UNWRITTEN- LANOrAGE, 17 



written, It is the communing of the inner soul with the vast universe 

 of thought, which is bounded by no limits, and which, in its relation to 

 the mind, presents itself under such varied and transcendent forms. — 

 Through it, the highest, holiest, most exalted ideas are conveyed ; for is 

 it not the very powerlcssness of words that makes it " unwritten ?" It 

 comes to speak of the inconceivable grandeur of an unseen and unfelt 

 eternity, yet disdains not to breathe of ihe modest beauties found in the 

 humblest portions of creation. The Christian Philosopher feels it, as 

 he thinks of God, the child hears its mute whisperings, as the zephyr 

 gambols among the woodbine leaves. 



Throughout, there are images of beauty, wondrous beauty. 'Tis a 

 beautiful language which God pencils in moonbeams upon the bosom of 

 the still lake. Silently, though not voicelessly, those bright beams are 

 falling ; and, poor, weak man, with thy ten thousand words and folio- 

 lexicons, I defy thee to set them in such order that they may reach my 

 heart as does that mute language! At such a time, talk not to me of 

 words long and short and all the technicalities of grammar, for this lan- 

 guage existed before such refined disquisitions perplexed mortal minds. 

 Than this I would not desire a preacher more persuasively eloquent ; 

 for, iii an inconceivably short space, I have a sermon something like this: 

 "'Tis calmness and peace that mirrors heaven perfectly : and turgid wa- 

 ters mar the lustre of reflected images. What benevolence in Him, who 

 sets the seal of loveliness even upon the inanimate creation ; yet is it 

 not also as a means of refining the human soul, by luring it away from 

 its gross and bestial tendencies to innocence and purity." He must be 

 worse than a heathen who is not moved by these things. They seem 

 to me as a constant warning and entreating voice, urging from the com- 

 mission of evil. Yea, methinks, the black purposes of the heart do not 

 so readily rise, when these still voices are permitted to speak. Would 

 the man-slayer deliberately select as the scene of his atrocity the ver- 

 dant mead, beneath embowering elms, with the gurgling brook hard by, 

 prattling in innocence .' Would he not hesitate to dye that green turf 

 with crimson gore, and not rather seek the arid sands tliat drink blood 

 greedily, or creep among dews and cares, suited in noisomeness fo the 

 foulness of his crime f- Is not beauty, purity, and innocence powerfully 

 spoken in this same unwritten language ? 



But, there is grandeur and might! The restless heaving and thiot- 

 ling of " Ocean's yesty waves " gives birth to an idea which mere words 

 fail to utter; and the spectator of Niagara's wonders needs no "descrip- 

 tion" of its grandeur. Men say that "God speaks in the thunder," but 

 who knows it so well as the mute, back-skrinking individual, upon whose 



