country at the age of four or five has completely forgotten his
native tongue. Grown old and gray, in moments of unconsciousness
through fever, the aged man has talked in the forgotten language of
infancy. Our best students of mental philosophy believe that no
thought or feeling, no enmity or aspiration, is ever forgotten. The
sentiments written on clay harden into granite. Dormant memories are
not dead. At a touch they return in their old-time power and vigor.
Science tells us that the flight of a bird, the falling of a leaf, the
laughter of a child, the vibration of song, changes the whole
universe. The boy shying a stone from one tree to another alters the
center of gravity for the earth. And if the movements of dead leaves
and stones are events unchangeably written down in nature, how much
more are living hopes and thoughts. The soul is more sensitive than
the thermometer, more delicate than the barometer, and all its
processes are registered. Thoughts are events that stain the mind
through in fast colors. Did man but know it, no event falls through
memory's net.
It helps us to understand the immortality of memory to notice the
provision made in nature for revealing hidden facts and forces. To-day
chemistry shows us how events done in darkness shall be revealed in
light, and the deeds of the closet be proclaimed from the housetop.
In olden times princes communicated with each other by messengers.
Then it was necessary to guard against the dispatch falling into the
hands of the enemy, so between the lines of the apparent message was a
dispatch traced in letters as colorless as water. But when the sheet
was held before the blazing fire, the secret writing appeared. Thus in
the kingdom of the soul, nature has provided for causing events to
stand forth from the past. Under stimulus the memory performs the most
astonishing feats. Excitement is a fire that causes the dim record to
stand forth in clearness.
A distinguished lawyer of an Eastern city relates that while engaged
in an argument upon which vast issues depended he suddenly realized
that he had forgotten to guard a most important point. In that hour of
excitement his faculties became greatly stimulated. Decisions,
authorities and precedents long since forgotten began to return to his
mind. Dimly outlined at first, they slowly grew plain, until at length
he read them with perfect distinctness. Mr. Beecher had a similar
experience when he fronted the mob in Liverpool. He said that all
events, arguments and appeals that he had ever heard or read or
written passed before his mind as oratorical weapons, and standing
there he had but to reach forth his hand and seize the weapons as they
went smoking by. All public men have had similar experiences--witness
the testimony of Pitt, Burke and Wendell Phillips. But what event has
such power to restore the records of memory as that secret excitement
when the soul is like an ambassador returned home from a foreign
mission to report before the throne of God? Thus, giving in its
account, what sacred stimulus will fall upon memory!
In every age poets and philosophers have made much of associations as
a restorer of dim memories. Porter has a story of a dinner party in
which a reference to Benedict Arnold was immediately followed by
someone asking the value of the Roman denarius. Reflection shows that
the question was directly suggested by the topic under discussion.
Benedict Arnold suggested Judas Iscariot and the thirty pieces of
silver given him, and therefore the value of the coin which he
received as reward. Similarly there is a tradition that Peter's face
was clouded with sorrow whenever he heard the crowing of a cock.
Bulwer Lytton represents Eugene Aram as scarcely able to restrain a
scream of agony when a friend chanced to drive in near the spot where
in murderous hate he had struck a fatal blow.
Thus, no sin is ever buried, save as a murderer buries his victim
under a layer of thin sand. But let him pass that way, and a skeleton
arm starts up and points to heaven and to the evil doer. The
philosopher affirms that the "memory of the past can never perish
until the tree or the river or the sea" with which the dark memory is
associated has been blotted out of existence. Thus, the law of
association ever works to bring back the ghastly phantom, to chill the
blood and sear the brain. Nothing is ever forgotten. One touch, one
sight, one sound, the murmur of the stream, the sound of a distant
bell, the barking of a dog in the still evening, the green path in the
wood with the sunlight glinting on it, the way of the moon upon the
waters, the candlestick of the Bishop for Jean Valjean, the passing of
a convict for Dean Maitland, the drop of blood for Donatello--these
may, through the events associated therewith, turn the heart to stone
and fill the life with a dumb agony of remorse.
