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“There are many things, which, having no
corporeal evidence, can be perceived and comprehended
only by the discursive energies of reason.
Hence the ambiguous nature of matter can
be comprehended only by adulterated opinion.
Matter is the principle of all bodies, and is stamped
with the impression of forms. Fire, air, and
water derive their origin and principle from the
scalene triangle. But the earth was created from
right-angled triangles, of which two of the sides
are equal. The sphere and the pyramid contain
in themselves the figure of fire; but the octaedron
was destined to be the figure of air, and
the icosaedron of water. The right-angled isosceles
triangle produces from itself a square, and

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the square generates from itself the cube, which
is the figure peculiar to earth. But the figure
of a beautiful and perfect sphere was imparted
to the most beautiful and perfect world, that
it might be indigent of nothing, but contain all
things, embracing and comprehending them in
itself, and thus might be excellent and admirable,
similar to and in concord with itself, ever moving
musically and melodiously. If I use a novel language,
excuse me. As Apuleius says, pardon
must be granted to novelty of words, when it
serves to illustrate the obscurity of things.”

These words came from the lips of the lion-like
philosopher, who has been noticed before in these
pages. He was sitting with Flemming, smoking a
long pipe. As the Baron said, he was indeed a
strange owl; for the owl is a grave bird; a monk,
who chants midnight mass in the great temple of
Nature;—an anchorite,—a pillar saint,—the
very Simeon Stylites of his neighbourhood. Such,
likewise, was the philosophical Professor.

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Solitary, but with a mighty current, flowed the river
of his life, like the Nile, without a tributary
stream, and making fertile only a single strip in
the vast desert. His temperament had been in
youth a joyous one; and now, amid all his sorrows
and privations, for he had many, he looked upon
the world as a glad, bright, glorious world. On
the many joys of life he gazed still with the eyes
of childhood, from the far-gone Past upward,
trusting, hoping;—and upon its sorrows with the
eyes of age, from the distant Future, downward,
triumphant, not despairing. He loved solitude,
and silence, and candle-light, and the deep midnight.
“For,” said he, “if the morning hours
are the wings of the day, I only fold them about
me to sleep more sweetly; knowing that, at its
other extremity, the day, like the fowls of the
air, has an epicurean morsel,—a parson's nose;
and on this oily midnight my spirit revels and is
glad.”

Such was the Professor, who had been talking
in a half-intelligible strain for two hours or more.

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The Baron had fallen fast asleep in his chair; but
Flemming sat listening with excited imagination,
and the Professor continued in the following words,
which, to the best of his listener's memory, seemed
gleaned here and there from Fichte's Destiny
of Man, and Shubert's History of the Soul.

“Life is one, and universal; its forms many
and individual. Throughout this beautiful and
wonderful creation there is never-ceasing motion,
without rest by night or day, ever weaving to and
fro. Swifter than a weaver's shuttle it flies from
Birth to Death, from Death to Birth; from the
beginning seeks the end, and finds it not, for the
seeming end is only a dim beginning of a new
out-going and endeavour after the end. As the
ice upon the mountain, when the warm breath
of the summer sun breathes upon it, melts,
and divides into drops, each of which reflects an
image of the sun; so life, in the smile of God's
love, divides itself into separate forms, each bearing
in it and reflecting an image of God's love.
Of all these forms the highest and most perfect in

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its god-likeness is the human soul. The vast
cathedral of Nature is full of holy scriptures, and
shapes of deep, mysterious meaning; but all is
solitary and silent there; no bending knee, no uplifted
eye, no lip adoring, praying. Into this vast
cathedral comes the human soul, seeking its Creator;
and the universal silence is changed to
sound, and the sound is harmonious, and has a
meaning, and is comprehended and felt. It was
an ancient saying of the Persians, that the waters
rush from the mountains and hurry forth into all
the lands to find the Lord of the Earth; and the
flame of the Fire, when it awakes, gazes no more
upon the ground, but mounts heavenward to seek
the Lord of Heaven; and here and there the
Earth has built the great watch-towers of the
mountains, and they lift their heads far up into
the sky, and gaze ever upward and around, to see
if the Judge of the World comes not! Thus in
Nature herself, without man, there lies a waiting,
and hoping, a looking and yearning, after an unknown
somewhat. Yes; when, above there,

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where the mountain lifts its head over all others,
that it may be alone with the clouds and storms of
heaven, the lonely eagle looks forth into the gray
dawn, to see if the day comes not! when, by the
mountain torrent, the brooding raven listens to
hear if the chamois is returning from his nightly
pasture in the valley; and when the soon uprising
sun calls out the spicy odors of the thousand
flowers, the Alpine flowers, with heaven's deep
blue and the blush of sunset on their leaves;—
then there awakes in Nature, and the soul of man
can see and comprehend it, an expectation and a
longing for a future revelation of God's majesty.
It awakens, also, when in the fulness of life, field
and forest rest at noon, and through the stillness is
heard only the song of the grasshopper and the
hum of the bee; and when at evening the singing
lark, up from the sweet-smelling vineyards rises,
or in the later hours of night Orion puts on his
shining armour, to walk forth in the fields of heaven.
But in the soul of man alone is this longing
changed to certainty and fulfilled. For lo! the

