Amête and Yaféh. AN ALLEGORY.

Far in the illimitable space, seeming to earth as one of those bright yet tiny stars, which even the most powerful telescope will not increase in size, so immeasurable is the distance between them and us, two Spirits sate enthroned, each intrusted with an attribute of the Creator, with which to renew His image in man and vivify the earth. Their work was one, each so aiding each that, though in outward form distinct, their inward being was the same. The one, known in the language of heaven as Amête—and who, were there measurement of Time in the children of Eternity, might seem the elder—was in aspect grave, almost stern, but those who could steadily gaze upon him, and receive his image within their hearts (and man did so a thousand and a thousand times, though the Spirit’s visible form was unrevealed), loved him, with such deep, earnest love, as to forget the seeming sternness in the deep calm and still security his recognition ever brought. A coronet of light circled his brow, his wings were of living sapphire, and in his hand he held a transparent spear. Wherever he moved, darkness and mist fled from before him; and error sunk annihilated, before one touch of that crystal lance. Change and mutability touched him not; coeval with Creation, he endured to Everlasting—ever presenting the same exquisite aspect, producing on earth the same effect, and through every age aiding to mould man for Immortality. Distinct from his companion, yet the same; reflecting his every changeful hue of loveliness, yet retaining undisturbed his own.

Not such was the outward appearance of Yaféh. Less majestic, less grave, Earth and Heaven ever hailed him with rejoicing. The latter, indeed, knew him not apart from Amête; and the former, in her darkness, sometimes greeted his semblance, not himself. Robed in light, drawn not from the ethereal fount which circled Amête, but from those dazzling iris-coloured rays, the reflection of which we sometimes catch when the sun shines upon a prism, the various changes of his exquisite loveliness were impossible to be defined. But it was only when in close unity with Amête he was seen to full perfection, and his glittering garb endowed with vitality and glory; apart those iris rays shone forth resplendent and most dazzling, but without the light glistening on the brow of his companion were too soon merged in gloom.

But this Yaféh himself knew not, and in his young ambition besought permission to work alone. His revealed form was more visible on earth than that of Amête. As he looked down, and around, and above him, the attribute of which he was the guardian seemed so powerfully and palpably impressed, that he could not trace the invisible workings of his companion, and in his presumption he deemed it all his own, and chafed and spurned the bond which, since their creation, had entwined and marked them one. Mournfully and earnestly Amête conjured him to check the impious prayer; that which the All-Wise had assigned them was surely best and safest. But Yaféh would not heed, and ceased not his murmuring supplication till it was granted. With the work already done, the work of Creation, he might not interfere; but the archangelic minister bade him “Go down to earth, and in the workshop of man, be his creation of hand or brain, display thy power; thou art free to work alone,” and with a glad burst of triumphant song, and the brilliant velocity of a fallen star, the Spirit darted down to earth.

“Follow him not!” commanded the archangel, answering Amête’s imploring gaze; “once convinced of his nothingness alone, he will never leave thee more. That lesson learned, thou mayest rejoin him; meanwhile, look down upon his course,” and sorrowingly Amête obeyed.

He beheld him, arrayed in even more than his wonted loveliness, enter the several habitations of man; his invisible but felt presence greeted with wild joy, and his inspirings followed in the new creative genius of all whom he touched. In the lowly homes of the mechanic and the artizan he lingered, and their work grew beneath their hand; and at first it seemed most lovely, but still something was wanting, and they toiled and toiled to find it, but in vain; and despair and ruin usurped the place of glad rejoicing.

“They are of too low a grade, too dull a mind,” murmured the Spirit, and he flew to the easel of the painter; the workshop of the sculptor; and new conceptions of loveliness floated so vividly in their minds, that day and night unceasingly they toiled to give them embodied form, and sweet dreams of fame mingled with their creation, till life itself seemed brighter than before. And Yaféh rejoiced, for surely now he was triumphant; here at least perfection would vitalize his presence, and prove how little needed he Amête. He mingled invisibly with the judges of the works, and he beheld them scorned—contemned as dreams of madmen; and the artists fled, disgraced and miserable, to their homes, with difficulty restrained from shivering their work to atoms.

Terrified, yet still not humbled, Yaféh winged his flight to the studio of the musician, and harmonies of heaven floated in his ear, entrancing him with their exquisite perfection, and hour after hour he laboured to bring them from their impalpable essence to the bondage of note and phrase, but in vain—in vain! The sounds he did produce were wild, discordant, unconnected, and in passionate agony he refused to listen more.

