How shall I describe the delicious sensations which the saccharine matter imparts to the outward man? Alike in fruit, and flower, and honey-comb most gratefully apparent. And thou, ice-cream! who has so often diffused throughout the body of this “me,” a most delicious coolness, what wouldst thou be without that essence, whose merits I am exalting? Insipid and unmeaning, like unto a flower without color or fragrance.
Oh! how well can I remember the time, when, released from school, I hastened home, and, sitting on the kitchen door-sill, enjoyed my bread and molasses. I never felt more thankful than when, plate in hand, and a huge slice of the wheat loaf in reserve, the preparatory pause was made “according to the good order used among friends.” And then, also the “switchel,” that nutritious and cooling drink, (molasses and water, with a little vinegar,) with which our revolutionary fathers quenched their thirst, when rooting up their ditch on old Bunker. Even the horrid tales told me in childhood by the pestered servants, of thumbs, and fingers, and bloody streaks, the evidence of cruel treatment in the Indian isles, turned not the edge of my keen desire.
But I shall no longer occupy paper with the advocacy of the merely sensual claims of molasses. It has other and higher demands upon your notice. The author of this lately perused, with pleasure, that most important work upon “The Philosophy of Clothes,” by Thomas Carlyle. It suggested an interesting train of thoughts upon the subject before us. Molasses, and its kindred sweets are the well fitting garments of the spirit of love and purity. Here then we have an unfailing index by which to judge of the characters of our fellow men. Herein is contained the germ of our new and spiritual philosophy.
Charles Lamb in his “Elia,” quotes and endorses the sentiment of one of his friends: “that no man be entirely reprobate who is fond of apple-dumplings.” This I grant to be true. He did not, however, remember that both the apples and the dumplings contain a portion of saccharine matter; and this accounts partly for the dislike felt toward them by a reprobate spirit. And again—who ever heard of eating apple-dumplings without sugar or molasses? I therefore bring Charles Lamb, who, although he did not perceive the great principle coiled up in this succulent eatable, has taken notice of the above interesting fact, as a witness to the truth of my theory.
When do we find that the love of all sweet things most commonly prevails? In youth undoubtedly. When the mind is pure, free from worldly guile, innocent, and lamb-like. When the fresh and untainted spirit drinks eagerly and deeply at the fount of truth, and its type or representative on earth (according to Swedenborg) pure water. Then, sugar-plumes are a delight—ginger-bread a blessing—molasses candy, especially when rolled and pulled out into sticks, bright or dull yellow, according to the cleanliness of the maker’s hands, “the staff of life.”
The child becomes a man. He grows selfish and proud. He loses his relish for innocent enjoyments, and with it his taste for molasses. The spirit of love becomes impregnated with impure desires, and his outward man changes accordingly. The saccharine matter no longer suits him in its natural state—it must be fermented, and gases added, and gases deducted, to correspond with the altered soul. What a beautiful emblem is this change of saccharine substance to the poisonous liquor, of the transition state of the immortal in man. First the spirit as in childhood, pure and gentle, like the sweet juice of the grape. Then youth, with its noble and generous bearing, comparable to the result of the first fermentation. Manhood comes on, and with it the fermentation proceeds. Soon the soul is agitated with innumerable gases—and from their bubblings, and combinations, and effervescence, it comes forth a new creature. Well satisfied are most if they go no farther than this, but succeed in calming the troubled elements at this second fermentation. While some, unable to arrest their progress, plunge into the third and woful state; from which, if they succeed in coming out, they appear all soured, and be-vinegared, your universal fault-finders and found-fault-with. Too many, alas! emerge not even at this third gate, but dash recklessly into the fourth, the last and worst, and hope-decaying state—and when dragged through it, are cast out with the blessed feelings of childhood putrified—the flesh rotted off, and exposing the then loathsome skeleton of the soul, the never to be destroyed framework of an eternal nature.
How beautiful also the resemblance in another sense. Wherever you meet the poison fire, under whatever name it may assume, whether brandy, gin, whiskey, wine, cider, or beer, as you are confident that the innocent sugar must have been its basis; so in whatever form you meet vice in the human heart, you may be also assured, that there was, and perhaps is yet, in that heart a stronger or weaker basis of God-like love.
Although the good, spiritually, is to be considered the cause of the liking for the saccharineous, yet they are to some extent mutually creative. The outward may appeal so strongly as even to produce the inward. “Hang up a coat in the highway, and will it not soon find a body to fill it?” Who has not often observed the child when requested by its parents to swallow the bitter dose of (so called) medicine? What a struggle between duty and disgust! What measures are then taken by the wise parent in order that the right may conquer? How is the virtuous appealed to and strengthened? One single lump of sugar, perhaps not larger than a hickory nut decides the question. Duty prevails. How shall we account for such things without adopting a similar doctrine to that which I have thus partly illustrated?
Reader, thou wilt believe or not, as thou choosest. But before this is dismissed as unworthy, for thy own sake, examine facts. Find among thy acquaintances, that man, sullen, and morose, and cruel, who loves molasses. Understand me—loves molasses—not who sometimes eats it, but who clings to it with a passionate devotion—who prefers it to the best pie ever baked, apple, mince, peach, or cranberry,—as I do. If thou canst find such a being—thou thinkest I’ll recant? Not I. Such a man is an anomaly, a monster, deserves not to live—and if he knows what a beautiful theory he is practically marring, and has the least spark of generosity within him, is willing to die. If he wont die I care not,—he’s only an exception, and “proves the truth of the general rule,” as all metaphysicians will tell thee.
If it were needful I could skip from individuals to nations—could prove the truth of my doctrines by referring to the Irish with their potatoes, buttermilk, and whiskey—the Hindoo and his rice—the West Indian slave with his patient endurance, the result of his frequent sucking at the juicy cane.