The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 4, March, 1836

We come now to the psychological view of ancient {231} literature, which subject is so intimately connected with the inquiry into the tendencies of this study, towards elevating and extending the spiritual capacity of man, that we shall embrace it under that head. As no man would engage in any laborious pursuit without having some object in view, so perhaps no one would ever enter into the pursuit after knowledge if it offered no rewards. It is coveted by many, because it sometimes brings to its possessor wealth, and almost always secures him reputation, whilst a few only desire it for its spiritual uses--and yet these last constitute its highest reward. Let the practical man of the world who doubts it, and who would laugh at any arguments adapted to his reason upon this subject as a mere idle thing, look to the history of literary men. Let him behold such a man as Bayle, for example, who having secured in his taste for knowledge a consolation and a happiness of which the world could not rob him, only thought of his persecutions to laugh at them, and found but amusement in what the world deems misfortunes. Poverty, exile, disease, all in their turns assailed him, and yet no one who reads his history can doubt but that he was the happiest man of his day. Resigned to all human events, he found his pleasure in the one noble taste which absorbed his mind, and he succeeded in elevating his spirit to such a distance above the misfortunes and persecutions of this world, that they dwindled into utter insignificance in his estimation. A dismission from an office of honor and profit, under circumstances which would have excited murmurs and anger in the minds of most other men, was scarcely noticed by him, or noticed in a spirit of cheerful content. "The sweetness and repose" (said he upon this occasion) "I find in the studies in which I have engaged myself and which are my delight, will induce me to remain in this city, if I am allowed to continue in it, at least until the printing of my dictionary is finished; for my presence is absolutely necessary in the place where it is printed. I am no lover of money nor of honors, and would not accept of any invitation should it be made to me; nor am I fond of the disputes and cabals which reign in all academies: _Canam mihi et musis_." Car. Lit. vol. i, p. 22. These were not mere professions; his life, nay, his very death illustrated their truth and sincerity. The very hour of his death was soothed and solaced by this taste, which subdued even the sense of the last mortal agony. This, and instances similar in nature, if not in degree, which abound in the lives of literary men, afford conclusive evidence of the rewards which knowledge brings to the human mind itself. What can elevate the dignity of our nature more in our view than the contemplation of such spectacles as these? What terms expressive enough should we find, to convey our sense of gratitude to the genius who would offer us a gift that would enable us to defy the persecutions of this world and laugh at its misfortunes! a gift, which, for our enjoyments, would render us independent of every other being in existence, save ourselves and him who created us--a gift which would endow us with a taste and the means of gratifying a taste which age cannot dull, and gratification cannot satiate. And yet to a great degree, the mind which is imbued with the _love_ of knowledge enjoys these blessings. When this becomes the absorbing taste of our minds, it not only endures--but man cannot take it from us. Whilst sensual pleasures die, and the tastes which they gratify decay with time, this is the immortal desire of our being which survives when all others fade away. It is the charmed gift which we bear within ourselves, and whose spells can call up a thousand forms of beauty and light even in the depths of the dungeon, and surround the couch of disease with bright visions and pleasant hopes. As those who ate of the fabled lotus were said to forget their country and kindred in their enjoyments, when they had tasted of its flowers, so those who have once fed upon the immortal fruit of the tree of knowledge, cease to regard those temporal cares and pleasures which bind man to this earth, and lead through a maze of uncertainty to disappointment at last. They look into nature--and each link which they discover in the great chain of truth, seems, in the enthusiasm of the vision, another step on that ladder by which man mounts from earth to heaven. Each hidden harmony which they discover in nature is another thought of the divine mind which they have conceived and understood, and serves to bind them still more closely in that communion into which the Creator permits them to enter with him. The consideration of man, the pleasures merely earthly which he controls and which belong to him, always temporal and always alloyed with pain, they can consent to relinquish, in the consciousness that they are entering into closer communion with him who is pure, perfect, and unchangeable. And their pleasures as much exceed those which they renounce, as the Creator is superior to the created. They have tasted the living stream of truth, whose waters refresh the more, the more they are drunk--they find themselves on the borders of that eternal spring whose course is infinite in extent. Whilst they follow its trace they secure immortality,--for none who drink of its waters shall ever die.

