University of Virginia Library

LETTER XXIV.

When the spirit is at war with its outward environment,
because it is not inwardly dwelling in trustful obedience to
its God, how often does some very slight incident bring it
back, humble, and repentant, to the Father's footstool! A
few days since, cities seemed to me such hateful places,
that I deemed it the greatest of hardships to be pent up
therein. As usual, the outward grew more and more detestable,
as it reflected the restlessness of the inward.
Piles of stones and rubbish, left by the desolating fire,
looked more hot and dreary than ever; they were building
brick houses between me and the sunset—and in my requiring
selfishness, I felt as if it were my sunset, and no
man had a right to shut it out; and then to add the last
drop to my vexation, they painted the roof of house and
piazza as fierce a red as if the mantle of the great fire, that

destroyed its predecessor, had fallen over them. The wise
course would have been, to try to find something agreeable
in a red roof, since it suited my neighbour's convenience to
have one. But the head was not in a mood to be wise,
because the heart was not humble and obedient; so I fretted
inwardly about the red roof, more than I would care to
tell in words; I even thought to myself, that it would be
no more than just and right if people with such bad taste
should be sent to live by themselves on a quarantine island.
Then I began to think of myself as a most unfortunate and
ill-used individual, to be for ever pent up within brick walls
without even a dandelion to gaze upon; from that I fell to
thinking of many fierce encounters between my will and
necessity, and how will had always been conquered, chained,
and sent to the treadmill to work. The more I thought
after this fashion, hotter glared the bricks, and fiercer
glowed the red roof, under the scorching sun. I was
making a desert within, to paint its desolate likeness on the
scene without.

A friend found me thus, and having faith in Nature's
healing power, he said, “Let us seek green fields and
flowery nooks.” So we walked abroad; and while yet
amid the rattle and glare of the city, close by the iron railway,
I saw a very little, ragged child stooping over a small
patch of stinted, dusty grass. She rose up with a broad
smile over her hot face, for she had found a white clover!
The tears were in my eyes. “God bless thee, poor
child!” said I; “thou hast taught my soul a lesson, which
it will not soon forget. Thou, poor neglected one, can't
find blossoms by the dusty wayside, and rejoice in thy
hard path, as if it were a mossy bank strewn with violets.”
I felt humbled before that ragged, gladsome child. Then
saw I plainly that walls of brick and mortar did not, and
could not, hem me in. I thought of those who loved me,
and every remembered kindness was a flower in my path;

I thought of intellectual gardens, where this child might
perchance never enter, but where I could wander at will
over acres broad as the world; and if even there, the restless
spirit felt a limit, lo, poetry had but to throw a ray
thereon, and the fair gardens of earth were reflected in the
heavens like the fata morgana of Italian skies, in a drapery
of rainbows. Because I was poor in spirit, straightway
there was none so rich as I. Then was it revealed
to me that only the soul which gathers flowers by the dusty
wayside can truly love the fresh anemone by the running
brook, or the trailing arbutus hiding its sweet face among
the fallen leaves. I returned home a better and wiser woman,
thanks to the ministry of that little one. I saw that I
was not ill-used and unfortunate, but blessed beyond others;
one of Nature's favourites, whom she ever took to her
kindly heart, and comforted in all seasons of distress and
waywardness. Though the sunset was shut out, there still
remained the roseate flush of twilight, as if the sun, in
answer to my love, had written to me a farewell message
on the sky. The red piazza stood there, blushing for him
who painted it; but it no longer pained my eyesight; I
thought what a friendly warmth it would have, seen through
the wintry snows. Oh, blessed indeed are little children!
Mortals do not understand half they owe them; for the
good they do us is a spiritual gift, and few perceive how it
intertwines the mystery of life. They form a ladder of
garlands on which the angels descend to our souls; and
without them, such communication would be utterly lost.
Let us strive to be like little children.

As I mused on the altered aspect of the outward world,
according to the state of him who looked upon it, I raised to
my eye a drop from a broken chandelier. That glass fragment
was like a fairy wand, or Aladdin's wondrous lamp.
The line of tumbling wooden shantees, which I had often
blamed the capricious fire for sparing, the piles of lime and

stones that wearied my eyesight, were at once changed
to rainbows; even the offensive red roof smiled upon me
in the softened beauty of purple and gold. Not earth, but
the medium through which earth is seen, produces beauty.
I said to myself, “Whereunto shall I liken this angular bit
of glass?” The answer came to me in music—in words
and tones of song: “The faith touching all things with
hues of heaven.” Then prayed I earnestly for that faith,
as a perpetual gift. Prayer, earnest and true, rose from
that fragment of broken glass; thus from things most common
and trivial, spring the highest and the holiest.