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light of the sun and the stars shines through the
air, and is nowhere visible and seen; the planets
hasten with more than the speed of the storm
through infinite space, and their footsteps are not
heard, but where the sunlight strikes the firm
surface of the planets, where the stormwind
smites the wall of the mountain cliff, there is the
one seen and the other heard. Thus is the glory
of God made visible, and may be seen, where in
the soul of man it meets its likeness changeless
and firm-standing. Thus, then, stands Man;—a
mountain on the boundary between two worlds;—
its foot in one, its summit far-rising into the other.
From this summit the manifold landscape of life
is visible, the way of the Past and Perishable,
which we have left behind us; and, as we evermore
ascend, bright glimpses of the daybreak of
Eternity beyond us!”

Flemming would fain have interrupted this discourse
at times, to answer and inquire, but the
Professor went on, warming and glowing more and

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more. At length, there was a short pause, and
Flemming said;

“All these indefinite longings,—these yearnings
after an unknown somewhat, I have felt and
still feel within me; but not yet their fulfilment.”

“That is because you have not faith;” answered
the Professor. “The Present is an age
of doubt and disbelief, and darkness; out of which
shall arise a clear and bright Hereafter. In the
second part of Goethe's Faust, there is a grand
and striking scene, where in the classical Walpurgis
Night, on the Pharsalian Plains, the mocking
Mephistopheles sits down between the solemn antique
Sphinxes, and boldly questions them, and
reads their riddles. The red light of innumerable
watch-fires glares all round about, and shines upon
the terrible face of the arch-scoffer; while on either
side, severe, majestic, solemnly serene, we
behold the gigantic forms of the children of Chim
æra, half buried in the earth, their mild eyes
gazing fixedly, as if they heard through the midnight,
the swift-rushing wings of the Stymphalides,

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striving to outstrip the speed of Alcides' arrows!
Angry griffins are near them; and not far are Sirens,
singing their wondrous songs from the rocking
branches of the willow trees! Even thus does
a scoffing and unbelieving Present sit down, between
an unknown Future and a too believing
Past, and question and challenge the gigantic
forms of faith, half buried in the sands of Time,
and gazing forward steadfastly into the night,
whilst sounds of anger and voices of delight alternate
vex and soothe the ear of man!—But the
time will come, when the soul of man shall return
again childlike and trustful to its faith in God; and
look God in the face and die; for it is an old saying,
full of deep, mysterious meaning, that he
must die, who hath looked upon a God. And this
is the fate of the soul, that it should die continually.
No sooner here on earth does it awake to its
peculiar being, than it struggles to behold and comprehend
the Spirit of Life. In the first dim twilight
of its existence, it beholds this spirit, is pervaded
by its energies,—is quick and creative like

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the spirit itself, and yet slumbers away into death
after having seen it. But the image it has seen,
remains, in the eternal procreation, as a homogeneal
existence, is again renewed, and the seeming
death, from moment to moment, becomes the
source of kind after kind of existences in ever-ascending
series. The soul aspires ever onward
to love and to behold. It sees the image more
perfect in the brightening twilight of the dawn, in
the ever higher-rising sun. It sleeps again, dying
in the clearer vision; but the image seen remains
as a permanent kind; and the slumberer awakes
anew and ever higher after its own image, till at
length, in the full blaze of noonday, a being comes
forth, which, like the eagle, can behold the sun
and die not. Then both live on, even when this
bodily element, the mist and vapor through which
the young eagle gazed, dissolves and falls to
earth.”

“I am not sure that I understand you,” said
Flemming; “but if I do, you mean to say, that,
as the body continually changes and takes unto

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itself new properties, and is not the same to-day as
yesterday, so likewise the soul lays aside its idiosyncrasies,
and is changed by acquiring new powers,
and thus may be said to die. And hence,
properly speaking, the soul lives always in the
Present, and has, and can have, no Future; for
the Future becomes the Present, and the soul that
then lives in me is a higher and more perfect
soul; and so onward forevermore.”

