Time has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose pages he is continually recording1 illustrious names. But, as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated2 characters, never to be effaced3. These are the high nobility of Nature,--Lords of the Public Domain4 of Thought. Posterity5 shall never question their titles. But those, whose fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon be as well forgotten, as if they had never been. To this great oblivion must most men come. It is better, therefore, that they should soon make up their minds to this; well knowing, that, as their bodies must ere long be resolved into dust again, and their graves tell no tales of them; so musttheir names likewise be utterly7 forgotten, and their most cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no longer an individual being among men; but be resolved and incorporated into the universe of thought. If, then, the imagination can trace the noble dust of heroes, till we find it stopping a beer-barrel, and know that
"Imperial Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,
May stop a hole to keep the wind away;"
not less can it trace the noble thoughts of great men, till it finds them mouldered8 into the common dust of conversation, and used to stop men's mouths, and patch up theories, to keep out the flaws of opinion. Such, for example, are all popular adages9 and wise proverbs, which are now resolved into the common mass of thought; their authors forgotten, and having no more an individual being among men.
It is better, therefore, that men should soon make up their minds to be forgotten, and look about them, or within them, for some higher motive10, in what they do, than the approbation11 of men, which is Fame; namely, their duty; that they should be constantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and leaving their fame to take care of itself. Difficult must this indeed be, in our imperfection; impossible perhaps to achieve it wholly. Yet the resolute12, the indomitable will of man can achieve much,--at times even this victory over himself; being persuaded, that fame comes only when deserved, and then is as inevitable13 as destiny, for it is destiny.
It has become a common saying, that men of genius are always in advance of their age; which is true. There is something equally true, yet not so common; namely, that, of these men of genius, the best and bravest are in advance not only of their own age, but of every age. As the German prose-poet says, every possible future is behind them. We cannot suppose, that a period of time will ever come, when the world, or any considerable portion of it shall have come up abreast14 with these great minds, so as fully15 to comprehend them.
And oh! how majestically16 they walk in history; some like the sun, with all his travelling glories round him; others wrapped in gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars. Through the else silent darkness of the past, the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps. Onward17 they pass, like those hoary18 elders seen in the sublime19 vision of an earthly Paradise, attendant angels bearing golden lights before them, and, above and behind, the whole air painted with seven listed colors, as from the trail of pencils!
And yet, on earth, these men were not happy,--not all happy, in the outward circumstance of their lives. They were in want, and in pain, and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, weeping walls of dungeons20! Oh, I have looked with wonder upon those, who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily discomfort21, and sickness, which is the shadow of death, have worked right on to the accomplishment22 of their great purposes; toiling23 much, enduring much, fulfilling much;--and then, with shattered nerves, and sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down in the grave, and slept the sleep of death,--and the world talks of them, while they sleep!
It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings had but sanctified them! As if the death-angel, in passing, had touched them with the hem6 of his garment, and made them holy! As if the hand of disease had been stretched out over them only to make the sign of the cross upon their souls! And as in the sun's eclipse we can behold24 the great stars shining in the heavens, so in this life eclipse have these men beheld25 the lights of the great eternity26, burning solemnly and forever!
This was Flemming's reverie. It was broken by the voice of the Baron27, suddenly exclaiming;
"An angel is flying over the house!--Here; in this goblet28, fragrant29 as the honey of Hymettus, fragrant as the wild flowers in the Angel's Meadow, I drink to the divinity of thy dreams."
"This is all sunshine," said Flemming, as he drank. "The wine of the Prince, and the Prince of wines. By the way, did you ever read that brilliant Italian dithyrambic, Redi's Bacchus in Tuscany? an ode which seems to have been poured out of the author's soul, as from a golden pitcher30,
`Filled with the wine
Of the vine
Benign31,
That flames so red in Sansavine.'
He calls the Montepulciano the king of all wines."
"Prince Metternich," said the Baron, "is greater than any king in Italy; and I wonder, that this precious wine has never inspired a German poet to write a Bacchus on the Rhine. Many little songs we have on this theme, but none very extraordinary. The best are Max Schenkendorf's Song of the Rhine, and the Song of Rhine Wine, by Claudius, a poet who never drank Rhenish without sugar. We will drink for him a blessing32 on the Rhine."
And again the crystal lips of the goblets33 kissed each other, with a musical chime, as of evening bells at vintage-time from the villages on the Rhine. Of a truth, I do not much wonder, that the Germanpoet Schiller loved to write by candle-light with a bottle of Rhine-wine upon the table. Nor do I wonder at the worthy34 schoolmaster Roger Ascham, when he says, in one of his letters from Germany to Mr. John Raven35, of John's College; `Tell Mr. Maden I will drink with him now a carouse36 of wine; and would to God he had a vessel37 of Rhenish wine; and perchance, when I come to Cambridge, I will so provide here, that every year I will have a little piece of Rhenish wine.' Nor, in fine, do I wonder at the German Emperor of whom he speaks in another letter to the same John Raven, and says, `The Emperor drank the best that I ever saw; he had his head in the glass five times as long as any of us, and never drank less than a good quart at once of Rhenish wine.' These were scholars and gentlemen.
"But to resume our old theme of scholars and their whereabout," said the Baron, with an unusual glow, caught no doubt from the golden sunshine, imprisoned38, like the student Anselmus, in the glass bottle; "where should the scholar live? In solitudeor in society? In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of nature beat, or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing39 heart of man? I will make answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray city. Oh, they do greatly err40, who think, that the stars are all the poetry which cities have; and therefore that the poet's only dwelling41 should be in sylvan42 solitudes43, under the green roof of trees. Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured by the miraculous44 power of poetry; hamlets and harvest-fields, and nut-brown waters, flowing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, with all the sights and sounds of rural life. But after all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theatre of human life? What are they but the coarse materials of the poet's song? Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us. There lies the Land of Song; there lies the poet's native land. The river of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearingalong so many gallant45 hearts, so many wrecks46 of humanity;--the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving47 round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass;--and to be in this and be a part of this; acting48, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, with his fellow-men;--such, such should be the poet's life. If he would describe the world, he should live in the world. ............