Read Ebook: The Angel in the Cloud by Fuller Edwin W Edwin Wiley

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 190 lines and 50767 words, and 4 pages

THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD

EDWIN W. FULLER

TO THE

HALLOWED MEMORY OF MY FATHER,

WHO,

EVEN WHILE I WAS GAZING UPON THE GOLDEN CITY

PASSED WITHIN ITS WALLS,

THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS INSCRIBED,

WITH TEARS.

PREFACE To those who may favor these pages with perusal, I make this earnest request: that, if they commence, they will read all. Knowing that the best mode of dealing with doubts is to state and refute, successively, I regret that the plan of the present work forces a separation of the statement and refutation. To read one without the other were to defeat the object in view; hence my request.

Many of the subjects of thought are worn smooth with the touch of ages, so that hope for originality is as slender as the bridge of Al Sirat; but in the bulrush ark of self-confidence, pitched with Faith, I commit my first-born to the Nile of public opinion; whether to perish by crocodile critics, or bask in the palace of favor, the Future, alone, must determine. May Pharaoh's daughter find it!

E. W. F.

LOUISBURG, Jan. 17th, 1871.

A NOTE

August, 1907.

THE ANGEL IN THE CLOUD

'Twas noon in August, and the sultry heat Had driven me from sunny balcony Into the shaded hall, where spacious doors Stood open wide, and lofty windows held Their sashes up, to woo the breeze, in vain. The filmy lace that curtained them was still, And every silken tassel hung a-plumb. The maps and unframed pictures o'er the wall Gave not a rustle; only now and then Was heard the jingling sound of melting ice, Deep in a massive urn, whose silver sides With trickling dewbeads ran. The little birds, Up in their cages, perched with open beaks, And throbbing throats, upon the swaying rings, Or plashed the tepid water in their cups With eager breast. My favorite pointer lay, With lolling tongue, and rapid panting sides, Beside my chair, upon the matted floor. All things spoke heat, oppressive heat intense, Save swallows twittering up the chimney-flue, Whose hollow flutterings sounded cool alone. To find relief I seized my hat and book, And fled into the park. Along a path Of smoothest gravel, oval, curving white, Between two rows of closely shaven hedge, I passed towards a latticed summer-house; A fairy bower, built in Eastern style, With spires, and balls, and fancy trellis-work, O'er which was spread the jasmine's leafy net, To snare the straying winds. Within I fell Upon a seat of woven cane, and fanned My streaming face in vain. The very winds Seemed to have fled, and left alone the heat To rise from parch?d lawn and scorching fields, Like trembling incense to the blazing god. The leaves upon the wan and yellow trees Hung motionless, as if of rigid steel; And e'en the feath'ry pendula of spray, With faintest oscillation, dared not wave. The withered flowers shed a hot perfume, That sickened with its fragrance; and the bees Worked lazily, as if they longed to kick The yellow burdens from their patient thighs, And rest beneath the ivy parasols. The butterflies refrained from aimless flight, And poised on blooms with gaudy, gasping wings. The fountain scarcely raised its languid jet An inch above its tube; the basin deigned A feeble ripple for its tinkling fall, And rolled the little waves with noiseless beat Against the marble side. The bright-scaled fish All huddled 'neath the jutting ledge's shade, Where, burnished like their magnet toy types, They rose and fell as if inanimate; Or, with a restless stroke of tinted fin, Turned in their places pettishly around; While, with each move, the tiny whirlpools spun Like crystal dimples on the water's face. The sculptured lions crouched upon the edge, With gaping jaws, and stony, fix?d eyes, That ever on the pool glared thirstily. Deep in the park, beneath the trees, were grouped The deer, their noses lowered to the earth, To snuff a cooler air; their slender feet Impatient stamping at the teasing flies; While o'er their heads the branching antlers spread, A mocking skeleton of shade! A fawn, Proud of his dappled coat, played here and there, Regardless of repose; the silver bell, That tinkled from a band of broidered silk, Proclaiming him a petted favorite. Save him alone, all things in view sought rest, And wearied Nature seemed to yield the strife, And smold'ring wait her speedy sacrifice.

The heat grew hotter as I watched its work, And with its fervor overcome, I rose, And through the grounds, towards an orchard bent My faltering steps in full despair of ease. Down through the lengthened rows of laden trees, Whose golden-freighted boughs o'erlapped the way, I hurried till I reached the last confines. Here stood a gnarl?d veteran, now too old To bear much fruit, but weaving with its leaves So dense a shade, the smallest fleck of sun Could not creep through. Beneath it spread a couch Of velvet moss, fit for the slumbers of a king. Here prone I fell, at last amid a scene That promised refuge from the glaring heat. Beyond me stretched the orchard's canopy Of thick, rank foliage, almost drooping down Upon the green plush carpet underneath. Close at my feet a crystal spring burst forth, And rolled its gurgling waters down the glade Now spreading in a rilling silver sheet O'er some broad rock, then gath'ring at its base Into a foamy pool that churned the sand, And mingling sparks of shining isinglass, It danced away o'er gleamy, pebbly bed, Where, midst the grassy nooks and fibrous roots, The darting minnows played at hide and seek, Oft fluttering upwards, to the top, to spit A tiny bubble out, or slyly snap Th' unwary little insect hov'ring near; Till, by its tributes widened to a brook, It poured its limpid waters undefiled In to the river's dun and dirty waves,-- A type of childhood's guileless purity, That mingling with the sordid world is lost.

