground is inclosed, and kept. The inscriptions are ordinarily, in too bad a taste to claim much interest, though there are few church-yards, that cannot show some monuments, which, by their eccentric variation from the rest, mark character. All this is a matter of trifling interest, compared with the throng of remembrances and anticipations, that naturally crowd upon the spirit of a stranger in such a place. Youth with its rainbows, and its loves; mature age with its ambitious projects; old age in the midst of children, death in the natal spot, or the house of the stranger; eternity with its dim and illimitable mysteriousness; these shadowy images, with their associated thoughts, pass through the mind, and return, like the guests at an inn. While I look up towards the rolling clouds, and the sun walking his unvarying path along the firmament, how natural the reflection, that they will present the same aspect, and suggest the same reflections, that the trees will stand forth in their foliage and the hills in their verdure, to him who comes after me, when I shall have taken my place with the unconscious sleepers about me! I never fail to recollect the charming reflections in a number of the Spectator, that treats upon a visit to Westminster Abbey, the most impressive writing of the kind, as it seems to me, in our language.

Here is the place to reflect upon the folly, if not the guilt, of human hatred and revenge, ambition and avarice, and the million puerile projects and cares, that are incessantly over-clouding the sunshine of existence. What an eloquent lesson do these voiceless preachers read, upon the wisdom of most of those thoughts and solicitudes, that disturb our course through life!

The heart cannot but be made better by occasional communion with these tenants of the narrow house, where--

‘Each waits the other’s license to disturb
The deep, unbroken silence.’

Note 53a, page 152.

It is questionable, how far they could lay claim to be the real friends of humanity, who would reason away this last, best solace of human wretchedness, even were it proved an illusion. But man is just as certainly and necessarily a religious being, as he is a being constituted with appetites and passions. Grant, that there are people, who seem wholly destitute of the religious sentiment. Such are the real Atheists from internal conviction; for observe, there are many, who assume to be such, to pass for free and independent thinkers, and who are most likely, in their dying moments, to require absolution and extreme unction. But if there are men thus monstrously constituted, so are there individuals apparently as destitute of the common appetites and passions. We take no account of such exceptions, in indicating a general rule; and say, that man is constituted a religious being, and possessed of certain appetites and passions; although there may be selected a few individuals, who seem entirely without either.

Religion is the key stone of the arch of the moral universe. It is the fountain of endearing friendship; and on it are founded those sublime relations, which exist between the visible and the invisible world; those, who still sojourn here, and those who have become citizens of the country beyond us. It is the poesy of existence, the basis of all high thought and virtuous feeling; of charities and morals; and the very tie of social existence. Let no person claim to be good, while laying an unhallowed hand upon this ark of the covenant of the Eternal with the children of sorrow and death.

Note 54, page 154.

Treatises upon the evidences of religion may be useful for theological students; and I have heard people affirm, that they have been rescued by such works from the gloom of unbelief. But, believing, as I do, that we were constituted religious animals, if such a term may be admitted, and that the religious sentiment is a part of our organization, I have quite as much confidence in the arguments of the heart, as of the head. I undertake not to pronounce, whether M. de Chateaubriand were a good christian, or not. But I affirm, that I have nowhere seen my own views of the process, by which the original endowment of the religious sentiment is called into action, so eloquently described, as in the following extract from that writer.

‘My mother, after being thrown, at the age of seventy-two years, into a dungeon, where she saw a part of her children perish, expired at last upon a couch of straw, to which her miseries had consigned her. The remembrance of my errors infused great bitterness into her last days. In death she charged one of my sisters to recall me to that religion, in which I had been reared. My sister transmitted me the last wish of my mother. When this letter reached me beyond the seas, my sister herself was no more. She had died from the consequences of her imprisonment. These two voices, proceeding from the tomb, this death, which served as the interpreter of the dead, deeply struck me. I did not yield, I admit, to great supernatural lights. My conviction proceeded from the heart. I wept, and I believed.’

Note 55, page 157.