Moreover, Shakespeare indicates how conscience in its magisterial
aspects has skill for reviving forgotten deeds. In the laboratory
scientists take two glasses, each containing a liquid colorless as
water and pour them together, when lo! they unite and form a substance
blacker than the blackest ink. As the chemical bath brings out the
picture that was latent in the photographic plate, so in its higher
moods events half-remembered and half-forgotten rise into perfect
recollection. History tells us of the Oriental despot who in an hour
of revelry commanded his butler to slay a prophet whom he had
imprisoned and bring the pale head in upon a charger. Long afterward
there came a day when, sitting in the seclusion of his palace, a
soldier told those around the banqueting-table the story of a
wonder-worker whom he had seen upon his journey. When the banqueters
were wondering who this man was, suddenly the king arose pale and
trembling and cried out. "I know! It is John the Baptist whom I have
beheaded; he is risen from the dead!"
This old-time story tells us that dormant memories are not dead, but
are like hibernating serpents that with warmth lift their heads to
strike. It fulfills, as has been said, the old-time story of the man
groping along the wall until his fingers hit upon a hidden spring,
when the concealed door flew open and revealed the hidden skeleton. It
tells us that much may be forgotten in the sense of being out of mind,
but nothing is forgotten in the sense that it cannot be recalled.
Every thought the mind thinks moves forward in character, even as
foods long forgotten report themselves in flesh and blood. Memory is a
canvas above and the man works beneath it. Every faculty is a brush
with which man thinks out his portrait. Here and now, deceived by
siren's song, each Macbeth thinks himself better than he is. But the
time comes at last when memory cleanses the portrait and causes his
face to stand forth ineffaceable in full revelation.
But memory also hath aspects gracious and most inspiring. "I have
lived well yesterday," said the poet; "let to-morrow do its worst." To
this sentiment the statesman added: "I have done what I could for my
fellows, and my memories thereof are more precious than gold and
pearls." Thus all they who have loved wisdom and goodness will find
their treasures safe in memory's care. Perhaps some precious things do
perish out of life. The melody trembling on the chords after the song
is sung sinks away into silence. The light lingering in the clouds
after the day is done at last dies out in darkness. But as the soul is
consciously immortal through personality, it has an unconscious
immortality through its tool or teaching, through its example or
influence. Time avails not for destroying. God and the soul never
forget.
Wisdom comes to all young hearts who as yet have no past, before whose
feet lies the stream of life, waiting to bear them into the future,
and bids them reflect that maturity, full of successes, is only the
place where the tides of youth have emptied their rich treasures. He
whose yesterday is full of industry and ambition, full of books and
conversation and culture, will find his to-morrow full of worth,
happiness and friendship. But he who gives his memory no treasure to
be garnered, will find his hopes to be only the mirage in the desert,
where burning sands take on the aspect of lake and river. Wisdom comes
also to those who in their maturity realize that the morrow is veiled
in uncertainty, and their tomb is not far distant. It bids them
reflect that their yesterdays are safe, that nothing is forgotten;
that no worthy deed has fallen out of life; that yesterday is a refuge
from conflict, anxiety and fear.
To patriot and parent, to reformer and teacher, comes the inspiring
thought that God garners in His memory every helpful act. No good
influence is lost out of life. Are David and Dante dead? Are not
Tennyson and Milton a thousandfold more alive to-day than when they
walked this earth? Death does but multiply the single voice and
strengthen it. God causes each life to fulfill the legend of the
Grecian traveler, who, bearing homeward a sack of corn, sorrowed
because some had been lost out through a tiny hole; but, years
afterward, fleeing before his enemies along that way, he found that
the seed had sprung up and multiplied into harvests for his hunger.
Thus yesterday feeds in each pilgrim heart the faith that goodness
shall triumph. For memory that is little in man is large in God. The
Infinite One forgets nothing save human frailty and sin. Remembering
the great mind, the eloquent tongue, the large purse, God remembers
also the cup of cold water, and causes the humblest deed to follow its
doer unto the heavenly shores.