Far in the distance, lofty mountains loomed, Their blue sides trembling in the sultry haze. From me to them spread varicultured fields, That formed a patchwork landscape, which deserved The pencil of a Rembrandt and his skill; The hardy yellow stubble smoothly shaved, With boldness lying 'neath the scorching sun; The suffering corn, with tasselled heads all bowed, And twisted arms appealing, raised to Heaven; The meadows faded by the constant blaze; The cattle lying in the hedge's shade; Across the landscape drawn a glitt'ring band, Where winds the river, like a giant snake, The ripples flashing like his polished scales. Above the scene a lonely vulture wheeled, Turning with every curve from side to side, As if the fierce rays broiled his dusky wings; And circling onwards, dwindled to a speck, And in the distance vanished out of sight! Complete repose was stamped on everything, Save where a tireless ant tugged at a crumb, To drag it o'er th' impeding spires of moss; And one poor robin, with her breast all pale And feather-scarce, hopped wearily along The streamlet's edge, with plaintive clock-like chirp, And searching, found and bore the curling worm, Up to the yellow-throated brood o'erhead. Behind the mountains reared the copper clouds Of summer skies, that whitened as they rose, Till bleached to snow, they drifted dreamily, Like gleaming icebergs, through the blue sublime. And as they, one by one, sailed far away, Methought they were as ships from Earth to Heaven, Thus slowly floating to the Eternal Port. The Thunder's muttered growl my reverie broke, And looking toward the West, I saw a storm, With gloomy wrath, had thrown its dark-blue line Of breastworks, quiv'ring with each grand discharge Of its own ordnance, o'er th' horizon's verge. Some time it stood to gloat upon its prey, Then, girding up its strength, began its march. Extending far its black gigantic arms, It grimly clambered up the tranquil sky; Till, half-way up the arch, its shaggy brows Scowled down in rage upon the frightened earth; While through its wind-cleft portals sped the darts, That brightly hurtled through the sultry air. And down the mountain-sides the shadow crept, A dark veil spreading over field and wood, Thus adding gloom to Nature's awful hush. The fleecy racks had fled far to the East, Where sporting safely in the gilding light, They mocked the angry monster's cumbrous speed.

Then, while I marked its progress, came a train, Of dark and doubting thoughts into my mind, And bitterly thus my reflections ran: Strange is the Providence that rules the world, That sets the Medean course of Nature's laws; Sometimes adapting law to circumstance, But oftener making law fulfilled a curse. Yon brewing storm in verdant summer comes, When vegetation spreads its foliage sails, That, like a full-rigged ship's, are easier torn; Why comes it not in winter, when the trees, With canvas reefed by Autumn's furling frosts, Could toss in nude defiance to the blast? The murd'rous wind precedes the gentle shower And ere the suffering grain has quenched its thirst, It bows the heavy head, alone of worth, And from the ripening stalk wrings out the life, While gayly nod the heads of chaff unharmed. The rank miasma floats in summer-time, When man must brave its poisoned breath or starve; It hovers sickliest over richest fields While over sterile lands the air is pure; The tallest oak is by the lightning riven, The hateful bramble on the ground is spared; The crop man needs demands his constant work, The weeds alone spring forth without the plow; The sweetest flowers wear the sharpest thorns, The deadliest reptiles lurk in fairest paths! Wherever Nature shows her brightest smile, 'Tis but a mask to hide her darkest frown. The tropics seem an Eden of luscious fruits And flowers, and groves of loveliest birds, and lakes That mirror their gay plumage flitting o'er; Where man may live in luxury of thought, Without the crime of schemes, or curse of toil-- The tropics seem a Hell, when all with life Are stifled with the foul sirocco's breath; When from the green-robed mountain's volcan top, A fire-fountain spouts its blazing jet Far up against the starry dome of Heaven; Returning in its vast umbrella shape, Leaps in red cataracts adown the slope, Shaves clean the mountain of its emerald hair, And leaves it bald with ashes on its head. Below, the valley is a crimson sea, Whose glowing billows break to white-hot foam; And as they surge amid the towering trees, They, tottering, bow forever to the waves; The leaves and branches, crackling into flame, Leave only clotted cinders floating there; The darting birds, their gaudy plumage singed, Fall fluttering in, with little puffs of smoke. The fleeing beasts are lapped in, bellowing, And charred to coal, drift idly with the tide. The red flood, breaking through the vale, rolls on Its devious way towards the sea; the glare Illuminating far its winding track, As if a devil flew with flaming torch, Or when an earthquake gapes its black-lined jaws, And, growling, gulps a city's busy throng Into its greedy bowels. Or the sea bursts forth Its bands of rock, and laughing at "Thus far!" Rolls wildly over peopled towns, and homes In fancied safety; playing fearful pranks, O'er which to chuckle in its briny bed; Jeering the stones because they cannot swim, And crushing like a shell all work of wood; Docking the laden ships upon the hills, And tossing lighter craft about like weeds; Till, wearied with the spoiling, sinks to rest.