“I mean what I say,” continued the Professor;
“and can find no more appropriate language to
express my meaning than that which I have used.
But as I said before, pardon must be granted to
the novelty of words, when it serves to illustrate
the obscurity of things. And I think you will see
clearly from what I have said, that this earthly life,
when seen hereafter from heaven, will seem like
an hour passed long ago, and dimly remembered;—
that long, laborious, full of joys and sorrows as
it is, it will then have dwindled down to a mere
point, hardly visible to the far-reaching ken of the
disembodied spirit. But the spirit itself soars

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onward. And thus death is neither an end nor a beginning.
It is a transition not from one existence
to another, but from one state of existence to another.
No link is broken in the chain of being;
any more than in passing from infancy to manhood,
from manhood to old age. There are seasons of
reverie and deep abstraction, which seem to me
analogous to death. The soul gradually loses its
consciousness of what is passing around it; and
takes no longer cognizance of objects which are
near. It seems for the moment to have dissolved
its connexion with the body. It has passed as it
were into another state of being. It lives in another
world. It has flown over lands and seas;
and holds communion with those it loves, in distant
regions of the earth, and the more distant heaven.
It sees familiar faces, and hears beloved voices,
which to the bodily senses are no longer visible
and audible. And this likewise is death; save
that when we die, the soul returns no more to the
dwelling it has left.”

“You seem to take it for granted,” interrupted

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Flemming, “that, in our reveries, the soul really
goes out of the body into distant places, instead of
summoning up their semblance within itself by the
power of memory and imagination!”

“Something I must take for granted,” replied
the Professor. “We will not discuss that point
now. I speak not without forethought. Just observe
what a glorious thing human life is, when
seen in this light; and how glorious man's destiny.
I am; thou art; he is! seems but a school-boy's
conjugation. But therein lies a great mystery.
These words are significant of much. We behold
all round about us one vast union, in which no man
can labor for himself without laboring at the same
time for all others; a glimpse of truth, which by
the universal harmony of things becomes an inward
benediction, and lifts the soul mightily upward.
Still more so, when a man regards himself as a
necessary member of this union. The feeling of
our dignity and our power grows strong, when we
say to ourselves; My being is not objectless and in
vain; I am a necessary link in the great chain,

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which, from the full development of consciousness
in the first man, reaches forward into eternity.
All the great, and wise, and good among mankind,
all the benefactors of the human race, whose
names I read in the world's history, and the still
greater number of those, whose good deeds have
outlived their names,—all those have labored for
me. I have entered into their harvest. I walk
the green earth, which they inhabited. I tread in
their footsteps, from which blessings grow. I can
undertake the sublime task, which they once undertook,
the task of making our common brotherhood
wiser and happier. I can build forward,
where they were forced to leave off; and bring
nearer to perfection the great edifice which they
left uncompleted. And at length I, too, must leave
it, and go hence. O, this is the sublimest thought
of all! I can never finish the noble task;
therefore, so sure as this task is my destiny, I can
never cease to work, and consequently never cease
to be. What men call death cannot break off this
task, which is never-ending; consequently no

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period is set to my being, and I am eternal. I lift
my head boldly to the threatening mountain peaks,
and to the roaring cataract, and to the storm-clouds
swimming in the fire-sea overhead and say; I am
eternal, and defy your power! Break, break over
me! and thou Earth, and thou Heaven, mingle in
the wild tumult! and ye Elements foam and rage,
and destroy this atom of dust,—this body, which
I call mine! My will alone, with its fixed purpose,
shall hover brave and triumphant over the ruins of
the universe; for I have comprehended my destiny;
and it is more durable than ye! It is eternal;
and I, who recognise it, I likewise am eternal!
Tell me, my friend, have you no faith in
this?”

“I have;” answered Flemming, and there was
another pause. He then said;

“I have listened to you patiently and without
interruption. Now listen to me. You complain
of the skepticism of the age. This is one form
in which the philosophic spirit of the age presents
itself. Let me tell you, that another form, which

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it assumes, is that of poetic reverie. Plato of old
had dreams like these; and the Mystics of the
Middle Ages; and still their disciples walk in the
cloud-land and dream-land of this poetic philosophy.
Pleasant and cool upon their souls lie the
shadows of the trees under which Plato taught.
From their whispering leaves comes wafted across
the noise of populous centuries a solemn and mysterious
sound, which to them is the voice of the
Soul of the World. All nature has become spiritualized
and transfigured; and, wrapt in beautiful,
vague dreams of the real and the ideal, they live in
this green world, like the little child in the German
tale, who sits by the margin of a woodland
lake, and hears the blue heaven and the branches
overhead dispute with their reflection in the water,
which is the reality and which the image. I willingly
confess, that such day-dreams as these appeal
strongly to my imagination. Visitants and attendants
are they of those lofty souls, which, soaring
ever higher and higher, build themselves nests under
the very eaves of the stars, forgetful that they

