Reader, did it ever strike you that there are many theories touching this soul of ours which are generally accepted as truths, without any thought whatever on the subject; so universally accepted, indeed, that it is considered a waste of time to think upon them at all; but which, upon a thorough investigation, might possibly lose some of their old-time infallibility, and the consideration of which might well repay the trouble, by opening a field of thought at once interesting and instructive?
Such there are, and in this province alone are we of this day and generation entirely controlled by the opinions of those over whose dust centuries have rolled. We may speculate freely upon religion, and, while all must acknowledge that true religion is not progressive, new schemes of salvation spring almost daily into life from the brains of heretical thinkers, in their bold presumption stamping with error the simple faith of the primitive Christians. We may peer into the arcana of science and boldly question the theories of the learned of all ages. We may exhaust our mental powers upon points of political economy and the science of government; and even the domain of ethics may be fearlessly invaded and crowded with doubt. But into the unpretending pathway that leads to the secret nooks of the soul, to the foundations of all spiritual excellence, few feet may stray, and even those only to follow the beaten track worn by the feet of those olden thinkers whose very names have long since passed into oblivion, lest by their deviations they should outrage some of those universal prejudices, whose only claim to consideration is their traditionary origin.
And this path is but little trodden in our day, for two reasons; first, because, to the careless eye, it possesses few attractions, and its claims are lost in those of a more exciting and more eminently practical course of thought; secondly, because it seems to have been so thoroughly explored that we have only to read the writings of those who have gone before, and listen to traditionary speculations, to learn all that can be known about that which is our very existence, and, indeed, the only true existence.
Two great mistakes. The dying philosopher, one of the wisest the world has ever known, declared that all the knowledge he had gained was but as a grain of sand upon the seashore. So all that is known to-day about the soul is but a drop in the ocean of that great revealing which shall one day dawn upon man's spiritual existence. There is an infinite field yet unexplored—a very terra incognita to even those who pride themselves upon being learned in the mysteries of the soul. And to him who ventures upon this seemingly lowly path, so far from proving unattractive, it becomes a very Eden of thought. Unlooked-for beauties spring to light on every side; the very essence of music and poesy float around him as he advances; while above, around, and through all, sounds the magnificent diapason of everlasting truth.
True, there may be little of practical benefit—as the world defines practicality—in searching out the causes of the myriad emotions that sweep with lightning rapidity across the soul, now raising us to the summit of bliss, now plunging us into the depths of despair—little of practical benefit in endeavoring to analyze the soul itself into its constituent elements, and to bring ourselves face to face with our better, nobler selves, and with the Mighty Power which created us and all things. But there is, in this inner life, a pleasure higher and more lasting than those evanescent ones which the world can afford, and which elevates and purifies as they do not. And aside from mere pleasure, there is in such a study a practicability—taking the word in a broader and nobler sense—which puts to the blush man's busy schemes for wealth and honor. The beauties and sublimity of nature may indeed fill us with awe at the omnipotence of the mighty Architect, and with love and gratitude for His goodness, but it is only in the presence of the soul—His greatest work—that we realize the awful power of the Creator; it is only when threading the secret avenues of our own intellectual and spiritual being that we are brought into actual communion with God, and bow in adoration before Him who 'doeth all things well.' Therefore, I maintain that he whose meditations run most in this channel is not only the happiest, but the purest man; that his views of life are the broadest and noblest; that he it is who is most open to the appeal of suffering or of sorrow; who is most ready to sacrifice self and work for the good of his fellow beings, and to discharge faithfully his duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call him.
But I am digressing into a prosy essay, which I did not intend, and neglecting that which I did intend, namely, to jot down a few theories which have crept into the brain of one not much given to musing.
For even I—a poor 'marching sub'—sitting here by a cheery coal grate, and watching the white smoke as it curls lazily up from the bowl of my meerschaum, have theories touching the soul—theories born in the glowing coals and mounting in the curling smoke wreaths, but, unlike them, growing more and more voluminous as they ascend, till I am like to be lost in the ocean of speculations which my own musings have summoned up.
I heard, to-night, a strain of weird, unearthly music, sweet and sad beyond expression, but distant and fleeting. Yet long after it had ceased, the chord that it awakened in my heart continued to vibrate as with the echo of the strain which had departed. An unutterable, indescribable longing filled my soul—a vague yearning for something, I knew not what. My whole spiritual being seemed exalted to the clouds, yet restrained by some galling chain from the heaven it sought to enter. And then I asked myself, What is the secret of this mysterious power of music; where shall we look for the cause of those undefinable yet overwhelming emotions which it never fails to excite? A hopeless question it seemed, one which the philosophers of all ages have failed to solve, perhaps because they have not troubled themselves to inquire very seriously about it; and again, perhaps it has baffled them as it has me, and tens of thousands of others of the humbler portion of humanity. And so I fell to dreaming after this wise:
The soul of man is created perfect, so far as regards the presence of every faculty necessary for its development, for its happiness, or misery, in this world or the next. Circumstances may alter it in degree, but in its constituent elements never. The same yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, at the moment of its creation and a thousand ages to come. Not even its passage from the body into its future and eternal home can endow it with a single new faculty, or eradicate one of the old. Yet each one of these faculties, capabilities, or sensibilities, is capable of development to an infinite degree. And in this development lies the soul's progress to perfection; it is to go on, through all the ages of its eternal existence, constantly approaching the divine, yet never reaching the goal, like that space between two parallel lines, which mathematicians bisect to infinity. Certain of these faculties, of the very existence of which even the soul itself is unconscious, are those whose province lies purely in the world beyond, to which we all are tending. Never exerted in this life, with which they have nothing to do, through all the earthly existence they sleep quietly in their hidden cells; but when once the silver cord is loosed, and the freed spirit mounts into its native atmosphere, then these dormant powers and susceptibilities are awakened from their slumbers, and take the lead in the march of development, outstripping all others in the race, and soon becoming the ruling powers of the soul. These are they which shall listen to the music of heaven—these are the spiritual senses which shall hear and see and taste and feel those ineffable glories, of which our earthly pilgrimage has no appreciation, and which, if presented to us in the body, we could not perceive, nor, perceiving, comprehend. These are they which shall worship and adore, comprehending the glory of Omnipotence, and drinking in and pouring out the full stream of divine and never-failing love and gratitude.
Reader, did you ever listen to the sympathetic vibrations of a musical string? Place in the corner of your room a guitar—it matters not if it have but a single string, that alone is sufficient for the experiment—then, sitting at some distance from it, sing, shout, or play upon some loud-toned instrument, or, beginning at the foot of the chromatic scale, sound, round and full, each semitone in succession and at separate intervals. The instrument is mute to every note until you strike the one to which the guitar string is attuned; then indeed, the spirit of melody imprisoned within the musical string recognizes its kindred sound, and springs sweetly forth to meet it. You pause, and a low, sweet strain sighs softly through the room, as if a zephyr had swept the string, dying gently away like the faintest breathing of the evening breeze. Repeat the note, and louder than at first, and again its counterpart replies, swelling higher than before, as if in gentle remonstrance that you should deem it necessary to call again to that which has already replied.