Thus Nature to herself is but half kind, But over man holds fullest tyranny; And man, a creature who cannot prevent His own existence! Why not happy made? For surely 'twere as easy to create Man in a state of happiness and good, And keep him there, as to create at all. If misery's not deserved before his birth, Then misery must from purest malice flow; Yet malice none assign to Providence. But some may say: Were man thus happy made, He would not be a person, but a thing, And lose the very seed of happiness, The consciousness of merit. Grant 'tis true! Then why does merit rarely meet reward? And why does there appear a tendency, Throughout the polity divine, to mark With disapproval all the good in man, And bless the evil? Through the entire world Is felt this conflict: some strange power within Exciting us to good, while all events Proclaim its folly. Throughout Nature's laws, Through man in every station, up to God, This fatal contradiction glares. The storm, With ruthless breath, annihilates the cot That, frail and humble, shields the widow's head; And while she reads within the use-worn Book That none who trusts shall e'er be desolate, The falling timbers crush the promise out, And she is dead beneath her ruined home! The prostrate cottage passed, the very wind Now howls a rough but fawning lullaby Around the marble walls, and lofty dome, That shelter pride and heartless arrogance.

And when the Boaz Winter throws his skirt Of purest white across the lap of Earth, And decks her bare arborial hair with gems, Whose feeblest flash would pale the Koh-i-noor, The rich, alone, find beauty in the scene, And, clad in thankless comfort, brave the cold. The gliding steels flash through the feathery drifts, The jingling bells proclaiming happiness; Yet 'neath the furry robe the oath is heard, And boisterous laughter at the ribald jest. The coldest hearts beat 'neath the warmest clothes; And often all the blessings wealth can give, Are heaped on one, whose daily life reviles The very name of Him who doth bestow. While in a freezing garret, o'er the coals That, bluely flickering with the feeble flame, Seem cold themselves, a trusting Christian bends; Her faith all mocked by cruel circumstance. The cold, bare walls, the chilling air-swept floor; Some broken stools, a mattress stuffed with straw, Upholstering the apartment. Through the sash, The wind, with jagg?d lips of broken glass, Shrieks in its freezing spite. A cold-blued babe, With face too thin to hold a dimple's print, With famished gums tugs at the arid breast, Thrusting its bare, splotched arms, in eagerness, From out the poor white blanket's ravelled edge. Beside the mother sits a little boy, With one red frost-cracked hand spread out, in vain, To warm above the faintly-burning coals; The other pressing hardly 'gainst his teeth A stale and tasteless loaf of smallest size, Which lifting often to the mother's view, He offers part; she only shakes her head, And sadly smiles upon the gaunt young face. Yet in her basket, on a pile of work, An open Bible lies with outstretched leaves, Whose verses speak in keenest irony: "Do good," and "verily thou shalt be fed." And so through all the world, the righteous poor, The wicked rich. Deceit, and fraud, and craft Reap large rewards, while pure integrity Must gnaw the bone of faith with here and there A speck of flesh called consciousness of right, To reach the marrow in another world. But man within himself's the greatest paradox; "A little animal," as Voltaire says, And yet a greater wonder than the sun, Or spangled firmament. That little one Can weigh and measure all the wheeling worlds, But finds within his "five feet" home, a Sphinx Whose riddle he can never solve. "Thyself," The oracles of old bade men to know, As if to mock their very impotence; And man, to know himself, for centuries Has toiled and studied deep, in vain.-- Not man in flesh, for blest Hippocrates Bright trimmed his lamp, and passed it down the line, And each disciple adding of his oil, It blazes now above the ghastly corpse, Till every fibre, every thread-like vein, Is known familiar as a city's streets; The little muscle twitching back the lip, Rejoicing in a name that spans the page. But man in mind, that is not seen nor felt, But only knows he is, through consciousness. He sees an outside world, with all its throng Of busy people who care not for him, And only few that know he does exist; And yet he feels the independent world Is but effect produced upon himself, The Universe is packed within his mind, His mind within its little house of clay. What is that mind? Has it a formal shape? And has it substance, color, weight, or force? What are the chains that bind it to the flesh? That never break except in death, though oft The faculties are sent far out through space? Where is it placed, in head, or hands, or feet? And can it have existence without place? And if a place, it must extension have, And if extended, it is matter proven. Poor man! he has but mind to view mind with, And might as well attempt to see the eye Without a mirror! True, faint consciousness Holds up a little glass, wherein he sees A few vague facts that cannot satisfy. For these, and their attendant laws, have fought The mental champions of the world till now That each may deck them in his livery, And claim them as his own discovery.