THE IMAGINATION AS THE ARCHITECT OF MANHOOD
"Imagination rules the world."--_Napoleon._
"The imagination is the very secret and marrow of
civilization. It is the very eye of faith. The soul
without imagination is what an observatory would be
without a telescope."--_Beecher._
"In such natures the imagination seems to spire up like a
Gothic cathedral over a prodigiously solid crypt of
common sense, so that its lightness stands secure on the
consciousness of an immovable basis."--_Lowell._
"Man's reason is overhung by the imagination. It rains
rich treasures for fertilizing the barren soul."--_Anon._
"By faith Abraham went forth, not knowing whither he
went."--_Hebrews._
VII
THE IMAGINATION AS THE ARCHITECT OF MANHOOD
Measured by whatsoever standard, Moses was the one colossal man of
antiquity. It may be doubted whether nature has ever produced a
greater mind. When we consider that law, government and education took
their rise in his single brain; when we remember that the
commonwealths of to-day rest upon foundations reared by this jurist of
the desert; when we recall his poetic and literary skill, Moses stands
forth clothed with the proportions and grandeur of an all-comprehending
genius. His intellect seems the more titanic by reason of the obstacles
and romantic contrasts in his career. He was born in the hut of a
slave, but so strikingly did his genius flame forth that he won the
approbation of the great, and passed swiftly from the slave market to
the splendor of Pharaoh's palace.
Fortunately, his youth was not without the refinements and
accomplishments of the schools. For then Egypt was the one radiant
spot upon earth. At a time when Greece was a den of robbers and Rome
was unheard of, Memphis was gloriously attractive. Schools of art and
science stood along the banks of the Nile. From Thebes Pythagoras
carried mathematics into Greece. From Memphis Solon derived his wise
political precepts. In Luxor, architecture and sculpture took their
rise. From Cleopatra's kingdom men stole the obelisks now in New York
and London. Moses' opportunities were fully equaled by his energy and
ambition to excel. Even in his youth he must have been renowned for
his administrative genius.
But his moral grandeur exceeded his mentality. When events compelled a
choice between the luxury of the court and the love of his own people,
he did not hesitate, for he was every inch a hero. In that crisis he
forsook the palace, allied himself with his enslaved brethren, and
went forth an exile of the desert. Nor could any event be more
dramatic than the manner of his return to Pharaoh's palace.
Single-handed, he undertook the emancipation of a nation. Our leaders,
through vast armies, achieved the freedom of our slaves; this soldier,
single-handed, freed three millions of bondsmen. Other generals, with
cannon, have captured castles; this man beat castles down with his
naked fists. And when he had achieved freedom for his people he led
them into the desert, and taught the crude and servile slaves the
principles of law, liberty and government. Under his guidance the mob
became an army; the slaves became patriots and citizens; the savages
were clothed with customs and institutions. His mind became a
university for millions. And from that day until now the columns of
society have followed the name of Moses, as of old the pilgrims
followed the pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night.
Greater name history does not hold, save only the Name that is above
every name.
Wise men will ask, where were the hidings of this man's power? Whence
came his herculean strength? Moses was the father of a race of giants.
He was the representative of brave men in every age, who have laid
foundations upon which others have builded; he was the prototype of
noble leaders who have scattered everywhere the seeds of civilization,
and left others to reap the harvests; he was the forerunner of
innumerable reformers and inventors, to whom it was never given to
enter into the fruit of their labors; of soldiers and heroes who
perished on the scaffold that others might be emancipated; of men like
Huss and Cranmer, whose overthrow and defeat paved the way for others'
victories. Dying, no other man has left behind influences that have
wrought so powerfully or so continuously through the centuries. But
when we search out the springs of his power we are amazed at his
secret. We are told that he endured his tremendous burdens and
achieved the impossible through the sight of the invisible. The sense
of future victory sustained him in present defeat. Through the right
use of the vision faculty he conquered.