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cannot live on air, but must descend to earth for
food. Yet I recognise them as day-dreams only;
as shadows, not substantial things. What I mainly
dislike in the New Philosophy, is the cool impertinence
with which an old idea, folded in a new
garment, looks you in the face and pretends not to
know you, though you have been familiar friends
from childhood. I remember an English author
who, in speaking of your German Philosophies, says
very wisely; `Often a proposition of inscrutable
and dread aspect, when resolutely grappled with,
and torn from its shady den, and its bristling entrenchments
of uncouth terminology,—and dragged
forth into the open light of day, to be seen
by the natural eye and tried by merely human
understanding, proves to be a very harmless truth,
familiar to us from old, sometimes so familiar as to
be a truism. Too frequently the anxious novice
is reminded of Dryden in the Battle of the Books;
there is a helmet of rusty iron, dark, grim, gigantic;
and within it, at the farthest corner, is a head
no bigger than a walnut.'—Can you believe, that

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these words ever came from the lips of Carlyle!
He has himself taken up the uncouth terminology
of late; and many pure, simple minds are much
offended at it. They seem to take it as a personal
insult. They are angry; and deny the just meed
of praise. It is, however, hardly worth while to
lose our presence of mind. Let us rather profit
as we may, even from this spectacle, and recognise
the monarch in his masquerade. For, hooded and
wrapped about with that strange and antique garb,
there walks a kingly, a most royal soul, even as
the Emperor Charles walked amid solemn cloisters
under a monk's cowl;—a monarch still in soul.
Such things are not new in the history of the
world. Ever and anon they sweep over the
earth, and blow themselves out soon, and then
there is quiet for a season, and the atmosphere of
Truth seems more serene. Why would you
preach to the wind? Why reason with thunder-showers?
Better sit quiet, and see them pass over
like a pageant, cloudy, superb, and vast.”

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The Professor smiled self-complacently, but said
not a word. Flemming continued;

“I will add no more than this;—there are
many speculations in Literature, Philosophy, and
Religion, which, though pleasant to walk in, and
lying under the shadow of great names, yet
lead to no important result. They resemble rather
those roads in the western forests of my native
land, which, though broad and pleasant at first,
and lying beneath the shadow of great branches,
finally dwindle to a squirrel track, and run up a
tree!”

The Professor hardly knew whether he should
laugh or be offended at this sally; and, laying his
hand upon Flemming's arm, he said seriously;

“Believe me, my young friend, the time will
come, when you will think more wisely on these
things. And with you, I trust, that time will soon
come; since it moves more speedily with some
than with others. For what is Time? The shadow
on the dial,—the striking of the clock,—the
running of the sand,—day and night,—

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summer and winter,—months, years, centuries!
These are but arbitrary and outward signs,—the
measure of Time, not Time itself! Time is the
Life of the Soul. If not this, then tell me what
it is?”

The high and animated tone of voice in which
the Professor uttered these words aroused the
Baron from his sleep; and, not distinctly comprehending
what was said, but thinking the Professor
asked what time it was, he innocently exclaimed;

“I should think it must be near midnight!”

This somewhat disconcerted the Professor, who
took his leave soon afterward. When he was gone
the Baron said;

“Excuse me for treating your guest so cavalierly.
His transcendentalism annoyed me not a
little; and I took refuge in sleep. One would
think, to judge by the language of this sect, that
they alone saw any beauty in Nature; and, when I
hear one of them discourse, I am instantly reminded
of Goethe's Baccalaureus, when he exclaims;
`The world was not before I created it; I

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brought the sun up out of the sea; with me began
the changeful course of the moon; the day decked
itself on my account; the earth grew green and blossomed
to meet me; at my nod in that first night,
the pomp of all the stars developed itself; who
but I set you free from all the bonds of Philisterlike,
contracting thoughts? I, however, emancipated
as my mind assures me I am, gladly pursue
my inward light, advance boldly in a transport
peculiarly my own, the bright before me, and the
dark behind!'—Do you not see a resemblance?
O, they might be modest enough to confess, that
one straggling ray of light may, by some accident,
reach the blind eyes of even us poor, benighted
heathens?”

“Alas! how little veneration we have!” said
Flemming. “I could not help closing the discussion
with a jest. An ill-timed levity often takes
me by surprise. On all such occasions I think of
a scene at the University, where, in the midst of a
grave discussion on the possibility of Absolute
Motion, a scholar said he had seen a rock split

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open, from which sprang a toad, who could not be
supposed to have any knowledge of the external
world, and consequently his motion must have
been absolute. The learned Professor, who presided
on that occasion, was hardly more startled
and astonished, than was our learned Professor, five
minutes ago. But come; wind up your watch,
and let us go to bed.”

“By the way,” said the Baron, “did you mind
what a curious head he has. There are two
crowns upon it.”

“That is a sign,” replied Flemming, “that he
will eat his bread in two kingdoms.”

“I think the poor man would be very thankful,”
said the Baron with a smile, “if he were always
sure of eating it in one. He is what the Transcendentalists
call a god-intoxicated man; and I
advise him, as Sauteul advised Bossuet, to go to
Patmos and write a new Apocalypse.”

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