Hedged in, man does not know that he is paled, And struggles fiercely 'gainst the boundaries, And strives to get a glimpse of those far realms Of thought sublime, where his short wings would sink With helpless fluttering, through the vast profound. Upon the coals of curiosity, A writhing worm, he's laid; and twists and turns, To find, in vain, the healing salve of Truth.

Upon this principal all law is made; For were man free he could not be controlled, And all compliance would be his caprice. But since he is the tyrant-motive's slave, The law to govern motive only seeks And builds its sanction on the base of pain, As motive strongest in the human heart. It only falls below perfection's height, Because there are exceptions to the rule; When hate and passion, lust and greed of gold, Prove stronger than the fear of distant pain. And could the law know fully every heart, And vary sanction, there would be no crime.

The world's a self-adjusting, vast machine, Whose human comparts cannot guide themselves; And each is but a puppet to the whole, Yet adds its mite towards its government; Here, in this motive circle, lies all Fate. Our fellow-men with motives furnish us, While we contribute to their motive fund. The real power, hidden deep within, Escapes the eye of careless consciousness; Who proudly tells us we are action's cause. Upon this error men, mistaken, raise The edifice of law in all its forms; That yet performs its varied functions well, Because it offers motives that restrain, Till stronger overcome, and crime ensues. The motive gibbet lifts its warning arms; The pillory gapes its scolloped lips for necks; The lash grows stiff with blood and shreds of flesh; The treadmill yields beneath the wearied feet; And Sabbath after Sabbath preachers tell Of judgment, and of awful Hell, and Heaven; All these, to stronger make, than lust of sin. And yet, to lead my reasoning to its end, I find a chaos of absurdity. If I am by an unruled motive driven, Why act at all? Why passive not recline Upon the lap of destiny, and wait her arms? Why struggle to acquire means of life, When Fate must fill our mouths or let us die? Why go not naked forth into the world, And trust to Fate for clothes? Why spring aside From falling weight, or flee a burning house, Or fight with instinct strength the clasp of waves? Because we cannot help it; every act Behind it has a motive, whose command We, willing or unwilling, must obey.

Law governs motives, motives create law; Between the reflex action man is placed, The helpless shuttlecock of unjust Fate! Now passive driven to commit a crime, Then by the driver laid upon the rack; A Zeno's slave, compelled by Fate to steal, And then compelled by Fate to bear the lash!

What gross injustice is the rule of life! A sentient being made without a will, And placed a cat's-paw in the hands of Fate, Who rakes the moral embers for a sin, That, found, must burn the helpless one alone. All right and wrong, and whate'er makes man man, Are gone, and language is half obsolete; No need of words to tell of moral worth Existing not, nor e'en conceivable; No words of blame or commendation, given According to the intention of a deed; No words of cheer or comfort, to incite, For man must act without our useless tongues; No words of prayer, if Fate supplies our wants; No words of prayer, if Fate locks up her store; No words of love, for fondest love were loathed If fanned by Fate to flame. No words of hate, For all forgive a wrong when helpless done; The buds that bloom upon the desert heart Lose all their sweetness when they're forced to grow; All pleasure's marred because it is not earned, And pain more painful since 'tis undeserved.

The field of Fate lies open; nothing bars Our progress there. A thousand different ways The path diverges. Every by-path leads To some foul pit or bottomless abyss. Along each side are strewed the whitening bones Of venturous pilgrims, lost amid its snares, Some broken on the rocks of gross decree, Who hold an unchanged destiny from birth; Who will not take a medicine if sick, Who cant of "To be, will be," and the time Unalterably set to each man's life. Some stranded on the finer form of Fate, Who say it works by means. Hence they believe In using all preventives to disease, In going boating in a rubber belt, In placing Franklin rods upon a house, In preaching, and in praying men repent. These, when one dies, cry out, "It was his time." Or if he should recover, "It was not." Their fate is always ex post facto fate, And knowing not the future, they abide The issue of events, and then confirm Their dogged dogmas. Still another class, Though fewer far in numbers, perish here. These are the sophists; men who deeply dive Beneath the surface of effect, and trace Our actions to their source. They find that man, Made in the glorious image of his God, Is not an independent cause, but works From motive causes out of his control. They find that every mental act must flow From outside source, then fearlessly ascend The chain of being to a height divine, And dare to fetter the Eternal mind, And throw their bonds around Omnipotence. As well a spider in an eagle's nest Might, from his hidden web among the twigs, Attempt to throw his little gluey thread Around the mottled wing, whose muscled strength Beats hurried vacuums in the ocean's spray, Or circling upward, parts the thunder-cloud, And bursts above; and shaking off the mists, With rigid feathers bright as burnished steel, Floats proudly through the tranquil air. Which realm Shall now be mine, Free-Will or Fate? The one Stands open wide, but all in ruin ends; The other, fair if once within the pale; But how to scale the barriers none can tell. Bah! all is doubt. I'll leave the mystic paths Where, on each side, are ranged the phantom shapes Of disputants, alive and dead, who fight, With foolish zeal, o'er myths intangible; When each one cries "Eureka!" for his creed. That scarcely lives a day, then yields its place. A Roman 'gainst a Roman, Greek to Greek, A zealous Omar with an Ali paired; A saintly Pharisee in hot dispute With Sadducees. Along th' illustrious rows Of lesser lights, who advocate the creeds Of their respective masters, we descend To later days and see Titanic minds Exert their giant strength to reach the truth, And, baffled, fall. Locke, ever elsewhere clear, Here mystified Spinoza's dizzy wing O'erweighted by his strange "imperium;" Hobbes, with his new intrinsic liberty; And Belsham's quaint reduction too absurd; "Sufficient reason," reared in Leibnitz's strength; Reid, Collins, Edwards, Tappan, Priestley, Clarke, All push each other from the door of Truth.