The belief naturally originated by the sentiment of religion, or what may be called the faith of the heart, is presented in the last fruitless attempt of the old man, to cheer the despair of Paul in the exquisite tale of Paul and Virginia. ‘And why deplore the fate of Virginia? Virginia still exists. There is, be assured, a region, in which virtue receives its reward. Virginia now is happy. Oh! if from the abode of angels, she could tell you, as she did, when she bade you farewell, “O Paul, life is but a trial. I was faithful to the laws of nature, love and virtue. Heaven found I had fulfilled my duties, and snatched me forever from all the miseries, I might have endured myself; and all, I might have felt for the miseries of others. I am placed above the reach of all human evils, and you pity me! I am become pure and unchangeable, as a particle of light, and you would recall me to the darkness of human life. O Paul! O my beloved friend! Recollect those days of happiness, when in the morning we felt the delightful sensations excited by the unfolding beauties of nature; when we gazed upon the sun, gilding the peaks of those rocks; and then spreading his rays over the bosom of the forests. How exquisite were our emotions, while we enjoyed the glowing colors of the opening day, the odors of our shrubs, the concerts of our birds! Now at the source of beauty, from which flows all that is delightful on earth, my soul intuitively sees, tastes, hears, touches, what before she could only be made sensible of through the medium of our weak organs. Oh! what language can describe, those shores of eternal bliss, which I inhabit forever! All, that infinite power and celestial bounty can confer, that harmony, which results from friendship with numberless beings, exulting in the same felicity, we enjoy in unmixed perfection. Support, then, the trial which is allotted you, that you may heighten the happiness of your Virginia, by love, which will know no termination, by hymeneals, which will be immortal. There I will calm your regrets; I will wipe away your tears. Raise your thoughts towards infinite duration, and bear the evils of a moment.”’

Note 56, page 160.

Phrenologists affirm, that along the centre of the crown is situated the organ of veneration, or religious sentiment; that, where it is large, the subject is strongly endowed with religious feeling, and the contrary, when it is otherwise; that, with some few monstrous exceptions, all possess this organ in a larger or smaller degree; and that, as the sentiment springing from the action of this organ is directed towards proper or improper objects, enlightened by reason, rendered gloomy by fear, or superstitious by credulity, is the religious character of the person. Neither my subject, nor my inclination calls upon me to agitate a system, which has generally been met only with unsparing ridicule, instead of manly argument. With its doctrines or merits I intermeddle not in this place. But, as far as the system declares, that those people, whom we call pious, whose tone of mind seems to dispose them to strong religious feeling, are so inclined from organization, rather than volition, or argument, I most confidently believe. Morals, whatever is taught by the science of ethics, dogmas, ceremonies, commonly phrased religion, make, in my mind, no part of it. I consider religion to be simply love, originating from instinctive impulses of veneration in the mind, for whatever is powerful, beneficent, and worthy of love. Its native tendency is to expend its affection, first upon the unknown and incomprehensible power, from whom we derived our being, whom the heart, without argument, intuitively perceives to be good. Its next and associated tendency is philanthropy, or the love of what bears the impress and image of God. If we possess not this original organization, no argument will ever persuade us to be religious. If we have it, we may be liberal, or bigoted, Christians or Mahometans, earnest or cold, according to our proportion of endowment, our training and circumstances. We may even adopt the flippant arguments of the unbelieving, and enlist ourselves under their banner. But the original principle is still within us, uneradicated, and uneradicable; and ready, if circumstances should favor the change, to present us in the form of devotees, or, as the phrase is, _converted_. The whole wisdom and excellence of religious training consist in enlightening this noble sentiment, and giving it a right direction. I am the rather confirmed in these views, by having remarked, that the chief, palpable and tangible influences of religion, which I have witnessed in all the sects, that I have had occasion to observe, have seemed to me to result from the affectionate spirit of their worship, creating in them strong dispositions to love one another.

Open the gospels and the epistles, and what is the first impression from perusing these unique and original writings, so wholly unlike any other recorded compositions, and bearing upon a theme of such astonishing import? The simplicity and fervor, with which the spirit of love is impressed upon the pages. The strong and before unwitnessed manifestation of this spirit was the striking aspect, which the first Christians presented to pagan beholders. ‘See!’ said they, ‘how these Christians love one another.’ Every time, I peruse the writings of the New Testament, this peculiar badge of discipleship seems more visibly impressed upon them. In what other institution, but that of Christianity, was it ever practicable to possess all things in common? Where has been the community, in which no one felt want, when a disciple had wherewith to satisfy it? In what other chronicles do we meet with such affecting and sublime examples of devotion to each other, and a constancy of affection, which showed itself proof against all other human passions, selfishness, hope, fear, earthly love, and the terror of death? What tenderness and singleness of heart in their affection for each other! How beautifully they demonstrate, that the sentiment, which actuated them, had gained a complete triumph over all considerations, arising from objects below the sun? He on whose bosom the loved disciple leaned must certainly be admitted to know the peculiar and distinguishing feature of his religion. This feature stands forth embodied in all his teachings. Philanthropy is the predominant trait in the life of him, _who went about doing good_. Consider the basis of religion to be a sentiment implanted in our constitution, and this result would naturally be expected to flow from its development.