The poet, the philosopher, the historian—wherever genius lay—Yaféh touched with his quivering breath, and to all came the same dream of marvellous loveliness—the same ideal perfection. On all burst the torrent of inspiration, compelling toil and work, to give words to the pressing thought, and all for awhile believed it perfect; and their burning souls throbbed high in the fond hope that each glorious lay, each novel discovery, each startling hypothesis—clothed in such glowing imagery and thrilling words—must last for ever. And Yaféh triumphed, for surely here he was secure, and in these prove that he could work alone, and needed the aid of none.

A brief, brief while, and the burning lays of the poet were forgotten and unread. The theory of the philosopher, lovely as it had seemed, quivered into darkness before the test of usefulness and reason. The new discoveries, new thoughts of the historian met with scorn and laughter in the vain search for their foundation. And, in their deep despair, Yaféh heard the names by which he was known to earth accursed and scorned; his presence banished; his inspirations rudely checked, as bringing not loveliness and joy, but misery and ruin, and the Spirit fled, in his wild agony, far, far from the homes of earth and the hearts of men; and shrinking from his starry home and light-clad brother, sought to pierce through and through the vast realms of unfathomable space, and lose himself in darkness. His iris rays seemed fading from his lovely form, lost in denser and denser gloom. Above, below, and around him thunder rolled, and the glittering Hosts of Heaven trembled, lest his proud wish were to be chastised still further. But soon the majestic form of the Spirit Amête stood beside his brother, and before the touch of his glittering spear, Error and Despair, about to claim Yaféh, fled howling.

“Yaféh, beloved! we will descend together,” he said, in tones clear, distinct, and liquid, impossible to be withstood. “Thy work shall yet live and be immortal.”

“Nay, ’twill be thine,” murmured the repentant Spirit, his darkened loveliness resuming light and glory from the effulgent brow so pityingly bent down on his. “What need hast thou for me? Go forth and work alone; I have no part on earth.”

“Thou hast; for without thee I have no power. Man trembles at my form when at the Eternal’s mandate, I must go forth alone; but with thee, perchance because my sterner self is hidden, he loves and hails me, and permits my work ascendency. Without thee I could but bind to earth; with thee I lead to heaven. Brother, we are One, though earth may deem us twain. We cannot work for Immortality apart.”

Side by side, so closely twined that even their brother spirits could with difficulty distinguish their individuality, Amête and Yaféh stood within the dwellings of man. The mechanic and the artizan started from their desponding trance; the neglected work was resumed. The form, the inspiration was the same; but as if a flash of light had touched it, it gave back that perfect image of the mind for which before they had so toiled and toiled in vain. On to the artist, the sculptor, the musician, and one touch from that crystal spear, and the misty cloud dispersed, and the senseless canvas gave back the perfected thought; the cold marble sprung into the warmth of actual being; the impalpable but exquisite harmonies, the ethereal essence of sound, at the word of Amête, resolved itself into the necessary bondage of note and form, and breathed forth to admiring thousands the music lent to one. Hovering over the poet, again the thrilling words burst forth, and fraught with such mighty meanings every heart responded, as to the voice of the Immortal; folding his azure pinion round the panting soul of the philosopher, the shrouding cloud dispersed, and science, deep, stern, lasting, took the place of the mere lovely dream; and on the page of the historian, light from the brow of Amête so flashed as to make him a gifted reader of the Future, by the wondrous record his spirit-thought unfolded of the Past. Wherever the Spirits lingered, man worked for immortality; it mattered not under what guise, or in what rank. From the highest to the lowest, each creative impulse, fashioned by Yaféh, received perfection from Amête. The former, indeed, alone was visible, but never more he sought to work alone. Within his outward work was the vital essence breathed by Amête, without which the most exquisite form was incomplete—the most lovely thought imperfect—the fairest theory a dream.

And so it is even now. Up, up in yon distant star, gleaming so brightly through the immeasurable space, as may be their throne, still does their glorious and united Presence walk the earth. Their semblance may be found apart, but not themselves. Twain as they are in name and aspect, in essence they are One. Truth is the vital breath of Beauty; Beauty the outward form of Truth; the Real the sole foundation of the Ideal; the Ideal but the spiritualized essence of the Real.

1.  Two Hebrew words, whose translations will be found in the concluding paragraph.