None ever have, nor ever will, on earth, Reach truth of theory concerning Fate. It stands as whole from every touch of man As ocean's broad blue scroll, whose rubber waves Erase the furrows of the plowing keels.

Then, careless whether man be king or slave, I'll take his actions, whether free or not, And trace them to their sources. Deep the dive, But, throwing off the buoys of Charity And Faith, and all the prejudice of life, I grasp the lead of Doubt, and downward sink Into the cesspool of the human heart, To find the fount, that to the surface casts A thousand bubbles of such varied hues: The pale white bubble of hypocrisy, The murky bubble of revenge and hate, The frail gilt bubble of ambition's hope, The rainbow bubble of sweet love in youth, The dull slime bubble of a sensual lust, The crystal bubble of true charity! Instead of analyzing every fact Of moral nature, searching for its source, I'll name a source most probable, and try The facts upon it; if they fit, confirm, If not, reject. With Hobbes and Paley then I join; and here avow that all mankind Have but one source of action--Love of self-- Yet not self-love as understands the world, For that's a name for error shown by few; But natural instinct that impels all men To give self pleasure, and to save it pain; For pain and pleasure are Life's only modes-- No neutral state--we suffer, or enjoy; And every action's linked with one of these. We cannot act without a consciousness, A consciousness of pleasure or of pain, The very automatic workings of our frames Are pleasures, unmarked from their constancy; But if impeded, they produce a pain. This instinct, teaching us to pleasure seek, And pain avoid, none ever disobey; For be their conduct what it may, a crime Or virtue, greed or pure benevolence, To find the greatest pleasure is their aim. Nay, start not, critic, but attend the proofs. A man exists within himself alone, Himself, or he would lose identity. To him the world exists but by effects Upon himself. His actions toward it then Bear reference to himself. He cannot act Without affecting self. His nature's law Demands that self be dealt with pleasantly.

The modes of pain and pleasure are then two, A real and a fancied one. The first acute, In ratio of our sensibilities; The last in ratio of our image-power. These gifts in different men unequal are, And hence life's varied phases. One may deem A real pain far greater than a pain In fancy formed, from others' sufferings; He eats alone, and drives the starving off. Another's fancy paints more vividly, And he endures keen hunger to supply The poor with food. And so of pleasure too,-- And this moves all to shun the greatest pain, And find the greatest pleasure. Different minds, And each at different times of life, possess A different standard of this highest good. The swaddled infant wails for its own food, Because its highest pleasure is alone in sense; The child will from its playmate hide a cake Until it learns that praise for sharing it Gives greater pleasure than the sweetened taste; One boy at school proves insubordinate, His schoolmates' praise he deems his highest good; Another studies well, because he values more A parent's smile. The murderer with his knife, The maiden praying in her purity, The miser dying over hoards of gold, The widow casting thither her two mites, A white-veil bending o'er the dying couch, A stained beauty floating through the waltz, The preacher's zeal, the gambler's eager zest; All have one motive, greatest good to self!

"But," cries my friend, "the preacher, if he's true, Must labor, not for self, but others' good; And in proportion as the self's forgot, And others cared for, does his conduct rise."

But he can not, if conscious, forget self, For everything he does is felt within; But deeds for others' good a pleasure give; If done in pain to self, the pleasure's more. To gain the pleasure, self is put to pain, Just as a vesication brings relief. If he refused to undergo the pain Remorse would double it. Among his flock Some one is sick; to visit him is right, And done, affords a pleasure. Sweeter far That pleasure, if he walks through snow and ice, At duty's call!

Sublime self-sacrifice, Of which men prate, is nothing more nor less Than base self-worship. Little pain endured T' avoid a great; a smaller pleasure lost To gain a larger!

All the preacher's words, That burn or die upon the stolid ear, Are spoken from this motive, good to self. You stare; but it is true. Why does he preach? To save men's souls?--Why does he try to save? Because he loves his fellow-men? Not so. His love for them but to the pleasure adds, Which duty done confers; but all his work Must be with reference to himself alone, Though cunning self the real motive hides, And leaves his broad philanthropy and love To claim the merit. Let a score of men, The blackest sinners, die. He knows it not, And feels no pang; but if he is informed, He suffers reflex pain. And if his charge, Remorseful tortures for unfaithfulness. And only is the state of souls to him Of interest, as they are known. When known, It is a source of pleasure or of pain Which all his labor is to gain or shun.

