No doubt we may sometimes be mistaken.If we change our last simile to that very old and familiar one of a fleet leaving the harbor and sailing in company for some distant region, we can get what we want out of it.There is one of our companions; - her streamers were torn into rags before she had got into the open sea, then by and by her sails blew out of the ropes one after another, the waves swept her deck, and as night came on we left her a seeming wreck, as we flew under our pyramid of canvas.But lo! at dawn she is still in sight, - it may be in advance of us.Some deep ocean-current has been moving her on, strong, but silent, -yes, stronger than these noisy winds that puff our sails until they are swollen as the cheeks of jubilant cherubim.And when at last the black steam-tug with the skeleton arms, which comes out of the mist sooner or later and takes us all in tow, grapples her and goes off panting and groaning with her, it is to that harbor where all wrecks are refitted, and where, alas! we, towering in our pride, may never come.
So you will not think I mean to speak lightly of old friendships, because we cannot help instituting comparisons between our present and former selves by the aid of those who were what we were, but are not what we are.Nothing strikes one more, in the race of life, than to see how many give out in the first half of the course."Commencement day" always reminds me of the start for the "Derby," when the beautiful high-bred three-year olds of the season are brought up for trial.That day is the start, and life is the race.Here we are at Cambridge, and a class is just "graduating."Poor Harry! he was to have been there too, but he has paid forfeit;step out here into the grass back of the church; ah! there it is:-"HUNC LAPIDEM POSUERUNT
SOCII MOERENTES."
But this is the start, and here they are, - coats bright as silk, and manes as smooth as EAU LUSTRALE can make them.Some of the best of the colts are pranced round, a few minutes each, to show their paces.What is that old gentleman crying about? and the old lady by him, and the three girls, what are they all covering their eyes for? Oh, that is THEIR colt which has just been trotted up on the stage.Do they really think those little thin legs can do anything in such a slashing sweepstakes as is coming off in these next forty years? Oh, this terrible gift of second-sight that comes to some of us when we begin to look through the silvered rings of the ARCUS SENILIS!
TEN YEARS GONE.First turn in the race.A few broken down; two or three bolted.Several show in advance of the ruck.CASSOCK, a black colt, seems to be ahead of the rest; those black colts commonly get the start, I have noticed, of the others, in the first quarter.METEOR has pulled up.
TWENTY YEARS.Second corner turned.CASSOCK has dropped from the front, and JUDEX, an iron-gray, has the lead.But look! how they have thinned out! Down flat, - five, - six, - how many? They lie still enough! they will not get up again in this race, be very sure! And the rest of them, what a "tailing off"! Anybody can see who is going to win, - perhaps.
THIRTY YEARS.Third corner turned.DIVES, bright sorrel, ridden by the fellow in a yellow jacket, begins to make play fast; is getting to be the favourite with many.But who is that other one that has been lengthening his stride from the first, and now shows close up to the front? Don't you remember the quiet brown colt ASTEROID, with the star in his forehead? That is he; he is one of the sort that lasts; look out for him! The black "colt," as we used to call him, is in the background, taking it easily in a gentle trot.There is one they used to call THE FILLY, on account of a certain feminine air he had; well up, you see; the Filly is not to be despised my boy!
FORTY YEARS.More dropping off, - but places much as before.
FIFTY YEARS.Race over.All that are on the course are coming in at a walk; no more running.Who is ahead? Ahead? What! and the winning-post a slab of white or gray stone standing out from that turf where there is no more jockeying or straining for victory!
Well, the world marks their places in its betting-book; but be sure that these matter very little, if they have run as well as they knew how!
- Did I not say to you a little while ago that the universe swam in an ocean of similitudes and analogies? I will not quote Cowley, or Burns, or Wordsworth, just now, to show you what thoughts were suggested to them by the simplest natural objects, such as a flower or a leaf; but I will read you a few lines, if you do not object, suggested by looking at a section of one of those chambered shells to which is given the name of Pearly Nautilus.We need not trouble ourselves about the distinction between this and the Paper Nautilus, the ARGONAUTA of the ancients.The name applied to both shows that each has long been compared to a ship, as you may see more fully in Webster's Dictionary, or the "Encyclopedia," to which he refers.If you will look into Roget's Bridgewater Treatise, you will find a figure of one of these shells, and a section of it.
The last will show you the series of enlarging compartments successively dwelt in by the animal that inhabits the shell, which is built in a widening spiral.Can you find no lesson in this?
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, -The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hairIts webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every clambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, -Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap forlorn!
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
