Yesterday, I indicated that I had proven, to any reasonable standard, that Mathew Franklin Whittier was the real author of the asterisk-signed reviews in the 1845-46 New York "Tribune"--not Margaret Fuller, as historians have concluded. I say "to any reasonable standard" because one can never prove anything to a cynic. If you provide such powerful evidence that they cannot gainsay it, they will suddenly exclaim, as one of my unfortunate romantic choices used to do, that "We've talked long enough!"
But for anyone with a sincere dedication to the truth, I've proven it.
So now, rather than write an entry, I'm going to simply invite you to read one of my past-life essays. This is from the March 4, 1846 edition. The book it reviews can be seen on Archive.org at this URL:
Note that Mathew was familiar with Ram Mohan Roy.
This is the same higher mind as is writing this blog, today. The primary difference is that Mathew was looking to poetic and philosophical geniuses for his instruction; whereas in this lifetime, I have built my intellectual and intuitive house on the rock of my Guru's teachings, and those of a few other perfect saints and their immediate disciples. Otherwise, my mind works exactly the same way; and while some of my opinions have changed in accordance with this shift, my values remain precisely the same. Many of the principles I express in this review correspond with things taught by the men I have studied in this lifetime. For example, Swami Vivekananda was fond of saying, "Not from bad to good, but from good to greater good."
I leave you with my review from 1846; but before I go, I want to point out the difference between believing this is Margaret Fuller speaking, and realizing it is actually Mathew Franklin Whittier. This is not simply a matter of snatching back the laurels from a pretender. We know who Margaret Fuller was--she was bright, spoiled, and neurotic. If we believe she was capable of this kind of profundity, this in itself casts disrespect on that profundity. Disrespect cripples appreciation, and a lack of appreciation stifles insight. The real depth of this work cannot be understood, if it is first encased in the numbing belief that it was written by a shallow neurotic. It becomes a sort of "crippled shareware" (whatever the larger protective motive of higher forces which may lie behind that state of affairs). But once you know the real author, and make yourself familiar with some of his other works, you are unblocked, and the eye of your intuition is opened.
So these spurious attributions are more damaging, or at least more limiting, than anyone realizes. You cannot understand "The Raven" if you think that a mere horror writer created it as an intellectual exercise. You cannot understand "A Christmas Carol," if you think that a fame-drunk sensationalist dashed it off within six weeks to shore up his sagging bank account. And you cannot perceive the depths of these star-signed reviews, if you think that a narcissist wrote them.
Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.
Music opening this page: "One By One," by The Free Design,
from the album One By One