"This difference then," says one, "between men's lives; Some live for present, some for future good. The sensual care for self on earth alone, The mystic cares for self beyond the grave."

Both love a present self, in present time. They differ in their notions of its good. The stern ascetic, with his shirt of hair, His bleeding penitential knees, his fasts To almost death, his soul-exhausting prayers, Is seeking, cries the world, good after death. And yet his course of life is that alone Which could yield pleasure in his state of mind. He suffers, it is true, but hope of Heaven Thus rendered sure, as much a present good Is, as the food that feasts the epicure. The contemplation of his future home, Which he is thus securing, is a balm That heals his stripes, and sweetens all their pain. The penance blows upon his blood-wealed breast Are bliss compared to lashes of remorse. So for the greater good, the hope of Heaven, He undergoes "the trivial pain of flesh." The epicure cares not a fig for Heaven, But finds his greatest good in pleasing sense. And so the man who gives his wealth away Is just as selfish as the money-slave Who grinds out life amid his dusty bags. They both seek happiness with equal zest: The one finds pleasure in the many thanks Of those receiving, or the public's praise, Or if concealed, in consciousness of right; The other in the consciousness of wealth.

If all men act from motives just the same, Where is the right and wrong? In the effect? The quality of actions must be judged From their intent, and not their consequence. If two men matches light for their cigars, And from one careless dropped, a house is burned, Is he that dropped it guiltier of crime Than he whose match went out? Most surely no! Then is the miser blameless, though he turn The helpless orphan freezing from his door; And Dives should not be commended more, Though all his goods to feed the poor he gives.

How then shall we determine quality Of actions, when their sources are the same, And their effects possess no quality? Two dead men lie in blood beside the way, The one shot by a friend, an accident; The other murdered for his gold. 'Tis plain No wrong lies in th' effects, for both are 'like; And of the agents, he of accident Had no intent, and therefore did no wrong. The other killed to satisfy the self, A motive founding all the Christian work, And right if that is right. The wrong Then lies between the motive and effect, And must exist in the effecting means. Yet how within the means is wrong proved wrong? Jouffroy would say, because a disregard Of others' rights; for here he places good, When classifying Nature's moral facts. He makes the child first serve flesh self, Then moral self, and last to others' good Ascend, and general order. What a myth! As if man thought of others, save effect From them upon himself. But order gives A greater good to self; therefore he joins His strength to others, creates laws that bind Himself and them, and produce harmony. He thus surrenders minor good of self, To gain a greater. This is all the need He has of order, though Jouffroy asserts That order universal is the Good. Yet still he says that private good of each Is but a fragment of the absolute, And that regard for every being's rights Is binding as the universal law!

Regard for others' rights indeed, when men Unharmed agree to hang a man for crime! Not for the crime--that's past; but to prevent A second crime, which crime alone exists In apprehensive fancy. Thus for wrong That's but forethought, they do a real wrong. To save their rights from harm they fear may come. They strip a fellow-man of actual right, And highest, right of life; then dare to call Their action pure, divinely just, and good, And all the farce of empty names. They make Of gross injustice individual, A flimsy justice, for mankind at large, And cry, Let it be done, though Heaven fall! As if a whole could differ from its parts, Or right be made from wrong. Yet some may say That one is sacrificed for many's good, Or hung that many may avoid his fate; And that his crime deserved what he received.

To abstract good no man has found the key, Though in the various forms of concrete good We see the similars, and from these frame A good that serves the purposes of life. We pass it as we do the concept, "Man," But never ope to count the attributes. Our purest right is but approximate To this vague abstract idea, how obtained, We know not. Plato says 'tis memory Of previous life. Perhaps! 'Tis very dim In this; and yet it rocks the cradle world As strongly as the baby man can bear And so of truth, or aught abstract, we know Of such existence somewhere, that is all. "But we," cries one, "do hold some abstract truth, In perfect form. The truth of science' laws, The truths of numbers, each are perfect truths." The truths of science are hypotheses, And only true as far as they explain. But perfect truth must save all facts, That ever rose or possibly can rise. "The priest of Nature" thought he held the truth When throughout space he tracked the motes of light, And ground the sunbeams into dazzling dust. Our quivering waves through subtle ether flash, And drown Sir Isaac's atoms in a flood Of glorious truth; till some new fact shall rise To give our truth the lie, and cause a change Of theory. Our numbers no truth have, Or but a shadow, cast on Earth by truth Existent in some unknown world. We make Our little numbers fit the shadow's line As best they can, and boast eternal truth! Yet take a simple form of numbers, "two," We cannot have a perfect thought of this, Because the mind directly asks, two what? 'Tis not enough chameleon to feed On empty air. Two units, we reply Then what is meant by unity? An "One,"-- The mind can only cognize o-n-e, Which makes three units and not one. The mind Must have a concrete object to adjust The abstract on, before it comprehends. But two concretes are never two, because They never can be proved exactly 'like. To illustrate: suppose two ivory balls, Of finest mold, and equal weight, precise As hair-hung scales, arranged most delicate, Can prove; yet they can not be shown To differ, not the trillionth of a grain; Or if they could, they may in density Be unlike; then to equal weight, one must Be larger by the trillionth of an inch. Even if alike in density and weight, No one will dare assert that they possess A perfect similarity in all. The abstract two is twice as much as one, But our two balls unlike, perforce must be Greater or less than two of either one; But two of one, the same can never be On poor, imperfect Earth. Thus all our twos Fall, in some measure, short of concept two. And if we paint the concept to the eye, The figure 2 of finest stereotype, Beneath the microscope imperfect shows. And so our perfect numbers, wisdom's boast, Are faint, uncertain shadows in the mind, That we can never picture to the eye, Nor truthfully apply to anything. We use a ragged, ill-drawn substitute, That answers all the purposes of life. The truths of mathematics, so sublime, Are never true to us, concretely known; And in the abstract so concealed are they, No man can swear he has their perfect form. We can't conceive a line without some breadth-- The perfect line possesses length alone; Earth never saw a pure right-angle drawn, Pythag'ras cannot prove his theorem, The finest quadrant is but nearest truth, The closest measures but approximate, And all from Sanconiathon to Pierce, With grandest soaring into Number's realms, Have only fluttered feebly o'er the ground, Their heaven-strong wings by feebling matter tied.

