Poems from the Inner Life

by Lizzie Doten

And here we approach a mighty truth, in whose majestic presence we feel inclined to lay aside our dusty sandals; for the place whereon we stand seems holy ground. While studying the mysteries of our own being, we find that necessarily we worship Everlasting Truth, in whatever form it may be presented. We go away from limitations, we go away from sects and creeds, from tottering institutions and the musty theologies of the past, and stand face to face with that fresher revelation of Deity in the heart. Then it is that man feels there are primary and fundamental truths lying at the basis of all philosophy and all religion, and only as he builds upon these broad foundations can he rear a glorious superstructure against which all the winds of changing theories, and the descending floods of mere speculative philosophy, will not be able to prevail. As man, like one initiated into the mysteries of Masonry, enters into this lodge of freedom, he begins to believe in himself. No man can have faith in God who has no faith in himself; that is the first step towards the Divine. You take that step in the secret of the soul when you first acknowledge the “Divine in the human,” and confess its supporting influence.

For instance, two men may be standing on the borders of a precipice: below, there is the deep ravine; opposite, the other side of the mountain. They look far down and see rough, ragged points of rocks, and far, far below, the floods boiling white with foam. Over this abyss there is but one slight, frail bridge, and that is the trunk of a single tree. One man says, “Since we must pass over, I will precede. I know that I can go; I will go.” That man has faith in himself. He plants his feet firmly; he looks upward, and passes safely over. The second says, “I do not believe that I can go; I fear I shall fall.” He totters on, trembling, until he reaches the middle, and then cries out, “O Lord, Lord, help me!” So surely as he utters that cry, faithless in his own power, that man must fall.

And thus it is with human souls. They are standing here, in earthly life, gazing across the great abyss of the Future. It is dark and terrible below. They cannot clearly understand what fate awaits them, but they see the strait and narrow way before them. If a man plants his feet firmly, and says, “I can, and I will,” it is the greatest possible acknowledgement of his faith in God. That man has stepped upon the threshold of the mysteries of Godliness; those mysteries will be made clearer and more apparent to his soul as he advances. But if, with craven soul, he says, “I know not what to do. I will wait for God’s providences, and let them come as they may; for of myself I can do nothing,”—if he trust to the vicarious atonement and an external Deity, and does nothing for his own salvation,—if, in making oral prayers to the Lord of the Universe, he forgets to “worship God in spirit,” and loses the vitalizing consciousness of the Divine within his own being, that man will assuredly err; he will continually go astray, for externally he has “the form of Godliness,” but practically and internally he denies “the power thereof.”

The world to-day is standing, in a certain sense, in that same position. Men are lifting up their hands, and crying, “Lord, Lord!” believing that they shall thus enter into the kingdom, while within their own beings there is a broad region of spiritual mysteries unknown and unexplored. Here and there are instances where souls, driven by the action of their own importunate reason,—ay, we may say, by simple common sense,—have turned aside from creeds and theories, and have inquired earnestly of Nature and of the God within. It is refreshing at times to find such a soul: one that believes in the inspiration of the living Word, incarnated in all flesh, and made apparent throughout the universe,—not a Pantheist, believing in the manifestation of Deity in Nature alone, and in nothing higher, but realizing that the creation is the perceptible and external revelation of Deity; believing, with the German philosopher Fichte, that “there is a Divine Idea pervading this visible universe; which visible universe is indeed but its symbol and sensible manifestation, having in itself no meaning, or even true existence, independent of it. To the mass of men this Divine Idea lies hidden; yet, to discern it, to seize it, and live wholly in it, is the condition of all genuine virtue, knowledge, freedom, and the end, therefore, of all spiritual effort in every age.” He who lives and dwells in this Idea, enters into the mysteries of Godliness. All divine things are exceedingly simple when they are known. It is because men are looking too high that they do not receive the living inspirations of the Truth; they turn away from themselves, and neglect to observe the manifestation of the spirit within their own being. They look upon their brother man or sister woman, and forget to exercise that broad charity which sees the spirit struggling with the flesh, or feebly breasting the wild waves of a tempestuous life, simply because it was thus constituted and surrounded. Men commonly judge from their own individual stand-point, instead of going away back to the Divinity of the inner life, and from its pure eyes looking into the heart of their erring brother or sister. He who simply criticizes the man, and judges him by the limitations of his own life, errs greatly. But he who looks beyond and behind him, sees that there are truths, and principles, and powers, and loving, earnest spirits, who are endeavoring to make manifest their inspiration through him; and although he may be changeable in his nature, although he may be erratic and wandering, it is only through the excess of power that cannot find an appropriate manifestation through such an organization.

And such a one was he of whom we speak to-night,—that erratic genius, Edgar A. Poe. The mysteries of Godliness,—not of morality, as the world understands it,—confounded him. He could see more clearly than most of men. He looked out into the vast arcana of Nature, and his soul trembled before the majestic revelation. He knew not how to express, in any adequate form of speech, those great and mighty thoughts which rose and shone, like stars of wondrous beauty, in his soul; he knew not how to give his burning inspirations a manifestation through his life and being.

