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.