 | The coronal |  |
THE FIRST AND LAST BOOK.
One remembers writing his first book as
distinctly as he recollects the first time he
saw the ocean. Like the unquiet sea, all
the elements of our nature are then heaving
and tumultuous. Restless, insatiable ambition,
is on us like a fiery charm. Every thing
partakes of the brightness and boundlessness
of our own hopes. Nature is encircled with
a perpetual glory; and the seasons, as they
pass on, scatter pearls and diamonds for our
abundant fancy. It then seems strange how
mortals can avoid being intellectually great;
for irresistible inspiration appears to stream
in upon the human mind, like the light and
heat of the sun. Creation is an open volume
of poetry and truth, and it seems as if whoever
glanced upon it must read what angels
have written there.
We then feel interested in all the world,
and think all the world must feel interested
in us: yet it is not vanity—it is simply the
expansive power of a youthful ambitious
mind, measuring its strength by its hopes.
We then write because we cannot help it—
the mind is a full fountain that will overflow
—and if the waters sparkle as they fall, it is
from their own impetuous abundance.
Such are the feelings with which we write
at first. Afterward, the cares of the world
press heavily on the spirit. The smiles of
the public no longer have power to kindle
us into enthusiastic energy; and its frowns
fall like a shadow on the rock. We learn
that ambition is not always power—that the
eager eye may be fastened on the sun, but
the weary wing can never reach it.
The goal, which once appeared bright in
the distance, is despised because another still
brighter lies beyond it—and when we know
how unsatisfactory that too would prove, if
gained, how can it be pursued with eagerness?
Whoever seeks for fame rolls the stone of
Sisyphus. When we have grown old at the
makes us smile in sad mockery of its hopes;
and we feel that imagination has no bitterer
curse to bestow upon an enemy.
But thoughts like these are merely the occasional
struggles of the giant beneath the
mountain he cannot heave from him. In
general, the love of quiet rests on the mind
like a drowsy spell; and we are well content
to have for our epitaph that we have lived,
and have died. Alas, that the proud and
weary spirit cannot always rest! The opal,
pale, and cold, and cloudy, as it seems, has a
spark of fire forever imprisoned in its bosom.
The last book, like the first, may indeed
be written because we cannot help it: not that
the full mind overflows—but the printer's
boy stands at our elbow. We then look to
bookseller's accounts for inspiration, hunt for
pearls because we have promised to furnish
them, and string glass beads because they
will sell better than diamonds.
Such is the difference between the first and
last of all things the world can give us. We
start fresh and vigorous, as if life were a revelry—the
worth the winning—and we pause mid-way
tired and disheartened, content to dream ourselves
into the realities of death.
But there are gifts, over which the world
has no power. Religious hope, and deep
domestic love, can meet no change, except
the transfer from a happy earth to a happier
heaven. The heart,—blessed be God! the
heart never grows old.
| The coronal | |