Late Aspirations. — Letter to H ——
You have put to me that case which puzzles more than almost any in this strange world—the case of a man of good intentions, with natural powers sufficient to carry them out, who, after having through great part of a life lived the best he knew, and, in the world’s eye, lived admirably well, suddenly wakes to a consciousness of the soul’s true aims. He finds that he has been a good son, husband, and father, an adroit man of business, respected by all around him, without ever having advanced one step in the life of the soul. His object has not been the development of his immortal being, nor has this been developed; all he has done bears upon the present life only, and even that in a way poor and limited, since no deep fountain of intellect or feeling has ever been unsealed for him. Now that his eyes are opened, he sees what communion is possible; what incorruptible riches may be accumulated by the man of true wisdom. But why is the hour of clear vision so late deferred? He cannot blame himself for his previous blindness. His eyes were holden that he saw not. He lived as well as he knew how.
And now that he would fain give himself up to the new oracle in his bosom, and to the inspirations of nature, all his old habits, all his previous connections, are unpropitious. He is bound by a thousand chains which press on him so as to leave no moment free. And perhaps it seems to him that, were he free, he should but feel the more forlorn. He sees the charm and nobleness of this new life, but knows not how to live it. It is an element to which his mental frame has not been trained. He knows not what to do to-day or to-morrow; how to stay by himself, or how to meet others; how to act, or how to rest. Looking on others who chose the path which now invites him at an age when their characters were yet plastic, and the world more freely opened before them, he deems them favored children, and cries in almost despairing sadness, Why, O Father of Spirits, didst thou not earlier enlighten me also? Why was I not led gently by the hand in the days of my youth? “And what,” you ask, “could I reply?”
Much, much, dear H——, were this a friend whom I could see so often that his circumstances would be my text. For no subject has more engaged my thoughts, no difficulty is more frequently met. But now on this poor sheet I can only give you the clew to what I should say.
In the first place, the depth of the despair must be caused by the mistaken idea that this our present life is all the time allotted to man for the education of his nature for that state of consummation which is called heaven. Were it seen that this present is only one little link in the long chain of probations; were it felt that the Divine Justice is pledged to give the aspirations of the soul all the time they require for their fulfilment; were it recognized that disease, old age, and death are circumstances which can never touch the eternal youth of the spirit; that though the “plant man” grows more or less fair in hue and stature, according to the soil in which it is planted, yet the principle, which is the life of the plant, will not be defeated, but must scatter its seeds again and again, till it does at last come to perfect flower,—then would he, who is pausing to despair, realize that a new choice can never be too late, that false steps made in ignorance can never be counted by the All-Wise, and that, though a moment’s delay against conviction is of incalculable weight the mistakes of forty years are but as dust on the balance held by an unerring hand. Despair is for time, hope for eternity.
Then he who looks at all at the working of the grand principle of compensation which holds all nature in equipoise, cannot long remain a stranger to the meaning of the beautiful parable of the prodigal son, and the joy over finding the one lost piece of silver. It is no arbitrary kindness, no generosity of the ruling powers, which causes that there be more joy in heaven over the one that returns, than over ninety and nine that never strayed. It is the inevitable working of a spiritual law that he who has been groping in darkness must feel the light most keenly, best know how to prize it—he who has long been exiled from the truth seize it with the most earnest grasp, live in it with the deepest joy. It was after descending to the very pit of sorrow, that our Elder Brother was permitted to ascend to the Father, who perchance said to the angels who had dwelt always about the throne, Ye are always with me, and all that I have is yours; but this is my Son; he has been into a far country, but could not there abide, and has returned. But if any one say, “I know not how to return,” I should still use words from the same record: “Let him arise and go to his Father.” Let him put his soul into that state of simple, fervent desire for truth alone, truth for its own sake, which is prayer, and not only the sight of truth, but the way to make it living, shall be shown. Obstacles, insuperable to the intellect of any adviser, shall melt away like frostwork before a ray from the celestial sun. The Father may hide his face for a time, till the earnestness of the suppliant child be proved; but he is not far from any that seek, and when he does resolve to make a revelation, will show not only the what, but the how; and none else can advise or aid the seeking soul, except by just observation on some matter of detail.
In this path, as in the downward one, must there be the first step that decides the whole—one sacrifice of the temporal for the eternal day is the grain of mustard seed which may give birth to a tree large enough to make a home for the sweetest singing birds. One moment of deep truth in life, of choosing not merely honesty, but purity, may leaven the whole mass.