37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE MYSTICAL MASTER INTRODUCES THE PRACTICAL DISCIPLE.
“Both, the subject and the interlocutor,” replied
the stranger rising, and waiting the return towards him
of a promenader, that moment turning at the further
end of his walk.
“Egbert!” said he, calling.
Egbert, a well-dressed, commercial-looking gentleman
of about thirty, responded in a way strikingly deferential,
and in a moment stood near, in the attitude less of
an equal companion apparently than a confidential follower.
“This,” said the stranger, taking Egbert by the hand
and leading him to the cosmopolitan, “this is Egbert, a
disciple. I wish you to know Egbert. Egbert was the
first among mankind to reduce to practice the principles
of Mark Winsome—principles previously accounted as
less adapted to life than the closet. Egbert,” turning
to the disciple, who, with seeming modesty, a little
shrank under these compliments, “Egbert, this,” with
a salute towards the cosmopolitan, “is, like all of us, a
stranger. I wish you, Egbert, to know this brother
stranger; be communicative with him. Particularly if,
by anything hitherto dropped, his curiosity has been
roused as to the precise nature of my philosophy, I trust
you will not leave such curiosity ungratified. You,
Egbert, by simply setting forth your practice, can do
more to enlighten one as to my theory, than I myself
can by mere speech. Indeed, it is by you that I myself
best understand myself. For to every philosophy are
certain rear parts, very important parts, and these, like
the rear of one's head, are best seen by reflection.
Now, as in a glass, you, Egbert, in your life, reflect
to me the more important part of my system. He, who
approves you, approves the philosophy of Mark Winsome.”
Though portions of this harangue may, perhaps, in the
phraseology seem self-complaisant, yet no trace of self-complacency
was perceptible in the speaker's manner,
which throughout was plain, unassuming, dignified, and
manly; the teacher and prophet seemed to lurk more
in the idea, so to speak, than in the mere bearing of him
who was the vehicle of it.
“Sir,” said the cosmopolitan, who seemed not a little
interested in this new aspect of matters, “you speak of
a certain philosophy, and a more or less occult one it
may be, and hint of its bearing upon practical life; pray,
tell me, if the study of this philosophy tends to the
same formation of character with the experiences of the
world?”
“It does; and that is the test of its truth; for any
philosophy that, being in operation contradictory to the
ways of the world, tends to produce a character at odds
with it, such a philosophy must necessarily be but a
cheat and a dream.”
“You a little surprise me,” answered the cosmopolitan;
“for, from an occasional profundity in you, and also
from your allusions to a profound work on the theology
of Plato, it would seem but natural to surmise that, if
you are the originator of any philosophy, it must needs
so partake of the abstruse, as to exalt it above the comparatively
vile uses of life.”
“No uncommon mistake with regard to me,” rejoined
the other. Then meekly standing like a Raphael: “If
still in golden accents old Memnon murmurs his riddle,
none the less does the balance-sheet of every man's
ledger unriddle the profit or loss of life. Sir,” with calm
energy, “man came into this world, not to sit down and
muse, not to befog himself with vain subtleties, but to
gird up his loins and to work. Mystery is in the morning,
and mystery in the night, and the beauty of mystery
is everywhere; but still the plain truth remains, that
mouth and purse must be filled. If, hitherto, you have
supposed me a visionary, be undeceived. I am no oneideaed
one, either; no more than the seers before me.
Was not Seneca a usurer? Bacon a courtier? and Swedenborg,
though with one eye on the invisible, did he
not keep the other on the main chance? Along with
whatever else it may be given me to be, I am a man of
serviceable knowledge, and a man of the world. Know
me for such. And as for my disciple here,” turning towards
him, “if you look to find any soft Utopianisms
and last year's sunsets in him, I smile to think how he
will set you right. The doctrines I have taught him
will, I trust, lead him neither to the mad-house nor the
poor-house, as so many other doctrines have served credulous
sticklers. Furthermore,” glancing upon him
paternally, “Egbert is both my disciple and my poet.
For poetry is not a thing of ink and rhyme, but of
thought and act, and, in the latter way, is by any one to
be found anywhere, when in useful action sought. In
a word, my disciple here is a thriving young merchant,
a practical poet in the West India trade. There,” presenting
Egbert's hand to the cosmopolitan, “I join you,
and leave you,” With which words, and without bowing,
the master withdrew.
