Turn over the pages of history and philosophy—study the record of human events, and the laws of the mind, and we gather as their united testimony, the truth, that in all ages of the world, whatever has carried with it the impress of intellect, has commanded the homage of men. Even among rude and barbarous nations, he who distinguishes himself by some act of superior sagacity or valor, gains the ascendancy over his rivals, and is worshiped as Chief. The meed of honor in this case, is the result of a blind, but still a controlling admiration for the effect, unattended by a recognition of the cause. In more civilized communities, it is an enlightened and intelligent tribute to the offspring of mind.
To the man of imagination there is a powerful charm in the spectacle of a great mind throwing off the grave clothes of inactivity, and arousing itself for some mighty effort. There is almost a fearful grandeur in its movements, as it calls up one after another its slumbering energies, and girds itself for the struggle. And when it goes forth in its power to achieve the purposes which it has formed, it treads with a sternness and majesty which fling around it an irresistible spell. It is not simply the exhibition of vast strength which it presents, like the exertion of mere brute force, or the plunge of a falling avalanche, that awakens in the beholder these emotions of interest and delight. There is, it is true, in all such exhibitions, much to inspire sublimity of feeling. But the appeal which we speak of now, owes its effect to other associations of thought. It is the soul, the living, moving principle within, directing and controlling the whole, bending the will and purposes of others into subservience to its own ‘ruling passion,’ like the earth born giant of old, rising with fresh strength from every grapple with opposition, and pressing right onward to the goal of its wishes, with a progress that resembles the sure march of destiny—it is this which gives to the sublimity of intellect its distinguishing characteristics. With such a mind, the man of imagination cherishes a fellow feeling, entering into its aspirations with kindred ardor, watching with intense interest its struggles against difficulties, sharing its gloom in the hour of trial, and its exultation at success. This thrill of sympathy is with him the vibration of the chord which binds him to the universe, and to his fellow man. Shut him out from such a kindred with his race; seal up the fountain of ever-flowing sensibility within his bosom, bid him gaze upon the sublime achievements of intellect, with a stoic’s indifference, and you have cut off from him a source of happiness of the purest and most exalted character, and left him a blank on creation’s page.
In our contemplation of great actions, perhaps no exercise affords the imagination more pleasure, than to observe the progress of some mighty revolution. At first, all is apparently calm and peaceful on the surface of society, and the beholder finds nothing in the cloudless sky above, the whispering breeze, or the unruffled serenity beneath, to forebode the fury of the coming tempest. He does not dream that the waves of discord and strife are so soon to dash their foam along the mirror-like tranquillity before him. Yet the principles may be already at work, whose influence is to arouse these slumbering elements to a fearful energy. Some youthful mind, destined to be the master spirit of its age, may be, even at the moment, preparing within the still retreat of its lonely musings, by patient and toilsome research, the great problem whose solution is to shake the existing system of things to its foundations. At length the fullness of the time is come, and “the little cloud like a man’s hand,” rears its shadowy outline far in the distant horizon. The voice of the tempest is heard moaning in suppressed accents, as though wailing a dirge over the wreck it must make. Darker and still darker above, the sky spreads out its drapery of mantling clouds. The spirits of the storm awake, and ride forth on the howling blast, amid the wild roar of the elements, celebrating the festival of their freedom. The tempest at length has spent its rage, the pall of blackness is withdrawn, and the bow of promise gives goodly token of the returning calm. This may seem perhaps a fanciful description of a revolution. But to the cultivated imagination, the reality calls up all the intenseness of interest and excitement which belong to scenes like these. The storm of human passions, when stirred up and left to range uncontrolled through a community, gathering in its ranks the ruthless votaries of ambition, avarice and revenge, urged, as it sweeps onward, by a thousand new impulses from selfish and opposing interests, may well be likened to the strife of the angry elements. There is in the majestic energies of human nature, when aroused and carried forward with a momentum generated by the heart, an exhibition of more terrific sublimity than all the varied convulsions in the physical world can possibly present. But we have said enough on this point, to show, that the source of pleasure to the imagination, which we are at present considering, is one of no ordinary character, both in respect to the nature and degree of the gratification which it induces. And it is now high time that we return to our main object, which is to notice the influence of moral feeling in enhancing our susceptibility to this kind of intellectual enjoyment.
