But alas if the whole thing be only in
himself--if the vision be a dream of nothing, a revelation of lies, the
outcome of that which, helplessly existent, is yet not created,
therefore cannot create--if not the whole thing only be a dream of the
impotent, but the impotent be himself but a dream--a dream of his own--a
self-dreamed dream--with no master of dreams to whom to cry! Where then
the cherished hope of one day atoning for his wrongs to those who loved
him!--they are nowhere--vanished for ever, upmingled and dissolved in
the primeval darkness! If truth be but the hollow of a sphere, ah, never
shall he cast himself before them, to tell them that now at last, after
long years of revealing separation, he knows himself and them, and that
now the love of them is a part of his very being--to implore their
forgiveness on the ground that he hates, despises, contemns, and scorns
the self that showed them less than absolute love and devotion! Never
thus shall he lay his being bare to their eyes of love! They do not even
rest, for they do not and will not know it. There is no voice nor
hearing in them, and how can there be in him any heart to live! The one
comfort left him is, that, unable to follow them, he shall yet die and
cease, and fare as they--go also nowhither!
To a man under the dismay of existence dissociated from power, unrooted
in, unshadowed by a creating Will, who is Love, the Father of Man--to
him who knows not being and God together, the idea of death--a death
that knows no reviving, must be, and ought to be the blessedest thought
left him.
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