up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him, 'who walks on the wings of the wind.'" "Still sing the GOD OF SEASONS, as they roll. Be my tongue mute, my Fancy paint no more, CHAPTER VII. God talks with man through nature-The convenient "it"—The eye-The two worlds—What an idea is—What thought is— Man a social being-Language the link-The brute creation. Thus reader, we have learned a few of the lessons which this beautiful world gives out. School-mates together, pupils of Nature, we have listened together to her voice, and together gazed upon the Deity-penned page; but while we do so no more, in company, let me remind you, that though we have ceased to listen, Nature has not ceased to teach; that every ray of light, as it meets the eye, every wave of air, as it dashes against the ear-drum, brings some new lesson to the thoughtful mind. The flower of the valley and the central sun; the beating heart and the babbling brook; the morning song and the midnight hush; the comet's glare and the snow-drop's ray, all, all have language. Spring whispers of life, as she wreathes the earth with a garland, and Autumn sings a song; "Let us never forget to our dying day, The tone or the burden of her lay, 'Passing away! passing away'!” "The poor Indian, whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, and hears Him in the wind;" the Indian, his cradle a canoe, his nurse the restless waters, the winds and waving woods his lullaby; from infancy to age, companion, lover, child of Nature, he needs not the conveni ent "it," of civilized and (christian?) life; with him, it never rains, it never thunders, but the Great Spirit, He "Whose body nature is God the soul!" He it is, who talks with man, in brooks and winds and flowers; "He glows in the stars and blossoms in the trees;" the thunder is His still, small voice;" the cataract, "a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might!" Nature then, is God's own book, and Nature's LANGUAGE, His. The eyes of the poor lad seeking for tortoise-eggs, sparkle with joy, if after many efforts, he can thrust his little hand so far into the sand, as only to reach one, for he knows that the contents of the nest will follow, like beads upon a string. It is so in the acquisition of knowledge. The great Author and source of science never constituted a hermit-truth, any more than He created a flower, a man, or a world, without relations and dependencies. Every truth, every fact, is always connected with some other truth, some other fact, and the business of life, is not to forge the chain or weld the links, but simply to draw upon it. Now in the view which has been taken of Inanimate Nature, I have only put into your hand a link or two, of the mighty chain, nothing more; and in committing it to your charge, just let me bid you in sailor's phrase, "Pull away! Pull away!" How inimitable is the eye! How exquisite its sense! Within those wondrous crystal walls, far back, a magic curtain* hangs, of wondrous texture-suspended there by God! No odor ever enters there; if so, not half so wonderful its power; for we can see the flower as day by day it wastes away in floating fragrance. That is a silent hall; no sound is there; then were the mystery less; for one can feel the blown flute thrill with music, the organ tremble with its own deep tones, and see the struck bell quiver. Not so with light; speeding with more than arrow's flight, it ripples not the air; it pierces glass, yet leaves no trace behind; still flying on, it seeks the eye, that earthly dome where it delights to dwell; the opening portal bids it in; the glowing canvas welcomes its approach! You look up, and the broad, blue sky with its bright host, is mirrored there; the evening clouds go by, like ships at sea, and they are pictured there, and sailing still, and yet they never near the curtain's edge! The green valley, the dim mountain, the waving woods are there, green and dim and waving still! From deepest red to faintest violet, no ray this subtile shadow flings, is lost. The speaking countenance of a friend the smile, the thought-light, the care-cloud flitting over, are painted there, smiling and flitting too! Such is the organ of sight; were the sensible images of which I have been speaking, the only images; were there no connection between the material without and the immaterial *The retina, an expansion of the optic nerve. within; had mind no existence, and thought no world of its own, still we should ever admire the mirror-eye as a specimẹn of inimitable skill, and the mirrored world as surpassingly beautiful; but reader, there are other images, there is a mind, and such a world, and such a connection. Suppose that the countenance of that dear friend, which was so accurately pictured upon the retina of your eye, "should be changed," as yours and mine will be, and he borne away. The faithful copy would be no longer there; other forms would occupy the curtain that he had so often filled; but could you not see him yet? Close your eyes; the face-the mouth-the smooth brow-the hair,-so very like! the smile, just as ever! Yes, the voice too, as he calls your There he stands before you, as clearly seen as when health mantled his cheek and thought lighted his eye! Years glide away, but when you will, the dead is with you. name. Ah! This is that other image! No longer sensible and material, it has become a mental and immaterial idea* now; a mere sensation upon the eye at first; next, mind perceived and stamped it as its own; then memory seized and fixed it there, and now by recollection you can bring it up and see it still! "Tis thus the mind is peopled from without; thus they come thronging in, that make the inner world; thus eye and ear are antechambers to the mind, where these sensations come, but wait not long, but quick perceived, become the property of mind-your own. What treasures such as these can youth acquire, and then when age comes on, when eyes are dimmed and ears grow dull, the winter hours of life will sweetly pass, in working up the harvest that you gathered in; you coin them, then, *An idea is an image; generally applied to images of the mind. anew; you put your image on them, and your name; you shape them in new forms of beauty; analyze, compare. This, this is THINKING. Then when you send them forth, they are your own, and there is a pleasure in such a thought. What a world of ideas should a person acquire during a single year; what vast material for thought! You perceive that ideas and actual thinking are entirely distinct; as much so, as the rough trunk of mahogany, and the skill which is em ployed and increased in fashioning the stubborn wood into the elegantly carved and polished sofa. Dr. Webster's dictionary contains a vast number of ideas or their representatives, but who ever imagines, for a moment that it is a thinking being? Then there is another thing: in the exercise of your mental powers, you are constantly strengthening and developing them; every effort which you make adds to your ability, and I never heard of a sane man who lived so long that there was no farther improvement to be made, no new ideas to be acquired. Every individual possesses, or should possess, a treasure of his own, whose value he is constantly increasing, either by refining what is already amassed, or by accumulating. The wisest man in our world, would make but a poor figure, if, relying upon his own resources, he should cast off the social bond. A common interest unites men in neighborhoods and nations; a consciousness of individual ignorance and weakness cements that bond; every person, no matter how humble the sphere may be, in which he moves, contributes something to the common treasure; and thus, though no stockholder in this mental bank could succeed alone, yet by uniting, all may pass along through life, if not without difficulty and danger, at least, in some degree, prepared to avert the one and obviate the other; and this is effected by the in terchange of thought. |