See the student who dwells alone in his hermitage, or who perhaps nightly cribs his worn frame in some almost forgotten attic;--he is surrounded by circumstances which to the eye of the common observer denote the extremity of wretchedness and misery! Those who are more elevated by the pride of place and by the possession of those things which the world calls good, often look upon him with pity and contempt; and yet how rashly do they judge. Do they know whether he regards their pleasures or whither his aspirations would lead him. He looks out upon the stars, "those isles of light," which repose in the liquid blue of the vaulted heavens, and they speak to him of wisdom and love, of beauty and peace. He walks abroad amid the works of nature, and traces in all her hidden harmonies a beauty and a unity of design which speak but of one spirit, and that the infinite and eternal spirit of the universe. He begins indeed "to mingle with the universe;" and, like the mystic Egeria, a spirit of beauty pure and undefiled arises from the silent memorials of creative design, to commune with him in his morning walks and evening meditations. He compares the soul, which guides and animates the physical universe, with the vain and contentious spirit of his fellow man; he compares the order and beauty of the physical universe, which submits all its motions to the divine will, with the moral government of man,--at once the sport and the victim of his own caprices; and learns to despise what most men value, and to prize those pleasures {232} which they neglect. He has learnt to feel that He who rules all events, has considered him also, in his Providence; and willing to put his trust in that being, without whose knowledge "not a sparrow falleth to the ground," he stands forth the most self-humbled, and yet the most elevated of God's creatures.

If knowledge hath these spiritual uses,--and what reflecting man can doubt the fact, how mortifying is it to see many wasting their strength and throwing away the means by which they could attain these ends, for the sake of wealth and earthly honors. As the alchemist who, in his eager search after the grand magisterium, neglects many discoveries really useful which were within his reach, so these men put their frail trust in the world and waste their lives in the vain pursuit of its phantoms. But we do not expect these men to take this view of the subject unless they have trained their minds to it, either through the christian philosophy, or what is second to that system only, the school of the Platonist writers. It is for this reason chiefly, that we have ventured to recommend the study of the writings of the genius so nearly divine, of that author whose psychological system presaged the christian revelation, as the morning twilight betokens the coming sun. It was his, that beautiful conception of the spirit of the universe, at once so poetical and sublime;--an idea which Abraham Tucker only of modern English writers, seems to have fully comprehended and explained. This sublime and philosophical poet perceived that by an attentive study of nature, the human mind was capable of entering into communion with the divine mind through its works; he felt that he was capable of conceiving more and more of the ideas which existed in the creative mind, as he understood more of the system of the universe; he meditated upon the harmony which extended through the greatest and the least of nature's operations; his soul took in forms of beauty and filled with lofty conceptions until it became enamored of its contemplations, and in the spirit of true poetry he endowed the universe with a soul which governed it and with which the mind of man may commune. But to return to our original proposition; we asserted that the writings of ancient philosophers afforded the best views of psychology to which we have access. By psychology, we mean what relates to our spiritual being. To maintain this proposition it will be necessary to recur, for a moment, to the subject of inquiry which engaged their attention, and to the spirit of those times.