Imagination was the telescope by which he saw victory afar off.
Imagination was the tool with which he digged and quarried his
foundations. Imagination was the castle and tower under which he found
refuge from the storms, attacks and afflictions of life. No wing ever
had such power for lifting, no spring ever had such tides for
assuaging thirst. He bore with savages, because afar off he saw the
slaves clothed with the qualities of patriots. He endured the desert,
because imagination revealed a fruitful land flowing with milk and
honey. He survived lawlessness, because he foresaw the day of law and
liberty. He bore up under weight of cares, discouragements and
responsibilities heavy enough to have crushed a score of men, because
he foresaw the day of final triumph. Of old, when that legendary hero
was in the thick of his fight against his enemies, an invisible
friend hovered above the warrior, handing forth spear and sword as
they were needed. So for the great jurist imagination reached up even
into the heavenly armory and plucked such weapons as the hero needed.
Our intellectual tread will be firmer if we define the imagination and
consider its uses. The soul is a city; and the external senses are
gateways through which sweep all the caravans of truth and beauty.
Through the eye gate pass all faces, cities and landscapes. Through
the ear gate pass all sweet sounds. But when the facts of land and sea
and sky have reported themselves to the soul, reason sweeps these
intellectual harvests into the granary of memory for future sowing.
But these harvests must be arranged. In the Orient the merchant who
keeps a general store puts the swords and spears upon one shelf; the
tapestries and rugs upon another; the books and manuscripts upon a
third; and each thing has its own shelf and drawer. So judgment comes
in to sort knowledges, and puts things useful into one intellectual
shelf, things beautiful upon another shelf, and puts things true apart
by themselves.
Afterward when the under-servant, called reason, has accumulated the
materials, when memory has taken care of them, and judgment has
classified all, then the constructive imagination comes in to create
new objects. Working in iron and steel, the imagination of Watt
organizes an engine; working midst the colors beautiful, the
imagination paints pictures; working upon marble it carves statues;
working in wood and stone it rears cathedrals; working in sound it
creates symphonies; working with ideas it fashions intellectual
systems; working in morals it constructs ethical principles; working
toward immortality, it bids all cooling streams, fruitful trees, sweet
sounds, all noble friendships, report themselves beyond the grave. For
faith itself is but the imagination allied with confidence that God is
able to realize man's highest ideals. Imagination therefore is a
prophet. It is a seer for the soul. It toils as artist and architect
and creator. It plants hard problems as seeds, rears these germs into
trees, and from them garners the ripe fruit. It wins victory before
battles are fought. Without it, civilization would be impossible. What
we call progress is but society following after and realizing the
visions, plans and patterns of the imagination.
Now our busy, bustling age is inclined to under-estimate the
imagination. Men cavil at castle-building. The pragmatist jeers at
reveries. Men believe in stores, and goods in them; in factories, and
wealth by them; men believe in houses and horses, but not in ideals.
Nevertheless, thoughts and dreams are the stuff out of which towns and
cities are builded. We may despise the silent dreamer, but in the last
analysis he appears the real architect of states! Immeasurable the
practical power of the vision faculty! The heroes of yesterday have
all been sustained--not by swords and guns, but by the sight of the
invisible!
Here is the old hero in his dungeon in Florence. While he dozed, the
night before he was to be burned, the jailer saw a rare, sweet smile
upon his face. "What is it?" the guard asked. "I hear the sounds of
falling chains, and their clangor is like sweet music in my ears."
Then, with smiling face he went to his martyrdom. And here is Michael
Angelo. Grown old and blind, he gropes his way into the gallery of the
Vatican, where with uplifted face his fingers feel their way over the
torso of Phidias. Lingering by him one day the Cardinal Farnese heard
the old sculptor say: "Great is this marble; greater still the hand
that carved it; greatest of all, the God who fashioned the sculptor. I
still learn! I still learn!" And he too went forward sustained by his
vision of perfect beauty.
