But to make ideal beauty the shadow in the water, and, like the dog in the fable, to throw away the substance in catching at the shadow, is scarcely the characteristic of wisdom, whatever it may be of genius. To reconcile man as he is to the world as it is, to preserve and improve all that is good, and destroy or alleviate all that is evil, in physical and moral nature--have been the hope and aim of the greatest teachers and ornaments of our species. I will say, too, that the highest wisdom and the highest genius have been invariably accompanied with cheerfulness. We have sufficient proofs on record that Shakspeare and Socrates were the most festive of companions. But now the little wisdom and genius we have seem to be entering into a conspiracy against cheerfulness.
How can we be cheerful with the devil among us!
How can we be cheerful when our nerves are shattered?
How can we be cheerful when we are surrounded by a _reading public_, that is growing too wise for its betters?
How can we be cheerful when our great general designs are crossed every moment by our little particular passions?
How can we be cheerful in the midst of disappointment and despair?
No: a nice tragical ballad. The Norfolk Tragedy to the tune of the Hundredth Psalm.
There is a fever of the spirit, The brand of Cain's unresting doom, Which in the lone dark souls that bear it Glows like the lamp in Tullia's tomb: Unlike that lamp, its subtle fire Burns, blasts, consumes its cell, the heart, Till, one by one, hope, joy, desire, Like dreams of shadowy smoke depart.
When hope, love, life itself, are only Dust--spectral memories--dead and cold-- The unfed fire burns bright and lonely, Like that undying lamp of old: And by that drear illumination, Till time its clay-built home has rent, Thought broods on feeling's desolation-- The soul is its own monument.
Admirable. Let us all be unhappy together.
Agreed. I'll be Harry Gill, with the voice of three. Begin
Seamen three! I What men be ye? Gotham's three wise men we be. Whither in your bowl so free? To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine; And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift? I am he they call Old Care. Here on board we will thee lift. No: I may not enter there. Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be; In a bowl Care may not be.