Edgar A. Poe was a medium. “A medium!” you say. “He himself would scorn the name; and we, who knew him, deny it.” But of what was he a medium? We do not confine ourselves to that definition of the term given by modern Spiritualists. He was a medium for the general inspiration which sets like a current of living fire through the universe. No special, no individual spirit wrought directly upon him, but he felt the might and majesty of occult forces from the world of causes, and trembled beneath their influence. He was a medium, not to disembodied spirits, only so far as mind acts upon mind by the great law of unity, and in the same way was he psychologically affected by spirits in the body. He had a peculiarly sensitive and impressible nature, and in the mysteries of a spirituality which he did not seek to comprehend, he was easily wrought upon by the minds around him. Not but what he possessed self-will; not, indeed, that he lacked that firmness, whereby, when his soul was aroused, he could repel such influences. But his nature was so finely strung that every harsh word, every unkindly discord, grated and thrilled through his entire being, so that oftentimes it would seem as though he would beat down the wall of clay to give his spirit freedom, and to escape forever from the inharmonious influences of the world,—from the presence of those by whom he was so little understood.

It is difficult to comprehend such natures, for they are not common. But, alas for such! They have no choice but to be denizens of this world, and all the rough, sharp angles of rude Humanity seem continually to wound and irritate their sensitiveness, torturing them almost to madness. And yet there is a deep, strong under-current to their lives. There is a beautiful spirituality which leads men to perceive that there is a power in the universe which balances all these inequalities and apparent inharmonies of human beings; and so, although they are set at variance with the world in certain portions of their nature, yet they are rewarded in others. Edgar A. Poe possessed the power of retiring from external things into the mysteries of the spirit. The greatest authors and musical composers the world ever knew, were those whose favorite pursuit so completely absorbed them that all external things were excluded, and they forgot, while their inspirations were upon them, what manner of men they were,—forgot the necessities of the flesh, and all the surroundings of their daily lives. Such men could understand our meaning, when we say that Edgar A. Poe lived much in his inner life, and there, as in the experience of the soul-rapt and inspired Boehmen, glorious revelations of the sublime and the beautiful were made manifest unto him. The common forms of human speech were inadequate for expression; therefore he seized upon the secret harmony of words, and strung them like flashing gems on the golden line of his thought, weaving them into wild, strange metaphors, oftentimes so bewildering and dazzling, that the common mind could only feel the charm without comprehending the mystery. Like Ezekiel in his vision, he beheld the wondrous “living creatures, and the wheels,” and as they were represented, so did he describe them; but the mind of the reader must be in a similar state of illumination in order to clearly understand his meaning. There were seasons when he seemed to enter into a peaceful alliance with earth and all harmonious and beautiful things. Yet when his peculiarly sensitive nature was startled and aroused, he turned back to this Valhalla of his soul, and there he found another element of peace,—a strange, paradoxical peace, which comes through the herculean efforts of the soul to clamber up the rugged heights of destiny,—such peace as is given unto souls, when the angel, with a flaming sword, drives them from the Eden places of this world back into the mysteries of their being, in order that from their bloody sweat and bitter agony they may wring out great songs of moving inspiration, and reveal to mankind generally the wondrous world of ideas and causes which lies beyond the limits of sense and the range of external observation.

All such are men of Destiny. They are compelled over the ways which they tread. The world looks upon them, and cannot understand them; men consider them as anomalies and strange inconsistencies; as abnormal manifestations of the spirit. Yet “for this cause came they into the world;” and as poets, and artists, and musical composers are born with the undeveloped elements of their genius within them, so particular souls, in close connection with the spiritual world, who are continually receiving direct impressions and revelations from the sphere of causes, are born such from their cradle; and thus the mystery of spirituality or godliness, as the world passes on generation after generation, is becoming more and more apparent in the lives and experiences of men. When we speak of spirituality, do not consider that we mean modern Spiritualism, as understood by the world, which has furnished any amount of sheep’s clothing to the wolves who desire to prey upon the lambs in the unguarded fold of Humanity. Neither do we mean that inflated spirituality, which, in its zeal for reform, and contempt for ceremonies and limitations, rushes to extremes, and, deceiving itself, “uses its liberty as an occasion to the flesh.” But we do mean that living principle, which makes itself manifest in high-toned souls, whose sublime aspirations exalt the whole life above the common level of Humanity. It may come out as a fitful and glimmering light, but it shows that the Divine inspiration is there, and all men, when they perceive it, are ready to acknowledge it as genuine. Whatever is truly good, glorious, or divine, that which possesses in itself real merit and inspiration, cannot fail to find a responsive echo. And thus was it with the writings of Poe. When, from the glowing fire-crypts of his soul, he wrought out, with master strokes, his “Raven,” and gave it to the world, men felt that there was the ring of true genius. And, although it was the utterance of a nature at variance with its earthy surroundings, and tortured by its own sensibility, yet because of its gloomy grandeur and euphonious rhythm, the poem could not fail to be appreciated.

Such natures cannot live long in the flesh. They are like two-edged swords, which wear upon the scabbard. There is ever an unseen hand upon the hilt, and finally, when the word of command is given, the sword is drawn, and becomes a most effective instrument in the hand of Everlasting Truth; then the individual nature that has so long battled the stormy elements of mortal life first perceives its advantages, and in the triumphant exultation which spirits always feel when freed from the fetters of mortality, it exclaims, “O Death! where is thy sting? O Grave! where is thy victory?” That diviner spirituality which was obscured by the flesh, which was crushed down by earthly circumstances, at length frees itself, and starts up in all its majesty and glory. But the mysterious growth and development of the spirit does not end here.

Perhaps in this connection we may present to you certain points from which you will feel obliged to dissent. They may seem like vague theories and wild speculations, yet they are truths which you are yet to realize in your eternal experience,—truths which this one of whom we speak will present to you in repetition to-night.