Reason only answered, "At your peril you cherish that idea, or suffer
its influence to animate any writing of yours!"
"But if I feel, may I _never_ express?"
"_Never!_" declared Reason.
I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never--never--oh, hard word!
This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope:
she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in,
and broken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece
of bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life
to despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times
to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to
Imagination--_her_ soft, bright foe, _our_ sweet Help, our divine
Hope. We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the
terrible revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as a
devil: for me she was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have
obeyed her it has chiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of
love. Long ago I should have died of her ill-usage her stint, her
chill, her barren board, her icy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; but
for that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often
has Reason turned me out by night, in mid-winter, on cold snow,
flinging for sustenance the gnawed bone dogs had forsaken: sternly has
she vowed her stores held nothing more for me--harshly denied my right
to ask better things.... Then, looking up, have I seen in the sky a
head amidst circling stars, of which the midmost and the brightest
lent a ray sympathetic and attent. A spirit, softer and better than
Human Reason, has descended with quiet flight to the waste--bringing
all round her a sphere of air borrowed of eternal summer; bringing
perfume of flowers which cannot fade--fragrance of trees whose fruit
is life; bringing breezes pure from a world whose day needs no sun to
lighten it. My hunger has this good angel appeased with food, sweet
and strange, gathered amongst gleaning angels, garnering their dew-
white harvest in the first fresh hour of a heavenly day; tenderly has
she assuaged the insufferable fears which weep away life itself--
kindly given rest to deadly weariness--generously lent hope and
impulse to paralyzed despair. Divine, compassionate, succourable
influence! When I bend the knee to other than God, it shall be at thy
white and winged feet, beautiful on mountain or on plain. Temples have
been reared to the Sun--altars dedicated to the Moon. Oh, greater
glory! To thee neither hands build, nor lips consecrate: but hearts,
through ages, are faithful to thy worship. A dwelling thou hast, too
wide for walls, too high for dome--a temple whose floors are space--
rites whose mysteries transpire in presence, to the kindling, the
harmony of worlds!
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