 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTER XIII.
Is your memory a daguerreotype machine, taking instantaneous
likenesses of whatsoever the light of imagination
happens to rest upon? I wish mine were not; especially
in a city like this—unless it would be more select in its
choice, and engrave only the beautiful. Though I should
greatly prefer the green fields, with cows, chewing the cud,
under shady trees, by the side of deep, quiet pools—still I
would find no fault, to have my gallery partly filled with the
palaces of our “merchant princes,” built of the sparkling
Sing Sing marble, which glitters in the sunlight, like fairy
domes; but the aforesaid daguerreotype will likewise engrave
of Division-street, protruding its sharp corners into the
midst of things, determined that all the world shall see it,
whether it will or no, and covered with signs from cellar
to garret, to blazen forth all it contains. 'Tis a caricature
likeness of the nineteenth century; and like the nineteenth
century it plagues me; I would I could get quit of it.
I know certain minds, imbued with poetic philosophy,
who earnestly seek all forms of outward beauty in this
world, believing that their images become deeply impressed
on the soul that loves them, and thus constitute its scenery
through eternity. If I had faith in this theory, that large
and many-labelled thing of bricks and mortar, at the corner
of Division-street, would almost drive me mad; for though
the spirit of beauty can witness that I love it not, its lines
are branded into my mind with most disagreeable distinctness.
I know not why it is so; for assuredly this is not a
sinner above many other structures, built by contract, and
inhabited by trade.
Luckily, no forms can re-appear in another world, which
are not within the soul. The sublime landscape there belongs
to him who has spiritually retired apart into high
places to pray; not to the cultivated traveller with his
mind's portfolio filled with images of Alpine scenery, or of
huge Plinlimmen veiled in clouds. The gardens there are
not for nabobs, who exchange rupees for rare and fragrant
roses; but for humble, loving souls, who cherish those
sweet charities of life, that lie, “scattered at the feet of
man like flowers.” Thanks be to Him who careth for all
he hath made, the poor child running about naked in the
miserable abodes at Five Points, though the whole of his
mortal life should be of hardship and privation, may, by the
grace of God, fashion for himself as beautiful an eternity,
as Victoria's son; nay, perchance his situation bad as it
is, involves even less danger of losing that beauty which
pass away, like mist before the rising sun. The outward
is but a seeming and a show; the inward alone is permanent
and real.
That men have small faith in this, is witnessed by their
doings. Parents shriek with terror to see a beloved child
on the steep roof of lofty buildings, lest his body should fall
a mutilated heap upon the pavement; but they can, without
horror, send him to grow rich by trade, in such places
as Havana or New Orleans, where his soul is almost sure
to fall, battered and crushed, till scarcely one feature of
God's image remains to be recognised. If heaven were
to them as real as earth, they could not thus make contracts
with Satan, to buy the shadow for the substance.
Alas, how few of us, even the wisest and the best, believe
in Truth, and are willing to trust it altogether.—How we
pass through life in simulation and false shows! In our
pitiful anxiety how we shall appear before men, we forget
how we appear before angels. Yet is their “public
opinion” somewhat that concerns us most nearly. Passing
by the theatre, I saw announced for performance a comedy,
called the “Valley de Sham.” That simple sentence of
mis-spelled French brought to my mind a whole rail-road
train of busy thought. I smiled as I read it, and said
within myself, Is not that comedy New-York? Nay, is
not the whole world a Valley of Sham? Are not you, and
I, and every other mortal, the “valet” of some “sham” or
other?
Of masking and disguise,
Where men on men still gleam,
With falseness in their eyes;
Where all is counterfeit,
And truth hath never say;
Where hearts themselves do cheat,
Concealing hope's decay;
Themselves do liars make.”
“Go search thy heart, poor fool,
And mark its passions well;
'Twere time to go to school—
'Twere time the truth to tell—
'Twere time this world should cast
Its infant slough away,
And hearts burst forth at last,
Into the light of day:—
'Twere time all learned to be
Fit for Eternity.”
My friend, hast thou ever thought how pleasant, and
altogether lovely, would be a life of entire sincerity, married
to perfect love? The wildest stories of magic skill, or fairy
power, could not equal the miracles that would be wrought
by such a life; for it would change this hollow masquerade
of veiled and restless souls into a place of divine communion.