And here is John Huss, looking between the iron bars of his prison
upon an army of pikes and spears, massed before his jail; but the
martyr endured his danger by the foresight of the day when the swords
then wielded for repression of liberty of thought would flash for its
emancipation. And here is Walter Scott ruined by the failure of his
publishers, just at the hour when nature whispered that he had
fulfilled his task and earned his respite. But he girded himself anew
for the battle, and sustained his grievous loss through the foresight
of the hour when the last debt would be paid and his again would be a
spotless name. And here is that youth, Emerson, looking out upon a
world full of noise and strife, full of the cries of slaves and the
warfare of zealots. He was sustained by the foresight of a day when
God would breathe peace o'er all the scene. With hope shining in his
face, he began to "take down men's idols with such reverence that it
seemed an act of worship." And what shall we more say? By the sight of
the invisible, Dante endured his scaffold; the heroes, hunted like
partridges upon the mountains, endured their caves and the winter's
cold; martyrs endured the scourge and fagot. In every age, the great,
by the sight of the invisible, have been lifted into the realms of
tranquillity. Outwardly, there may have been the roar and boom of
guns, but inwardly men were lutes with singing harps. As the
householder sitting by his blazing hearth thinks not of the sleet and
hail falling on the roof of slate, so the soul abides in peace over
which has been reared the castle and covert of God's presence.
How signal a place does the imagination hold in the realm of science
and invention! Reason itself is only an under-servant. It has no
creative skill. Memory makes no discoveries. But the imagination is a
wonder-worker. One day, chancing upon a large bone of the mammoth in
the Black Forest, Oken, the German naturalist, exclaimed: "This is a
part of a spinal column." The eyes of the scientist saw only one of
the vertebrae, but to that one bone his imagination added frame, limb
and head, then clothed the skeleton with skin, and saw the giant of
animals moving through the forest. In that hour the imagination
wrought a revolution in the science of anatomy. Similarly, this
creative faculty in Goethe gave botany a new scientific basis. Sitting
in his favorite seat near the castle of Heidelberg one day, the great
poet was picking in pieces an oak leaf. Suddenly his imagination
transformed the leaf. Under its touch the central stalk lifted itself
up and became the trunk of the tree; the veins of the leaf were
extended and became boughs and branches; each filament became a leaf
and spray; the imagination revealed each petal and stamen and pistil,
as after the leaf type, and gave a new philosophy to the science of
herbs and shrubs. When a pistachio tree in Paris with only female
blossoms suddenly bore nuts, the mind of a scientist suggested that
some other rich man had imported a tree with male flowers, and careful
search revealed that tree many miles away.
And in every department of science this faculty bridges over chasms
between discovered truths. Even Newton's discovery was the gift of
imagination. When the eyes of the scientist saw the falling apple it
was his vision faculty that leaped through space and saw the falling
moon. When the western trade winds, blowing for weeks, had cast the
drift wood upon the shores of Spain, Columbus' eyes fell not only upon
the strange wood but also upon a pebble caught in the crevice. But his
imagination leaped from the pebble to the Western continent of which
the stone was a part, and from the tree to the forest in which it
grew.
This faculty has performed a similar work in the realm of mechanics.
Watt tells us that his engine worked in his mind years before it
worked in his shop. In his biography, Milton recognizes the beauty of
the trees and flowers he culled from earth's landscapes and gardens,
but in his "Paradise Lost," his imagination beheld an Eden fairer than
any scene ever found on earth. Napoleon believed that every battle was
won by the imagination. While his soldiers slept, the great Corsican
marshaled his troops, hurled them against the enemy, and won the
victory in his mind the night before the battle was fought. Even the
orator like Webster must be described as one who sees his argument in
the air before he writes it upon the page, just as Handel thought he
heard the music falling from the sky more rapidly than his hand could
fasten the notes upon the musical bars. Thus every new tool and
picture, every new temple or law or reform, has been the imagination's
gift to man.