AMONG the vicissitudes incident to life, the voice of the voice over the parts and the whole, I have acquired an habitual attachment, a benevolent human mind.
There can be no spectacle. Us, and not we. The little advantage over chance.
If love is that delicious recollection which is opening, which is still an imitation from year to year, I would feel called upon to look toward the many and approach the wide seas. Still, humble, I shrink from that contemplation.
Here, I hear, charged with your guidance and support, that I am a vessel amidst the conflicting elements of a troubled and profound isolation, unwilling, under the peculiar, tranquil solemnity of my own country, to see the earth as it truly is, out across some eternal cold. Rather, now as the world is the world, the world is very different now.
The world is not still. Which precious reflection will we assign to ourselves? There are gloomy forebodings, crises imagined and unimagined yet. They are inconvenient. They cost us something. We embark into the past, though perpetuity is implied in the resolved way we hold apprehension in our hands and in our hearts. When calm thought courses according to our sympathies and affections, will we fly from risk, or will we fly our fabrics strongly into the greater winds of our minds?
For you, I will gaze at the statues of every tendency through which our dominant passions seek to destroy us, and furnish a larger peace within the wild calamity of our time. To not be the flatterer; to point the face of the age at us as we hear the crushing truth of its motto.
Here we are, a shipwreck in a sea that finally speaks, saying, "I have seen your assemblage, and I do not approve." We witness the whole world in the weakness inherent in our small anxieties, but we are proof that the false ground needs no cool and collected feet to pound it into existence. Everything is already there, conspicuously displayed in our favor.