The west shore., August 01, 1889, Page 452, Image 45

THE WEST SHORE.
lif 0 spring up, and therefrom the Sphinx developed
wings, with which the souls of mortal ihoald return
to the skies. The evolution of the Sphinx, in short,
ii the history of the thought, especially the religious
thought, of mankind. And always it is invested with
a spirit of melancholy and sadness that inheres in
the very existence of humanity."
" Hut in a world where there is so much that is
beautiful," I said, " such a magnificent field for the
highest employment of all our faculties, with an as
surance neit to absolute knowledge that this is but
the portal of a future still better, why is it, my dear
friend, that there should be so much sadness? I
question the wisdom of poet, artist or philosopher
that dwells so much upon it or gives it such promi
nent recognition"
Your remark is purely a perfunctory one, my
cousin, and you do not speak u the result of much
reflection. No one who is at all familiar with the
utterances of genius, or who has thought deeply up.
on the problems of life, can fail to be profoundly
impressed by the universal recognition which human
ity accords to grief -not mere personal sorrow, the
result of a transient disappointment, but that world
wide d1 ootu and passionate melancholy whose solemn
undertone is never silent, and which consciously or
not forms so large a portion of oar moral nature. It
dominates the liible patriarchs; poets in all lands
and age have woven it into song; historians have
aJmitted its existence ; philosophers have tried to
fathom it; the greatest novelists have idealiied it in
their best creations; while the toiling multitude who
have do time to theorie about their emotions, sim
ply Dot the pretence of an inexplicable heart-pain
as they follow the dull tread-mill of existence. The
cypres vms to be inextricably interwoven with the
live of all who wearily or joyously perform their
part in the worlds stern struggle. This world is the
Sanctuary of Sorrow. PmU, wu pointed out in old
rTcrene a the man who bad been in helL The
truth U the axe few who figuratively .peaking
might Dot enjoy the m deduction; the dtforenc!
Mag, that he told in immortal song what he there
saw. 80 far from being an evidence of moral weak
nets, that rton . emotional md intelWtaal endow
menu ar Dot amounted comply to whom the moan.
lDg.ea.th. wart of wintry wind, and nature, uni
veml melancholy ar. the ton of M Mkao
music. Our Ltv. lUr huh w rWihw
Ung. Our struggls hen, U to rin tu, J(r
r ,v?h.tb wu u,ra
Ti f" k "tile i,Z
va of Urn. betw two M '
than othen, but each ha. hu d.Uty to f S Ft'
early oc m Ut, It must U 0 n,
may be very different from what was expected, but
no matter. 'Our birth is bat a sleep and a forget
ting.' By casting life away we shall find it again."
Winthrop spoke in such general terms, and with
gnch impersonal application, that I was deceived ai
to his true meaning. People often talk of destiny
when they only mean that the ordinary trials of life
prevent the accomplishment of their special aims; it
is only those rarely gifted beings that see in certain
events a destiny higher than themselves, which
amounts to an absolute command calling for the re
nunciation of the ambitions of the world, even to the
giving up of life itself. Some such thoughts as these
my mind experienced while Winthrop spoke, and
then I said
" We all have a destiny to f alfilL One is adjudg.
ed to toil in the fields, to subdue the material forces
of the world; another works with the more subtile
elements of nature's laboratory; others, who are ac
counted more fortunate, attain honor and seeming
great happiness; while still more, like the multitud
inous sands upon the seashore, can only say when the
day of reckoning comes, Lord, I have suffered much.
Your destiny, my friend, is a grander one than all
others; it is yours not only to suffer, but to embody
in imperishable lineaments the divine elements of
beauty and truth, to keep alive in the straggling mass
of humanity those lofty principles which serve to
keep the human heart pure and its aspirations hear,
enward."
" Write those words upon your memory in italics,"
said Winthrop, as he rose to go; "they will return to
you ere long clothed with new meaning. But I havs
prosed enough; I have work to do before I sleep.
Good night, my dear, dear friend."
" Cousin, do not go 1" I eiolaimed, still detaining
him by the hand; "remain with me, and let us end
this eventful day together. Our conversation has
drifted into the unfrequented channels of the mind,
and that which has struggled to the surface soemi
almost M gloomy as this cloudy night"
M It will be brighter when we meet again," said
inthrop, while a smile " that made me wish to steal
away and woep" rested a moment on his handsome
face, as he continued: " No, Cousin Arthur, I must
P; your words have given me an impulse; I feel
that quickening of the spirit which foretells an hour
or vital work. The creative artist of whatever kind
must be ready at all times to receive those visitations
of divine power which work through him as an inbtrn
TnV06 000Mhment of great results. I
nail finish my work to-night; oome in the morning
you shall see it Forgive me for having with
! r , you of P6" in the world, so long,
because I place art so high, even above the