The most important and natural inquiry which would present itself to a being of limited powers of knowledge and enjoyment, and whose existence at most is brief, is as to the best pursuit which can engage his time and energies. The vanity of human wishes, the transitory nature of earthly enjoyments, must have been as apparent to the first man as to us. The necessity of discriminating between the various ends of our actions, and objects of our desires, in the brief space which is allotted us for action, must have impressed itself at an early period upon the human mind. And as happiness is the proposed end of all our actions, the most important inquiry which can engage the human mind, is as to the best means of attaining it. Accordingly, we find the "TO KALON" engaging the attention of all ancient philosophers; and however differently they might conduct their reasoning, all of them who were respected arrived at the same conclusion, viz: that he whose conduct was most strictly regulated by the rules of virtue, would enjoy the greatest degree of happiness. It was thus, according to Plato, that we were to restore the immaculate qualities of the pre-existent soul. The sterner Zeno maintained that nothing was pleasant but virtue, and nothing painful but vice; whilst the gentle and more persuasive Epicurus, reversing the rule, (and in a certain sense the doctrines were identical,) taught that nothing was virtuous but what was pleasant, or vicious if it were not painful--because virtue is at last but the rule which shall conduct us to happiness. At that time the light of Christian revelation had not burst upon the world; the flickering and uncertain rays of human reason afforded the only light to guide them in the search for the path of truth, and "shadows, clouds, and darkness rested on it." The bright hopes and the awful fears by which the Christian revelation would prompt man to virtue, were then either unknown or but little heeded. To tempt his disciples then to a virtuous life, and to fortify them against the seductions of vicious temptation, the ancient philosopher was forced to hold forth the rewards which virtue offers to us in this life. The persuasions of oratory, the allurements of poetry, the demonstrations of philosophy, were all used to entice the youthful mind to the pursuit of virtue; and more, the masters practised their creed in the view of their disciples. But so far as external appearances bear testimony on the subject, happiness does not always attend the practice of virtue in this world. It was necessary, then, to refer the doubtful to some other source of enjoyment. The philosopher referred the pupil to a source which was within--the pleasant consciousness of well-doing;--the enlargement of the spiritual capacity under a virtuous discipline, were the exalted and noble inducements which they presented to their view. Their theories of the universe, their social customs, their daily habits, were all made subsidiary to the end of impressing these grand truths upon their disciples. These conceptions stood forth in severe and sublime simplicity, as they were formed by the cold and cautious inductions of philosophy; but the master mind of antiquity, not content with their unspeaking beauty, seized fire from heaven, and breathing into them the warm spirit of his eloquence, sent them forth to the world radiant and impressive forms, which appealed not only to the reason, but to the sensibility of the beholder. Every argument was used which could exalt our spiritual being, and every illustration which could explain its nature, so far at least as they understood it. The pursuit of virtue became a matter of feeling--self-denial was an enthusiasm, and the world often beheld the disciples of these great masters acting upon the abstract maxims of mere human reason, and pursuing virtue with that unfaltering trust in the hopes which it excites, which would shame many disciples of a more certain faith, and those who have the guidance of a clearer light. It is not surprising, then, that the nature of our spiritual being, and the invigorating and regenerating influences of the pursuit of knowledge and virtue, should be more often the theme of ancient than of modern philosophers. And yet the moralist, the philosopher and the poet, would each derive both assistance and delight from the too much neglected works of these noble old masters. We have seen the wonderful {233} revival of letters in Germany in modern times ascribed to the study of the Platonists,--with what truth our knowledge of German literature will not permit us to say. But we do not doubt that the ascribed cause is adequate to that end. Certain it is, that Bulwer has derived from these sources much of that which is worth any thing in his writings. His views of our spiritual being, and of the spiritual uses of knowledge, are evidently clothed in light reflected from the Platonists. Indeed, the finest portion of all his writings, that in which he describes the change wrought on Devereux's mind by a course of solitary meditation, or, to use a shorter phrase, the metempsychosis of his hero, is but a paraphrase of the finest of all moral fables, the Asinus Aureus of Apuleius, and one which at last fails to do justice to the splendid original. Should any reader think it worth the time to examine into the truth of our remarks upon the spirit of ancient philosophy, we would crave his attention to this most beautiful allegory, as affording a complete and interesting illustration of their general correctness. The fable, founded upon a Milesian story, opens with the description of a young man who has debased his soul with debauchery until he is transformed to an ass; he falls gradually from one vice to another, and under the dominion of all he suffers under the degrading and debasing penalties appropriate to each. He was at last on the eve of perpetrating a crime so monstrous that nature suddenly revolted, and horror-stricken, he broke from his keeper and flies to the seashore. With solitude comes reflection, and reflection brings remorse. Despair is the natural consequence; and feeling that without assistance he is lost, he turns to heaven for succor. The moon is in full splendor, just rising from the waves; the awful silence of the night deepens his sense of solitude;--"Video præ micantis lunæ candore nimis completum orbem, commodum marinis emergentem fluctibus, nactusque opacæ noctis silentiosa secreta, certus etiam summatem Deam præcipua majestate pollere resque prorsus humanas ipsius regi providentia," &c. p. 375. Relief is vouchsafed to him, a change passes over his spirit, and nature wears towards him a different aspect--her countenance is clothed in smiles, and all things seem to rejoice with him. "Tanta hilaritudine præter peculiarem meam, gestire mihi cuncta videbantur; ut pecua etiam cujuscamodi et totas domos et ipsam diem serena facie gaudire sentirem." The entire conception is not only highly poetical, but eminently philosophical; the progress of the human mind in its transition through the range of vices, the sentiments of remorse and despair, that yearning after better things which ever and anon returns like a guardian angel to rescue man from his most fallen estate, the change of heart, and the influence of nature, are depicted in the spirit of truth and beauty.

