University of Virginia Library

I

WHEN my spirits are low, and the mind grows weary; when Memory revives the shadows of the past, and their cold breath freezes my heart; when impassive Thought sheds her cold light upon the dismal chaos of the present and impotently hovers about the same spot, unable to soar higher up and forward—in these hours of languor I put before my mind's eye the majestic figure of Man!

Man! Methinks a sun springs up within me: there, in the heavenly light, he is marching, ever forward, ever upward: splendid and sorrowful, inscrutable Man!

I see his proud brow, his bold, lustrous eyes aglow with light of fearless, world-conceiving Thought, of the mighty power that makes gods in hours of ennui, and dethrones them in hours of wakefulness.

Lost in the solitudes of the cosmic desert, alone on a lump of earth that is borne with measureless haste through the infinite depths of space, tortured by his Enigma, "Why do I exist?" he is yet marching boldly ahead, forward and upward, bent on mastering the secrets of heaven and earth.

And as he is marching, forsaken, defiant, he builds sober Science out of his trials; with his life-blood he fattens the ground he treads on—and it brings forth Poesy's perennial flowers; his rebellious soul cries out in travail—in strains of heavenly music. Step by step, higher and higher doth he mount, shedding his heavenly light, making life richer and nobler: he is the guiding star of his earth.

And far ahead of life, far above the crowd, lies his path; there, alone with Nature's Riddles, armed with Reason's weapons, he is advancing. Now quick as the lightning-flash, now placid, or keen as the sharpest blade, are his thoughts.

A host of errors, his own creatures, press upon him, gripe his proud heart, tear his brain, bring the crimson of shame to his face, and invoke him—to destroy them.

Tramp, tramp, tramp: with whining Vanity clamoring, like the impudent beggar, for her tithe; with a host of attachments preying upon his heart, sucking up his warm life-blood; with legions of unholy passions within his breast struggling, shrieking, haggling, seeking to conquer his soul, to strangle his will.

Tramp, tramp, tramp: over thousands of Life's petty troubles, through the every-day mire teeming with vermin.

March, march, march: like the sun he is surrounded by a crowd of satellites, children of his own spirit.

There is ever-hungry Love, always at his side; there is limping Friendship, straggling far behind; there is worn-out Hope, marching in front of him; there is mad Hatred, rattling the chains that Patience put on her arms. Then there is dark-eyed Faith, peering into his rebellious face, ever ready to enclose him in her restful embrace.

Arrayed with tatters of old Beliefs, foul with poison of Superstition, they enviously stalk behind Thought, grumbling and haggling and disputing her dominion. For they cannot overtake her, as the raven cannot overtake the eagle. And but seldom can they unite their voice with the voice of Thought in one mighty chorus.

Here also is Man's eternal mate—silent Death: ever ready to bekiss his throbbing heart, his heart that panteth after life.

In his immortal retinue Man knows every one; and one more does he know—Madness.

A winged monster is she, mighty and swift like a tempest; and like a tempest is she raging around Thought, seeking to draw her into a frenzied whirl.

Yea, he knows all of them: weak, imperfect, monstrous creatures of his own spirit are they all.

And only Thought is Man's friend, and to her is he cleaving, for it is her light that illumines his path, pierces the darkness of Life's Riddles, of Nature's Secrets, and of the dismal chaos in his own heart.

A free and true friend is she, and nothing escapes her gaze.

She knows Love's vile and cunning tricks, her cringing mien, enticing ways, and the stamp of rank lust upon her face. On the face of Hope she reads impotence and timidity, and behind Hope she sees her twin-sister Deceit: bedizened, bedaubed Deceit, full of sweet words, ever ready to beguile Man and to console him—with a lie. In the warmish heart of Friendship, Thought feels the calculating prudence, the cruel, empty curiosity, the foul ulcers of envy, with the germs of calumny in them.

Sovereign Thought knows also the hidden power of black Hate. Yea, she knows that Hate, once unchained, would fain destroy all on earth; would not even spare the tender shoots of Justice.

In Faith, Thought reveals a longing to enslave Man's feelings, a craving for unbounded domination. Thought exposes in Faith the hidden claws of Fanaticism, the impotence of her sluggish wings, and the blindness of her empty eyes.

Thought, sovereign Thought, by whose wondrous power Brute was changed into Man; by whose power Sciences, Philosophies, Gods, were created—immortal, free Thought abhors Death, and is at war with that fruitless and often malicious power.

For unto a ragman does Thought compare Death—unto an

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unscrupulous ragman, who searches the back yards for offal and refuse, and surreptitiously gathers into his foul bag the good and the quick.

Foul with decay, wrapped in horror unspeakable as with a mantle, impassive, formless, silent Death stands like a dark and terrible riddle before Man, and Thought is jealously studying her, madly defiant, sunlike, creative, and proudly conscious of her own immortality.

So is Man treading his path, through the dismal Darkness of Nature's Riddles, ever advancing, mounting higher and ever higher!