We look back with admiration upon the exploits of an Alexander; we are struck by the power of his genius, by the grandeur of his designs, the perseverance and energy of his execution. But the truth—the sober truth, with its disenchanting wand, breaks the charm which these throw around his memory, and compel our minds, divested of all enthusiasm, to sink their admiration of the hero in their aversion to the unprincipled robber of nations. But on the other hand, with how much of unmingled delight does the imagination contemplate the high moral dignity so conspicuous in the character of Washington. Both are splendid instances of the triumphs of genius; but with what different sentiments are they regarded! Over the memory of the latter, the purity of his motives and the disinterestedness of his ambition, have thrown a hallowed and unclouded atmosphere. Thus, it is only when great talents are ennobled by their subservience to virtue, that they receive the meed of unqualified admiration. As another illustration of this truth, notice the reformation in Germany—one of the most eventful dramas ever acted upon the theatre of the world. Perhaps there is no succession of events recorded on the page of history, which inspires the imagination with more thrilling interest—no prouder monument of the achievements of a single mind.
For a period of not less than a thousand years, the darkness of midnight had brooded over the nations of the east, relieved occasionally by some meteor star, whose solitary and transient gleam seemed only to deepen by contrast the surrounding gloom that succeeded. The curse of Papacy, with its ignorance, depravity, and superstition, lay like the frosts of winter upon the intellect and the heart of man; and the progress of true principles seemed to have been arrested forever. At this period of mental and moral gloom, nearly coeval with the dawn of reviving knowledge, arose the man who was to usher in the commencement of a new and glorious era. He had stood amid the worship of the temple at Rome, and been an eye witness to the luxury and licentiousness that defiled the consecrated courts. The name of the Holy City—the residence of the Vicar of Christ, had been treasured up in his mind from boyhood, with sacred associations. Alas, how changed from the image that his fond anticipations had pictured out! That moment gave birth in his soul to a mighty thought. He stood undazzled and unallured, though Rome’s pomp, and gaiety and beauty were spread out like a sea of enchantment before him. From that hour, Martin Luther was a champion of the truth—of the simple, unperverted truth. Year after year, with an ardor unchecked by difficulties, undaunted by the threats of power, he continued to pour the light of his own illumination over the nations of Europe, until the temple of Papacy shook to its foundations, and every Catholic king trembled on his throne. In contemplating this wonderful revolution, it is difficult to decide, whether our admiration should be most excited by the magnitude of the event, or the apparent total inadequacy of the means. A humble and unknown individual, with the Bible in his hand as his only weapon of warfare, enters the field against a Pontifical hierarchy, that had swayed for ages the sceptre of an absolute dominion—and PREVAILS. The sublimity and grandeur of the achievement itself would be deservedly a theme for the highest flight of the poet’s muse, and the most glowing strains of the historian. But it is only when we consider the nature of this triumph, that its full power, as a source of pleasure to the imagination, can be appreciated. It was a triumph of knowledge over ignorance. The light of science, which had so long glimmered but faintly, and at intervals, from the cell of the cloister, now burst forth in full orbed glory—‘rejoicing like a giant to run his race.’ It was a triumph of literature and refinement over brutality and barbarism. From the frozen waters of the north, to the pillars of Hercules, the intellect of Europe shook off the weight of its darkness, and awoke to life and activity. It was a triumph of the pure simplicity of the Christian faith over idolatry, hypocrisy and superstition. The degraded slave of popish tyranny and imposition cast away the shackles of his bondage, and arose to assert the dignity of his nature. On every thing that had been enveloped in the universal chaos, the almighty mandate was written, “Let there be light.” Thus, in contemplating this great revolution, it is in the power of its appeal to our moral sensibilities, that its true sublimity is seen and felt.
C.
THE SEMINOLE.
Where the oak and the pine in grandeur vie,
Where the orange and lemon their fragrance blend,
Where its rushing stream the rivulet pours,