True religion, consisting in an enlightened and affectionate direction of the heart towards the divinity, and manifesting itself in love to the human family, and in consequent obedience to the universal and unchangeable laws of the Creator, can only be expected to result from the highest discipline of the mind, and the ultimate exercise of the purest reason. But the sentiment, from which this religion springs, in some form or other, as naturally impels the heart towards God, and its faith and aspirations towards immortality, as fishes desire to find their home in the water, or birds in the air; and as everything, that has life, obeys the peculiar instincts and impulses impressed by the divine hand. Why else, should every people under heaven, in all time, have been found with a religion in some form, and hopes and fears beyond the grave? Consider religion in this light, and its hopes are as sure, as those objects, towards which the instincts of all other animals prompt them.

Do I undervalue morals, since I do not deem them a part, of what should be properly called religion? I trust, I cannot be so mistaken. Ethics may be taught, as a science, and, however important, seems to me no more a part of religion, than mathematics or natural philosophy. Love will create morals; and its perfection the perfection of morals, that we ascribe to angels. All that has been urged from the pulpit, in regard to faith and works, as cause and effect, may, with still more justice, be applied to love and duty. Love is the faith of the heart, and its original impress, when rightly trained in the science of ethics, and enlightened by pure and simple reason, produces its results in the best exemplification of the christian character.

Note 57, page 165.

That person has no right to complain of the shortness of life, who lies in bed, either sleeping, or dozing, until nine; and thus voluntarily consigns to unconsciousness a twelfth part of his existence. As little reason has he for indulging a querulous spirit on this score, if he spends without object a considerable portion of his time with people, about whom he knows nothing, except that they are incapable of furnishing a moment’s pleasure, or instruction to any one. If each one noted down at night the incidents of the day, that had occupied his time, and how much of it he had appropriated to each, I fear all that portion, that we call people of leisure would be able to show but a lean schedule either of utility or enjoyment, as the result.

Complaints of the brevity of life are equally interdicted to all those, who do not wisely improve every hour of the brief and uncertain present. He, who regretted his stinted fortune, would find, and deserve little sympathy, if, in the very moments of complaining, he was seen inconsiderately squandering from that limited fund. To form a resolution to mark every moment of life, that we might, with a succession of pleasant ideas, would probably triple the duration of most human lives. To sleep no more than nature requires, to rise early, to discipline ourselves to preserve an elastic and active spirit and a vigorous will, are parts of this resolution. It is a much greater part, than is commonly apprehended, to waste as little time as possible on those, who are incapable of understanding us, and whom we are as little capable of understanding. Reciprocal good feeling is much more likely to be created, and sustained by those who are determined to avoid this course, than those who, from mere unmeaning civility and common etiquette, bring their incompatibilities together, to make common stock of a mutual weariness with each other, which soon ripens into concealed, if not expressed ill feeling.

They, who are accustomed to think in this direction, will easily fill out the fine outline of the author’s views touching the right mode to arrest the flight of time. To add to this sketch would require an extent of detail, for which I have here no place. The general principle of this process seems to consist in meeting pain and adversity with a spirit so philosophic and firm that they will recoil from it; and to dwell upon every innocent enjoyment, as though it were our first, and would be our last; to prolong it by investing it with all possible moral relations; and to discipline the mind never to become hackneyed, sated, wearied, and callous to the sense of objects in which man is bound to feel an interest, alike by his duty and his nature.

Never was a more stupid maxim, than that common one, that _nil admirari_ is the proper motto of a philosopher. To preserve a freshness, a juvenile sensibility of the heart for the admiration of whatever is new, beautiful and striking, for all the pleasures of taste and the understanding, seems to me the true secret of the highest wisdom. Who can fail to be inspired with disgust at witnessing the common spectacle of _cognoscenti_, men of _virtu_, travelled fools, who have been everywhere, and seen everything; and by the contemptuous sneer, with which they effect to see, hear, feel and speak of all, that passes under their present observation, instruct you, that they are too wise, and of a taste too refined, to be pleased with what satisfies untravelled people. For my part, when I hear them boast of the music, paintings and architecture of continental Europe, and England, as though all the sources of beauty were there, I can only say, that nature is always at hand, to mock at all the puny efforts of art; that she delights to mould living faces and forms in remote country cottages, that no _beau idéal_ can reach; that the songs of the birds, that return from other climes to their forsaken groves with the first sunny days of spring constitute a music richer to the heart, than the most fashionable opera; and that a pure spring landscape is a pictured thousand times more splendid, than any that ever adorned the walls of the Louvre. He, who preserves, to his utmost age, his youthful sensibility of heart, and who is willing to be pleased with whatever will impart innocent pleasure, will find innumerable and never failing occasions to give his heart up to the full impulses of joy.