But we fear that we are trespassing too far upon the patience of the reader, and especially when our subject is not one of general interest. And yet we are so deeply impressed with the fact that an attention to this study is the great want of American literature, that we could not forbear suggesting briefly the various points of view from which its importance may be seen--even at the risk of being tedious. Under the sanction, then, of past experience, and under the higher authority of reason, we would crave the attention of the rising generation to these studies, that they may prepare themselves to do something worthy of their hopes and useful to their country. And of this at least we can safely assure them that the exercises which we recommend are those in which were trained all the best models in science and general literature, whom they most revere and admire.

A LOAN TO THE MESSENGER.

NO. I.

When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live to be married.--_Benedict_.

The day I was married, my dear Editor, I was greeted by a valued crony of mine with the following _Jew desperate_, as Mrs. Malaprop might call a _jeu d'esprit_. The occasion which gave this trifle birth having now been some years a matter of history, I am disposed to lend it to your good readers for a month, and beg them to be very careful of it, as it is really one of the neatest things of the kind I or they have ever seen. It is by a poet of no low order of genius, I can assure you, whose fault alone it is that his name, albeit not insignificant, is not yet higher on the rolls of poetic fame. It has never been in print.

J. F. O.

LIFE.

A BRIEF HISTORY, IN THREE PARTS, WITH A SEQUEL:

_Dedicated to my friend on his Wedding Day, November 1, 18--_.

Part I.--LOVE.

A glance,--a thought,--a blow,-- It stings him to the core. A question--will it lay him low? Or will time heal it o'er?

He kindles at the name,-- He sits, and thinks apart; Time blows and blows it to a flame,-- Burning within his heart.

He loves it though it burns, And nurses it with care: He feeds the blissful pain, by turns, With hope, and with despair!

Part II.--COURTSHIP.

Sonnets and serenades, Sighs, glances, tears and vows, Gifts, tokens, souvenirs, parades, And courtesies and bows.

A purpose, and a prayer: The stars are in the sky,-- He wonders how e'en hope should dare To let him aim so high!

Still hope allures and flatters, And doubt just makes him bold: And so, with passion all in tatters, The trembling tale is told!

Apologies and blushes, Soft looks, averted eyes, Each heart into the other rushes, Each yields, and wins, a prize.

{234} Part III.--MARRIAGE.

A gathering of fond friends,-- Brief, solemn words, and prayer,-- A trembling to the fingers' ends, As hand in hand they swear.