I thought then that I would never again look on outward
circumstances, except in the cheerful light of a trusting and
grateful heart. Yet within a week, came the restless comparing
of me with thee. If I could only be situated as such
an one was, how good I could be, and how much good I
would do. I said within myself, “This must not be. If
I indulge this train of thought, the walls will again crowd
upon me, and the bricks glare worse than ever.” So I
walked to the Battery, to look at moonlight on the water;
in full faith that “Nature never did betray the heart that
loved her.” The moon had not yet risen; but softly from
the recesses of Castle Garden came tones of music, welcome
to my soul as a mother's voice. We walked in,
thinking only to hear the band, and lounge quietly on a
seat overhanging the water. All pleasure in this world is
but the cessation of some pain; and they only who work
unto weariness, in mind or body, can fully enjoy the luxury
of repose. And this repose was so perfect, so strengthening!
Instead of the pent-up, stifling air of the central city,
was a cool, evening breeze, gentle as if a thousand winged
messengers fanned one's cheeks for love; below, the ever-flowing
water laved the stones with a refreshing sound;
round us floated music, so plaintive and so shadowy! It
sung “The light of other days”—the very voice of moonlight,

soft and trembling over the dim waters of the Past;
and then, as if the atmosphere were not already bathed in
sufficient beauty, slowly rose the mild, majestic moon; and
the water-spirits hailed her presence with mazy, undulating
dance, as if rejoicing in the glittering wealth of jewelry she
gave. At such an hour, beyond all others, does nature
seem to be filled with an inward, hidden life; in serious and
beseeching tones, she seems to say, “Lo I reveal unto you
a great mystery, lying at the foundation of all being. I
speak it in all tones, I write it in all colours. When will
the mortal arise who understands my language?” And a
sacred voice answers, “When His will is done on earth,
as it is done in heaven.” In the midst of such communion,
the soul feels that
Wings wave in the air, voices speak through the sea, and
the rustling trees are whispering spirits. It was this yearning
after the spiritual that pervades all things, whose presence,
never found, is constantly revealed in so many
echoes—it is this dim longing, which of old “peopled space
with life and mystical predominance;” this filled the grove
with dryads, the waves with nymphs, the earth with fairies,
the sky with angels. The external and the sensual call
this the ravings of Imagination; and they know not that
she is the priestess of high Truth.

All this I did not think of, as I leaned over the waters of
Castle Garden; but this, and far more, was spoken into
my heart; and I shall find it all recorded in rainbow letters,
on my journal there beyond.

In such listening mood, when the outward lay before me,
in hieroglyphic symbols of a volume so infinite, I turned
with a feeling of sadness toward a painted representation
of Vera Cruz, which the bill proclaimed was to be taken

by the French fleet that evening, for the amusement of
spectators. The imitation of a distant city was certainly
good, speaking according to the theatrical standard: but it
seemed to me desecration, that Art should thus intrude
her delusions into the sanctuary of Nature. In a mood
less elevated, I might have scorned her pretensions, with a
proud impatience; but as it was, I simply felt sad at the
incongruity. I looked at the moon in her serene beauty,
at the little boats, here floating across the veil of silver
blonde, which she had thrown over the dancing waves, and
there, with lanterns, gliding like fire-flies among the deep
distant shadows; and I said if Art ventures into this presence,
let her come only as the Greek Diana, or marble
nymph sleeping on her urn.

But Art revenged herself for the slight estimation in
which I held her. She could not satisfy me with beauty
harmonious with Nature; but she charmed with the brilliancy
of contrast. Opposite me I saw a light mildly
splendid, as if seen through an atmosphere of motionless
water. It had a fairy look, and I could not otherwise than
observe it, from time to time, though the moonbeams played
so gracefully and still. Anon, with a whizzing sound, it
became a wheel of fire; then it changed to a hexagon, set
with emeralds, topaz, and rubies; then circles of orange,
white, and crimson light revolved swiftly round a resplendent
centre of amethyst; then it became flowers made of
gems; and after manifold changes of unexpected beauty, it
revolved a large star, set with jewels of all rainbow hues,
over which there fell a continual fountain of golden rain.
It was called the kaleidescope; and its fairy splendour far
exceeded anything I ever imagined of fireworks. I asked
pardon of insulted Art, and thanked her, too, for the pleasure
she had given me.

I turned again to moonlight and silence, and my happy
spirit carried no discord there. Even when I thought of

returning to the hot and crowded city, I said, “This too
will I do in cheerfulness. I will learn of Nature to love
all, and do all.” Slowly, and with loving reluctance, we
turned away from the moon-lighted waters; then came
across the waves the liquid melody of a flute; it called us
back with such friendly, sweet intreaty, that we could not
otherwise than stop to listen to its last silvery cadence.
Again we turned away, and had nearly made our escape,
when an accordion from a distant boat, in softened accents
begged us still to linger. Then a band on board the newly-arrived
French frigate struck up the Cracovienne, the
expressive dance of Poland, bringing with it images of romantic
grace, and strange, deep thoughts of the destiny of
nations.—We lingered and lingered. Nature and Art
seemed to have conspired that night to do their best to
please us. At last, the sounds died away; and stepping
to their echo in our memories, we passed out; the iron gate
of the Battery clanked behind us; the streets reared their
brick walls between us and the loveliness of earth and heaven.
But they could not shut it out; for it had passed into
our souls.

You will smile, and say the amount of all this romancing
is a confession that I was a tired and wayward child, needing
moonlight and a show to restore my serenity. And
what of that? If I am not too perfect to be in a wayward
humour, I surely will not be too dignified to tell of it. I
say, as Bettine does to Gunderode: “How glad I am to be
so insignificant. I need not fork up discreet thoughts when
I write to thee, but just narrate how things are. Once I
thought I must not write unless I could give importance to
the letter by a bit of moral, or some discreet thought; now
I think not to chisel out, or glue together my thoughts.
Let others do that. If I must write so, I cannot think.”