‘I pity,’ says Sterne, ‘the man, who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and cry ’tis all barren; and yet so it is; and so is all the world, to him who will not cultivate the fruits it offers. I declare said I, clapping my hands cheerly together, that were I in a desert, I would find in it the wherewith to call forth my affections. If I could not do better, I would fasten them on some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress, to connect myself to. I would court its shade, and greet it kindly for its protection; I would cut my name upon it, and swear, it was the loveliest tree in the desert. If its leaves withered, I would teach myself to mourn; and when they rejoiced, I would rejoice with them.’

Note 58, page 166.

I consider it no unimportant part of the process of prolonging our earthly sojourn, to lay in, if I may so speak, as great a stock as possible, of pleasant remembrances. I appeal to the experience of every one, if the sudden recollection of a foolish thing that we have said, or done, returning upon us after a lapse of years, has not brought back with the convulsive shudder of shame, a long train of associated remembrances, which have carried us back whole days upon the scene? How long seem the periods, in which these incidents occurred! Pleasant recollections are no less efficient, in prolonging the periods, in which they occurred, adding their duration to the sum of the fugitive existence that is stealing from us.

For myself I can confidently affirm, that I have long since learned to find my purest and most abiding satisfactions in the memory of the past. I repeat all its happier passages and incidents. I recall the bright days, verdant landscapes, loved persons, and joyous sensations from their shadowy mansions. I renew my youthful sports; and watch for the trout along the flush spring brooks. I seat myself again on the sunny banks of the pleasant spots of my career. I would be glad to convey some idea of the vivid pleasure, I experience after a lapse of forty winters, from the deeply impressed remembrance of one beautiful spring morning, after a long and severe winter, when I was still a school-boy. The vast masses of snow were beginning to melt. The birds of prey, shut up in their retreats during the bitter winter, sailed forth in the mild clear blue. The blue bird whistled; and my heart expanded with joy and delight unknown, in the same degree, before or since. The place where these thoughts, comprising my youthful anticipations, hopes and visions occurred, will never be obliterated from my mind, while memory holds her seat. I have a thousand such treasured recollections, with which I can at any time, and to a certain extent, cheer pain, sorrow and decay. These are enjoyments stored beyond the reach of fortune, which we can prolong, and renew at pleasure.

Is there not practical wisdom, in commencing every day with the steady effort, to make as much of it, as if it were to be our whole existence. If we have duties to perform, in themselves severe and laborious, we may inquire, if there be not some way, by which to invest them with pleasant associations? A man may find amusement in his free thoughts, while following his plough upon the hill side; in digging up the words for a dictionary, or in copying out a brief. He may train himself, by an inefficient and shrinking spirit, to recoil from these tasks, as insupportable burdens. How many men find their pleasure, in what would be the positive horror and torment of the indolent! How weak the spirit, and how silly the vanity which we display, in ever renewing narrations of our little personal troubles, pains and misfortunes! If we would have the discretion to measure the sympathy, which we may expect from others, in such discourses, by that, which we are conscious of feeling for theirs of the same character, it would go far to teach us the folly of that querulous spirit, which doles forth the story of sufferings and sorrows, as though the narrator were the only sufferer, and were entitled to a monopoly of all the passing pity.

Note 59, page 169.

This compendium of the moral acquirements, entering into the character of an accomplished philosopher, I consider one of the happiest, which any book of morals can show. Here is an ample volume of ethics, on a page. How differently would a modern auto-biographer have announced the same facts! In what rounded periods and circuitous expressions would he have striven to convey the same ideas, to impress the reader, that his modesty forbade the frank personality of the Roman philosopher. The whole spirit of this admirable summary would have evaporated in barren generalities. What we admire in the ancients is their noble simplicity and directness, which disdains the vanity of circumlocution, that wishes to hide itself under the semblance of modesty.

It seems to me, that it would not be amiss for the clergy of the day to seek the models of their homilies and sermons in such a manner of declaring moral truth. Abstract ethical declamation, and all the scholastic acquirements and the _limæ labor_ are but poor substitutes for that searching directness, which, avoiding abstractions and generalities, appeals at once to the personal consciousness. I allow, that I should love to hear such sermons, as that of Dr Primrose to his fellow prisoners, in the Vicar of Wakefield. There is no eloquence, there can be none, except in simple and direct appeals to thought and conscience.

Note 60, page 171.