Oh, let us no longer utter false, squeaking voices, through
our stifling masks. If we have attained so far as to speak
no lie, let us make the nobler effort to live none. Art thou
troubled with vain fears concerning to-day's bread and tomorrow's
garment? Let thy every word and act be perfect
truth, uttered in genuine love; and though thou mayest
ply thy spiritual trades all unconscious of their results, yet
be assured that thus, and thus only, canst thou weave royal
robes of eternal beauty, and fill ample storehouses, to remain
long after Wall-street and State-street have crumbled
into dust.
Be true to thyself. Let not the forms of business, or the
conventional arrangements of society, seduce thee into falsehood.
Have no fears of the harshness of sincerity. Truth
is harsh, only when divorced from Love. There is no refinement
like holiness; “for which humility is the other
tones, which the world lisps and stammers, to imitate, as
best she can, the pure language known to us only in beautiful
fragments. Not through the copy shall the fair original
ever be restored.
Above all, be true to thyself in religious utterance, or
remain for ever silent. Speak only according to thy own
genuine, inward experience; and look well to it, that thou
repeatest no phrase prescribed by creeds, or familiarly used
by sects, unless that phrase really conveys some truth into
thine own soul. There is far too much of this muttering
of dead language. Indeed, the least syllable of it is too
much, for him who has faith in the God of truth. Wouldst
thou give up thy plain, expressive English, to mumble Greek
phrases, without the dimmest perception of their meaning,
because schools and colleges have taught that they mean
thus and so? Or wilt thou maintain a blind reverence for
words, which really have no more life for thee than old garments
stuffed with chaff? Multitudes who make no “profession
of religion,” as the phrase is, are passively driven in the
traces of a blind sectarism from which they lack either the
energy or the courage to depart. When I see such startled
by an honest inquiry what is really meant by established
forms, or current phrases, I am reminded of the old man
in the play, who said, “I speak no Greek, though I love
the sound on't; it goes so thundering, as it conjured devils.”
Not against any form, or phrase, do I enter a protest; but
only against its unmeaning use. If to thy soul it really
embodies truth, to thee it should be most sacred. But spiritual
dialects, learned and spoken by rote, are among the
worst of mockeries. “The man who claims to speak as
books enable, as synods use, as fashion guides, or as interest
commands, babbles. Let him hush.”
Be true to thy friend. Never speak of his faults to another,
to show thy own discrimination; but open them all to
errors and his sins, be they ever so many; but do not excuse
the slightest deviation from rectitude. Never forbear
to dissent from a false opinion, or a wrong practice, from
mistaken motives of kindness; nor seek thus to have thy
own weaknesses sustained; for these things cannot be
done without injury to the soul. “God forbid,” says Emerson,
“that when I look to friendship as a firm rock to sustain
me in moral emergencies, I should find it nothing but a
mush of concession. Better be a nettle in the side of my
friend, than to be merely his echo.”
As thou wouldst be true to thy friend, be so likewise to
thy country. Love her, with all her faults; but on the
faults themselves pour out thy honest censure. Thus shalt
thou truly serve her, and best rebuke the hirelings that
would make her lose her freedom for the tickling of her
ears.
Lastly, be true to the world. Benevolence, like music,
is a universal language. It cannot freely utter itself in dialects,
that belong to a nation, or a clan. In its large significance,
the human race is to thee a brother and a friend.
Posterity needs much at thy hands, and will receive much,
whether thou art aware of it, or not. Thou mayest deem
thyself without influence, and altogether unimportant. Believe
it not. Thy simplest act, thy most casual word, is
cast into “the great seed-field of human thought, and will reappear,
as poisonous weed, or herb-medicinal, after a
thousand years.”
Many live as if they were not ashamed to adopt practically
the selfish creed, uttered in folly or in fun, “Why
should I do anything for posterity? Posterity has done
nothing for me.” Ay; but the Past has done much for
thee, and has given the Future an order upon thee for the
payment. If thou hast received counterfeit coin, melt out
the dross, and return true metal.
| Letters from New York | |