Bessie.'
It seems hardly consistent with my regard for the 'dear reader,' to add any thing by way of remark on this true school-girl letter. But it is so suggestive. How many circulars do tally with facts? Even in those of the best schools, that need none of this clap-trap, there is a little humbug. But this is rather the fault of the patrons; like Bessie's mother, they will hardly look at a plain advertisement. The truth is, we love to be humbugged. Among the 'wants of the age' may be classed humbug.
I have read of a painter with disproportionately short legs, who, in all his pictures of human figures—from Moses down to the Mayor, done in heroic style—substituted his own legs. Your thorough utilitarian, deficient in imagination, his idea of mental symmetry being his own mental proportions, thinks no mind well balanced that has not a similar deficiency. He is a believer in nothing but the real and the useful—all else is stuff and nonsense; to him a mountain is a high elevation of land; a plain, a level tract; a forest, so much timber in a green state; a cloud, a collection of vapor. He sees in every thing just what there is in it and nothing more. Why does any one see more? It has been a puzzle to me, the undefinable longing I have sometimes felt in looking at a beautiful scene; a feeling akin to this, though lower, is that awakened by the fragrance of some flowers—it is so unsatisfactory, you wish to taste them. These somethings bring up a shadow of 'shadowy recollections,' an echo of an echo of a past so indistinct, so dimly distant, that it seems to have been a part of another life.
It may be that all earthly things are but types of spiritual things in a future spiritual existence—hence the yearning; or they may be expressions of spiritual things in a past spiritual existence—hence the 'shadowy recollections.' One thing is certain: all beauty and grandeur are faint expressions of the ideas of the All-Father; therefore, O utilitarian! you do wrong to ask of them: 'What use?' Better cultivate a taste for them, and with this taste an earnest desire to look into that Mind and read there thoughts of which Mont Blanc and the exquisite flowers are but feeble utterances.
How the Great Teacher has lavished on us illustrations of his goodness, as if he would in some way make it plain to all, 'what use.' There must be a use in every thing he creates. Every dew-drop that the meanest weed has wooed and won from the atmosphere, is as tenderly cared for by him, as the stream is that supplies your mill-pond; every briny tear on the infant's cheek, as the ocean that bears on its bosom your merchant-vessels. What use? Have not some things been made useless—in your sense of the term—that they might be preserved from destruction? The gorgeous-plumed birds, and brightly-enameled fish of the tropics, are unfit for food—so, to your mind, of no use. I wonder if this holds good in cannibal countries; if so, it would be no protection to poor Molly O'Molly if she were there.
I, too, am a believer in the real and the useful; but to me, the sphere of both is almost infinite. Are not the feelings awakened on viewing a beautiful sunset, as real as your satisfaction after eating roast-beef? Though I acknowledge that no one can thoroughly enjoy the one, who feels the need of the other; if then weighed in the scale, the sunset would 'kick the beam.' All things 'by season seasoned are to their right praise and true perfection.' It would, for instance, be rather out of place to talk of the beauty of the stars to the houseless wanderer, for whom there were no 'cheerful lights of home;' to expatiate on the loveliness of the moon to him who must spend the chill night with no other covering than her 'silver mantle.'... Moonlight and memory are associated together in my mind—reflections of a set sun, wrapping in their calm, beautiful light, all things, even the graves of those we love.... I have thought that the murmur of the brook was the voice of Silence. Moonlight expresses to the eye—silence.... 'All this unreal?' I beg your pardon; I claim for my feelings the same reality that you claim for yours. Is only what is gross real? Is not the sky as real as the mountain that pierces it? Is there more reality in the chink of the dollar than in 'the music of the spheres'? This first is, I acknowledge, to me a pleasant sound, though only 'heard at rarest intervals.'... Yet I am rather inclined to believe in the reality of the music of the spheres; it is too ethereal, too spiritual a music for the ear to sense it; the food and drink of the gods, ambrosia and nectar, even were we to swallow them, could our mortal palates taste them? Even thus may we drink in the music of the spheres, and, strange as it may seem, the more ear we have, the less likely we will be to hear it.
But—not 'in this connection,' in no connection—the utilitarian also thoroughly despises cobweb theories, as he terms them. The world owes its greatest achievements to theories—cobwebs they may be. In caves have been found books of stone, whose nucleus was but cobweb; along these webs the calcareous solution ran, and hardened into stone. A cobweb theory has been the thread, on which, drop by drop, as it were, experiments have run and hardened into a possibility on which might be hung a steam-boat.
There goes the night-train. Every morning as the engine with its train passes, the dark smoke rushing out of the chimney is touched by the rays of the rising sun and made glorious. I doubt not my enjoyment in looking at it is as real as that of the heaviest stockholder. Here I 'pitch my foot against'—as Paley says in his famous watch-argument—a quotation.
'Life is transfigured in the soft and tender
Light of love, as a volume dense
Of rolling smoke becomes a wreathed splendor
In the setting sun.'
But this warm subject of love I avoid as the whale avoids the warm water of the Gulf Stream. So I will wheel about—first, one more digression: This love, like the Gulf Stream, softens many a climate naturally as cold as that of Labrador. I just throw out this hint for the sentimental reader to enlarge upon.