Man is a pris'ner, but the prison walls Are very vast; so vast the universe Lies, like a mote, within their mighty scope. Most are content to grovel on the earth, Some rise a little way, and sink again; And some, on noble wing, soar to the bounds, And eager beat the bars. Beyond these walls The abstract lies, and oft the straggling rays, Through crevices and chinks, stray to our jail; And these we fondly hug as truth. Poor man! The glimpses of the great Beyond have roused, For centuries, his curious soul to flight. With eagle eye fixed on the distant goal, He cleaves his way, till dashed against the walls; Some fall with bruis?d wing again to Earth, And some cling bravely there, so eager they To reach the untouched prize, and so intent Their gaze upon its light, they notice not The bounds, till Hamilton, with wary eye, Discovers the Eternal bounding line, And sadly shows its hopeless fixity.

But man on Earth I love to ridicule, A little clod of sordid selfishness! I'll take his mental acts of every kind And see how self originates them all; I'll follow Stewart, since he classifies With shrewd discretion, though his reasoning err, He places first the appetites; and these Perforce are selfish, as our self alone Must feel and suffer with our wants. Our food Tastes good alone to us. The richest feast, In others' mouths, could never satisfy Our appetite for food; self must be fed. Desires are next; and that of knowledge, first, Is proven selfish, by his quoted line From Cicero--that "knowledge is the food Of mind"--and food is ever sought for self. Desire of social intercourse with men, From thought that it will better self, proceeds. Man's state is friendly, not a state of war, For instinct teaches him society Will offer many benefits to self; And only when he has a cause to fear That self will suffer, does he learn to war. Desire to gain esteem, is self in search Of approbation; like the appetite, The end pursued affects alone the self. And lastly Stewart boasts posthumous fame, When self, as sacrificed, can seek no good. To prove the motive is a selfish good, I'll not assert enjoyment after life, But say, the pleasure of the millions' praise, Anticipated in the present thought, And intense consciousness of heroism, Far more than compensates the pangs of death. A Curtius leaping down the dread abyss, Enjoys his fame enough, before he strikes, To pay for every pain of mangling death. Affections next adorn the moral page. At that of kindred, mothers cry aloud: "For shame! for shame! do you pretend to say I love my child with any thought of self? When I would lay my arm upon the block, And have it severed for his slightest good!" I'll square your love by Reason's rigid rule, And test its source. Why do you love him so? For benefit he has conferred, or may? No, as the helpless babe, demanding care, You love him most. Your love is instinct then, And like the cow her calf, you love your child; That you may care for him, before self moves. Then do you love him always just the same, When rude and bad as when obedient? But I'll dissect your love, and take away Each part affecting self; and see what's left. He now has grown beyond your instinct love; You love him, first, because he is your son, And you would suffer blame, if you did not; You love him, too, because he does reflect A credit on yourself. You feel assured That others thinking well of him, think well Of you. Because it flatters all your pride To think so fine a life is part of yours; Because his high opinion of your worth Evokes a meet return; because you look Into the future, and see honors bright Awaiting you through him; because you feel The world is praising you for loving him, And would condemn you, did you not. And last, You feel the pleasure deep of self-esteem, Because you fill the public's and your own Romantic ideas of a mother's love.

Let each component part be now destroyed, And see if still you love him. As a man, He plunges into vice of vilest kinds; His bright reflections on yourself are gone, And people think the worse of you, for him; You never smile, but frown, upon him now, But still you love him dearly! To his vice He adds a crime, a foul and blasting crime; Your pride is gone, you feel a bitter shame, A score of opposites to love creep in; A righteous anger at his foolish sins, A just contempt for nature, weak as his; But yet you love him fondly, for the world Is lauding you for "mother's holy love"; And you delight its clinging strength to show, You gain in public credit by your woes, And get the soothing martyr's sympathy. But let him still grow worse, and sink so low, That people say you are disgraced through him, Your warmest friends will not acquaintance own, Your love for such an object's ridiculed, And gains respect from none. Your only chance Is to disown him. How you loud proclaim, "He's not my child but by the accident Of birth!" Do yet you love him in your heart? This then because you think yourself so good, So heaven-like, for loving him disgraced, You go to see him in the shameful jail; He spits upon, and beats you from his cell, And tells you that he hates your very name. Now all your love is gone, except the glow Of pity for him chained to dungeon floor; But he's released, and deeper goes in crime; Then, lastly, Pity yields. Your heart is stone!

You're on the topmost wave of fervid love-- A wilder flame than poets ever sung; You've passed the timid declaration's bounds, And revel in a full assured return. There is no need for check upon your heart, It has full leave to pour its gushing tide Of feeling forth, and meet responsive floods. You meet her in the parlor's solitude, No meddling eye to watch the sacred scene. The purple curtains hang their corded folds Before the tell-tale windows; closed the door, And sealed with softest list. The rich divan Is drawn before the ruddy grate that glows With red between the bars, and blue above. You sit beside The Angel of your dreams, And gaze in adoration. What a form! Revealed in faultless symmetry by robes Of rare, exquisite elegance, and taste, That fit the tap'ring waist and arching neck. And how superbly flow the torrents of her hair! Which she has shaken loose, because "it's you"; Her great brown eyes that gaze so dreamily Upon the flowers of the vellum-screen That wards the fire from her tinted cheek! One hollow foot, in dainty, bronze bootee, Tapping the tufted lion on the rug; A snowy hand with blazing solitaire-- The pledge of your betrothal--nestling soft Within your own. And thus you sit, and breathe With tones so soft, because the ear's so near, The mutual confidence of little cares; And how you longed for months to tell your love, But feared a cold rebuke; and how you dared To hope through all the gloom; and how you grieved At every favor shown to other men; How now the clouds have flown away, And all is brightness, joy, and tender love. Then drawing nearer, round the slender waist You pass an arm; and nestling cheek to cheek, Palm throbbing palm, you hush all useless words, And thought meets thought, in silent love. And now and then, you leave the cheek, to kiss The coral lips; yet not with transient touch, But with a fervid, lingering pressure there, As if you longed to force the lips apart, And drink the soul; while both her melting orbs Are drooped beneath your burning inch-near eyes. The parting hour must come. The good-night said, You rise to leave; and turning, at the door, You see her head drooped on the sofa's arm, You fancy she is sighing that you're gone; And stealing back on tiptoe, gently raise The beauteous face, and take it 'twixt your palms; And gazing on the features radiant, Distorted queerly by your pressing hands, You feel that life, the parting cannot bear, That you must stay forever there, or die! Another effort, one more nectar sip, You rush from out the room, and slam the door, Just on the steps, you meet your rival's face. He has an easy confidence, and walks Into the house, as if it were his own. Poor fellow! how you really pity him! You can afford to be magnanimous, And deprecate his certain, cruel fate. You murmur: "Well, he brings it on himself," And turn to go. The window's near the ground, And slightly raised. Although you know it's mean, You cannot now resist, but creep up near, And with a finger part the curtain's fringe. You see your darling run across the room With both extended hands, and hear her say: "Oh Fred! I am so very glad you've come, I feared that stupid thing would never leave, I had to let him take my hand awhile, And mumble over it, to get him off."

You grasp the iron railing for support, And, faint and dizzy with the agony Of love's departure, cling till all has fled; Then stagger home without a trace of love. Yet only Self is touched; her beauty's there, Her sparkling wit, and her intelligence, Her manner even, towards you, has not changed, And, were you with her, she would be the same. Love's every motive disappeared with Self, No pride of conquest, no romance of thought; You meet no sympathy, but ridicule!

A mother's love may last through injury, Because it reaps the self's reward of praise For constancy, through wrong. The lover's flame. Unless supplied with fuel-self, dies out, For, burning, 'twould deserve supreme contempt.

The less affairs of life are traced to Self. The code of Etiquette, that Chesterfield Defines "Benevolence in little things," Is but a scheme to give Self consciousness Of excellence in breeding, and to keep "Our Circle" sep'rate by its shibboleth. The stately bow, the graceful sip of wine, The useless little finger's dainty crook In lifting up the fragile Sevres cup, The holding of the hat in morning calls, The touch of it when passing through the streets, The drawing of a glove, the use of cane-- Our every act is coupled with the thought How well Self does all this.

Sometimes, The Self is held, on purpose, up for jest; As when men tell a joke upon themselves. But here the shame of conduct or mishap Is more than balanced by the hearty laugh, Which gives its pleasant witness to our wit. We never tell what will present ourselves In such an aspect laughter cannot heal; Although it compliments our telling powers.

Attentions to the fair, but seek for Self Their smiles of favor. Little deeds of love To those around us, look for their reward. The youth polite, who gives his chair to Age, "Without a thought of Self," is yet provoked, If Age do not evince, by nod or smile, His obligation to that unthought Self.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet