First Series

Essays: First Series

I. History
II. Self-Reliance
III. Compensation
IV. Spiritual Laws
V. Love
VI. Friendship
VII. Prudence
VIII. Heroism
IX. The Over-Soul
X. Circles
XI. Intellect
XII. Art

Essays: Second Series

I. The Poet
II. Experience
III. Character
IV. Manners
V. Gifts
VI. Nature
VII. Politics
VIII. Nominalist and Realist
IX. New England Reformers



I. History



There is no great and no small
To the Soul that maketh all:
And where it cometh, all things are;
And it cometh everywhere.

I am owner of the sphere,
Of the seven stars and the solar year,
Of Caesar's hand, and Plato's brain,
Of Lord Christ's heart, and Shakspeare's strain.


There is one mind common to all individual men. Every man is an inlet to the same and
to all of the same. He that is once admitted to the right of reason is made a freeman of
the whole estate. What Plato has thought, he may think; what a saint has felt, he may
feel; what at any time has be-fallen any man, he can understand. Who hath access to this
universal mind is a party to all that is or can be done, for this is the only and sovereign
agent.

Of the works of this mind history is the record. Its genius is illustrated by the entire series
of days. Man is explicable by nothing less than all his history. Without hurry, without rest,
the human spirit goes forth from the beginning to embody every faculty, every thought,
every emotion, which belongs to it in appropriate events. But the thought is always prior
to the fact; all the facts of history preexist in the mind as laws. Each law in turn is made
by circumstances predominant, and the limits of nature give power to butThe poetone at a time. A
man is the whole encyclopaedia of facts. The creation of a thousand forests is in one
acorn, and Egypt, Greece, Rome, Gaul, Britain, America, lie folded already in the first
man. Epoch after epoch, camp, kingdom, empire, republic, democracy, are merely the
application of his manifold spirit to the manifold world.

This human mind wrote history, and this must read it. The Sphinx must solve her own
riddle. If the whole of history is in one man, it is all to be explained from individual
experience. There is a relation between the hours of our life and the centuries of time. As
the air I breathe is drawn from the great repositories of nature, as the light on my book is
yielded by a star a hundred millions of miles distant, as the poise of my body depends on
the equilibrium of centrifugal and centripetal forces, so the hours should be instructed by
the ages, and the ages explained by the hours. Of the universal mind each individual
man is one more incarnation. All its properties consist in him. Each new fact in his private
experience flashes a light on what great bodies of men have done, and the crises of his
life refer to national crises. Every revolution was first a thought in one man's mind, and
when the same thought occurs to another man, it is the key to that era. Every reform was
once a private opinion, and when it shall be a private opinion again, it will solve the
problem of the age. The fact narrated must correspond to something in me to be credible
or intelligible. We as we read must become Greeks, Romans, Turks, priest and king,
martyr and executioner, must fasten these images to some reality in our secret
experience, or we shall learn nothing rightly. What befell Asdrubal or Caesar Borgia is as
much an illustration of the mind's powers and depravations as what has befallen us.
Each new law and political movement has meaning for you. Stand before each of its
tablets and say, `Under this mask did my Proteus nature hide itself.' This remedies the
defect of our too great nearness to ourselves. This throws our actions into perspective:
and as crabs, goats, scorpions, the balance, and the waterpot lose their meanness when
hung as signs in the zodiac, so I can see my own vices without heat in the distant
persons of Solomon, Alcibiades, and Catiline.

It is the universal nature which gives worth to particular men and things. Human life as
containing this is mysterious and inviolable, and we hedge it round with penalties and
laws. All laws derive hence their ultimate reason; all express more or less distinctly some
command of this supreme, illimitable essence. Property also holds of the soul, covers
great spiritual facts, and instinctively we at first hold to it with swords and laws, and wide
and complex combinations. The obscure consciousness of this fact is the light of all our
day, the claim of claims; the plea for education, for justice, for charity, the foundation of
friendship and love, and of the heroism and grandeur which belong to acts of self-reli-
ance. It is remarkable that involuntarily we always read as superior beings. Universal
history, the poets, the romancers, do not in their stateliest pictures--in the sacerdotal,
the imperial palaces, in the triumphs of will or of genius--anywhere lose our ear, any-
where make us feel that we intrude, that this is for better men; but rather is it true, that
in their grandest strokes we feel most at home. All that Shakspeare says of the king,
yonder slip of a boy that reads in the corner feels to be true of himself. We sympathize in
the great moments of history, in the great discoveries, the great resistances, the great
prosperities of men;--because there law was enacted, the sea was searched, the land
was found, or the blow was struck for us, as we ourselves in that place would have done
or applauded.

We have the same interest in condition and character. We honor the rich, because they
have externally the freedom, power, and grace which we feel to be proper to man, prop-
er to us. So all that is said of the wise man by Stoic, or oriental or modern essayist,
describes to each reader his own idea, describes his unattained but attainable self. All
literature writes the character of the wise man. Books, monuments, pictures, conver-
sation, are portraits in which he finds the lineaments he is forming. The silent and
the eloquent praise him and accost him, and he is stimulated wherever he moves as by
personal allusions. A true aspirant, therefore, never needs look for allusions personal and
laudatory in discourse. He hears the commendation, not of himself, but more sweet, of
that character he seeks, in every word that is said concerning character, yea, further, in
every fact and circumstance,--in the running river and the rustling corn. Praise is look-
ed, homage tendered, love flows from mute nature, from the mountains and the lights
of the firmament.

These hints, dropped as it were from sleep and night, let us use in broad day. The
student is to read history actively and not passively; to esteem his own life the text, and
books the commentary. Thus compelled, the Muse of history will utter oracles, as never
to those who do not respect themselves. I have no expectation that any man will read
history aright, who thinks that what was done in a remote age, by men whose names
have resounded far, has any deeper sense than what he is doing to-day.

The world exists for the education of each man. There is no age or state of society or
mode of action in history, to which there is not somewhat corresponding in his life. Every
thing tends in a wonderful manner to abbreviate itself and yield its own virtue to him. He
should see that he can live all history in his own person. He must sit solidly at home, and
not suffer himself to be bullied by kings or empires, but know that he is greater than all
the geography and all the government of the world; he must transfer the point of view
from which history is commonly read, from Rome and Athens and London to himself, and
not deny his conviction that he is the court, and if England or Egypt have any thing to say
to him, he will try the case; if not, let them for ever be silent. He must attain and maintain
that lofty sight where facts yield their secret sense, and poetry and annals are alike. The
instinct of the mind, the purpose of nature, betrays itself in the use we make of the signal
narrations of history. Time dissipates to shining ether the solid angularity of facts. No
anchor, no cable, no fences, avail to keep a fact a fact. Babylon, Troy, Tyre, Palestine,
and even early Rome, are passing already into fiction. The Garden of Eden, the sun
standing still in Gibeon, is poetry thenceforward to all nations. Who cares what the fact
was, when we have made a constellation of it to hang in heaven an immortal sign?
London and Paris and New York must go the same way."What is History, said
Napoleon,"but a fable agreed upon? This life of ours is stuck round with Egypt, Greece,
Gaul, England, War, Colonization, Church, Court, and Commerce, as with so many
flowers and wild ornaments grave and gay. I will not make more account of them. I
believe in Eternity. I can find Greece, Asia, Italy, Spain, and the Islands,--the genius
and creative principle of each and of all eras in my own mind.

We are always coming up with the emphatic facts of history in our private experience,
and verifying them here. All history becomes subjective; in other words, there is properly
no history; only biography. Every mind must know the whole lesson for itself,--must go
over the whole ground. What it does not see, what it does not live, it will not know. What
the former age has epitomized into a formula or rule for manipular convenience, it will
lose all the good of verifying for itself, by means of the wall of that rule. Somewhere,
sometime, it will demand and find compensation for that loss by doing the work itself.
Ferguson discovered many things in astronomy which had long been known. The better
for him.

History must be this or it is nothing. Every law which the state enacts indicates a fact in
human nature; that is all. We must in ourselves see the necessary reason of every fact,
--see how it could and must be. So stand before every public and private work; before
an oration of Burke, before a victory of Napoleon, before a martyrdom of Sir Thomas
More, of Sidney, of Marmaduke Robinson, before a French Reign of Terror, and a Salem
hanging of witches, before a fanatic Revival, and the Animal Magnetism in Paris, or in
Providence. We assume that we under like influence should be alike affected, and should
achieve the like; and we aim to master intellectually the steps, and reach the same height
or the same degradation, that our fellow, our proxy, has done.

All inquiry into antiquity,--all curiosity respecting the Pyramids, the excavated cities,
Stonehenge, the Ohio Circles,1 Mexico, Memphis,--is the desire to do away this wild,
savage, and preposterous There or Then, and introduce in its place the Here and the
Now. Belzoni digs and measures in the mummy-pits and pyramids of Thebes, until he
can see the end of the difference between the monstrous work and himself. When he has
satisfied himself, in general and in detail, that it was made by such a person as he, so
armed and so motived, and to ends to which he himself should also have worked, the
problem is solved; his thought lives along the whole line of temples and sphinxes and
catacombs, passes through them all with satisfaction, and they live again to the mind, or
are now.

A Gothic cathedral affirms that it was done by us, and not done by us. Surely it was by
man, but we find it not in our man. But we apply ourselves to the history of its production.
We put ourselves into the place and state of the builder. We remember the forestdwellers,
the first temples, the adherence to the first type, and the decoration of it as the
wealth of the nation increased; the value which is given to wood by carving led to the
carving over the whole mountain of stone of a cathedral. When we have gone through
this process, and added thereto the Catholic Church, its cross, its music, its processions,
its Saints' days and image-worship, we have, as it were, been the man that made the
minster;2 we have seen how it could and must be. We have the sufficient reason.
The difference between men is in their principle of association. Some men classify
objects by color and size and other accidents of appearance; others by intrinsic likeness,
or by the relation of cause and effect. The progress of the intellect is to the clearer vision
of causes, which neglects surface differences. To the poet, to the philosopher, to the
saint, all things are friendly and sacred, all events profitable, all days holy, all men divine.
For the eye is fastened on the life, and slights the circumstance. Every chemical sub-
stance, every plant, every animal in its growth, teaches the unity of cause, the variety
of appearance.

Upborne and surrounded as we are by this all-creating nature, soft and fluid as a cloud
or the air, why should we be such hard pedants, and magnify a few forms? Why should
we make account of time, or of magnitude, or of figure? The soul knows them not, and
genius, obeying its law, knows how to play with them as a young child plays with
graybeards and in churches. Genius studies the causal thought, and, far back in the
womb of things, sees the rays parting from one orb, that diverge ere they fall by infin-
ite diameters. Genius watches the monad through all his masks as he performs the
metempsychosis3 of nature. Genius detects through the fly, through the caterpillar,
through the grub, through the egg, the constant individual; through countless individuals,
the fixed species; through many species, the genus; through all genera, the steadfast
type; through all the kingdoms of organized life, the eternal unity. Nature is a mutable
cloud, which is always and never the same. She casts the same thought into troops of
forms, as a poet makes twenty fables with one moral. Through the bruteness and
toughness of matter, a subtle spirit bends all things to its own will. The adamant streams
into soft but precise form before it, and, whilst I look at it, its outline and texture are
changed again. Nothing is so fleeting as form; yet never does it quite deny itself. In man
we still trace the remains or hints of all that we esteem badges of servitude in the lower
races; yet in him they enhance his nobleness and grace; as Io, in Aeschylus, transformed
to a cow, offends the imagination; but how changed, when as Isis in Egypt she meets
Osiris-Jove, a beautiful woman, with nothing of the metamorphosis left but the lunar
horns as the splendid ornament of her brows!

The identity of history is equally intrinsic, the diversity equally obvious. There is at the
surface infinite variety of things; at the centre there is simplicity of cause. How many are
the acts of one man in which we recognize the same character! Observe the sources of
our information in respect to the Greek genius. We have the civil history of that people,
as Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, and Plutarch have given it; a very sufficient
account of what manner of persons they were, and what they did. We have the same
national mind expressed for us again in their literature, in epic and lyric poems, drama,
and philosophy; a very complete form. Then we have it once more in their architecture,
a beauty as of temperance itself, limited to the straight line and the square,--a builded
geometry. Then we have it once again in sculpture, the"tongue on the balance of
expression, a multitude of forms in the utmost freedom of action, and never
transgressing the ideal serenity; like votaries performing some religious dance before the
gods, and, though in convulsive pain or mortal combat, never daring to break the figure
and decorum of their dance. Thus, of the genius of one remarkable people, we have a
fourfold representation: and to the senses what more unlike than an ode of Pindar, a
marble centaur, the peristyle4 of the Parthenon, and the last actions of Phocion?

Every one must have observed faces and forms which, without any resembling feature,
make a like impression on the beholder. A particular picture or copy of verses, if it do not
awaken the same train of images, will yet superinduce the same sentiment as some wild
mountain walk, although the resemblance is nowise obvious to the senses, but is occult
and out of the reach of the understanding. Nature is an endless combination and
repetition of a very few laws. She hums the old well-known air through innumerable
variations.

Nature is full of a sublime family likeness throughout her works; and delights in startling
us with resemblances in the most unexpected quarters. I have seen the head of an old
sachem of the forest, which at once reminded the eye of a bald mountain summit, and
the furrows of the brow suggested the strata of the rock. There are men whose manners
have the same essential splendor as the simple and awful sculpture on the friezes of the
Parthenon, and the remains of the earliest Greek art. And there are compositions of the
same strain to be found in the books of all ages. What is Guido's Rospigliosi Aurora but a
morning thought, as the horses in it are only a morning cloud. If any one will but take
pains to observe the variety of actions to which he is equally inclined in certain moods of
mind, and those to which he is averse, he will see how deep is the chain of affinity.

A painter told me that nobody could draw a tree without in some sort becoming a tree; or
draw a child by studying the outlines of its form merely,--but, by watching for a time his
motions and plays, the painter enters into his nature, and can then draw him at will in
every attitude. So Roos "entered into the inmost nature of a sheep." I knew a
draughtsman employed in a public survey, who found that he could not sketch the rocks
until their geological structure was first explained to him. In a certain state of thought is
the common origin of very diverse works. It is the spirit and not the fact that is identical.
By a deeper apprehension, and not primarily by a painful acquisition of many manual
skills, the artist attains the power of awakening other souls to a given activity.

It has been said, that"common souls pay with what they do; nobler souls with that which
they are. And why? Because a profound nature awakens in us by its actions and words,
by its very looks and manners, the same power and beauty that a gallery of sculpture, or
of pictures, addresses.

Civil and natural history, the history of art and of literature, must be explained from
individual history, or must remain words. There is nothing but is related to us, nothing that
does not interest us,--kingdom, college, tree, horse, or iron shoe, the roots of all things
are in man. Santa Croce and the Dome of St. Peter's are lame copies after a divine
model. Strasburg Cathedral is a material counterpart of the soul of Erwin of Steinbach.
The true poem is the poet's mind; the true ship is the ship-builder. In the man, could we
lay him open, we should see the reason for the last flourish and tendril of his work; as
every spine and tint in the sea-shell preexist in the secreting organs of the fish. The
whole of heraldry and of chivalry is in courtesy. A man of fine manners shall pronounce
your name with all the ornament that titles of nobility could ever add.

The trivial experience of every day is always verifying some old prediction to us, and
converting into things the words and signs which we had heard and seen without heed. A
lady, with whom I was riding in the forest, said to me, that the woods always seemed to
her to wait, as if the genii who inhabit them suspended their deeds until the wayfarer has
passed onward: a thought which poetry has celebrated in the dance of the fairies, which
breaks off on the approach of human feet. The man who has seen the rising moon break
out of the clouds at midnight has been present like an archangel at the creation of light
and of the world. I remember one summer day, in the fields, my companion pointed out to
me a broad cloud, which might extend a quarter of a mile parallel to the horizon, quite
accurately in the form of a cherub as painted over churches,--a round block in the
centre, which it was easy to animate with eyes and mouth, supported on either side by
wide-stretched symmetrical wings. What appears once in the atmosphere may appear
often, and it was undoubtedly the archetype of that familiar ornament. I have seen in the
sky a chain of summer lightning which at once showed to me that the Greeks drew from
nature when they painted the thunderbolt in the hand of Jove. I have seen a snow-drift
along the sides of the stone wall which obviously gave the idea of the common
architectural scroll to abut a tower.

By surrounding ourselves with the original circumstances, we invent anew the orders and
the ornaments of architecture, as we see how each people merely decorated its primitive
abodes. The Doric temple preserves the semblance of the wooden cabin in which the
Dorian dwelt. The Chinese pagoda is plainly a Tartar tent. The Indian and Egyptian
temples still betray the mounds and subterranean houses of their forefathers."The
custom of making houses and tombs in the living rock, says Heeren, in his Researches
on the Ethiopians,"determined very naturally the principal character of the Nubian
Egyptian architecture to the colossal form which it assumed. In these caverns, already
prepared by nature, the eye was accustomed to dwell on huge shapes and masses, so
that, when art came to the assistance of nature, it could not move on a small scale
without degrading itself. What would statues of the usual size, or neat porches and wings,
have been, associated with those gigantic halls before which only Colossi could sit as
watchmen, or lean on the pillars of the interior?

The Gothic church plainly originated in a rude adaptation of the forest trees with all their
boughs to a festal or solemn arcade, as the bands about the cleft pillars still indicate the
green withes that tied them. No one can walk in a road cut through pine woods, without
being struck with the architectural appearance of the grove, especially in winter, when
the bareness of all other trees shows the low arch of the Saxons. In the woods in a winter
afternoon one will see as readily the origin of the stained glass window, with which the
Gothic cathedrals are adorned, in the colors of the western sky seen through the bare
and crossing branches of the forest. Nor can any lover of nature enter the old piles of
Oxford and the English cathedrals, without feeling that the forest overpowered the mind
of the builder, and that his chisel, his saw, and plane still reproduced its ferns, its spikes
of flowers, its locust, elm, oak, pine, fir, and spruce.

The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone subdued by the insatiable demand of
harmony in man. The mountain of granite blooms into an eternal flower, with the lightness
and delicate finish, as well as the aerial proportions and perspective, of vegetable beauty.

In like manner, all public facts are to be individualized, all private facts are to be
generalized. Then at once History becomes fluid and true, and Biography deep and
sublime. As the Persian imitated in the slender shafts and capitals of his architecture the
stem and flower of the lotus and palm, so the Persian court in its magnificent era never
gave over the nomadism of its barbarous tribes, but travelled from Ecbatana, where the
spring was spent, to Susa in summer, and to Babylon for the winter.

In the early history of Asia and Africa, Nomadism and Agriculture are the two antagonist
facts. The geography of Asia and of Africa necessitated a nomadic life. But the nomads
were the terror of all those whom the soil, or the advantages of a market, had induced to
build towns. Agriculture, therefore, was a religious injunction, because of the perils of the
state from nomadism. And in these late and civil countries of England and America, these
propensities still fight out the old battle in the nation and in the individual. The nomads of
Africa were constrained to wander by the attacks of the gad-fly, which drives the cattle
mad, and so compels the tribe to emigrate in the rainy season, and to drive off the cattle
to the higher sandy regions. The nomads of Asia follow the pasturage from month to
month. In America and Europe, the nomadism is of trade and curiosity; a progress,
certainly, from the gad-fly of Astaboras to the Anglo and Italo-mania of Boston Bay.
Sacred cities, to which a periodical religious pilgrimage was enjoined, or stringent laws
and customs, tending to invigorate the national bond, were the check on the old rovers;
and the cumulative values of long residence are the restraints on the itineracy of the
present day. The antagonism of the two tendencies is not less active in individuals, as
the love of adventure or the love of repose happens to predominate. A man of rude
health and flowing spirits has the faculty of rapid domestication, lives in his wagon, and
roams through all latitudes as easily as a Calmuc.5 At sea, or in the forest, or in the snow,
he sleeps as warm, dines with as good appetite, and associates as happily, as beside his
own chimneys. Or perhaps his facility is deeper seated, in the increased range of his
faculties of observation, which yield him points of interest wherever fresh objects meet his
eyes. The pastoral nations were needy and hungry to desperation; and this intellectual
nomadism, in its excess, bankrupts the mind, through the dissipation of power on a
miscellany of objects. The home-keeping wit, on the other hand, is that continence or
content which finds all the elements of life in its own soil; and which has its own perils of
monotony and deterioration, if not stimulated by foreign infusions.

Every thing the individual sees without him corresponds to his states of mind, and every
thing is in turn intelligible to him, as his onward thinking leads him into the truth to which
that fact or series belongs.

The primeval world,--the Fore-World, as the Germans say,--I can dive to it in myself
as well as grope for it with researching fingers in catacombs, libraries, and the broken
reliefs and torsos of ruined villas.

What is the foundation of that interest all men feel in Greek history, letters, art, and
poetry, in all its periods, from the Heroic or Homeric age down to the domestic life of
the Athenians and Spartans, four or five centuries later? What but this, that every man
passes personally through a Grecian period. The Grecian state is the era of the bodily
nature, the perfection of the senses,--of the spiritual nature unfolded in strict unity with
the body. In it existed those human forms which supplied the sculptor with his models of
Hercules, Ph;oebus, and Jove; not like the forms abounding in the streets of modern
cities, wherein the face is a confused blur of features, but composed of incorrupt, sharp-
ly defined, and symmetrical features, whose eye-sockets are so formed that it would be
impossible for such eyes to squint, and take furtive glances on this side and on that, but
they must turn the whole head. The manners of that period are plain and fierce. The
reverence exhibited is for personal qualities, courage, address, self-command, justice,
strength, swiftness, a loud voice, a broad chest. Luxury and elegance are not known. A
sparse population and want make every man his own valet, cook, butcher, and soldier,
and the habit of supplying his own needs educates the body to wonderful performances.
Such are the Agamemnon and Diomed of Homer, and not far different is the picture
Xenophon gives of himself and his compatriots in the Retreat of the Ten Thousand."Af-
ter the army had crossed the river Teleboas in Armenia, there fell much snow, and the
troops lay miserably on the ground covered with it. But Xenophon arose naked, and,
taking an axe, began to split wood; whereupon others rose and did the like. Throughout
his army exists a boundless liberty of speech. They quarrel for plunder, they wrangle
with the generals on each new order, and Xenophon is as sharp-tongued as any, and
sharper-tongued than most, and so gives as good as he gets. Who does not see that this
is a gang of great boys, with such a code of honor and such lax discipline as great boys
have?

The costly charm of the ancient tragedy, and indeed of all the old literature, is, that the
persons speak simply,--speak as persons who have great good sense without knowing
it, before yet the reflective habit has become the predominant habit of the mind. Our
admiration of the antique is not admiration of the old, but of the natural. The Greeks are
not reflective, but perfect in their senses and in their health, with the finest physical
organization in the world. Adults acted with the simplicity and grace of children. They
made vases, tragedies, and statues, such as healthy senses should,--that is, in good
taste. Such things have continued to be made in all ages, and are now, wherever a
healthy physique exists; but, as a class, from their superior organization, they have
surpassed all. They combine the energy of manhood with the engaging unconsciousness
of childhood. The attraction of these manners is that they belong to man, and are known
to every man in virtue of his being once a child; besides that there are always individuals
who retain these characteristics. A person of childlike genius and inborn energy is still a
Greek, and revives our love of the Muse of Hellas. I admire the love of nature in the
Philoctetes. In reading those fine apostrophes to sleep, to the stars, rocks, mountains,
and waves, I feel time passing away as an ebbing sea. I feel the eternity of man, the
identity of his thought. The Greek had, it seems, the same fellow-beings as I. The sun
and moon, water and fire, met his heart precisely as they meet mine. Then the vaunted
distinction between Greek and English, between Classic and Romantic schools, seems
superficial and pedantic. When a thought of Plato becomes a thought to me,--when a
truth that fired the soul of Pindar fires mine, time is no more. When I feel that we two
meet in a perception, that our two souls are tinged with the same hue, and do, as it were,
run into one, why should I measure degrees of latitude, why should I count Egyptian years?

The student interprets the age of chivalry by his own age of chivalry, and the days of
maritime adventure and circumnavigation by quite parallel miniature experiences of his
own. To the sacred history of the world, he has the same key. When the voice of a
prophet out of the deeps of antiquity merely echoes to him a sentiment of his infancy, a
prayer of his youth, he then pierces to the truth through all the confusion of tradition and
the caricature of institutions.

Rare, extravagant spirits come by us at intervals, who disclose to us new facts in nature.
I see that men of God have, from time to time, walked among men and made their
commission felt in the heart and soul of the commonest hearer. Hence, evidently, the
tripod, the priest, the priestess inspired by the divine afflatus.

Jesus astonishes and overpowers sensual people. They cannot unite him to history, or
reconcile him with themselves. As they come to revere their intuitions and aspire to live
holily, their own piety explains every fact, every word.

How easily these old worships of Moses, of Zoroaster, of Menu, of Socrates, domesticate
themselves in the mind. I cannot find any antiquity in them. They are mine as much as
theirs.

I have seen the first monks and anchorets6 without crossing seas or centuries. More
than once some individual has appeared to me with such negligence of labor and such
commanding contemplation, a haughty beneficiary, begging in the name of God, as
made good to the nineteenth century Simeon the Stylite,7 the Thebais,8 and the first
Capuchins.9

The priestcraft of the East and West, of the Magian, Brahmin, Druid, and Inca, is
expounded in the individual's private life. The cramping influence of a hard formalist on a
young child in repressing his spirits and courage, paralyzing the understanding, and that
without producing indignation, but only fear and obedience, and even much sympathy
with the tyranny,--is a familiar fact explained to the child when he becomes a man, only
by seeing that the oppressor of his youth is himself a child tyrannized over by those
names and words and forms, of whose influence he was merely the organ to the youth.
The fact teaches him how Belus was worshipped, and how the Pyramids were built, bet-
ter than the discovery by Champollion of the names of all the workmen and the cost of
every tile. He finds Assyria and the Mounds of Cholula at his door, and himself has laid
the courses.

Again, in that protest which each considerate person makes against the superstition of
his times, he repeats step for step the part of old reformers, and in the search after truth
finds like them new perils to virtue. He learns again what moral vigor is needed to supply
the girdle of a superstition. A great licentiousness treads on the heels of a reformation.
How many times in the history of the world has the Luther of the day had to lament the
decay of piety in his own household!"Doctor, said his wife to Martin Luther, one day,
"how is it that, whilst subject to papacy, we prayed so often and with such fervor, whilst
now we pray with the utmost coldness and very seldom?

The advancing man discovers how deep a property he has in literature,--in all fable as
well as in all history. He finds that the poet was no odd fellow who described strange and
impossible situations, but that universal man wrote by his pen a confession true for one
and true for all. His own secret biography he finds in lines wonderfully intelligible to
him, dotted down before he was born. One after another he comes up in his private
adventures with every fable of Aesop, of Homer, of Hafiz, of Ariosto, of Chaucer, of
Scott, and verifies them with his own head and hands.

The beautiful fables of the Greeks, being proper creations of the imagination and not
of the fancy, are universal verities. What a range of meanings and what perpetual pert-
inence has the story of Prometheus! Beside its primary value as the first chapter of
the history of Europe, (the mythology thinly veiling authentic facts, the invention of the
mechanic arts, and the migration of colonies,) it gives the history of religion with some
closeness to the faith of later ages. Prometheus is the Jesus of the old mythology. He is
the friend of man; stands between the unjust"justice of the Eternal Father and the race
of mortals, and readily suffers all things on their account. But where it departs from the
Calvinistic Christianity, and exhibits him as the defier of Jove, it represents a state of
mind which readily appears wherever the doctrine of Theism is taught in a crude, ob-
jective form, and which seems the self-defence of man against this untruth, namely, a
discontent with the believed fact that a God exists, and a feeling that the obligation of
reverence is onerous. It would steal, if it could, the fire of the Creator, and live apart from
him, and independent of him. The Prometheus Vinctus is the romance of skepticism. Not
less true to all time are the details of that stately apologue. Apollo kept the flocks of
Admetus, said the poets. When the gods come among men, they are not known. Jesus
was not; Socrates and Shakspeare were not. Antaeus was suffocated by the gripe of
Hercules, but every time he touched his mother earth, his strength was renewed. Man is
the broken giant, and, in all his weakness, both his body and his mind are invigorated by
habits of conversation with nature. The power of music, the power of poetry to unfix, and,
as it were, clap wings to solid nature, interprets the riddle of Orpheus. The philosophical
perception of identity through endless mutations of form makes him know the Proteus.
What else am I who laughed or wept yesterday, who slept last night like a corpse, and
this morning stood and ran? And what see I on any side but the transmigrations of
Proteus? I can symbolize my thought by using the name of any creature, of any fact,
because every creature is man agent or patient. Tantalus is but a name for you and me.
Tantalus means the impossibility of drinking the waters of thought which are always
gleaming and waving within sight of the soul. The transmigration of souls is no fable. I
would it were; but men and women are only half human. Every animal of the barn-yard,
the field, and the forest, of the earth and of the waters that are under the earth, has
contrived to get a footing and to leave the print of its features and form in some one or
other of these upright, heaven-facing speakers. Ah! brother, stop the ebb of thy soul,--
ebbing downward into the forms into whose habits thou hast now for many years slid. As
near and proper to us is also that old fable of the Sphinx, who was said to sit in the road-
side and put riddles to every passenger. If the man could not answer, she swallowed him
alive. If he could solve the riddle, the Sphinx was slain. What is our life but an endless
flight of winged facts or events! In splendid variety these changes come, all putting
questions to the human spirit. Those men who cannot answer by a superior wisdom
these facts or questions of time, serve them. Facts encumber them, tyrannize over them,
and make the men of routine the men of sense, in whom a literal obedience to facts has
extinguished every spark of that light by which man is truly man. But if the man is true to
his better instincts or sentiments, and refuses the dominion of facts, as one that comes of
a higher race, remains fast by the soul and sees the principle, then the facts fall aptly and
supple into their places; they know their master, and the meanest of them glorifies him.

See in Goethe's Helena the same desire that every word should be a thing. These
figures, he would say, these Chirons, Griffins, Phorkyas, Helen, and Leda, are some-
what, and do exert a specific influence on the mind. So far then are they eternal enti-
ties, as real to-day as in the first Olympiad. Much revolving them, he writes out freely
his humor, and gives them body tohis own imagination. And although that poem be as
vague and fantastic as a dream, yet is it much more attractive than the more regular
dramatic pieces of the same author, for the reason that it operates a wonderful relief to
the mind from the routine of customary images,--awakens the reader's invention and
fancy by the wild freedom of the design, and by the unceasing succession of brisk shocks
of surprise.

The universal nature, too strong for the petty nature of the bard, sits on his neck and
writes through his hand; so that when he seems to vent a mere caprice and wild ro-
mance, the issue is an exact allegory. Hence Plato said that"poets utter great and wise
things which they do not themselves understand. All the fictions of the Middle Age
explain themselves as a masked or frolic expression of that which in grave earnest the
mind of that period toiled to achieve. Magic, and all that is ascribed to it, is a deep
presentiment of the powers of science. The shoes of swiftness, the sword of sharp-
ness, the power of subduing the elements, of using the secret virtues of minerals, of
understanding the voices of birds, are the obscure efforts of the mind in a right direction.
The preternatural prowess of the hero, the gift of perpetual youth, and the like, are alike
the endeavour of the human spirit"to bend the shows of things to the desires of the
mind.

In Perceforest and Amadis de Gaul, a garland and a rose bloom on the head of her who
is faithful, and fade on the brow of the inconstant. In the story of the Boy and the Mantle,
even a mature reader may be surprised with a glow of virtuous pleasure at the triumph of
the gentle Genelas; and, indeed, all the postulates of elfin annals,--that the fairies do
not like to be named; that their gifts are capricious and not to be trusted; that who seeks
a treasure must not speak; and the like,--I find true in Concord, however they might be
in Cornwall or Bretagne.

Is it otherwise in the newest romance? I read the Bride of Lammermoor. Sir William
Ashton is a mask for a vulgar temptation, Ravenswood Castle a fine name for proud
poverty, and the foreign mission of state only a Bunyan disguise for honest industry. We
may all shoot a wild bull that would toss the good and beautiful, by fighting down the
unjust and sensual. Lucy Ashton is another name for fidelity, which is always beautiful
and always liable to calamity in this world.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　------------------

But along with the civil and metaphysical history of man, another history goes daily
forward,--that of the external world,--in which he is not less strictly implicated. He is the
compend of time; he is also the correlative of nature. His power consists in the multitude
of his affinities, in the fact that his life is intertwined with the whole chain of organic and
inorganic being. In old Rome the public roads beginning at the Forum proceeded north,
south, east, west, to the centre of every province of the empire, making each markettown
of Persia, Spain, and Britain pervious to the soldiers of the capital: so out of the human
heart go, as it were, highways to the heart of every object in nature, to reduce it under
the dominion of man. A man is a bundle of relations, a knot of roots, whose flower and
fruitage is the world. His faculties refer to natures out of him, and predict the world he
is to inhabit, as the fins of the fish foreshow that water exists, or the wings of an eagle
in the egg presuppose air. He cannot live without a world. Put Napoleon in an island prison,
let his faculties find no men to act on, no Alps to climb, no stake to play for, and he would
beat the air and appear stupid. Transport him to large countries, dense population, complex
interests, and antagonist power, and you shall see that the man Napoleon, bounded, that
is, by such a profile and outline, is not the virtual Napoleon. This is but Talbot's shadow;

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　"His substance is not here:
　　　　　　　　　For what you see is but the smallest part
　　　　　　　　　And least proportion of humanity;
　　　　　　　　　But were the whole frame here,
　　　　　　　　　It is of such a spacious, lofty pitch,
　　　　　　　　　Your roof were not sufficient to contain it."
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Henry VI.

Columbus needs a planet to shape his course upon. Newton and Laplace need myriads
of ages and thick-strewn celestial areas. One may say a gravitating solar system is
already prophesied in the nature of Newton's mind. Not less does the brain of Davy or of
Gay-Lussac, from childhood exploring the affinities and repulsions of particles, anticipate
the laws of organization. Does not the eye of the human embryo predict the light? the ear
of Handel predict the witchcraft of harmonic sound? Do not the constructive fingers of
Watt, Fulton, Whittemore, Arkwright, predict the fusible, hard, and temperable texture of
metals, the properties of stone, water, and wood? Do not the lovely attributes of the
maiden child predict the refinements and decorations of civil society? Here also we are
reminded of the action of man on man. A mind might ponder its thought for ages, and not
gain so much self-knowledge as the passion of love shall teach it in a day. Who knows
himself before he has been thrilled with indignation at an outrage, or has heard an
eloquent tongue, or has shared the throb of thousands in a national exultation or alarm?
No man can antedate his experience, or guess what faculty or feeling a new object shall
unlock, any more than he can draw to-day the face of a person whom he shall see to-
morrow for the first time.

I will not now go behind the general statement to explore the reason of this corre-
spondency. Let it suffice that in the light of these two facts, namely, that the mind is
One, and that nature is its correlative, history is to be read and written.

Thus in all ways does the soul concentrate and reproduce its treasures for each pupil.
He, too, shall pass through the whole cycle of experience. He shall collect into a focus
the rays of nature. History no longer shall be a dull book. It shall walk incarnate in every
just and wise man. You shall not tell me by languages and titles a catalogue of the
volumes you have read. You shall make me feel what periods you have lived. A man
shall be the Temple of Fame. He shall walk, as the poets have described that goddess,
in a robe painted all over with wonderful events and experiences;--his own form and
features by their exalted intelligence shall be that variegated vest. I shall find in him the
Foreworld; in his childhood the Age of Gold; the Apples of Knowledge; the Argonautic
Expedition; the calling of Abraham; the building of the Temple; the Advent of Christ; Dark
Ages; the Revival of Letters; the Reformation; the discovery of new lands; the opening of
new sciences, and new regions in man. He shall be the priest of Pan, and bring with him
into humble cottages the blessing of the morning stars and all the recorded benefits of
heaven and earth.

Is there somewhat overweening in this claim? Then I reject all I have written, for what is
the use of pretending to know what we know not? But it is the fault of our rhetoric that we
cannot strongly state one fact without seeming to belie some other. I hold our actual
knowledge very cheap. Hear the rats in the wall, see the lizard on the fence, the fungus
under foot, the lichen on the log. What do I know sympathetically, morally, of either of
these worlds of life? As old as the Caucasian man,--perhaps older,--these creatures
have kept their counsel beside him, and there is no record of any word or sign that has
passed from one to the other. What connection do the books show between the fifty or
sixty chemical elements, and the historical eras? Nay, what does history yet record of the
metaphysical annals of man? What light does it shed on those mysteries which we hide
under the names Death and Immortality? Yet every history should be written in a wisdom
which divined the range of our affinities and looked at facts as symbols. I am ashamed to
see what a shallow village tale our so-called History is. How many times we must say
Rome, and Paris, and Constantinople! What does Rome know of rat and lizard? What are
Olympiads and Consulates to these neighbouring systems of being? Nay, what food or
experience or succour have they for the Esquimaux seal-hunter, for the Kanaka in his
canoe, for the fisherman, the stevedore, the porter?

Broader and deeper we must write our annals,--from an ethical reformation, from an
influx of the ever new, ever sanative conscience,--if we would trulier express our
central and wide-related nature, instead of this old chronology of selfishness and pride to
which we have too long lent our eyes. Already that day exists for us, shines in on us at
unawares, but the path of science and of letters is not the way into nature. The idiot, the
Indian, the child, and unschooled farmer's boy, stand nearer to the light by which nature
is to be read, than the dissector or the antiquary.



II. Self-Reliance



"Ne te quaesiveris extra.

"Man is his own star; and the soul that can
Render an honest and a perfect man,
Commands all light, all influence, all fate;
Nothing to him falls early or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.

Epilogue to Beaumont and Fletcher's
Honest Man's Fortune


Cast the bantling on the rocks,
Suckle him with the she-wolf's teat;
Wintered with the hawk and fox,
Power and speed be hands and feet.



I read the other day some verses written by an eminent painter which were original and
not conventional. The soul always hears an admonition in such lines, let the subject be
what it may. The sentiment they instill is of more value than any thought they may
contain. To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private
heart is true for all men,--that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the
universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost,?- and our first thought
is rendered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judgment. Familiar as the voice of the
mind is to each, the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato, and Milton is, that they set
at naught books and traditions, and spoke not what men but what they thought. A man
should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from
within, more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses
without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our
own rejected thoughts: they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty. Great
works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. They teach us to abide by our
spontaneous impression with good-humored inflexibility then most when the whole cry of
voices is on the other side. Else, to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense
precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with
shame our own opinion from another.

There is a time in every man's education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is
ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his
portion; that though the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can
come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to
till. The power which resides in him is new in nature, and none but he knows what that is
which he can do, nor does he know until he has tried. Not for nothing one face, one
character, one fact, makes much impression on him, and another none. This sculpture in
the memory is not without preestablished harmony. The eye was placed where one ray
should fall, that it might testify of that particular ray. We but half express ourselves, and
are ashamed of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may be safely trusted as
proportionate and of good issues, so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his
work made manifest by cowards. A man is relieved and gay when he has put his heart
into his work and done his best; but what he has said or done otherwise, shall give him no
peace. It is a deliverance which does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts him;
no muse befriends; no invention, no hope.

Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. Accept the place the divine
providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connection of
events. Great men have always done so, and confided themselves childlike to the genius
of their age, betraying their perception that the absolutely trustworthy was seated at their
heart, working through their hands, predominating in all their being. And we are now men,
and must accept in the highest mind the same transcendent destiny; and not minors and
invalids in a protected corner, not cowards fleeing before a revolution, but guides, re-
deemers, and benefactors, obeying the Almighty effort, and advancing on Chaos and
the Dark.

What pretty oracles nature yields us on this text, in the face and behaviour of children,
babes, and even brutes! That divided and rebel mind, that distrust of a sentiment be-
cause our arithmetic has computed the strength and means opposed to our purpose,
these have not. Their mind being whole, their eye is as yet unconquered, and when we
look in their faces, we are disconcerted. Infancy conforms to nobody: all conform to it,
so that one babe commonly makes four or five out of the adults who prattle and play to
it. So God has armed youth and puberty and manhood no less with its own piquancy and
charm, and made it enviable and gracious and its claims not to be put by, if it will stand
by itself. Do not think the youth has no force, because he cannot speak to you and me.
Hark! in the next room his voice is sufficiently clear and emphatic. It seems he knows
how to speak to his contemporaries. Bashful or bold, then, he will know how to make us
seniors very unnecessary.

The nonchalance of boys who are sure of a dinner, and would disdain as much as a lord
to do or say aught to conciliate one, is the healthy attitude of human nature. A boy is in
the parlour what the pit is in the playhouse; independent, irresponsible, looking out from
his corner on such people and facts as pass by, he tries and sentences them on their
merits, in the swift, summary way of boys, as good, bad, interesting, silly, eloquent,
troublesome. He cumbers himself never about consequences, about interests: he gives
an independent, genuine verdict. You must court him: he does not court you. But the man
is, as it were, clapped into jail by his consciousness. As soon as he has once acted or
spoken with eclat, he is a committed person, watched by the sympathy or the hatred of
hundreds, whose affections must now enter into his account. There is no Lethe for this.
Ah, that he could pass again into his neutrality! Who can thus avoid all pledges, and
having observed, observe again from the same unaffected, unbiased, unbribable, unaf-
frighted innocence, must always be formidable. He would utter opinions on all passing
affairs, which being seen to be not private, but necessary, would sink like darts into
the ear of men, and put them in fear.

These are the voices which we hear in solitude, but they grow faint and inaudible as we
enter into the world. Society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every
one of its members. Society is a joint-stock company, in which the members agree, for
the better securing of his bread to each shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture
of the eater. The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is its aversion. It
loves not realities and creators, but names and customs.

Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. He who would gather immortal palms
must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must explore if it be goodness.
Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. Absolve you to yourself, and
you shall have the suffrage of the world. I remember an answer which when quite young I
was prompted to make to a valued adviser, who was wont to importune me with the dear
old doctrines of the church. On my saying, What have I to do with the sacredness of
traditions, if I live wholly from within? my friend suggested,--"But these impulses may
be from below, not from above. I replied, "They do not seem to me to be such; but if I am
the Devil's child, I will live then from the Devil. No law can be sacred to me but that of
my nature. Good and bad are but names very readily transferable to that or this; the only
right is what is after my constitution, the only wrong what is against it. A man is to carry
himself in the presence of all opposition, as if every thing were titular and ephemeral but
he. I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to badges and names, to large
societies and dead institutions. Every decent and well-spoken individual affects and
sways me more than is right. I ought to go upright and vital, and speak the rude truth in all
ways. If malice and vanity wear the coat of philanthropy, shall that pass? If an angry bigot
assumes this bountiful cause of Abolition, and comes to me with his last news from
Barbadoes, why should I not say to him, `Go love thy infant; love thy wood-chopper: be
good-natured and modest: have that grace; and never varnish your hard, uncharitable
ambition with this incredible tenderness for black folk a thousand miles off. Thy love afar
is spite at home.' Rough and graceless would be such greeting, but truth is handsomer
than the affectation of love. Your goodness must have some edge to it,--else it is none.
The doctrine of hatred must be preached as the counteraction of the doctrine of love
when that pules and whines. I shun father and mother and wife and brother, when my
genius calls me. I would write on the lintels of the door-post, Whim. I hope it is somewhat
better than whim at last, but we cannot spend the day in explanation. Expect me not to
show cause why I seek or why I exclude company. Then, again, do not tell me, as a good
man did to-day, of my obligation to put all poor men in good situations. Are they my poor?
I tell thee, thou foolish philanthropist, that I grudge the dollar, the dime, the cent, I give to
such men as do not belong to me and to whom I do not belong. There is a class of
persons to whom by all spiritual affinity I am bought and sold; for them I will go to prison,
if need be; but your miscellaneous popular charities; the education at college of fools; the
building of meeting-houses to the vain end to which many now stand; alms to sots; and
the thousandfold Relief Societies;--though I confess with shame I sometimes succumb
and give the dollar, it is a wicked dollar which by and by I shall have the manhood to
withhold.

Virtues are, in the popular estimate, rather the exception than the rule. There is the man
and his virtues. Men do what is called a good action, as some piece of courage or charity,
much as they would pay a fine in expiation of daily non-appearance on parade. Their
works are done as an apology or extenuation of their living in the world,--as invalids
and the insane pay a high board. Their virtues are penances. I do not wish to expiate, but
to live. My life is for itself and not for a spectacle. I much prefer that it should be of a lower
strain, so it be genuine and equal, than that it should be glittering and unsteady. I wish it
to be sound and sweet, and not to need diet and bleeding. I ask primary evidence that
you are a man, and refuse this appeal from the man to his actions. I know that for myself
it makes no difference whether I do or forbear those actions which are reckoned
excellent. I cannot consent to pay for a privilege where I have intrinsic right. Few and
mean as my gifts may be, I actually am, and do not need for my own assurance or the
assurance of my fellows any secondary testimony.

What I must do is all that concerns me, not what the people think. This rule, equally
arduous in actual and in intellectual life, may serve for the whole distinction between
greatness and meanness. It is the harder, because you will always find those who think
they know what is your duty better than you know it. It is easy in the world to live after the
world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in
the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.

The objection to conforming to usages that have become dead to you is, that it scatters
your force. It loses your time and blurs the impression of your character. If you maintain a
dead church, contribute to a dead Bible-society, vote with a great party either for the
government or against it, spread your table like base housekeepers,--under all these
screens I have difficulty to detect the precise man you are. And, of course, so much force
is withdrawn from your proper life. But do your work, and I shall know you. Do your work,
and you shall reinforce yourself. A man must consider what a blindman's-buff is this
game of conformity. If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument. I hear a preacher
announce for his text and topic the expediency of one of the institutions of his church. Do
I not know beforehand that not possibly can he say a new and spontaneous word? Do I
not know that, with all this ostentation of examining the grounds of the institution, he will
do no such thing? Do I not know that he is pledged to himself not to look but at one side,
--the permitted side, not as a man, but as a parish minister? He is a retained attorney,
and these airs of the bench are the emptiest affectation. Well, most men have bound their
eyes with one or another handkerchief, and attached themselves to some one of these
communities of opinion. This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars,
authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars. Their every truth is not quite true. Their
two is not the real two, their four not the real four; so that every word they say chagrins
us, and we know not where to begin to set them right. Meantime nature is not slow to
equip us in the prison-uniform of the party to which we adhere. We come to wear one cut
of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the gentlest asinine expression. There is a
mortifying experience in particular, which does not fail to wreak itself also in the general
history; I mean"the foolish face of praise, the forced smile which we put on in company
where we do not feel at ease in answer to conversation which does not interest us. The
muscles, not spontaneously moved, but moved by a low usurping wilfulness, grow tight
about the outline of the face with the most disagreeable sensation.

For nonconformity the world whips you with its displeasure. And therefore a man must
know how to estimate a sour face. The by-standers look askance on him in the public
street or in the friend's parlour. If this aversation had its origin in contempt and resistance
like his own, he might well go home with a sad countenance; but the sour faces of the
multitude, like their sweet faces, have no deep cause, but are put on and off as the wind
blows and a newspaper directs. Yet is the discontent of the multitude more formidable
than that of the senate and the college. It is easy enough for a firm man who knows the
world to brook the rage of the cultivated classes. Their rage is decorous and prudent, for
they are timid as being very vulnerable themselves. But when to their feminine rage the
indignation of the people is added, when the ignorant and the poor are aroused, when the
unintelligent brute force that lies at the bottom of society is made to growl and mow, it
needs the habit of magnanimity and religion to treat it godlike as a trifle of no concernment.

The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a reverence for our past
act or word, because the eyes of others have no other data for computing our orbit than
our past acts, and we are loath to disappoint them.

But why should you keep your head over your shoulder? Why drag about this corpse of
your memory, lest you contradict somewhat you have stated in this or that public place?
Suppose you should contradict yourself; what then? It seems to be a rule of wisdom
never to rely on your memory alone, scarcely even in acts of pure memory, but to bring
the past for judgment into the thousand-eyed present, and live ever in a new day. In your
metaphysics you have denied personality to the Deity: yet when the devout motions of
the soul come, yield to them heart and life, though they should clothe God with shape and
color. Leave your theory, as Joseph his coat in the hand of the harlot, and flee.

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and
philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may
as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall. Speak what you think now in hard
words, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it
contradict every thing you said to-day.--`Ah, so you shall be sure to be misunderstood.'
--Is it so bad, then, to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and
Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every
pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.

I suppose no man can violate his nature. All the sallies of his will are rounded in by the
law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes and Himmaleh are insignificant in the curve
of the sphere. Nor does it matter how you gauge and try him. A character is like an
acrostic or Alexandrian stanza;--read it forward, backward, or across, it still spells the
same thing. In this pleasing, contrite wood-life which God allows me, let me record day by
day my honest thought without prospect or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found
symmetrical, though I mean it not, and see it not. My book should smell of pines and
resound with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should interweave that
thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. We pass for what we are.
Character teaches above our wills. Men imagine that they communicate their virtue or
vice only by overt actions, and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment.

There will be an agreement in whatever variety of actions, so they be each honest and
natural in their hour. For of one will, the actions will be harmonious, however unlike they
seem. These varieties are lost sight of at a little distance, at a little height of thought. One
tendency unites them all. The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks.
See the line from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the average tendency.
Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine actions. Your
conformity explains nothing. Act singly, and what you have already done singly will justify
you now. Greatness appeals to the future. If I can be firm enough to-day to do right, and
scorn eyes, I must have done so much right before as to defend me now. Be it how it will,
do right now. Always scorn appearances, and you always may. The force of character is
cumulative. All the foregone days of virtue work their health into this. What makes the
majesty of the heroes of the senate and the field, which so fills the imagination? The
consciousness of a train of great days and victories behind. They shed an united light on
the advancing actor. He is attended as by a visible escort of angels. That is it which
throws thunder into Chatham's voice, and dignity into Washington's port, and America
into Adams's eye. Honor is venerable to us because it is no ephemeris. It is always
ancient virtue. We worship it to-day because it is not of to-day. We love it and pay it
homage, because it is not a trap for our love and homage, but is self-dependent, selfderived,
and therefore of an old immaculate pedigree, even if shown in a young person.

I hope in these days we have heard the last of conformity and consistency. Let the words
be gazetted and ridiculous henceforward. Instead of the gong for dinner, let us hear a
whistle from the Spartan fife. Let us never bow and apologize more. A great man is
coming to eat at my house. I do not wish to please him; I wish that he should wish to
please me. I will stand here for humanity, and though I would make it kind, I would make
it true. Let us affront and reprimand the smooth mediocrity and squalid contentment of
the times, and hurl in the face of custom, and trade, and office, the fact which is the
upshot of all history, that there is a great responsible Thinker and Actor working wherever
a man works; that a true man belongs to no other time or place, but is the centre of
things. Where he is, there is nature. He measures you, and all men, and all events.
Ordinarily, every body in society reminds us of somewhat else, or of some other person.
Character, reality, reminds you of nothing else; it takes place of the whole creation. The
man must be so much, that he must make all circumstances indifferent. Every true man is
a cause, a country, and an age; requires infinite spaces and numbers and time fully to
accomplish his design;--and posterity seem to follow his steps as a train of clients. A
man Caesar is born, and for ages after we have a Roman Empire. Christ is born, and
millions of minds so grow and cleave to his genius, that he is confounded with virtue and
the possible of man. An institution is the lengthened shadow of one man; as, Monachism,
of the Hermit Antony; the Reformation, of Luther; Quakerism, of Fox; Methodism, of
Wesley; Abolition, of Clarkson. Scipio, Milton called"the height of Rome; and all history
resolves itself very easily into the biography of a few stout and earnest persons.

Let a man then know his worth, and keep things under his feet. Let him not peep or steal,
or skulk up and down with the air of a charity-boy, a bastard, or an interloper, in the world
which exists for him. But the man in the street, finding no worth in himself which
corresponds to the force which built a tower or sculptured a marble god, feels poor when
he looks on these. To him a palace, a statue, or a costly book have an alien and for-
bidding air, much like a gay equipage, and seem to say like that, `Who are you, Sir?' Yet
they all are his, suitors for his notice, petitioners to his faculties that they will come out
and take possession. The picture waits for my verdict: it is not to command me, but I am
to settle its claims to praise. That popular fable of the sot who was picked up dead drunk
in the street, carried to the duke's house, washed and dressed and laid in the duke's bed,
and, on his waking, treated with all obsequious ceremony like the duke, and assured that
he had been insane, owes its popularity to the fact, that it symbolizes so well the state of
man, who is in the world a sort of sot, but now and then wakes up, exercises his reason,
and finds himself a true prince.

Our reading is mendicant and sycophantic. In history, our imagination plays us false.
Kingdom and lordship, power and estate, are a gaudier vocabulary than private John and
Edward in a small house and common day's work; but the things of life are the same to
both; the sum total of both is the same. Why all this deference to Alfred, and Scanderbeg,
and Gustavus? Suppose they were virtuous; did they wear out virtue? As great a stake
depends on your private act to-day, as followed their public and renowned steps. When
private men shall act with original views, the lustre will be transferred from the actions of
kings to those of gentlemen.

The world has been instructed by its kings, who have so magnetized the eyes of nations.
It has been taught by this colossal symbol the mutual reverence that is due from man to
man. The joyful loyalty with which men have everywhere suffered the king, the noble, or
the great proprietor to walk among them by a law of his own, make his own scale of men
and things, and reverse theirs, pay for benefits not with money but with honor, and
represent the law in his person, was the hieroglyphic by which they obscurely signified
their consciousness of their own right and comeliness, the right of every man.

The magnetism which all original action exerts is explained when we inquire the reason of
self-trust. Who is the Trustee? What is the aboriginal Self, on which a universal reliance
may be grounded? What is the nature and power of that science-baffling star, without
parallax, without calculable elements, which shoots a ray of beauty even into trivial and
impure actions, if the least mark of independence appear? The inquiry leads us to that
source, at once the essence of genius, of virtue, and of life, which we call Spontaneity or
Instinct. We denote this primary wisdom as Intuition, whilst all later teachings are tuitions.
In that deep force, the last fact behind which analysis cannot go, all things find their
common origin. For, the sense of being which in calm hours rises, we know not how, in
the soul, is not diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, from man, but one
with them, and proceeds obviously from the same source whence their life and being
also proceed. We first share the life by which things exist, and afterwards see them as
appearances in nature, and forget that we have shared their cause. Here is the fountain
of action and of thought. Here are the lungs of that inspiration which giveth man wisdom,
and which cannot be denied without impiety and atheism. We lie in the lap of immense
intelligence, which makes us receivers of its truth and organs of its activity. When we
discern justice, when we discern truth, we do nothing of ourselves, but allow a passage to
its beams. If we ask whence this comes, if we seek to pry into the soul that causes, all
philosophy is at fault. Its presence or its absence is all we can affirm. Every man
discriminates between the voluntary acts of his mind, and his involuntary perceptions,
and knows that to his involuntary perceptions a perfect faith is due. He may err in the
expression of them, but he knows that these things are so, like day and night, not to be
disputed. My wilful actions and acquisitions are but roving;--the idlest reverie, the
faintest native emotion, command my curiosity and respect. Thoughtless people
contradict as readily the statement of perceptions as of opinions, or rather much more
readily; for, they do not distinguish between perception and notion. They fancy that I
choose to see this or that thing. But perception is not whimsical, but fatal. If I see a trait,
my children will see it after me, and in course of time, all mankind,--although it may
chance that no one has seen it before me. For my perception of it is as much a fact as
the sun.

The relations of the soul to the divine spirit are so pure, that it is profane to seek to
interpose helps. It must be that when God speaketh he should communicate, not one
thing, but all things; should fill the world with his voice; should scatter forth light, nature,
time, souls, from the centre of the present thought; and new date and new create the
whole. Whenever a mind is simple, and receives a divine wisdom, old things pass away,
--means, teachers, texts, temples fall; it lives now, and absorbs past and future into the
present hour. All things are made sacred by relation to it,--one as much as another. All
things are dissolved to their centre by their cause, and, in the universal miracle, petty and
particular miracles disappear. If, therefore, a man claims to know and speak of God, and
carries you backward to the phraseology of some old mouldered nation in another
country, in another world, believe him not. Is the acorn better than the oak which is its
fulness and completion? Is the parent better than the child into whom he has cast his
ripened being? Whence, then, this worship of the past? The centuries are conspirators
against the sanity and authority of the soul. Time and space are but physiological colors
which the eye makes, but the soul is light; where it is, is day; where it was, is night; and
history is an impertinence and an injury, if it be any thing more than a cheerful apologue
or parable of my being and becoming.

Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; he dares not say `I think,' `I am,'
but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before the blade of grass or the blowing
rose. These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones;
they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is
simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst,
its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more; in the leafless root there is no
less. Its nature is satisfied, and it satisfies nature, in all moments alike. But man
postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments
the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the
future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above
time.

This should be plain enough. Yet see what strong intellects dare not yet hear God
himself, unless he speak the phraseology of I know not what David, or Jeremiah, or Paul.
We shall not always set so great a price on a few texts, on a few lives. We are like
children who repeat by rote the sentences of grandames and tutors, and, as they grow
older, of the men of talents and character they chance to see,--painfully recollecting the
exact words they spoke; afterwards, when they come into the point of view which those
had who uttered these sayings, they understand them, and are willing to let the words go;
for, at any time, they can use words as good when occasion comes. If we live truly, we
shall see truly. It is as easy for the strong man to be strong, as it is for the weak to be
weak. When we have new perception, we shall gladly disburden the memory of its
hoarded treasures as old rubbish. When a man lives with God, his voice shall be as
sweet as the murmur of the brook and the rustle of the corn.

And now at last the highest truth on this subject remains unsaid; probably cannot be
said; for all that we say is the far-off remembering of the intuition. That thought, by what I
can now nearest approach to say it, is this. When good is near you, when you have life in
yourself, it is not by any known or accustomed way; you shall not discern the foot-prints
of any other; you shall not see the face of man; you shall not hear any name;?- the way,
the thought, the good, shall be wholly strange and new. It shall exclude example and
experience. You take the way from man, not to man. All persons that ever existed are its
forgotten ministers. Fear and hope are alike beneath it. There is somewhat low even in
hope. In the hour of vision, there is nothing that can be called gratitude, nor properly joy.
The soul raised over passion beholds identity and eternal causation, perceives the self-
existence of Truth and Right, and calms itself with knowing that all things go well. Vast
spaces of nature, the Atlantic Ocean, the South Sea,--long intervals of time, years,
centuries,--are of no account. This which I think and feel underlay every former state of
life and circumstances, as it does underlie my present, and what is called life, and what is
called death.

Life only avails, not the having lived. Power ceases in the instant of repose; it resides in
the moment of transition from a past to a new state, in the shooting of the gulf, in the
darting to an aim. This one fact the world hates, that the soul becomes; for that for ever
degrades the past, turns all riches to poverty, all reputation to a shame, confounds the
saint with the rogue, shoves Jesus and Judas equally aside. Why, then, do we prate of
self-reliance? Inasmuch as the soul is present, there will be power not confident but
agent. To talk of reliance is a poor external way of speaking. Speak rather of that which
relies, because it works and is. Who has more obedience than I masters me, though he
should not raise his finger. Round him I must revolve by the gravitation of spirits. We
fancy it rhetoric, when we speak of eminent virtue. We do not yet see that virtue is
Height, and that a man or a company of men, plastic and permeable to principles, by the
law of nature must overpower and ride all cities, nations, kings, rich men, poets, who are
not.

This is the ultimate fact which we so quickly reach on this, as on every topic, the res-
olution of all into the ever-blessed ONE. Self-existence is the attribute of the Supreme
Cause, and it constitutes the measure of good by the degree in which it enters into all
lower forms. All things real are so by so much virtue as they contain. Commerce,
husbandry, hunting, whaling, war, eloquence, personal weight, are somewhat, and
engage my respect as examples of its presence and impure action. I see the same law
working in nature for conservation and growth. Power is in nature the essential measure
of right. Nature suffers nothing to remain in her kingdoms which cannot help itself. The
genesis and maturation of a planet, its poise and orbit, the bended tree recovering itself
from the strong wind, the vital resources of every animal and vegetable, are
demonstrations of the self-sufficing, and therefore self-relying soul.

Thus all concentrates: let us not rove; let us sit at home with the cause. Let us stun and
astonish the intruding rabble of men and books and institutions, by a simple declaration of
the divine fact. Bid the invaders take the shoes from off their feet, for God is here within.
Let our simplicity judge them, and our docility to our own law demonstrate the poverty of
nature and fortune beside our native riches.

But now we are a mob. Man does not stand in awe of man, nor is his genius admonish-
ed to stay at home, to put itself in communication with the internal ocean, but it goes
abroad to beg a cup of water of the urns of other men. We must go alone. I like the
silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching. How far off, how cool,
how chaste the persons look, begirt each one with a precinct or sanctuary! So let us
always sit. Why should we assume the faults of our friend, or wife, or father, or child,
because they sit around our hearth, or are said to have the same blood? All men have
my blood, and I have all men's. Not for that will I adopt their petulance or folly, even to
the extent of being ashamed of it. But your isolation must not be mechanical, but spirit-
ual, that is, must be elevation. At times the whole world seems to be in conspiracy to
importune you with emphatic trifles. Friend, client, child, sickness, fear, want, charity, all
knock at once at thy closet door, and say,--`Come out unto us.' But keep thy state;
come not into their confusion. The power men possess to annoy me, I give them by a
weak curiosity. No man can come near me but through my act."What we love that we
have, but by desire we bereave ourselves of the love.

If we cannot at once rise to the sanctities of obedience and faith, let us at least resist
our temptations; let us enter into the state of war, and wake Thor and Woden, courage
and constancy, in our Saxon breasts. This is to be done in our smooth times by speaking
the truth. Check this lying hospitality and lying affection. Live no longer to the expectation
of these deceived and deceiving people with whom we converse. Say to them, O father,
O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto.
Henceforward I am the truth's. Be it known unto you that henceforward I obey no law less
than the eternal law. I will have no covenants but proximities. I shall endeavour to nourish
my parents, to support my family, to be the chaste husband of one wife,--but these
relations I must fill after a new and unprecedented way. I appeal from your customs. I
must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for
what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you
should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. I will so trust that what is deep is holy, that I
will do strongly before the sun and moon whatever inly rejoices me, and the heart
appoints. If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by
hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your
companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and truly. It is alike
your interest, and mine, and all men's, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth.
Does this sound harsh to-day? You will soon love what is dictated by your nature as well
as mine, and, if we follow the truth, it will bring us out safe at last.--But so you may give
these friends pain. Yes, but I cannot sell my liberty and my power, to save their
sensibility. Besides, all persons have their moments of reason, when they look out into
the region of absolute truth; then will they justify me, and do the same thing.

The populace think that your rejection of popular standards is a rejection of all stan-
dard, and mere antinomianism; and the bold sensualist will use the name of philosophy to
gild his crimes. But the law of consciousness abides. There are two confessionals, in
one or the other of which we must be shriven. You may fulfil your round of duties by
clearing yourself in the direct, or in the reflex way. Consider whether you have satisfied
your relations to father, mother, cousin, neighbour, town, cat, and dog; whether any of
these can upbraid you. But I may also neglect this reflex standard, and absolve me to
myself. I have my own stern claims and perfect circle. It denies the name of duty to
many offices that are called duties. But if I can discharge its debts, it enables me to
dispense with the popular code. If any one imagines that this law is lax, let him keep
its commandment one day.

And truly it demands something godlike in him who has cast off the common motives of
humanity, and has ventured to trust himself for a taskmaster. High be his heart, faithful
his will, clear his sight, that he may in good earnest be doctrine, society, law, to himself,
that a simple purpose may be to him as strong as iron necessity is to others!

If any man consider the present aspects of what is called by distinction society, he will
see the need of these ethics. The sinew and heart of man seem to be drawn out, and we
are become timorous, desponding whimperers. We are afraid of truth, afraid of fortune,
afraid of death, and afraid of each other. Our age yields no great and perfect persons.
We want men and women who shall renovate life and our social state, but we see that
most natures are insolvent, cannot satisfy their own wants, have an ambition out of all
proportion to their practical force, and do lean and beg day and night continually. Our
housekeeping is mendicant, our arts, our occupations, our marriages, our religion, we
have not chosen, but society has chosen for us. We are parlour soldiers. We shun the
rugged battle of fate, where strength is born.

If our young men miscarry in their first enterprises, they lose all heart. If the young
merchant fails, men say he is ruined. If the finest genius studies at one of our colleges,
and is not installed in an office within one year afterwards in the cities or suburbs of
Boston or New York, it seems to his friends and to himself that he is right in being
disheartened, and in complaining the rest of his life. A sturdy lad from New Hampshire or
Vermont, who in turn tries all the professions, who teams it, farms it, peddles, keeps a
school, preaches, edits a newspaper, goes to Congress, buys a township, and so forth, in
successive years, and always, like a cat, falls on his feet, is worth a hundred of these city
dolls. He walks abreast with his days, and feels no shame in not `studying a profession,'
for he does not postpone his life, but lives already. He has not one chance, but a hundred
chances. Let a Stoic open the resources of man, and tell men they are not leaning
willows, but can and must detach themselves; that with the exercise of self-trust, new
powers shall appear; that a man is the word made flesh, born to shed healing to the
nations, that he should be ashamed of our compassion, and that the moment he acts
from himself, tossing the laws, the books, idolatries, and customs out of the window, we
pity him no more, but thank and revere him,--and that teacher shall restore the life of
man to splendor, and make his name dear to all history.

It is easy to see that a greater self-reliance must work a revolution in all the offices and
relations of men; in their religion; in their education; in their pursuits; their modes of living;
their association; in their property; in their speculative views.

1. In what prayers do men allow themselves! That which they call a holy office is not
so much as brave and manly. Prayer looks abroad and asks for some foreign addition to
come through some foreign virtue, and loses itself in endless mazes of natural and
supernatural, and mediatorial and miraculous. Prayer that craves a particular commodity,
--any thing less than all good,--is vicious. Prayer is the contemplation of the facts of
life from the highest point of view. It is the soliloquy of a beholding and jubilant soul. It
is the spirit of God pronouncing his works good. But prayer as a means to effect a pri-
vate end is meanness and theft. It supposes dualism and not unity in nature and con-
sciousness. As soon as the man is at one with God, he will not beg. He will then see
prayer in all action. The prayer of the farmer kneeling in his field to weed it, the prayer of
the rower kneeling with the stroke of his oar, are true prayers heard throughout nature,
though for cheap ends. Caratach, in Fletcher's Bonduca, when admonished to inquire the
mind of the god Audate, replies,--

　　　　　"His hidden meaning lies in our endeavours;
　　　　　　Our valors are our best gods.

Another sort of false prayers are our regrets. Discontent is the want of self-reliance: it
is infirmity of will. Regret calamities, if you can thereby help the sufferer; if not, attend
your own work, and already the evil begins to be repaired. Our sympathy is just as base.
We come to them who weep foolishly, and sit down and cry for company, instead of
imparting to them truth and health in rough electric shocks, putting them once more in
communication with their own reason. The secret of fortune is joy in our hands. Welcome
evermore to gods and men is the self-helping man. For him all doors are flung wide: him
all tongues greet, all honors crown, all eyes follow with desire. Our love goes out to him
and embraces him, because he did not need it. We solicitously and apologetically caress
and celebrate him, because he held on his way and scorned our disapprobation. The
gods love him because men hated him."To the persevering mortal, said Zoroaster,"the
blessed Immortals are swift.

As men's prayers are a disease of the will, so are their creeds a disease of the intellect.
They say with those foolish Israelites, `Let not God speak to us, lest we die. Speak thou,
speak any man with us, and we will obey.' Everywhere I am hindered of meeting God in
my brother, because he has shut his own temple doors, and recites fables merely of his
brother's, or his brother's brother's God. Every new mind is a new classification. If it
prove a mind of uncommon activity and power, a Locke, a Lavoisier, a Hutton, a Bentham,
a Fourier, it imposes its classification on other men, and lo! a new system. In proportion
to the depth of the thought, and so to the number of the objects it touches and brings
within reach of the pupil, is his complacency. But chiefly is this apparent in creeds and
churches, which are also classifications of some powerful mind acting on the elemental
thought of duty, and man's relation to the Highest. Such is Calvinism, Quakerism,
Swedenborgism. The pupil takes the same delight in subordinating every thing to the
new terminology, as a girl who has just learned botany in seeing a new earth and new
seasons thereby. It will happen for a time, that the pupil will find his intellectual power has
grown by the study of his master's mind. But in all unbalanced minds, the classification is
idolized, passes for the end, and not for a speedily exhaustible means, so that the walls
of the system blend to their eye in the remote horizon with the walls of the universe; the
luminaries of heaven seem to them hung on the arch their master built. They cannot
imagine how you aliens have any right to see,--how you can see; `It must be somehow
that you stole the light from us.' They do not yet perceive, that light, unsystematic,
indomitable, will break into any cabin, even into theirs. Let them chirp awhile and call it
their own. If they are honest and do well, presently their neat new pinfold will be too strait
and low, will crack, will lean, will rot and vanish, and the immortal light, all young and
joyful, million-orbed, million-colored, will beam over the universe as on the first morning.

2 . It is for want of self-culture that the superstition of Travelling, whose idols are Italy,
England, Egypt, retains its fascination for all educated Americans. They who made
England, Italy, or Greece venerable in the imagination did so by sticking fast where they
were, like an axis of the earth. In manly hours, we feel that duty is our place. The soul is
no traveller; the wise man stays at home, and when his necessities, his duties, on any
occasion call him from his house, or into foreign lands, he is at home still, and shall make
men sensible by the expression of his countenance, that he goes the missionary of
wisdom and virtue, and visits cities and men like a sovereign, and not like an interloper or
a valet.

I have no churlish objection to the circumnavigation of the globe, for the purposes of
art, of study, and benevolence, so that the man is first domesticated, or does not go
abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater than he knows. He who travels to be
amused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from himself, and
grows old even in youth among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have
become old and dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to ruins.

Travelling is a fool's paradise. Our first journeys discover to us the indifference of
places. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and
lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last
wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting,
identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican, and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated
with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I
go.

3 . But the rage of travelling is a symptom of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole
intellectual action. The intellect is vagabond, and our system of education fosters
restlessness. Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay at home. We imitate;
and what is imitation but the travelling of the mind? Our houses are built with foreign
taste; our shelves are garnished with foreign ornaments; our opinions, our tastes, our
faculties, lean, and follow the Past and the Distant. The soul created the arts wherever
they have flourished. It was in his own mind that the artist sought his model. It was an
application of his own thought to the thing to be done and the conditions to be observed.
And why need we copy the Doric or the Gothic model? Beauty, convenience, grandeur of
thought, and quaint expression are as near to us as to any, and if the American artist will
study with hope and love the precise thing to be done by him, considering the climate, the
soil, the length of the day, the wants of the people, the habit and form of the government,
he will create a house in which all these will find themselves fitted, and taste and
sentiment will be satisfied also.

Insist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can present every moment with the
cumulative force of a whole life's cultivation; but of the adopted talent of another, you
have only an extemporaneous, half possession. That which each can do best, none but
his Maker can teach him. No man yet knows what it is, nor can, till that person has
exhibited it. Where is the master who could have taught Shakspeare? Where is the
master who could have instructed Franklin, or Washington, or Bacon, or Newton? Every
great man is a unique. The Scipionism of Scipio is precisely that part he could not borrow.
Shakspeare will never be made by the study of Shakspeare. Do that which is assigned
you, and you cannot hope too much or dare too much. There is at this moment for you an
utterance brave and grand as that of the colossal chisel of Phidias, or trowel of the
Egyptians, or the pen of Moses, or Dante, but different from all these. Not possibly will the
soul all rich, all eloquent, with thousand-cloven tongue, deign to repeat itself; but if you
can hear what these patriarchs say, surely you can reply to them in the same pitch of
voice; for the ear and the tongue are two organs of one nature. Abide in the simple and
noble regions of thy life, obey thy heart, and thou shalt reproduce the Foreworld again.

4 . As our Religion, our Education, our Art look abroad, so does our spirit of society. All
men plume themselves on the improvement of society, and no man improves.

Society never advances. It recedes as fast on one side as it gains on the other. It un-
dergoes continual changes; it is barbarous, it is civilized, it is christianized, it is rich, it
is scientific; but this change is not amelioration. For every thing that is given, something
is taken. Society acquires new arts, and loses old instincts. What a contrast between the
well-clad, reading, writing, thinking American, with a watch, a pencil, and a bill of
exchange in his pocket, and the naked New Zealander, whose property is a club, a spear,
a mat, and an undivided twentieth of a shed to sleep under! But compare the health of
the two men, and you shall see that the white man has lost his aboriginal strength. If the
traveller tell us truly, strike the savage with a broad axe, and in a day or two the flesh shall
unite and heal as if you struck the blow into soft pitch, and the same blow shall send the
white to his grave.

The civilized man has built a coach, but has lost the use of his feet. He is supported on
crutches, but lacks so much support of muscle. He has a fine Geneva watch, but he fails
of the skill to tell the hour by the sun. A Greenwich nautical almanac he has, and so being
sure of the information when he wants it, the man in the street does not know a star in
the sky. The solstice he does not observe; the equinox he knows as little; and the whole
bright calendar of the year is without a dial in his mind. His note-books impair his mem-
ory; his libraries overload his wit; the insurance-office increases the number of acci-
dents; and it may be a question whether machinery does not encumber; whether we
have not lost by refinement some energy, by a Christianity entrenched in establishments
and forms, some vigor of wild virtue. For every Stoic was a Stoic; but in Christendom
where is the Christian?


There is no more deviation in the moral standard than in the standard of height or bulk.
No greater men are now than ever were. A singular equality may be observed between
the great men of the first and of the last ages; nor can all the science, art, religion, and
philosophy of the nineteenth century avail to educate greater men than Plutarch's heroes,
three or four and twenty centuries ago. Not in time is the race progressive. Phocion,
Socrates, Anaxagoras, Diogenes, are great men, but they leave no class. He who is
really of their class will not be called by their name, but will be his own man, and, in his
turn, the founder of a sect. The arts and inventions of each period are only its costume,
and do not invigorate men. The harm of the improved machinery may compensate its
good. Hudson and Behring accomplished so much in their fishing-boats, as to astonish
Parry and Franklin, whose equipment exhausted the resources of science and art.
Galileo, with an opera-glass, discovered a more splendid series of celestial phenomena
than any one since. Columbus found the New World in an undecked boat. It is curious to
see the periodical disuse and perishing of means and machinery, which were introduced
with loud laudation a few years or centuries before. The great genius returns to essential
man. We reckoned the improvements of the art of war among the triumphs of science,
and yet Napoleon conquered Europe by the bivouac, which consisted of falling back on
naked valor, and disencumbering it of all aids. The Emperor held it impossible to make a
perfect army, says Las Casas,"without abolishing our arms, magazines, commissaries,
and carriages, until, in imitation of the Roman custom, the soldier should receive his
supply of corn, grind it in his hand-mill, and bake his bread himself.

Society is a wave. The wave moves onward, but the water of which it is composed
does not. The same particle does not rise from the valley to the ridge. Its unity is only
phenomenal. The persons who make up a nation to-day, next year die, and their
experience with them.

And so the reliance on Property, including the reliance on governments which protect
it, is the want of self-reliance. Men have looked away from themselves and at things so
long, that they have come to esteem the religious, learned, and civil institutions as guards
of property, and they deprecate assaults on these, because they feel them to be assaults
on property. They measure their esteem of each other by what each has, and not by what
each is. But a cultivated man becomes ashamed of his property, out of new respect for
his nature. Especially he hates what he has, if he see that it is accidental,--came to him
by inheritance, or gift, or crime; then he feels that it is not having; it does not belong to
him, has no root in him, and merely lies there, because no revolution or no robber takes it
away. But that which a man is does always by necessity acquire, and what the man
acquires is living property, which does not wait the beck of rulers, or mobs, or revolutions,
or fire, or storm, or bankruptcies, but perpetually renews itself wherever the man
breathes."Thy lot or portion of life, said the Caliph Ali,"is seeking after thee; therefore be
at rest from seeking after it. Our dependence on these foreign goods leads us to our
slavish respect for numbers. The political parties meet in numerous conventions; the
greater the concourse, and with each new uproar of announcement, The delegation from
Essex! The Democrats from New Hampshire! The Whigs of Maine! the young patriot
feels himself stronger than before by a new thousand of eyes and arms. In like manner
the reformers summon conventions, and vote and resolve in multitude. Not so, O friends!
will the God deign to enter and inhabit you, but by a method precisely the reverse. It is
only as a man puts off all foreign support, and stands alone, that I see him to be strong
and to prevail. He is weaker by every recruit to his banner. Is not a man better than a
town? Ask nothing of men, and in the endless mutation, thou only firm column must
presently appear the upholder of all that surrounds thee. He who knows that power is
inborn, that he is weak because he has looked for good out of him and elsewhere, and so
perceiving, throws himself unhesitatingly on his thought, instantly rights himself, stands in
the erect position, commands his limbs, works miracles; just as a man who stands on his
feet is stronger than a man who stands on his head.

So use all that is called Fortune. Most men gamble with her, and gain all, and lose all,
as her wheel rolls. But do thou leave as unlawful these winnings, and deal with Cause
and Effect, the chancellors of God. In the Will work and acquire, and thou hast chained
the wheel of Chance, and shalt sit hereafter out of fear from her rotations. A political
victory, a rise of rents, the recovery of your sick, or the return of your absent friend, or
some other favorable event, raises your spirits, and you think good days are preparing for
you. Do not believe it. Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you
peace but the triumph of principles.

III. Compensation



The wings of Time are black and white,
Pied with morning and with night.
Mountain tall and ocean deep
Trembling balance duly keep.
In changing moon, in tidal wave,
Glows the feud of Want and Have.
Gauge of more and less through space
Electric star and pencil plays.
The lonely Earth amid the balls
That hurry through the eternal halls,
A makeweight flying to the void,
Supplemental asteroid,
Or compensatory spark,
Shoots across the neutral Dark.

Man's the elm, and Wealth the vine;
Stanch and strong the tendrils twine:
Though the frail ringlets thee deceive,
None from its stock that vine can reave.
Fear not, then, thou child infirm,
There's no god dare wrong a worm.
Laurel crowns cleave to deserts,
And power to him who power exerts;
Hast not thy share? On winged feet,
Lo! it rushes thee to meet;
And all that Nature made thy own,
Floating in air or pent in stone,
Will rive the hills and swim the sea,
And, like thy shadow, follow thee.



Ever since I was a boy, I have wished to write a discourse on Compensation: for it seem-
ed to me when very young, that on this subject life was ahead of theology, and the peo-
ple knew more than the preachers taught. The documents, too, from which the doctrine is
to be drawn, charmed my fancy by their endless variety, and lay always before me, even
in sleep; for they are the tools in our hands, the bread in our basket, the transactions
of the street, the farm, and the dwelling-house, greetings, relations, debts and credits,
the influence of character, the nature and endowment of all men. It seemed to me, also,
that in it might be shown men a ray of divinity, the present action of the soul of this
world, clean from all vestige of tradition, and so the heart of man might be bathed by
an inundation of eternal love, conversing with that which he knows was always and always
must be, because it really is now. It appeared, moreover, that if this doctrine could be
stated in terms with any resemblance to those bright intuitions in which this truth is
sometimes revealed to us, it would be a star in many dark hours and crooked passages in
our journey that would not suffer us to lose our way.

I was lately confirmed in these desires by hearing a sermon at church. The preacher, a
man esteemed for his orthodoxy, unfolded in the ordinary manner the doctrine of the Last
Judgment. He assumed, that judgment is not executed in this world; that the wicked are
successful; that the good are miserable; and then urged from reason and from Scripture
a compensation to be made to both parties in the next life. No offence appeared to be
taken by the congregation at this doctrine. As far as I could observe, when the meeting
broke up, they separated without remark on the sermon.

Yet what was the import of this teaching? What did the preacher mean by saying that the
good are miserable in the present life? Was it that houses and lands, offices, wine,
horses, dress, luxury, are had by unprincipled men, whilst the saints are poor and des-
pised; and that a compensation is to be made to these last hereafter, by giving them the
like gratifications another day,--bank-stock and doubloons, venison and champagne? This
must be the compensation intended; for what else? Is it that they are to have leave to
pray and praise? to love and serve men? Why, that they can do now. The legitimate infer-
ence the disciple would draw was,--`We are to have such a good time as the sinners have
now';--or, to push it to its extreme import,--`You sin now; we shall sin by and by;
we would sin now, if we could; not being successful, we expect our revenge to-morrow.'

The fallacy lay in the immense concession, that the bad are successful; that justice is
not done now. The blindness of the preacher consisted in deferring to the base estimate
of the market of what constitutes a manly success, instead of confronting and convicting
the world from the truth; announcing the presence of the soul; the omnipotence of the
will: and so establishing the standard of good and ill, of success and falsehood.

I find a similar base tone in the popular religious works of the day, and the same doc-
trines assumed by the literary men when occasionally they treat the related topics. I
think that our popular theology has gained in decorum, and not in principle, over the
superstitions it has displaced. But men are better than this theology. Their daily life
gives it the lie. Every ingenuous and aspiring soul leaves the doctrine behind him in
his own experience; and all men feel sometimes the falsehood which they cannot demon-
strate. For men are wiser than they know. That which they hear in schools and pulpits
without after-thought, if said in conversation, would probably be questioned in silence.
If a man dogmatize in a mixed company on Providence and the divine laws, he is answered
by a silence which conveys well enough to an observer the dissatisfaction of the hearer,
but his incapacity to make his own statement.

I shall attempt in this and the following chapter to record some facts that indicate
the path of the law of Compensation; happy beyond my expectation, if I shall truly draw
the smallest arc of this circle.


POLARITY, or action and reaction, we meet in every part of nature; in darkness and light;
in heat and cold; in the ebb and flow of waters; in male and female; in the inspiration
and expiration of plants and animals; in the equation of quantity and quality in the flu-
ids of the animal body; in the systole and diastole of the heart; in the undulations of
fluids, and of sound; in the centrifugal and centripetal gravity; in electricity, galv-
anism, and chemical affinity. Superinduce magnetism at one end of a needle; the opposite
magnetism takes place at the other end. If the south attracts, the north repels. To empty
here, you must condense there. An inevitable dualism bisects nature, so that each thing
is a half, and suggests another thing to make it whole; as, spirit, matter; man, woman;
odd, even; subjective, objective; in, out; upper, under; motion, rest; yea, nay.

Whilst the world is thus dual, so is every one of its parts. The entire system of things
gets represented in every particle. There is somewhat that resembles the ebb and flow of
the sea, day and night, man and woman, in a single needle of the pine, in a kernel of
corn, in each individual of every animal tribe. The reaction, so grand in the elements,
is repeated within these small boundaries. For example, in the animal kingdom the physi-
ologist has observed that no creatures are favorites, but a certain compensation balances
every gift and every defect. A surplusage given to one part is paid out of a reduction
from another part of the same creature. If the head and neck are enlarged, the trunk and
extremities are cut short.

The theory of the mechanic forces is another example. What we gain in power is lost in
time; and the converse. The periodic or compensating errors of the planets is another
instance. The influences of climate and soil in political history are another. The cold
climate invigorates. The barren soil does not breed fevers, crocodiles, tigers, or scor-
pions.

The same dualism underlies the nature and condition of man. Every excess causes a defect;
every defect an excess. Every sweet hath its sour; every evil its good. Every faculty
which is a receiver of pleasure has an equal penalty put on its abuse. It is to answer
for its moderation with its life. For every grain of wit there is a grain of folly. For
every thing you have missed, you have gained something else; and for every thing you
gain, you lose something. If riches increase, they are increased that use them. If the
gatherer gathers too much, nature takes out of the man what she puts into his chest;
swells the estate, but kills the owner. Nature hates monopolies and exceptions. The
waves of the sea do not more speedily seek a level from their loftiest tossing, than the
varieties of condition tend to equalize themselves. There is always some levelling cir-
cumstance that puts down the overbearing, the strong, the rich, the fortunate, substan-
tially on the same ground with all others. Is a man too strong and fierce for society,
and by temper and position a bad citizen,--a morose ruffian, with a dash of the pirate
in him;--- nature sends him a troop of pretty sons and daughters, who are getting along
in the dame's classes at the village school, and love and fear for them smooths his
grim scowl to courtesy. Thus she contrives to intenerate the granite and felspar, takes
the boar out and puts the lamb in, and keeps her balance true.

The farmer imagines power and place are fine things. But the President has paid dear for
his White House. It has commonly cost him all his peace, and the best of his manly at-
tributes. To preserve for a short time so conspicuous an appearance before the world, he
is content to eat dust before the real masters who stand erect behind the throne. Or,
do men desire the more substantial and permanent grandeur of genius? Neither has this
an immunity. He who by force of will or of thought is great, and overlooks thousands,
has the charges of that eminence. With every influx of light comes new danger. Has he
light? he must bear witness to the light, and always outrun that sympathy which gives
him such keen satisfaction, by his fidelity to new revelations of the incessant soul.
He must hate father and mother, wife and child. Has he all that the world loves and ad-
mires and covets?--he must cast behind him their admiration, and afflict them by faith-
fulness to his truth, and become a byword and a hissing.

This law writes the laws of cities and nations. It is in vain to build or plot or com-
bine against it. Things refuse to be mismanaged long. Res nolunt diu male administrari.
Though no checks to a new evil appear, the checks exist, and will appear. If the govern-
ment is cruel, the governor's life is not safe. If you tax too high, the revenue will
yield nothing. If you make the criminal code sanguinary, juries will not convict. If
the law is too mild, private vengeance comes in. If the government is a terrific demo-
cracy, the pressure is resisted by an overcharge of energy in the citizen, and life
glows with a fiercer flame. The true life and satisfactions of man seem to elude the
utmost rigors or felicities of condition, and to establish themselves with great indif-
ferency under all varieties of circumstances. Under all governments the influence of
character remains the same,--in Turkey and in New England about alike. Under the pri-
meval despots of Egypt, history honestly confesses that man must have been as free as
culture could make him.

These appearances indicate the fact that the universe is represented in every one of
its particles. Every thing in nature contains all the powers of nature. Every thing is
made of one hidden stuff; as the naturalist sees one type under every metamorphosis,
and regards a horse as a running man, a fish as a swimming man, a bird as a flying man,
a tree as a rooted man. Each new form repeats not only the main character of the type,
but part for part all the details, all the aims, furtherances, hindrances, energies,
and whole system of every other. Every occupation, trade, art, transaction, is a com-
pend of the world, and a correlative of every other. Each one is an entire emblem of
human life; of its good and ill, its trials, its enemies, its course and its end. And
each one must somehow accommodate the whole man, and recite all his destiny.

The world globes itself in a drop of dew. The microscope cannot find the animalcule
which is less perfect for being little. Eyes, ears, taste, smell, motion, resistance,
appetite, and organs of reproduction that take hold on eternity,--all find room to
consist in the small creature. So do we put our life into every act. The true doctrine
of omnipresence is, that God reappears with all his parts in every moss and cobweb.
The value of the universe contrives to throw itself into every point. If the good is
there, so is the evil; if the affinity, so the repulsion; if the force, so the limit-
ation.

Thus is the universe alive. All things are moral. That soul, which within us is a
sentiment, outside of us is a law. We feel its inspiration; out there in history we
can see its fatal strength. "It is in the world, and the world was made by it."
Justice is not postponed. A perfect equity adjusts its balance in all parts of life.
{Oi chusoi Dios aei enpiptousi},--The dice of God are always loaded. The world looks
like a multiplication-table, or a mathematical equation, which, turn it how you will,
balances itself. Take what figure you will, its exact value, nor more nor less, still
returns to you. Every secret is told, every crime is punished, every virtue rewarded,
every wrong redressed, in silence and certainty. What we call retribution is the un-
iversal necessity by which the whole appears wherever a part appears. If you see
smoke, there must be fire. If you see a hand or a limb, you know that the trunk to
which it belongs is there behind.

Every act rewards itself, or, in other words, integrates itself, in a twofold manner;
first, in the thing, or in real nature; and secondly, in the circumstance, or in ap-
parent nature. Men call the circumstance the retribution. The causal retribution is
in the thing, and is seen by the soul. The retribution in the circumstance is seen
by the understanding; it is inseparable from the thing, but is often spread over a
long time, and so does not become distinct until after many years. The specific
stripes may follow late after the offence, but they follow because they accompany
it. Crime and punishment grow out of one stem. Punishment is a fruit that unsus-
pected ripens within the flower of the pleasure which concealed it. Cause and ef-
fect, means and ends, seed and fruit, cannot be severed; for the effect already
blooms in the cause, the end preexists in the means, the fruit in the seed.

Whilst thus the world will be whole, and refuses to be disparted, we seek to act
partially, to sunder, to appropriate; for example,--to gratify the senses, we
sever the pleasure of the senses from the needs of the character. The ingenuity of
man has always been dedicated to the solution of one problem,--how to detach the
sensual sweet, the sensual strong, the sensual bright, &c., from the moral sweet,
the moral deep, the moral fair; that is, again, to contrive to cut clean off this
upper surface so thin as to leave it bottomless; to get a one end, without an other
end. The soul says, Eat; the body would feast. The soul says, The man and woman
shall be one flesh and one soul; the body would join the flesh only. The soul says,
Have dominion over all things to the ends of virtue; the body would have the power
over things to its own ends.

The soul strives amain to live and work through all things. It would be the only
fact. All things shall be added unto it power, pleasure, knowledge, beauty. The
particular man aims to be somebody; to set up for himself; to truck and higgle for
a private good; and, in particulars, to ride, that he may ride; to dress, that he
may be dressed; to eat, that he may eat; and to govern, that he may be seen. Men
seek to be great; they would have offices, wealth, power, and fame. They think
that to be great is to possess one side of nature,--the sweet, without the other
side,--the bitter.

This dividing and detaching is steadily counteracted. Up to this day, it must be
owned, no projector has had the smallest success. The parted water reunites be-
hind our hand. Pleasure is taken out of pleasant things, profit out of profitable
things, power out of strong things, as soon as we seek to separate them from the
whole. We can no more halve things and get the sensual good, by itself, than we
can get an inside that shall have no outside, or a light without a shadow. "Drive
out nature with a fork, she comes running back."

Life invests itself with inevitable conditions, which the unwise seek to dodge,
which one and another brags that he does not know; that they do not touch him;--
but the brag is on his lips, the conditions are in his soul. If he escapes them
in one part, they attack him in another more vital part. If he has escaped them
in form, and in the appearance, it is because he has resisted his life, and fled
from himself, and the retribution is so much death. So signal is the failure of
all attempts to make this separation of the good from the tax, that the experi-
ment would not be tried,--since to try it is to be mad,--but for the circumstance,
that when the disease began in the will, of rebellion and separation, the intel-
lect is at once infected, so that the man ceases to see God whole in each object,
but is able to see the sensual allurement of an object, and not see the sensual
hurt; he sees the mermaid's head, but not the dragon's tail; and thinks he can
cut off that which he would have, from that which he would not have. "How secret
art thou who dwellest in the highest heavens in silence, O thou only great God,
sprinkling with an unwearied Providence certain penal blindnesses upon such as
have unbridled desires!"

The human soul is true to these facts in the painting of fable, of history, of
law, of proverbs, of conversation. It finds a tongue in literature unawares.
Thus the Greeks called Jupiter, Supreme Mind; but having traditionally ascribed
to him many base actions, they involuntarily made amends to reason, by tying up
the hands of so bad a god. He is made as helpless as a king of England. Prome-
theus knows one secret which Jove must bargain for; Minerva, another. He cannot
get his own thunders; Minerva keeps the key of them.

　　　　　"Of all the gods, I only know the keys
　　　　 　That ope the solid doors within whose vaults
　　　　 　His thunders sleep."

A plain confession of the in-working of the All, and of its moral aim. The In-
dian mythology ends in the same ethics; and it would seem impossible for any
fable to be invented and get any currency which was not moral. Aurora forgot to
ask youth for her lover, and though Tithonus is immortal, he is old. Achilles
is not quite invulnerable; the sacred waters did not wash the heel by which The-
tis held him. Siegfried, in the Nibelungen, is not quite immortal, for a leaf
fell on his back whilst he was bathing in the dragon's blood, and that spot
which it covered is mortal. And so it must be. There is a crack in every thing
God has made. It would seem, there is always this vindictive circumstance steal-
ing in at unawares, even into the wild poesy in which the human fancy attempted
to make bold holiday, and to shake itself free of the old laws,--this backstroke,
this kick of the gun, certifying that the law is fatal; that in nature nothing can
be given, all things are sold.

This is that ancient doctrine of Nemesis, who keeps watch in the universe, and
lets no offence go unchastised. The Furies, they said, are attendants on justice,
and if the sun in heaven should transgress his path, they would punish him. The
poets related that stone walls, and iron swords, and leathern thongs had an oc-
cult sympathy with the wrongs of their owners; that the belt which Ajax gave Hec-
tor dragged the Trojan hero over the field at the wheels of the car of Achilles,
and the sword which Hector gave Ajax was that on whose point Ajax fell. They re-
corded, that when the Thasians erected a statue to Theagenes, a victor in the
games, one of his rivals went to it by night, and endeavoured to throw it down
by repeated blows, until at last he moved it from its pedestal, and was crushed
to death beneath its fall.

This voice of fable has in it somewhat divine. It came from thought above the
will of the writer. That is the best part of each writer, which has nothing pri-
vate in it; that which he does not know; that which flowed out of his constitu-
tion, and not from his too active invention; that which in the study of a single
artist you might not easily find, but in the study of many, you would abstract
as the spirit of them all. Phidias it is not, but the work of man in that early Hel-
lenic world, that I would know. The name and circumstance of Phidias, however
convenient for history, embarrass when we come to the highest criticism. We are
to see that which man was tending to do in a given period, and was hindered, or,
if you will, modified in doing, by the interfering volitions of Phidias, of Dante, of
Shakspeare, the organ whereby man at the moment wrought.

Still more striking is the expression of this fact in the proverbs of all na-
tions, which are always the literature of reason, or the statements of an ab-
solute truth, without qualification. Proverbs, like the sacred books of each
nation, are the sanctuary of the intuitions. That which the droning world,
chained to appearances, will not allow the realist to say in his own words,
it will suffer him to say in proverbs without contradiction. And this law of
laws which the pulpit, the senate, and the college deny, is hourly preached
in all markets and workshops by flights of proverbs, whose teaching is as
true and as omnipresent as that of birds and flies.

All things are double, one against another.--Tit for tat; an eye for an eye;
a tooth for a tooth; blood for blood; measure for measure; love for love.--Give
and it shall be given you.--He that watereth shall be watered himself.--What
will you have? quoth God; pay for it and take it.--Nothing venture, nothing have.
Thou shalt be paid exactly for what thou hast done, no more, no less.--Who doth
not work shall not eat.--Harm watch, harm catch.--Curses always recoil on the
head of him who imprecates them.--If you put a chain around the neck of
a slave, the other end fastens itself around your own.--Bad counsel confounds
the adviser.--The Devil is an ass.

It is thus written, because it is thus in life. Our action is overmastered and
characterized above our will by the law of nature. We aim at a petty end quite
aside from the public good, but our act arranges itself by irresistible magne-
tism in a line with the poles of the world.

A man cannot speak but he judges himself. With his will, or against his will,
he draws his portrait to the eye of his companions by every word. Every opinion
reacts on him who utters it. It is a thread-ball thrown at a mark but the ot-
her end remains in the thrower's bag. Or, rather, it is a harpoon hurled at the
whale, unwinding, as it flies, a coil of cord in the boat, and if the harpoon
is not good, or not well thrown, it will go nigh to cut the steersman in twain,
or to sink the boat.

You cannot do wrong without suffering wrong. "No man had ever a point of pride
that was not injurious to him," said Burke. The exclusive in fashionable life
does not see that he excludes himself from enjoyment, in the attempt to appro-
priate it. The exclusionist in religion does not see that he shuts the door of
heaven on himself, in striving to shut out others. Treat men as pawns and nine-
pins, and you shall suffer as well as they. If you leave out their heart, you
shall lose your own. The senses would make things of all persons; of women,
of children, of the poor. The vulgar proverb, "I will get it from his purse or
get it from his skin," is sound philosophy.

All infractions of love and equity in our social relations are speedily pun-
ished. They are punished by fear. Whilst I stand in simple relations to my fel-
low-man, I have no displeasure in meeting him. We meet as water meets water,
or as two currents of air mix, with perfect diffusion and interpenetration of
nature. But as soon as there is any departure from simplicity, and attempt at
halfness, or good for me that is not good for him, my neighbour feels the
wrong; he shrinks from me as far as I have shrunk from him; his eyes no long-
er seek mine; there is war between us; there is hate in him and fear in me.

All the old abuses in society, universal and particular, all unjust accumula-
tions of property and power, are avenged in the same manner. Fear is an in-
structer of great sagacity, and the herald of all revolutions. One thing he
teaches, that there is rottenness where he appears. He is a carrion crow, and
though you see not well what he hovers for, there is death somewhere. Our
property is timid, our laws are timid, our cultivated classes are timid. Fear for
ages has boded and mowed and gibbered over government and property. That ob-
scene bird is not there for nothing. He indicates great wrongs which must be
revised.

Of the like nature is that expectation of change which instantly follows the
suspension of our voluntary activity. The terror of cloudless noon, the emerald
of Polycrates, the awe of prosperity, the instinct which leads every generous
soul to impose on itself tasks of a noble asceticism and vicarious virtue, are
the tremblings of the balance of justice through the heart and mind of man.

Experienced men of the world know very well that it is best to pay scot and lot
as they go along, and that a man often pays dear for a small frugality. The bor-
rower runs in his own debt. Has a man gained any thing who has received a hun-
dred favors and rendered none? Has he gained by borrowing, through indolence or
cunning, his neighbour's wares, or horses, or money? There arises on the deed
the instant acknowledgment of benefit on the one part, and of debt on the other;
that is, of superiority and inferiority. The transaction remains in the memory
of himself and his neighbour; and every new transaction alters, according to
its nature, their relation to each other. He may soon come to see that he had
better have broken his own bones than to have ridden in his neighbour's coach,
and that "the highest price he can pay for a thing is to ask for it."

A wise man will extend this lesson to all parts of life, and know that it is the
part of prudence to face every claimant, and pay every just demand on your time,
your talents, or your heart. Always pay; for, first or last, you must pay your
entire debt. Persons and events may stand for a time between you and justice,
but it is only a postponement. You must pay at last your own debt. If you are
wise, you will dread a prosperity which only loads you with more. Benefit is
the end of nature. But for every benefit which you receive, a tax is levied. He
is great who confers the most benefits. He is base--and that is the one base
thing in the universe--to receive favors and render none. In the order of nat-
ure we cannot render benefits to those from whom we receive them, or only sel-
dom. But the benefit we receive must be rendered again, line for line, deed for
deed, cent for cent, to somebody. Beware of too much good staying in your hand.
It will fast rrupt and worm worms. Pay it away quickly in some sort.

Labor is watched over by the same pitiless laws. Cheapest, say the prudent, is
the dearest labor. What we buy in a broom, a mat, a wagon, a knife, is some ap-
plication of good sense to a common want. It is best to pay in your land a skil-
ful gardener, or to buy good sense applied to gardening; in your sailor, good
sense applied to navigation; in the house, good sense applied to cooking, sew-
ing, serving; in your agent, good sense applied to accounts and affairs. So do
you multiply your presence, or spread yourself throughout your estate. But be-
cause of the dual constitution of things, in labor as in life there can be no
cheating. The thief steals from himself. The swindler swindles himself. For the
real price of labor is knowledge and virtue, whereof wealth and credit are signs.
These signs, like paper money, may be counterfeited or stolen, but that which
they represent, namely, knowledge and virtue, cannot be counterfeited or stolen.
These ends of labor cannot be answered but by real exertions of the mind, and
in obedience to pure motives. The cheat, the defaulter, the gambler, cannot ex-
tort the knowledge of material and moral nature which his honest care and pains
yield to the operative. The law of nature is, Do the thing, and you shall have
the power: but they who do not the thing have not the power.

Human labor, through all its forms, from the sharpening of a stake to the con-
struction of a city or an epic, is one immense illustration of the perfect com-
pensation of the universe. The absolute balance of Give and Take, the doctrine
that every thing has its price,--and if that price is not paid, not that thing
but something else is obtained, and that it is impossible to get any thing with-
out its price,--is not less sublime in the columns of a leger than in the bud-
gets of states, in the laws of light and darkness, in all the action and react-
ion of nature. I cannot doubt that the high laws which each man sees implicated
in those processes with which he is conversant, the stern ethics which sparkle
on his chisel-edge, which are measured out by his plumb and foot-rule, which
stand as manifest in the footing of the shop-bill as in the history of a state,
--do recommend to him his trade, and though seldom named, exalt his business to
his imagination.

The league between virtue and nature engages all things to assume a hostile front
to vice. The beautiful laws and substances of the world persecute and whip the
traitor. He finds that things are arranged for truth and benefit, but there is no
den in the wide world to hide a rogue. Commit a crime, and the earth is made of
glass. Commit a crime, and it seems as if a coat of snow fell on the ground, such
as reveals in the woods the track of every partridge and fox and squirrel and mole.
You cannot recall the spoken word, you cannot wipe out the foot-track, you cannot
draw up the ladder, so as to leave no inlet or clew. Some damning circumstance al-
ways transpires. The laws and substances of nature--water, snow, wind, gravitation
--become penalties to the thief.

On the other hand, the law holds with equal sureness for all right action. Love,
and you shall be loved. All love is mathematically just, as much as the two sides
of an algebraic equation. The good man has absolute good, which like fire turns
every thing to its own nature, so that you cannot do him any harm; but as the ro-
yal armies sent against Napoleon, when he approached, cast down their colors and
from enemies became friends, so disasters of all kinds, as sickness, offence, pov-
erty, prove benefactors:--

　　　　　"Winds blow and waters roll
　　　　 　Strength to the brave, and power and deity,
　　　　 　Yet in themselves are nothing."

The good are befriended even by weakness and defect. As no man had ever a point
of pride that was not injurious to him, so no man had ever a defect that was not
somewhere made useful to him. The stag in the fable admired his horns and blamed
his feet, but when the hunter came, his feet saved him, and afterwards, caught in
the thicket, his horns destroyed him. Every man in his lifetime needs to thank
his faults. As no man thoroughly understands a truth until he has contended a-
gainst it, so no man has a thorough acquaintance with the hindrances or talents
of men, until he has suffered from the one, and seen the triumph of the other
over his own want of the same. Has he a defect of temper that unfits him to live
in society? Thereby he is driven to entertain himself alone, and acquire habits
of self-help; and thus, like the wounded oyster, he mends his shell with pearl.

Our strength grows out of our weakness. The indignation which arms itself with
secret forces does not awaken until we are pricked and stung and sorely assailed.
A great man is always willing to be little. Whilst he sits on the cushion of ad-
vantages, he goes to sleep. When he is pushed, tormented, defeated, he has a
chance to learn something; he has been put on his wits, on his manhood; he has
gained facts; learns his ignorance; is cured of the insanity of conceit; has got
moderation and real skill. The wise man throws himself on the side of his assai-
lants. It is more his interest than it is theirs to find his weak point. The
wound cicatrizes and falls off from him like a dead skin, and when they would
triumph, lo! he has passed on invulnerable. Blame is safer than praise. I hate
to be defended in a newspaper. As long as all that is said is said against me,
I feel a certain assurance of success. But as soon as honeyed words of praise
are spoken for me, I feel as one that lies unprotected before his enemies. In
general, every evil to which we do not succumb is a benefactor. As the Sandwich
Islander believes that the strength and valor of the enemy he kills passes into
himself, so we gain the strength of the temptation we resist.

The same guards which protect us from disaster, defect, and enmity, defend us,
if we will, from selfishness and fraud. Bolts and bars are not the best of our
institutions, nor is shrewdness in trade a mark of wisdom. Men suffer all their
life long, under the foolish superstition that they can be cheated. But it is as
impossible for a man to be cheated by any one but himself, as for a thing to
be and not to be at the same time. There is a third silent party to all our bar-
gains. The nature and soul of things takes on itself the guaranty of the fulfil-
ment of every contract, so that honest service cannot come to loss. If you serve
an ungrateful master, serve him the more. Put God in your debt. Every stroke shall
be repaid. The longer the payment is withholden, the better for you; for compound
interest on compound interest is the rate and usage of this exchequer.

The history of persecution is a history of endeavours to cheat nature, to make
water run up hill, to twist a rope of sand. It makes no difference whether the
actors be many or one, a tyrant or a mob. A mob is a society of bodies voluntar-
ily bereaving themselves of reason, and traversing its work. The mob is man vol-
untarily descending to the nature of the beast. Its fit hour of activity is night.
Its actions are insane like its whole constitution. It persecutes a principle;
it would whip a right; it would tar and feather justice, by inflicting fire and
outrage upon the houses and persons of those who have these. It resembles the
prank of boys, who run with fire-engines to put out the ruddy aurora streaming
to the stars. The inviolate spirit turns their spite against the wrongdoers. The
martyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a tongue of fame; every pri-
son, a more illustrious abode; every burned book or house enlightens the world;
every suppressed or expunged word reverberates through the earth from side to
side. Hours of sanity and consideration are always arriving to communities, as
to individuals, when the truth is seen, and the martyrs are justified.

Thus do all things preach the indifferency of circumstances. The man is all.
Every thing has two sides, a good and an evil. Every advantage has its tax. I
learn to be content. But the doctrine of compensation is not the doctrine of
indifferency. The thoughtless say, on hearing these representations,--What
boots it to do well? there is one event to good and evil; if I gain any good,
I must pay for it; if I lose any good, I gain some other; all actions are in-
different.

There is a deeper fact in the soul than compensation, to wit, its own nature.
The soul is not a compensation, but a life. The soul is. Under all this running
sea of circumstance, whose waters ebb and flow with perfect balance, lies the
aboriginal abyss of real Being. Essence, or God, is not a relation, or a part,
but the whole. Being is the vast affirmative, excluding negation, self-balanced,
and swallowing up all relations, parts, and times within itself. Nature, truth,
virtue, are the influx from thence. Vice is the absence or departure of the same.
Nothing, Falsehood, may indeed stand as the great Night or shade, on which, as
a background, the living universe paints itself forth; but no fact is begotten
by it; it cannot work; for it is not. It cannot work any good; it cannot work
any harm. It is harm inasmuch as it is worse not to be than to be.

We feel defrauded of the retribution due to evil acts, because the criminal ad-
heres to his vice and contumacy, and does not come to a crisis or judgment any-
where in visible nature. There is no stunning confutation of his nonsense before
men and angels. Has he therefore outwitted the law? Inasmuch as he carries the
malignity and the lie with him, he so far deceases from nature. In some manner
there will be a demonstration of the wrong to the understanding also; but should
we not see it, this deadly deduction makes square the eternal account.

Neither can it be said, on the other hand, that the gain of rectitude must be
bought by any loss. There is no penalty to virtue; no penalty to wisdom; they
are proper additions of being. In a virtuous action, I properly am; in a virtu-
ous act, I add to the world; I plant into deserts conquered from Chaos and No-
thing, and see the darkness receding on the limits of the horizon. There can be
no excess to love; none to knowledge; none to beauty, when these attributes are
considered in the purest sense. The soul refuses limits, and always affirms an
Optimism, never a Pessimism.

His life is a progress, and not a station. His instinct is trust. Our instinct
uses "more" and "less" in application to man, of the presence of the soul, and
not of its absence; the brave man is greater than the coward; the true, the ben-
evolent, the wise, is more a man, and not less, than the fool and knave. There
is no tax on the good of virtue; for that is the incoming of God himself, or ab-
solute existence, without any comparative. Material good has its tax, and if it
came without desert or sweat, has no root in me, and the next wind will blow it
away. But all the good of nature is the soul's, and may be had, if paid for in
nature's lawful coin, that is, by labor which the heart and the head allow. I
no longer wish to meet a good I do not earn, for example, to find a pot of bur-
ied gold, knowing that it brings with it new burdens. I do not wish more exter-
nal goods,--neither possessions, nor honors, nor powers, nor persons. The gain
is apparent; the tax is certain. But there is no tax on the knowledge that the
compensation exists, and that it is not desirable to dig up treasure. Herein I
rejoice with a serene eternal peace. I contract the boundaries of possible mis-
chief. I learn the wisdom of St. Bernard,--"Nothing can work me damage except
myself; the harm that I sustain I carry about with me, and never am a real suf-
ferer but by my own fault."

In the nature of the soul is the compensation for the inequalities of condition.
The radical tragedy of nature seems to be the distinction of More and Less. How
can Less not feel the pain; how not feel indignation or malevolence towards More?
Look at those who have less faculty, and one feels sad, and knows not well what
to make of it. He almost shuns their eye; he fears they will upbraid God. What
should they do? It seems a great injustice. But see the facts nearly, and these
mountainous inequalities vanish. Love reduces them, as the sun melts the iceberg
in the sea. The heart and soul of all men being one, this bitterness of His and
Mine ceases. His is mine. I am my brother, and my brother is me. If I feel over-
shadowed and outdone by great neighbours, I can yet love; I can still receive;
and he that loveth maketh his own the grandeur he loves. Thereby I make the dis-
covery that my brother is my guardian, acting for me with the friendliest designs,
and the estate I so admired and envied is my own. It is the nature of the soul to
appropriate all things. Jesus and Shakspeare are fragments of the soul, and by
love I conquer and incorporate them in my own conscious domain. His virtue,--is
not that mine? His wit,--if it cannot be made mine, it is not wit.

Such, also, is the natural history of calamity. The changes which break up at
short intervals the prosperity of men are advertisements of a nature whose law
is growth. Every soul is by this intrinsic necessity quitting its whole system
of things, its friends, and home, and laws, and faith, as the shell-fish crawls
out of its beautiful but stony case, because it no longer admits of its growth,
and slowly forms a new house. In proportion to the vigor of the individual, these
revolutions are frequent, until in some happier mind they are incessant, and all
worldly relations hang very loosely about him, becoming, as it were, a transpar-
ent fluid membrane through which the living form is seen, and not, as in most
men, an indurated heterogeneous fabric of many dates, and of no settled charac-
ter in which the man is imprisoned. Then there can be enlargement, and the man
of to-day scarcely recognizes the man of yesterday. And such should be the out-
ward biography of man in time, a putting off of dead circumstances day by day,
as he renews his raiment day by day. But to us, in our lapsed estate, resting,
not advancing, resisting, not cooperating with the divine expansion, this growth
comes by shocks.

We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let our angels go. We do not see that
they only go out, that archangels may come in. We are idolaters of the old. We
do not believe in the riches of the soul, in its proper eternity and omnipresence.
We do not believe there is any force in to-day to rival or recreate that beauti-
ful yesterday. We linger in the ruins of the old tent, where once we had bread
and shelter and organs, nor believe that the spirit can feed, cover, and nerve
us again. We cannot again find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit
and weep in vain. The voice of the Almighty saith, `Up and onward for evermore!'
We cannot stay amid the ruins. Neither will we rely on the new; and so we walk
ever with reverted eyes, like those monsters who look backwards.

And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding
also, after long intervals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a
loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable.
But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all facts. The
death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation,
somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operates
revolutions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which
was waiting to be closed, breaks up a wonted occupation, or a household, or style
of living, and allows the formation of new ones more friendly to the growth of
character. It permits or constrains the formation of new acquaintances, and the
reception of new influences that prove of the first importance to the next years;
and the man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room
for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and
the neglect of the gardener, is made the banian10 of the forest, yielding shade and
fruit to wide neighbourhoods of men.



IV. Spiritual Laws



The living Heaven thy prayers respect,
House at once and architect,
Quarrying man's rejected hours,
Builds therewith eternal towers;
Sole and self-commanded works,
Fears not undermining days,
Grows by decays,
And, by the famous might that lurks
In reaction and recoil,
Makes flame to freeze, and ice to boil;
Forging, through swart arms of Offence,
The silver seat of Innocence.



When the act of reflection takes place in the mind, when we look at ourselves in the
light of thought, we discover that our life is embosomed in beauty. Behind us, as we go,
all things assume pleasing forms, as clouds do far off. Not only things familiar and
stale, but even the tragic and terrible, are comely, as they take their place in the
pictures of memory. The river-bank, the weed at the water-side, the old house, the fool-
ish person,--however neglected in the passing,--have a grace in the past. Even the corpse
that has lain in the chambers has added a solemn ornament to the house. The soul will
not know either deformity or pain. If, in the hours of clear reason, we should speak the
severest truth, we should say, that we had never made a sacrifice. In these hours the
mind seems so great, that nothing can be taken from us that seems much. All loss, all
pain, is particular; the universe remains to the heart unhurt. Neither vexations nor
calamities abate our trust. No man ever stated his griefs as lightly as he might. Allow
for exaggeration in the most patient and sorely ridden hack that ever was driven. For
it is only the finite that has wrought and suffered; the infinite lies stretched in
smiling repose.

The intellectual life may be kept clean and healthful, if man will live the life of
nature, and not import into his mind difficulties which are none of his. No man need be
perplexed in his speculations. Let him do and say what strictly belongs to him, and,
though very ignorant of books, his nature shall not yield him any intellectual obstruc-
tions and doubts. Our young people are diseased with the theological problems of original
sin, origin of evil, predestination, and the like. These never presented a practical
difficulty to any man,--never darkened across any man's road, who did not go out of his
way to seek them. These are the soul's mumps, and measles, and whooping-coughs, and
those who have not caught them cannot describe their health or prescribe the cure. A
simple mind will not know these enemies. It is quite another thing that he should be
able to give account of his faith, and expound to another the theory of his self-union
and freedom. This requires rare gifts. Yet, without this self-knowledge, there may be
a sylvan strength and integrity in that which he is. "A few strong instincts and a few
plain rules" suffice us.

My will never gave the images in my mind the rank they now take. The regular course of
studies, the years of academical and professional education, have not yielded me better
facts than some idle books under the bench at the Latin School. What we do not call
education is more precious than that which we call so. We form no guess, at the time
of receiving a thought, of its comparative value. And education often wastes its effort
in attempts to thwart and balk this natural magnetism, which is sure to select what be-
longs to it.

In like manner, our moral nature is vitiated by any interference of our will. People rep-
resent virtue as a struggle, and take to themselves great airs upon their attainments,
and the question is everywhere vexed, when a noble nature is commended, whether the
man is not better who strives with temptation. But there is no merit in the matter. Either
God is there, or he is not there. We love characters in proportion as they are impulsive
and spontaneous. The less a man thinks or knows about his virtues, the better we like him.
Timoleon's victories are the best victories; which ran and flowed like Homer's verses,
Plutarch said. When we see a soul whose acts are all regal, graceful, and pleasant as
roses, we must thank God that such things can be and are, and not turn sourly on the
angel, and say, `Crump is a better man with his grunting resistance to all his native
devils.'

Not less conspicuous is the preponderance of nature over will in all practical life. There
is less intention in history than we ascribe to it. We impute deep-laid, far-sighted plans
to Caesar and Napoleon; but the best of their power was in nature, not in them. Men of an
extraordinary success, in their honest moments, have always sung, `Not unto us, not unto
us.' According to the faith of their times, they have built altars to Fortune, or to Dest-
iny, or to St. Julian. Their success lay in their parallelism to the course of thought,
which found in them an unobstructed channel; and the wonders of which they were the visi-
ble conductors seemed to the eye their deed. Did the wires generate the galvanism? It is
even true that there was less in them on which they could reflect, than in another; as the
virtue of a pipe is to be smooth and hollow. That which externally seemed will and immov-
ableness was willingness and self-annihilation. Could Shakspeare give a theory of Shak-
speare? Could ever a man of prodigious mathematical genius convey to others any insight
into his methods? If he could communicate that secret, it would instantly lose its exag-
gerated value, blending with the daylight and the vital energy the power to stand and to
go.

The lesson is forcibly taught by these observations, that our life might be much easier
and simpler than we make it; that the world might be a happier place than it is; that there
is no need of struggles, convulsions, and despairs, of the wringing of the hands and the
gnashing of the teeth; that we miscreate our own evils. We interfere with the optimism of
nature; for, whenever we get this vantage-ground of the past, or of a wiser mind in the
present, we are able to discern that we are begirt with laws which execute themselves.

The face of external nature teaches the same lesson. Nature will not have us fret and
fume. She does not like our benevolence or our learning much better than she likes our
frauds and wars. When we come out of the caucus, or the bank, or the Abolition-conven-
tion, or the Temperance-meeting, or the Transcendental club, into the fields and woods,
she says to us, `So hot? my little Sir.'

We are full of mechanical actions. We must needs intermeddle, and have things in our own
way, until the sacrifices and virtues of society are odious. Love should make joy; but
our benevolence is unhappy. Our Sunday-schools, and churches, and pauper-societies are
yokes to the neck. We pain ourselves to please nobody. There are natural ways of arriving
at the same ends at which these aim, but do not arrive. Why should all virtue work in one
and the same way? Why should all give dollars? It is very inconvenient to us country folk,
and we do not think any good will come of it. We have not dollars; merchants have; let
them give them. Farmers will give corn; poets will sing; women will sew; laborers will
lend a hand; the children will bring flowers. And why drag this dead weight of a Sunday-
school over the whole Christendom? It is natural and beautiful that childhood should in-
quire, and maturity should teach; but it is time enough to answer questions when they are
asked. Do not shut up the young people against their will in a pew, and force the children
to ask them questions for an hour against their will.

If we look wider, things are all alike; laws, and letters, and creeds, and modes of living, seem
a travestie of truth. Our society is encumbered by ponderous machinery, which resembles
the endless aqueducts which the Romans built over hill and dale, and which are superseded
by the discovery of the law that water rises to the level of its source. It is a Chinese
wall which any nimble Tartar can leap over. It is a standing army, not so good as a peace.
It is a graduated, titled, richly appointed empire, quite superfluous when town-meetings
are found to answer just as well.

Let us draw a lesson from nature, which always works by short ways. When the fruit is
ripe, it falls. When the fruit is despatched, the leaf falls. The circuit of the waters is mere
falling. The walking of man and all animals is a falling forward. All our manual labor and
works of strength, as prying, splitting, digging, rowing, and so forth, are done by dint of
continual falling, and the globe, earth, moon, comet, sun, star, fall for ever and ever.

The simplicity of the universe is very different from the simplicity of a machine. He who
sees moral nature out and out, and thoroughly knows how knowledge is acquired and character
formed, is a pedant. The simplicity of nature is not that which may easily be read, but is
inexhaustible. The last analysis can no wise be made. We judge of a man's wisdom by his
hope, knowing that the perception of the inexhaustibleness of nature is an immortal youth.
The wild fertility of nature is felt in comparing our rigid names and reputations with our
fluid consciousness. We pass in the world for sects and schools, for erudition and piety,
and we are all the time jejune babes. One sees very well how Pyrrhonism grew up. Every man
sees that he is that middle point, whereof every thing may be affirmed and denied with equal
reason. He is old, he is young, he is very wise, he is altogether ignorant. He hears and
feels what you say of the seraphim, and of the tin-pedler. There is no permanent wise man,
except in the figment of the Stoics. We side with the hero, as we read or paint, against the
coward and the robber; but we have been ourselves that coward and robber, and shall be again,
not in the low circumstance, but in comparison with the grandeurs possible to the soul.

A little consideration of what takes place around us every day would show us, that a higher
law than that of our will regulates events; that our painful labors are unnecessary, and
fruitless; that only in our easy, simple, spontaneous action are we strong, and by content-
ing ourselves with obedience we become divine. Belief and love,--a believing love will re-
lieve us of a vast load of care. O my brothers, God exists. There is a soul at the centre
of nature, and over the will of every man, so that none of us can wrong the universe. It
has so infused its strong enchantment into nature, that we prosper when we accept its ad-
vice, and when we struggle to wound its creatures, our hands are glued to our sides, or
they beat our own breasts. The whole course of things goes to teach us faith. We need only
obey. There is guidance for each of us, and by lowly listening we shall hear the right word.
Why need you choose so painfully your place, and occupation, and associates, and modes of
action, and of entertainment? Certainly there is a possible right for you that precludes
the need of balance and wilful election. For you there is a reality, a fit place and cong-
enial duties. Place yourself in the middle of the stream of power and wisdom which animates
all whom it floats, and you are without effort impelled to truth, to right, and a perfect
contentment. Then you put all gainsayers in the wrong. Then you are the world, the measure
of right, of truth, of beauty. If we will not be mar-plots with our miserable interferences,
the work, the society, letters, arts, science, religion of men would go on far better than
now, and the heaven predicted from the beginning of the world, and still predicted from the
bottom of the heart, would organize itself, as do now the rose, and the air, and the sun.

I say, do not choose; but that is a figure of speech by which I would distinguish what
is commonly called choice among men, and which is a partial act, the choice of the hands,
of the eyes, of the appetites, and not a whole act of the man. But that which I call right
or goodness is the choice of my constitution; and that which I call heaven, and inwardly as-
pire after, is the state or circumstance desirable to my constitution; and the action which
I in all my years tend to do, is the work for my faculties. We must hold a man amenable to
reason for the choice of his daily craft or profession. It is not an excuse any longer for
his deeds, that they are the custom of his trade. What business has he with an evil trade?
Has he not a calling in his character.

Each man has his own vocation. The talent is the call. There is one direction in which all
space is open to him. He has faculties silently inviting him thither to endless exertion.
He is like a ship in a river; he runs against obstructions on every side but one; on that
side all obstruction is taken away, and he sweeps serenely over a deepening channel into an
infinite sea. This talent and this call depend on his organization, or the mode in which the
general soul incarnates itself in him. He inclines to do something which is easy to him,
and good when it is done, but which no other man can do. He has no rival. For the more truly
he consults his own powers, the more difference will his work exhibit from the work of any
other. His ambition is exactly proportioned to his powers. The height of the pinnacle is de-
termined by the breadth of the base. Every man has this call of the power to do somewhat u-
nique, and no man has any other call. The pretence that he has another call, a summons by
name and personal election and outward "signs that mark him extraordinary, and not in the
roll of common men," is fanaticism, and betrays obtuseness to perceive that there is one
mind in all the individuals, and no respect of persons therein.

By doing his work, he makes the need felt which he can supply, and creates the taste by
which he is enjoyed. By doing his own work, he unfolds himself. It is the vice of our pub-
lic speaking that it has not abandonment. Somewhere, not only every orator but every man
should let out all the length of all the reins; should find or make a frank and hearty ex-
pression of what force and meaning is in him. The common experience is, that the man fits
himself as well as he can to the customary details of that work or trade he falls into,
and tends it as a dog turns a spit. Then is he a part of the machine he moves; the man is
lost. Until he can manage to communicate himself to others in his full stature and propor-
tion, he does not yet find his vocation. He must find in that an outlet for his character,
so that he may justify his work to their eyes. If the labor is mean, let him by his think-
ing and character make it liberal. Whatever he knows and thinks, whatever in his apprehen-
sion is worth doing, that let him communicate, or men will never know and honor him aright.
Foolish, whenever you take the meanness and formality of that thing you do, instead of
converting it into the obedient spiracle of your character and aims.

We like only such actions as have already long had the praise of men, and do not perceive
that any thing man can do may be divinely done. We think greatness entailed or organized
in some places or duties, in certain offices or occasions, and do not see that Paganini
can extract rapture from a catgut, and Eulenstein from a jews-harp, and a nimble-fingered
lad out of shreds of paper with his scissors, and Landseer out of swine, and the hero out
of the pitiful habitation and company in which he was hidden. What we call obscure condi-
tion or vulgar society is that condition and society whose poetry is not yet written, but
which you shall presently make as enviable and renowned as any. In our estimates, let us
take a lesson from kings. The parts of hospitality, the connection of families, the im-
pressiveness of death, and a thousand other things, royalty makes its own estimate of, and
a royal mind will. To make habitually a new estimate,--that is elevation.

What a man does, that he has. What has he to do with hope or fear? In himself is his might.
Let him regard no good as solid, but that which is in his nature, and which must grow out
of him as long as he exists. The goods of fortune may come and go like summer leaves; let
him scatter them on every wind as the momentary signs of his infinite productiveness.

He may have his own. A man's genius, the quality that differences him from every other,
the susceptibility to one class of influences, the selection of what is fit for him, the
rejection of what is unfit, determines for him the character of the universe. A man is a
method, a progressive arrangement; a selecting principle, gathering his like to him, wher-
ever he goes. He takes only his own out of the multiplicity that sweeps and circles round
him. He is like one of those booms which are set out from the shore on rivers to catch
drift-wood, or like the loadstone amongst splinters of steel. Those facts, words, persons,
which dwell in his memory without his being able to say why, remain, because they have a
relation to him not less real for being as yet unapprehended. They are symbols of value
to him, as they can interpret parts of his consciousness which he would vainly seek words
for in the conventional images of books and other minds. What attracts my attention shall
have it, as I will go to the man who knocks at my door, whilst a thousand persons, as wor-
thy, go by it, to whom I give no regard. It is enough that these particulars speak to me.
A few anecdotes, a few traits of character, manners, face, a few incidents, have an em-
phasis in your memory out of all proportion to their apparent significance, if you measure
them by the ordinary standards. They relate to your gift. Let them have their weight, and
do not reject them, and cast about for illustration and facts more usual in literature.
What your heart thinks great is great. The soul's emphasis is always right.

Over all things that are agreeable to his nature and genius, the man has the highest right.
Everywhere he may take what belongs to his spiritual estate, nor can he take any thing else,
though all doors were open, nor can all the force of men hinder him from taking so much. It
is vain to attempt to keep a secret from one who has a right to know it. It will tell itself.
That mood into which a friend can bring us is his dominion over us. To the thoughts of that
state of mind he has a right. All the secrets of that state of mind he can compel. This is
a law which statesmen use in practice. All the terrors of the French Republic, which held
Austria in awe, were unable to command her diplomacy. But Napoleon sent to Vienna M. de
Narbonne, one of the old noblesse, with the morals, manners, and name of that interest, say-
ing, that it was indispensable to send to the old aristocracy of Europe men of the same con-
nection, which, in fact, constitutes a sort of free-masonry. M. de Narbonne, in less than a
fortnight, penetrated all the secrets of the imperial cabinet.

Nothing seems so easy as to speak and to be understood. Yet a man may come to find that
the strongest of defences and of ties,--that he has been understood; and he who has re-
ceived an opinion may come to find it the most inconvenient of bonds.

If a teacher have any opinion which he wishes to conceal, his pupils will become as fully
indoctrinated into that as into any which he publishes. If you pour water into a vessel
twisted into coils and angles, it is vain to say, I will pour it only into this or that; -it will
find its level in all. Men feel and act the consequences of your doctrine, without being
able to show how they follow. Show us an arc of the curve, and a good mathematician will
find out the whole figure. We are always reasoning from the seen to the unseen. Hence the
perfect intelligence that subsists between wise men of remote ages. A man cannot bury his
meanings so deep in his book, but time and like-minded men will find them. Plato had a se-
cret doctrine, had he? What secret can he conceal from the eyes of Bacon? of Montaigne?
of Kant? There-fore, Aristotle said of his works, "They are published and not published."

No man can learn what he has not preparation for learning, however near to his eyes is the
object. A chemist may tell his most precious secrets to a carpenter, and he shall be never
the wiser,--the secrets he would not utter to a chemist for an estate. God screens us ever-
more from premature ideas. Our eyes are holden that we cannot see things that stare us in the
face, until the hour arrives when the mind is ripened; then we behold them, and the time when
we saw them not is like a dream.

Not in nature but in man is all the beauty and worth he sees. The world is very empty, and is
indebted to this gilding, exalting soul for all its pride. "Earth fills her lap with splendors" not
her own. The vale of Tempe, Tivoli, and Rome are earth and water, rocks and sky. There are
as good earth and water in a thousand places, yet how unaffecting!

People are not the better for the sun and moon, the horizon and the trees; as it is not observ-
ed that the keepers of Roman galleries, or the valets of painters, have any elevation of thought,
or that librarians are wiser men than others. There are graces in the demeanour of a polished
and noble person, which are lost upon the eye of a churl. These are like the stars whose light
has not yet reached us.

He may see what he maketh. Our dreams are the sequel of our waking knowledge. The visions of the
night bear some proportion to the visions of the day. Hideous dreams are exaggerations of the
sins of the day. We see our evil affections embodied in bad physiognomies. On the Alps, the trav-
eller sometimes beholds his own shadow magnified to a giant, so that every gesture of his hand
is terrific. "My children," said an old man to his boys scared by a figure in the dark entry,
"my children, you will never see any thing worse than yourselves." As in dreams, so in the scarc-
ely less fluid events of the world, every man sees himself in colossal, without knowing that it
is himself. The good, compared to the evil which he sees, is as his own good to his own evil.
Every quality of his mind is magnified in some one acquaintance, and every emotion of his heart
in some one. He is like a quincunx of trees, which counts five, east, west, north, or south; or,
an initial, medial, and terminal acrostic. And why not? He cleaves to one person, and avoids an-
other, according to their likeness or unlikeness to himself, truly seeking himself in his asso-
ciates, and moreover in his trade, and habits, and gestures, and meats, and drinks; and comes at
last to be faithfully represented by every view you take of his circumstances.

He may read what he writes. What can we see or acquire, but what we are? You have observed a
skilful man reading Virgil. Well, that author is a thousand books to a thousand persons. Take
the book into your two hands, and read your eyes out; you will never find what I find. If any
ingenious reader would have a monopoly of the wisdom or delight he gets, he is as secure now the
book is Englished, as if it were imprisoned in the Pelews' tongue. It is with a good book as it
is with good company. Introduce a base person among gentlemen; it is all to no purpose; he is not
their fellow. Every society protects itself. The company is perfectly safe, and he is not one of
them, though his body is in the room.

What avails it to fight with the eternal laws of mind, which adjust the relation of all persons
to each other, by the mathematical measure of their havings and beings? Gertrude is enamoured of
Guy; how high, how aristocratic, how Roman his mien and manners! to live with him were life indeed,
and no purchase is too great; and heaven and earth are moved to that end. Well, Gertrude has Guy;
but what now avails how high, how aristocratic, how Roman his mien and manners, if his heart and
aims are in the senate, in the theatre, and in the billiard-room, and she has no aims, no conver-
sation, that can enchant her graceful lord?

He shall have his own society. We can love nothing but nature. The most wonderful talents, the most
meritorious exertions, really avail very little with us; but nearness or likeness of nature,--how
beautiful is the ease of its victory! Persons approach us famous for their beauty, for their accom-
plishments, worthy of all wonder for their charms and gifts; they dedicate their whole skill to the
hour and the company, with very imperfect result. To be sure, it would be ungrateful in us not to
praise them loudly. Then, when all is done, a person of related mind, a brother or sister by nature,
comes to us so softly and easily, so nearly and intimately, as if it were the blood in our proper
veins, that we feel as if some one was gone, instead of another having come; we are utterly relieved
and refreshed; it is a sort of joyful solitude. We foolishly think in our days of sin, that we must
court friends by compliance to the customs of society, to its dress, its breeding, and its estimates.
But only that soul can be my friend which I encounter on the line of my own march, that soul to which
I do not decline, and which does not decline to me, but, native of the same celestial latitude, re-
peats in its own all my experience. The scholar forgets himself, and apes the customs and costumes of
the man of the world, to deserve the smile of beauty, and follows some giddy girl, not yet taught by
religious passion to know the noble woman with all that is serene, oracular, and beautiful in her soul.
Let him be great, and love shall follow him. Nothing is more deeply punished than the neglect of the
affinities by which alone society should be formed, and the insane levity of choosing associates by
others' eyes.

He may set his own rate. It is a maxim worthy of all acceptation, that a man may have that allowance
he takes. Take the place and attitude which belong to you, and all men acquiesce. The world must be
just. It leaves every man, with profound unconcern, to set his own rate. Hero or driveller, it meddles
not in the matter. It will certainly accept your own measure of your doing and being, whether you sneak
about and deny your own name, or whether you see your work produced to the concave sphere of the
heavens, one with the revolution of the stars.

The same reality pervades all teaching. The man may teach by doing, and not otherwise. If he can commu-
nicate himself, he can teach, but not by words. He teaches who gives, and he learns who receives. There
is no teaching until the pupil is brought into the same state or principle in which you are; a transfu-
sion takes place; he is you, and you are he; then is a teaching; and by no unfriendly chance or bad com-
pany can he ever quite lose the benefit. But your propositions run out of one ear as they ran in at the
other. We see it advertised that Mr. Grand will deliver an oration on the Fourth of July, and Mr. Hand
before the Mechanics' Association, and we do not go thither, because we know that these gentlemen will
not communicate their own character and experience to the company. If we had reason to expect such a
confidence, we should go through all inconvenience and opposition. The sick would be carried in litters.
But a public oration is an escapade, a non-committal, an apology, a gag, and not a communication, not a
speech, not a man.

A like Nemesis presides over all intellectual works. We have yet to learn, that the thing uttered in
words is not therefore affirmed. It must affirm itself, or no forms of logic or of oath can give it ev-
idence. The sentence must also contain its own apology for being spoken.

The effect of any writing on the public mind is mathematically measurable by its depth of thought. How
much water does it draw? If it awaken you to think, if it lift you from your feet with the great voice
of eloquence, then the effect is to be wide, slow, permanent, over the minds of men; if the pages in-
struct you not, they will die like flies in the hour. The way to speak and write what shall not go out
of fashion is, to speak and write sincerely. The argument which has not power to reach my own prac-
tice, I may well doubt, will fail to reach yours. But take Sidney's maxim:--"Look in thy heart, and write."
He that writes to himself writes to an eternal public. That statement only is fit to be made public,
which you have come at in attempting to satisfy your own curiosity. The writer who takes his subject
from his ear, and not from his heart, should know that he has lost as much as he seems to have gained,
and when the empty book has gathered all its praise, and half the people say, `What poetry! what geni-
us!' it still needs fuel to make fire. That only profits which is profitable. Life alone can impart
life; and though we should burst, we can only be valued as we make ourselves valuable. There is no
luck in literary reputation. They who make up the final verdict upon every book are not the partial
and noisy readers of the hour when it appears; but a court as of angels, a public not to be bribed,
not to be entreated, and not to be overawed, decides upon every man's title to fame. Only those books
come down which deserve to last. Gilt edges, vellum, and morocco, and presentation-copies to all the
libraries, will not preserve a book in circulation beyond its intrinsic date. It must go with all Wal-
pole's Noble and Royal Authors to its fate. Blackmore, Kotzebue, or Pollok may endure for a night, but
Moses and Homer stand for ever. There are not in the world at any one time more than a dozen persons
who read and understand Plato:--never enough to pay for an edition of his works; yet to every genera-
tion these come duly down, for the sake of those few persons, as if God brought them in his hand. "No
book," said Bentley, "was ever written down by any but itself." The permanence of all books is fixed
by no effort friendly or hostile, but by their own specific gravity, or the intrinsic importance of
their contents to the constant mind of man. "Do not trouble yourself too much about the light on your s
tatue," said Michel Angelo to the young sculptor; "the light of the public square will test its value."

In like manner the effect of every action is measured by the depth of the sentiment from which it pro-
ceeds. The great man knew not that he was great. It took a century or two for that fact to appear.
What he did, he did because he must; it was the most natural thing in the world, and grew out of the
circumstances of the moment. But now, every thing he did, even to the lifting of his finger or the
eating of bread, looks large, all-related, and is called an institution.

These are the demonstrations in a few particulars of the genius of nature; they show the direction
of the stream. But the stream is blood; every drop is alive. Truth has not single victories; all things
are its organs,--not only dust and stones, but errors and lies. The laws of disease, physicians say,
are as beautiful as the laws of health. Our philosophy is affirmative, and readily accepts the test-
imony of negative facts, as every shadow points to the sun. By a divine necessity, every fact in na-
ture is constrained to offer its testimony.

Human character evermore publishes itself. The most fugitive deed and word, the mere air of doing a
thing, the intimated purpose, expresses character. If you act, you show character; if you sit still,
if you sleep, you show it. You think, because you have spoken nothing when others spoke, and have
given no opinion on the times, on the church, on slavery, on marriage, on socialism, on secret soci-
eties, on the college, on parties and persons, that your verdict is still expected with curiosity as
a reserved wisdom. Far otherwise; your silence answers very loud. You have no oracle to utter, and
your fellow-men have learned that you cannot help them; for, oracles speak. Doth not wisdom cry, and
understanding put forth her voice?

Dreadful limits are set in nature to the powers of dissimulation. Truth tyrannizes over the unwill-
ing members of the body. Faces never lie, it is said. No man need be deceived, who will study the
changes of expression. When a man speaks the truth in the spirit of truth, his eye is as clear as the
heavens. When he has base ends, and speaks falsely, the eye is muddy and sometimes asquint.

I have heard an experienced counsellor say, that he never feared the effect upon a jury of a lawyer
who does not believe in his heart that his client ought to have a verdict. If he does not believe it,
his unbelief will appear to the jury, despite all his protestations, and will become their unbelief. This
is that law whereby a work of art, of whatever kind, sets us in the same state of mind wherein the
artist was when he made it. That which we do not believe, we cannot adequately say, though we may
repeat the words never so often. It was this conviction which Swedenborg expressed, when he des-
cribed a group of persons in the spiritual world endeavouring in vain to articulate a proposition which
they did not believe; but they could not, though they twisted and folded their lips even to indignation.

A man passes for that he is worth. Very idle is all curiosity concerning other people's estimate of
us, and all fear of remaining unknown is not less so. If a man know that he can do any thing, -that
he can do it better than any one else,--he has a pledge of the acknowledgment of that fact by all
persons. The world is full of judgment-days, and into every assembly that a man enters, in every act-
ion he attempts, he is gauged and stamped. In every troop of boys that whoop and run in each yard and
square, a new-comer is as well and accurately weighed in the course of a few days, and stamped with
his right number, as if he had undergone a formal trial of his strength, speed, and temper. A stranger
comes from a distant school, with better dress, with trinkets in his pockets, with airs and pretens-
ions: an older boy says to himself, `It ‘s of no use; we shall find him out to-morrow.' `What has he
done?' is the divine question which searches men, and transpierces every false reputation. A fop may
sit in any chair of the world, nor be distinguished for his hour from Homer and Washington; but there
need never be any doubt concerning the respective ability of human beings. Pretension may sit still,
but cannot act. Pretension never feigned an act of real greatness. Pretension never wrote an Iliad,
nor drove back Xerxes, nor christianized the world, nor abolished slavery.

As much virtue as there is, so much appears; as much goodness as there is, so much reverence it
commands. All the devils respect virtue. The high, the generous, the self-devoted sect will always in-
struct and command mankind. Never was a sincere word utterly lost. Never a magnanimity fell to the
ground, but there is some heart to greet and accept it unexpectedly. A man passes for that he is worth.
What he is engraves itself on his face, on his form, on his fortunes, in letters of light. Concealment
avails him nothing; boasting nothing. There is confession in the glances of our eyes; in our smiles;
in salutations; and the grasp of hands. His sin bedaubs him, mars all his good impression. Men know
not why they do not trust him; but they do not trust him. His vice glasses his eye, cuts lines of
mean expression in his cheek, pinches the nose, sets the mark of the beast on the back of the head,
and writes O fool! fool! on the forehead of a king.

If you would not be known to do any thing, never do it. A man may play the fool in the drifts of a
desert, but every grain of sand shall seem to see. He may be a solitary eater, but he cannot keep his
foolish counsel. A broken complexion, a swinish look, ungenerous acts, and the want of due knowledge,
--all blab. Can a cook, a Chiffinch, an Iachimo be mistaken for Zeno or Paul? Confucius exclaimed,--
"How can a man be concealed! How can a man be concealed!"

On the other hand, the hero fears not, that, if he withhold the avowal of a just and brave act, it
will go unwitnessed and unloved. One knows it,--himself,--and is pledged by it to sweetness of peace,
and to nobleness of aim, which will prove in the end a better proclamation of it than the relating of
the incident. Virtue is the adherence in action to the nature of things, and the nature of things
makes it prevalent. It consists in a perpetual substitution of being for seeming, and with sublime
propriety God is described as saying, I AM.

The lesson which these observations convey is, Be, and not seem. Let us acquiesce. Let us take our
bloated nothingness out of the path of the divine circuits. Let us unlearn our wisdom of the world.
Let us lie low in the Lord's power, and learn that truth alone makes rich and great.

If you visit your friend, why need you apologize for not having visited him, and waste his time and
deface your own act? Visit him now. Let him feel that the highest love has come to see him, in thee,
its lowest organ. Or why need you torment yourself and friend by secret self-reproaches that you have
not assisted him or complimented him with gifts and salutations heretofore? Be a gift and a benedic-
tion. Shine with real light, and not with the borrowed reflection of gifts. Common men are apologies
for men; they bow the head, excuse themselves with prolix reasons, and accumulate appearances,
because the substance is not.

We are full of these superstitions of sense, the worship of magnitude. We call the poet inactive, be-
cause he is not a president, a merchant, or a porter. We adore an institution, and do not see that it
is founded on a thought which we have. But real action is in silent moments. The epochs of our life
are not in the visible facts of our choice of a calling, our marriage, our acquisition of an office,
and the like, but in a silent thought by the way-side as we walk; in a thought which revises our en-
tire manner of life, and says,--`Thus hast thou done, but it were better thus.' And all our after
years, like menials, serve and wait on this, and, according to their ability, execute its will. This
revisal or correction is a constant force, which, as a tendency, reaches through our lifetime. The
object of the man, the aim of these moments, is to make daylight shine through him, to suffer the law
to traverse his whole being without obstruction, so that, on what point soever of his doing your eye
falls, it shall report truly of his character, whether it be his diet, his house, his religious forms,
his society, his mirth, his vote, his opposition. Now he is not homogeneous, but heterogeneous, and
the ray does not traverse; there are no thorough lights: but the eye of the beholder is puzzled, de-
tecting many unlike tendencies, and a life not yet at one.

Why should we make it a point with our false modesty to disparage that man we are, and that form of
being assigned to us? A good man is contented. I love and honor Epaminondas, but I do not wish to be
Epaminondas. I hold it more just to love the world of this hour, than the world of his hour. Nor can
you, if I am true, excite me to the least uneasiness by saying, `He acted, and thou sittest still.'
I see action to be good, when the need is, and sitting still to be also good. Epaminondas, if he was
the man I take him for, would have sat still with joy and peace, if his lot had been mine. Heaven is
large, and affords space for all modes of love and fortitude. Why should we be busybodies and super-
serviceable? Action and inaction are alike to the true. One piece of the tree is cut for a weathercock,
and one for the sleeper of a bridge; the virtue of the wood is apparent in both.

I desire not to disgrace the soul. The fact that I am here certainly shows me that the soul had need
of an organ here. Shall I not assume the post? Shall I skulk and dodge and duck with my unseasonable
apologies and vain modesty, and imagine my being here impertinent? less pertinent than Epaminondas or
Homer being there? and that the soul did not know its own needs? Besides, without any reasoning on
the matter, I have no discontent. The good soul nourishes me, and unlocks new magazines of power and
enjoyment to me every day. I will not meanly decline the immensity of good, because I have heard that
it has come to others in another shape.

Besides, why should we be cowed by the name of Action? ‘T is a trick of the senses,--no more. We
know that the ancestor of every action is a thought. The poor mind does not seem to itself to be any
thing, unless it have an outside badge,--some Gentoo diet, or Quaker coat, or Calvinistic prayer-mee-
ting, or philanthropic society, or a great donation, or a high office, or, any how, some wild contrasting
action to testify that it is somewhat. The rich mind lies in the sun and sleeps, and is Nature. To think
is to act.

Let us, if we must have great actions, make our own so. All action is of an infinite elasticity, and
the least admits of being inflated with the celestial air until it eclipses the sun and moon. Let us
seek one peace by fidelity. Let me heed my duties. Why need I go gadding into the scenes and philo-
sophy of Greek and Italian history, before I have justified myself to my benefactors? How dare I read
Washington's campaigns, when I have not answered the letters of my own correspondents? Is not that a
just objection to much of our reading? It is a pusillanimous desertion of our work to gaze after our
neighbours. It is peeping. Byron says of Jack Bunting,--

　　　　　"He knew not what to say, and so he swore."

I may say it of our preposterous use of books,--He knew not what to do, and so he read. I can think
of nothing to fill my time with, and I find the Life of Brant. It is a very extravagant compliment to
pay to Brant, or to General Schuyler, or to General Washington. My time should be as good as their
time,--my facts, my net of relations, as good as theirs, or either of theirs. Rather let me do my work
so well that other idlers, if they choose, may compare my texture with the texture of these and find
it identical with the best.

This over-estimate of the possibilities of Paul and Pericles, this under-estimate of our own, comes
from a neglect of the fact of an identical nature. Bonaparte knew but one merit, and rewarded in one
and the same way the good soldier, the good astronomer, the good poet, the good player. The poet uses
the names of Caesar, of Tamerlane, of Bonduca, of Belisarius; the painter uses the conventional story
of the Virgin Mary, of Paul, of Peter. He does not, therefore, defer to the nature of these accidental
men, of these stock heroes. If the poet write a true drama, then he is Caesar, and not the player of
Caesar; then the selfsame strain of thought, emotion as pure, wit as subtle, motions as swift, mounting,
extravagant, and a heart as great, self-sufficing, dauntless, which on the waves of its love and hope
can uplift all that is reckoned solid and precious in the world,--palaces, gardens, money, navies,
kingdoms,--marking its own incomparable worth by the slight it casts on these gauds of men,--these all
are his, and by the power of these he rouses the nations. Let a man believe in God, and not in names
and places and persons. Let the great soul incarnated in some woman's form, poor and sad and single,
in some Dolly or Joan, go out to service, and sweep chambers and scour floors, and its effulgent day-
beams cannot be muffled or hid, but to sweep and scour will instantly appear supreme and beautiful
actions, the top and radiance of human life, and all people will get mops and brooms; until, lo! sud-
denly the great soul has enshrined itself in some other form, and done some other deed, and that is
now the flower and head of all living nature.

We are the photometers, we the irritable goldleaf and tinfoil that measure the accumulations of the
subtle element. We know the authentic effects of the true fire through every one of its million dis-
guises.



V. Love



"I was as a gem concealed;
Me my burning ray revealed."
Koran


Every promise of the soul has innumerable fulfillments; each of its joys ripens into a new want.
Nature, uncontainable, flowing, forelooking, in the first sentiment of kindness anticipates already a
benevolence which shall lose all particular regards in its general light. The introduction to this felicity
is in a private and tender relation of one to one, which is the enchantment of human life; which, like
a certain divine rage and enthusiasm, seizes on man at one period, and works a revolution in his mind
and body; unites him to his race, pledges him to the domestic and civic relations, carries him with new
sympathy into nature, enhances the power of the senses, opens the imagination, adds to his character
heroic and sacred attributes, establishes marriage, and gives permanence to human society.

The natural association of the sentiment of love with the heyday of the blood seems to require, that
in order to portray it in vivid tints, which every youth and maid should confess to be true to their
throbbing experience, one must not be too old. The delicious fancies of youth reject the least savour
of a mature philosophy, as chilling with age and pedantry their purple bloom. And, therefore, I know
I incur the imputation of unnecessary hardness and stoicism from those who compose the Court and Par-
liament of Love. But from these formidable censors I shall appeal to my seniors. For it is to be con-
sidered that this passion of which we speak, though it begin with the young, yet forsakes not the old,
or rather suffers no one who is truly its servant to grow old, but makes the aged participators of it,
not less than the tender maiden, though in a different and nobler sort. For it is a fire that, kind-
ling its first embers in the narrow nook of a private bosom, caught from a wandering spark out of a-
nother private heart, glows and enlarges until it warms and beams upon multitudes of men and women,
upon the universal heart of all, and so lights up the whole world and all nature with its generous
flames. It matters not, therefore, whether we attempt to describe the passion at twenty, at thirty,
or at eighty years. He who paints it at the first period will lose some of its later, he who paints
it at the last, some of its earlier traits. Only it is to be hoped that, by patience and the Muses'
aid, we may attain to that inward view of the law, which shall describe a truth ever young and beau-
tiful, so central that it shall commend itself to the eye, at whatever angle beholden.

And the first condition is, that we must leave a too close and lingering adherence to facts, and study
the sentiment as it appeared in hope and not in history. For each man sees his own life defaced and
disfigured, as the life of man is not, to his imagination. Each man sees over his own experience a
certain stain of error, whilst that of other men looks fair and ideal. Let any man go back to those
delicious relations which make the beauty of his life, which have given him sincerest instruction and
nourishment, he will shrink and moan. Alas! I know not why, but infinite compunctions embitter in ma-
ture life the remembrances of budding joy, and cover every beloved name. Every thing is beautiful seen
from the point of the intellect, or as truth. But all is sour, if seen as experience. Details are mel-
ancholy; the plan is seemly and noble. In the actual world--the painful kingdom of time and place--
dwell care, and canker, and fear. With thought, with the ideal, is immortal hilarity, the rose of joy.
Round it all the Muses sing. But grief cleaves to names, and persons, and the partial interests of to-
day and yesterday.

The strong bent of nature is seen in the proportion which this topic of personal relations usurps in
the conversation of society. What do we wish to know of any worthy person so much, as how he has
sped in the history of this sentiment? What books in the circulating libraries circulate? How we glow over
these novels of passion, when the story is told with any spark of truth and nature! And what fastens
attention, in the intercourse of life, like any passage betraying affection between two parties? Perhaps
we never saw them before, and never shall meet them again. But we see them exchange a glance, or
betray a deep emotion, and we are no longer strangers. We understand them, and take the warmest in-
terest in the development of the romance. All mankind love a lover. The earliest demonstrations of
complacency and kindness are nature's most winning pictures. It is the dawn of civility and grace in
the coarse and rustic. The rude village boy teases the girls about the school-house door;--but to-day
he comes running into the entry, and meets one fair child disposing her satchel; he holds her books
to help her, and instantly it seems to him as if she removed herself from him infinitely, and was a
sacred precinct. Among the throng of girls he runs rudely enough, but one alone distances him; and
these two little neighbors, that were so close just now, have learned to respect each other's person-
ality. Or who can avert his eyes from the engaging, half-artful, half-artless ways of school-girls
who go into the country shops to buy a skein of silk or a sheet of paper, and talk half an hour about
nothing with the broad-faced, good-natured shop-boy. In the village they are on a perfect equality,
which love delights in, and without any coquetry the happy, affectionate nature of woman flows out in
this pretty gossip. The girls may have little beauty, yet plainly do they establish between them and
the good boy the most agreeable, confiding relations, what with their fun and their earnest, about
Edgar, and Jonas, and Almira, and who was invited to the party, and who danced at the dancing-school,
and when the singing-school would begin, and other nothings concerning which the parties cooed. By
and by that boy wants a wife, and very truly and heartily will he know where to find a sincere and sweet
mate, without any risk such as Milton deplores as incident to scholars and great men.

I have been told, that in some public discourses of mine my reverence for the intellect has made me
unjustly cold to the personal relations. But now I almost shrink at the remembrance of such dispara-
ging words. For persons are love's world, and the coldest philosopher cannot recount the debt of the
young soul wandering here in nature to the power of love, without being tempted to unsay, as treason-
able to nature, aught derogatory to the social instincts. For, though the celestial rapture falling
out of heaven seizes only upon those of tender age, and although a beauty overpowering all analysis
or comparison, and putting us quite beside ourselves, we can seldom see after thirty years, yet the
remembrance of these visions outlasts all other remembrances, and is a wreath of flowers on the old-
est brows. But here is a strange fact; it may seem to many men, in revising their experience, that
they have no fairer page in their life's book than the delicious memory of some passages wherein af-
fection contrived to give a witchcraft surpassing the deep attraction of its own truth to a parcel
of accidental and trivial circumstances. In looking backward, they may find that several things
which were not the charm have more reality to this groping memory than the charm itself which em-
balmed them. But be our experience in particulars what it may, no man ever forgot the visitations
of that power to his heart and brain, which created all things new; which was the dawn in him of
music, poetry, and art; which made the face of nature radiant with purple light, the morning and
the night varied enchantments; when a single tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the
most trivial circumstance associated with one form is put in the amber of memory; when he became
all eye when one was present, and all memory when one was gone; when the youth becomes a watcher
of windows, and studious of a glove, a veil, a ribbon, or the wheels of a carriage; when no place
is too solitary, and none too silent, for him who has richer company and sweeter conversation in
his new thoughts, than any old friends, though best and purest, can give him; for the figures, the
motions, the words of the beloved object are not like other images written in water, but, as Plu-
tarch said, "enameled in fire," and make the study of midnight.

　　　　　"Thou art not gone being gone, where'er thou art,
　　　　　Thou leav'st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy
　　　　　　　loving heart."

In the noon and the afternoon of life we still throb at the recollection of days when happiness was
not happy enough, but must be drugged with the relish of pain and fear; for he touched the secret
of the matter, who said of love,--

　　　　　"All other pleasures are not worth its pains";

and when the day was not long enough, but the night, too, must be consumed in keen recollections;
when the head boiled all night on the pillow with the generous deed it resolved on; when the moon-
light was a pleasing fever, and the stars were letters, and the flowers ciphers, and the air was
coined into song; when all business seemed an impertinence, and all the men and women running to
and fro in the streets, mere pictures.

The passion rebuilds the world for the youth. It makes all things alive and significant. Nature
grows conscious. Every bird on the boughs of the tree sings now to his heart and soul. The notes
are almost articulate. The clouds have faces as he looks on them. The trees of the forest, the
waving grass, and the peeping flowers have grown intelligent; and he almost fears to trust them
with the secret which they seem to invite. Yet nature soothes and sympathizes. In the green sol-
itude he finds a dearer home than with men.

　　　　　"Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
　　　　　Places which pale passion loves,
　　　　　Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
　　　　　Are safely housed, save bats and owls,
　　　　　A midnight bell, a passing groan,--
　　　　　These are the sounds we feed upon."

Behold there in the wood the fine madman! He is a palace of sweet sounds and sights; he dilates;
he is twice a man; he walks with arms akimbo; he soliloquizes; he accosts the grass and the
trees; he feels the blood of the violet, the clover, and the lily in his veins; and he talks
with the brook that wets his foot.

The heats that have opened his perceptions of natural beauty have made him love music and verse.
It is a fact often observed, that men have written good verses under the inspiration of passion,
who cannot write well under any other circumstances.

The like force has the passion over all his nature. It expands the sentiment; it makes the clown
gentle, and gives the coward heart. Into the most pitiful and abject it will infuse a heart and
courage to defy the world, so only it have the countenance of the beloved object. In giving him
to another, it still more gives him to himself. He is a new man, with new perceptions, new and
keener purposes, and a religious solemnity of character and aims. He does not longer appertain
to his family and society; he is somewhat; he is a person; he is a soul.

And here let us examine a little nearer the nature of that influence which is thus potent over
the human youth. Beauty, whose revelation to man we now celebrate, welcome as the sun wher-
ever it pleases to shine, which pleases everybody with it and with themselves, seems sufficient
to itself. The lover cannot paint his maiden to his fancy poor and solitary. Like a tree in flower,
so much soft, budding, informing love-liness is society for itself, and she teaches his eye why
Beauty was pictured with Loves and Graces attending her steps. Her existence makes the world
rich. Though she extrudes all other persons from his attention as cheap and unworthy, she in-
demnifies him by carrying out her own being into somewhat impersonal, large, mundane, so that
the maiden stands to him for a representative of all select things and virtues. For that reason,
the lover never sees personal resemblances in his mistress to her kindred or to others. His
friends find in her a likeness to her mother, or her sisters, or to persons not of her blood. The
lover sees no resemblance except to summer evenings and diamond mornings, to rainbows and
the song of birds.

The ancients called beauty the flowering of virtue. Who can analyze the nameless charm which
glances from one and another face and form? We are touched with emotions of tenderness and
complacency, but we cannot find whereat this dainty emotion, this wandering gleam, points. It
is destroyed for the imagination by any attempt to refer it to organization. Nor does it point
to any relations of friendship or love known and described in society, but, as it seems to me,
to a quite other and unattainable sphere, to relations of transcendent delicacy and sweetness,
to what roses and violets hint and fore-show. We cannot approach beauty. Its nature is like
opaline doves'-neck lustres, hovering and evanescent. Herein it resembles the most excellent
things, which all have this rainbow character, defying all attempts at appropriation and use.
What else did Jean Paul Richter signify, when he said to music, "Away! away! thou speakest to
me of things which in all my endless life I have not found, and shall not find." The same
fluency may be observed in every work of the plastic arts. The statue is then beautiful when
it begins to be incomprehensible, when it is passing out of criticism, and can no longer be
defined by compass and measuring-wand, but demands an active imagination to go with it, and
to say what it is in the act of doing. The god or hero of the sculptor is always represented
in a transition from that which is representable to the senses, to that which is not.
Then first it ceases to be a stone. The same remark holds of painting. And of poetry, the
success is not attained when it lulls and satisfies, but when it astonishes and fires us with
new endeavours after the unattainable. Concerning it, Landor inquires "whether it is not to
be referred to some purer state of sensation and existence."

In like manner, personal beauty is then first charming and itself, when it dissatisfies us
with any end; when it becomes a story without an end; when it suggests gleams and visions,
and not earthly satisfactions; when it makes the beholder feel his unworthiness; when he can-
not feel his right to it, though he were Caesar; he cannot feel more right to it than to the
firmament and the splendors of a sunset.

Hence arose the saying, "If I love you, what is that to you?" We say so, because we feel that
what we love is not in your will, but above it. It is not you, but your radiance. It is that
which you know not in yourself, and can never know.

This agrees well with that high philosophy of Beauty which the ancient writers delighted in;
for they said that the soul of man, embodied here on earth, went roaming up and down in quest
of that other world of its own, out of which it came into this, but was soon stupefied by the
light of the natural sun, and unable to see any other objects than those of this world, which
are but shadows of real things. Therefore, the Deity sends the glory of youth before the soul,
that it may avail itself of beautiful bodies as aids to its recollection of the celestial
good and fair; and the man beholding such a person in the female sex runs to her, and finds
the highest joy in contemplating the form, movement, and intelligence of this person, because
it suggests to him the presence of that which indeed is within the beauty, and the cause of
the beauty.

If, however, from too much conversing with material objects, the soul was gross, and misplaced
its satisfaction in the body, it reaped nothing but sorrow; body being unable to fulfil the pro-
mise which beauty holds out; but if, accepting the hint of these visions and suggestions which
beauty makes to his mind, the soul passes through the body, and falls to admire strokes of char-
acter, and the lovers contemplate one another in their discourses and their actions, then they
pass to the true palace of beauty, more and more inflame their love of it, and by this love ex-
tinguishing the base affection, as the sun puts out the fire by shining on the hearth, they be-
come pure and hallowed.By conversation with that which is in itself excellent, magnanimous,
lowly, and just, the lover comes to a warmer love of these nobilities, and a quicker apprehen-
sion of them. Then he passes from loving them in one to loving them in all, and so is the one
beautiful soul only the door through which he enters to the society of all true and pure souls.
In the particular society of his mate, he attains a clearer sight of any spot, any taint, which
her beauty has contracted from this world, and is able to point it out, and this with mutual joy
that they are now able, without offence, to indicate blemishes and hindrances in each other, and
give to each all help and comfort in curing the same. And, beholding in many souls the traits of
the divine beauty, and separating in each soul that which is divine from the taint which it has
contracted in the world,the lover ascends to the highest beauty, to the love and knowledge of
the Divinity, by steps on this ladder of created souls.

Somewhat like this have the truly wise told us of love in all ages. The doctrine is not old,
nor is it new. If Plato, Plutarch, and Apuleius taught it, so have Petrarch, Angelo, and Milton.
It awaits a truer unfolding in opposition and rebuke to that subterranean prudence which pre-
sides at marriages with words that take hold of the upper world, whilst one eye is prowling in
the cellar, so that its gravest discourse has a savor of hams and powdering-tubs. Worst, when
this sensualism intrudes into the education of young women, and withers the hope and affection
of human nature, by teaching that marriage signifies nothing but a housewife's thrift, and that
woman's life has no other aim.

But this dream of love, though beautiful, is only one scene in our play. In the procession of
the soul from within outward, it enlarges its circles ever, like the pebble thrown into the pond,
or the light proceeding from an orb. The rays of the soul alight first on things nearest, on ev-
ery utensil and toy, on nurses and domestics, on the house, and yard, and passengers, on the cir-
cle of household acquaintance, on politics, and geography, and history. But things are ever group-
ing themselves according to higher or more interior laws. Neighbourhood, size, numbers, habits,
persons, lose by degrees their power over us. Cause and effect, real affinities, the longing for
harmony between the soul and the circumstance, the progressive, idealizing instinct, predominate
later, and the step backward from the higher to the lower relations is impossible. Thus even love,
which is the deification of persons, must become more impersonal every day. Of this at first it
gives no hint. Little think the youth and maiden who are glancing at each other across crowded
rooms, with eyes so full of mutual intelligence, of the precious fruit long hereafter to proceed
from this new, quite external stimulus. The work of vegetation begins first in the irritability of
the bark and leaf-buds. From exchanging glances, they advance to acts of courtesy, of gallantry,
then to fiery passion, to plighting troth, and marriage. Passion beholds its object as a perfect
unit. The soul is wholly embodied, and the body is wholly ensouled.

　　　　　"Her pure and eloquent blood
　　　　　Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought,
　　　　　That one might almost say her body thought."

Romeo, if dead, should be cut up into little stars to make the heavens fine. Life, with this pair,
has no other aim, asks no more, than Juliet,--than Romeo. Night, day, studies, talents, kingdoms,
religion, are all contained in this form full of soul, in this soul which is all form. The lovers
delight in endearments, in avowals of love, in comparisons of their regards. When alone, they solace
themselves with the remembered image of the other. Does that other see the same star, the same melt-
ing cloud, read the same book, feel the same emotion, that now delight me? They try and weigh their
affection, and, adding up costly advantages, friends, opportunities, properties, exult in discover-
ing that willingly, joyfully, they would give all as a ransom for the beautiful, the beloved head,
not one hair of which shall be harmed. But the lot of humanity is on these children. Danger, sorrow,
and pain arrive to them, as to all. Love prays. It makes covenants with Eternal Power in behalf of
this dear mate. The union which is thus effected, and which adds a new value to every atom in nature,
for it transmutes every thread throughout the whole web of relation into a golden ray, and bathes
the soul in a new and sweeter element, is yet a temporary state. Not always can flowers, pearls,
poetry, protestations, nor even home in another heart, content the awful soul that dwells in clay.
It arouses itself at last from these endearments, as toys, and puts on the harness, and aspires to
vast and universal aims. The soul which is in the soul of each, craving a perfect beatitude, detects
incongruities, defects, and disproportion in the behaviour of the other. Hence arise surprise, ex-
postulation, and pain. Yet that which drew them to each other was signs of loveliness, signs of vir-
tue; and these virtues are there, however eclipsed. They appear and reappear, and continue to attract;
but the regard changes, quits the sign, and attaches to the substance. This repairs the wounded af-
fection. Meantime, as life wears on, it proves a game of permutation and combination of all possible
positions of the parties, to employ all the resources of each, and acquaint each with the strength
and weakness of the other. For it is the nature and end of this relation, that they should represent
the human race to each other. All that is in the world, which is or ought to be known, is cunningly
wrought into the texture of man, of woman.

　　　　　"The person love does to us fit,
　　　　　Like manna, has the taste of all in it."

The world rolls; the circumstances vary every hour. The angels that inhabit this temple of the body
appear at the windows, and the gnomes and vices also. By all the virtues they are united. If there
be virtue, all the vices are known as such; they confess and flee. Their once flaming regard is so-
bered by time in either breast, and, losing in violence what it gains in extent, it becomes a thorough
good understanding. They resign each other, without complaint, to the good offices which man and woman
are severally appointed to discharge in time, and exchange the passion which once could not lose sight
of its object, for a cheerful, disengaged furtherance, whether present or absent, of each other's de-
signs. At last they discover that all which at first drew them together,--- those once sacred fea-
tures, that magical play of charms,--was deciduous, had a prospective end, like the scaffolding by
which the house was built; and the purification of the intellect and the heart, from year to year,
is the real marriage, foreseen and prepared from the first, and wholly above their consciousness.
Looking at these aims with which two persons, a man and a woman, so variously and correlatively gifted,
are shut up in one house to spend in the nuptial society forty or fifty years, I do not wonder at the
emphasis with which the heart prophesies this crisis from early infancy, at the profuse beauty with
which the instincts deck the nuptial bower, and nature, and intellect, and art emulate each other in
the gifts and the melody they bring to the epithalamium.11

Thus are we put in training for a love which knows not sex, nor person, nor partiality, but which
seeks virtue and wisdom everywhere, to the end of increasing virtue and wisdom. We are by nature ob-
servers, and thereby learners. That is our permanent state. But we are often made to feel that our
affections are but tents of a night. Though slowly and with pain, the objects of the affections
change, as the objects of thought do. There are moments when the affections rule and absorb the man,
and make his happiness dependent on a person or persons. But in health the mind is presently seen
again,--its overarching vault, bright with galaxies of immutable lights, and the warm loves and
fears that swept over us as clouds, must lose their finite character and blend with God, to attain
their own perfection. But we need not fear that we can lose any thing by the progress of the soul.
The soul may be trusted to the end. That which is so beautiful and attractive as these relations
must be succeeded and supplanted only by what is more beautiful, and so on for ever.



VI. Friendship



A ruddy drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs,
The world uncertain comes and goes,
The lover rooted stays.
I fancied he was fled,
And, after many a year,
Glowed unexhausted kindliness
Like daily sunrise there.
My careful heart was free again,--
O friend, my bosom said,
Through thee alone the sky is arched,
Through thee the rose is red,
All things through thee take nobler form,
And look beyond the earth,
And is the mill-round of our fate
A sun-path in thy worth.
Me too thy nobleness has taught
To master my despair;
The fountains of my hidden life
Are through thy friendship fair.


We have a great deal more kindness than is ever spoken. Maugre all the selfishness
that chills like east winds the world, the whole human family is bathed with an element
of love like a fine ether. How many persons we meet in houses, whom we scarcely
speak to, whom yet we honor, and who honor us! How many we see in the street, or sit
with in church, whom, though silently, we warmly rejoice to be with! Read the language
of these wandering eyebeams. The heart knoweth.

The effect of the indulgence of this human affection is a certain cordial exhilaration.
In poetry, and in common speech, the emotions of benevolence and complacency which
are felt toward others, are likened to the material effects of fire; so swift, or much more
swift, more active, more cheering are these fine inward irradiations. From the highest
degree of passionate love, to the lowest degree of good will, they make the sweetness of
life.

Our intellectual and active powers increase with our affection. The scholar sits down
to write, and all his years of meditation do not furnish him with one good thought or
happy expression; but it is necessary to write a letter to a friend, and, forthwith,
troops of gentle thoughts invest themselves, on every hand, with chosen words. See in
any house where virtue and self-respect abide, the palpitation which the approach of a
stranger causes. A commended stranger is expected and announced, and an uneasiness
between pleasure and pain invades all the hearts of a household.His arrival almost
brings fear to the good hearts that would welcome him. The house is dusted, all things
fly into their places, the old coat is exchanged for the new, and they must get up a
dinner if they can. Of a commended stranger, only the good report is told by others,
only the good and new is heard by us. He stands to us for humanity. He is, what we
wish. Having imagined and invested him, we ask how we should stand related in con-
versation and action with such a man, and are uneasy with fear. The same idea exalts
conversation with him. We talk better than we are wont. We have the nimblest fancy, a
richer memory, and our dumb devil has taken leave for the time. For long hours we can
continue a series of sincere, graceful, rich communications, drawn from the oldest,
secretest experience, so that they who sit by, of our own kinsfolk and acquaintance,
shall feel a lively surprise at our unusual powers. But as soon as the stranger begins
to intrude his partialities, his definitions, his defects, into the conversation, it is all over.
He has heard the first, the last and best, he will ever hear from us. He is no stranger
now. Vulgarity, ignorance, misapprehension, are old acquaintances. Now, when he comes,
he may get the order, the dress, and the dinner, but the throbbing of the heart, and the
communications of the soul, no more.

What is so pleasant as these jets of affection which make a young world for me again?
What is so delicious as a just and firm encounter of two, in a thought, in a feeling?
How beautiful, on their approach to this beating heart, the steps and forms of the
gifted and the true! The moment we indulge our affections, the earth is metamor-
phosed; there is no winter, and no night; all tragedies, all ennuis vanish; all duties
even; nothing fills the proceeding eternity but the forms all radiant of beloved
persons. Let the soul be assured that somewhere in the universe it should rejoin
its friend, and it would be content and cheerful alone for a thousand years.

I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new.
Shall I not call God, the Beautiful, who daily showeth himself so to me in his gifts? I
chide society, I embrace solitude, and yet I am not so ungrateful as not to see the
wise, the lovely, and the noble-minded, as from time to time they pass my gate. Who
hears me, who understands me, becomes mine,--a possession for all time. Nor is na-
ture so poor, but she gives me this joy several times, and thus we weave social threads
of our own, a new web of relations; and, as many thoughts in succession substantiate
themselves, we shall by-and-by stand in a new world of our own creation, and no
longer strangers and pilgrims is a traditionary globe. My friends have come to me
unsought. The great God gave them to me. By oldest right, by the divine affinity of
virtue with itself, I find them, or rather, not I, but the Deity in me and in them, both
deride and cancel the thick walls of individual character, relation, age, sex and
circumstance, at which he usually connives, and now makes many one. High thanks I
owe you, excellent lovers, who carry out the world for me to new and noble depths,
and enlarge the meaning of all my thoughts. These are new poetry of the first Bard--
poetry without stop--hymn, ode and epic, poetry still flowing, Apollo and the Muses
chanting still. Will these two separate themselves from me again, or some of them?
I know not, but I fear it not; for my relation to them is so pure, that we hold by sim-
ple affinity, and the Genius of my life being thus social, the same affinity will exert
its energy on whomsoever is as noble as these men and women, wherever I may be.

I confess to an extreme tenderness of nature on this point. It is almost dangerous to
me to "crush the sweet poison, of misused wine" of the affections. A new person is
to me a great event, and hinders me from sleep. I have had such fine fancies lately about
two or three persons, as have given me delicious hours, but the joy ends in the day: it
yields no fruit. Thought is not born of it; my action is very little modified. I must feel
pride in my friend's accomplishments as if they were mine, and a property in his
virtues. I feel as warmly when he is praised, as the lover when he hears applause of his
engaged maiden. We over-estimate the conscience of our friend. His goodness seems
better than our goodness, his nature finer, his temptations less. Everything that is his,--
his name, his form, his dress, books and instruments,--fancy enhances. Our own
thought sounds new and larger from his mouth. .

Yet the systole and diastole of the heart are not without their analogy in the ebb
and flow of love. Friendship, like the immortality of the soul, is too good to be
believed. The lover, beholding his maiden, half knows that she is not verily that which
he worships; and in the golden hour of friendship, we are surprised with shades of
suspicion and unbelief. We doubt that we bestow on our hero the virtues in which he
shines, and afterward worship the form to which we have ascribed this divine inhab-
itation. In strictness, the soul does not respect men as it respects itself. In strict
science, all persons underlie the same condition of an infinite remoteness. Shall we
fear to cool our love by mining for the metaphysical foundation of this Elysian temple?
Shall I not be as real as the things I see? If I am, I shall not fear to know them for what
they are. Their essence is not less beautiful than their appearance, though it needs finer
organs for its apprehension. The root of the plant is not unsightly to science, though
for chaplets and festoons we cut the stem short. And I must hazard the production of
the bald fact amid these pleasing reveries, though it should prove an Egyptian skull at
our banquet. A man who stands united with his thought, conceives magnificently to
himself. He is conscious of a universal success, even though bought by uniform
particular failures. No advantages, no powers, no gold or force can be any match for
him. I cannot choose but rely on my own poverty, more than on your wealth. I cannot
make your consciousness tantamount to mine. Only the star dazzles; the planet has a
faint, moon-like ray. I hear what you say of the admirable parts and tried temper of the
party you praise, but I see well that for all his purple cloaks I shall not like him, unless
he is at least a poor Greek like me. I cannot deny it, O friend, that the vast shadow of the
Phenomenal includes thee, also, in its pied and painted immensity,--thee, also,
compared with whom all else is shadow. Thou art not Being, as Truth is, as Justice is,--
thou art not my soul, but a picture and effigy of that. Thou hast come to me lately, and
already thou art seizing thy hat and cloak. It is not that the soul puts forth friends, as the
tree puts forth leaves, and presently, by the germination of new buds, extrudes the old
leaf? The law of nature is alternation forevermore. Each electrical state superinduces
the opposite. The soul environs itself with friends, that it may enter into a grander self-
acquaintance or solitude; and it goes alone, for a season, that it may exalt its conver-
sation or society. This method betrays itself along the whole history of our personal
relations. The instinct of affection revives the hope of union with our mates, and the
returning sense of insulation recalls us from the chase. Thus every man passes his
life in the search after friendship, and if he should record his true sentiment, he might
write a letter like this, to each new candidate for his love:--

Dear Friend:--

If I was sure of thee, sure of thy capacity, sure to match my mood with thine, I should
never think again of trifles, in relation to thy comings and goings. I am not very wise;
my moods are quite attainable; and I respect thy genius; it is to me as yet unfathomed;
yet dare I not presume in thee a perfect intelligence of me, and so thou art to me a
delicious torment. Thine ever, or never.


Yet these uneasy pleasures and fine pains are for curiosity, and not for life. They are
not to be indulged. This is to weave cobweb, and not cloth. Our friendships hurry to
short and poor conclusions, because we have made them a texture of wine and
dreams, instead of the tough fiber of the human heart. The laws of friendship are
great, austere, and eternal, of one web with the laws of nature and of morals. But we
have aimed at a swift and petty benefit, to suck a sudden sweetness. We snatch at
the slowest fruit in the whole garden of God, which many summers and many winters must
ripen. We seek our friend not sacredly but with an adulterate passion which would
appropriate him to ourselves. In vain. We are armed all over with subtle antagonisms,
which, as soon as we meet, begin to play, and translate all poetry into stale prose.
Almost all people descend to meet. All association must be a compromise, and, what is
worst, the very flower and aroma of the flower of each of the beautiful natures
disappears as they approach each other. What a perpetual disappointment is actual
society, even of the virtuous and gifted! After interviews have been compassed with
long foresight, we must be tormented presently by baffled blows, by sudden,
unseasonable apathies, by epilepsies of wit and of animal spirits, in the heyday of
friendship and thought. Our faculties do not play us true, and both parties are relieved
by solitude.

I ought to be equal to every relation. It makes no difference how many friends I have,
and what content I can find in conversing with each, if there be one to whom I am not
equal. If I have shrunk unequal from one contest instantly, the joy I find in all the rest
becomes mean and cowardly. I should hate myself, if then I made my other friends my
asylum.

　　　　　"The valiant warrior famoused for fight,
　　　　　After a hundred victories, once foiled,
　　　　　Is from the book of honor razed quite,
　　　　　And all the rest forgot for which he toiled."

.Our impatience is thus sharply rebuked. Bashfulness and apathy are a tough husk in
which a delicate organization is protected from premature ripening. It would be lost
if it knew itself before any of the best souls were yet ripe enough to know and own
it. Respect the naturalangsamkeit which hardens the ruby in a million years, and
works in duration, in which Alps and Andes come and go as rainbows. The good spirit
of our life has no heaven which is the price of rashness. Love, which is the essence of
God, is not for levity, but for the total worth of man. Let us not have this childish luxury
in our regards, but the austerest worth; let us approach our friend with an audacious
trust in the truth of his heart, in the breadth, impossible to be overturned, of his
foundations.

The attractions of this subject are not to be resisted, and I leave, for the time, all
account of subordinate social benefit, to speak of that select and sacred relation which is
a kind of absolute, and which even leaves the language of love suspicious and common,
so much is this purer, and nothing is so much divine.

I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with roughest courage. When they are
real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know. For now,
after so many ages of experience, what do we know of nature, or of ourselves? Not
one step has man taken toward the solution of the problem of his destiny. In one
condemnation of folly stand the whole universe of men. But the sweet sincerity of
joy and peace, which I draw from this alliance with my brother's soul, is the nut itself
whereof all nature and all thought is but the husk and shell. Happy is the house that
shelters a friend! It might well be built, like a festal bower or arch, to entertain him a
single day. Happier, if he know the solemnity of that relation, and honor its law! He
who offers himself a candidate for that covenant comes up, like an Olympian, to the
great games, where the first-born of the world are the competitors. He proposes him-
self for contest where Time, Want, Danger are in the lists, and he alone is victor who
has truth enough in his constitution to preserve the delicacy of his beauty from the
wear and tear of all these. The gifts of fortune may be present or absent, but all the
speed in that contest depends on intrinsic nobleness, and the contempt of trifles. There
are two elements that go to the composition of friendship, each so sovereign, that I can
detect no superiority in either, no reason why either should be first named. One is Truth.
A friend is a person with whom I may be sincere. Before him, I may think aloud. I am ar-
rived at last in the presence of a man so real and equal that I may drop even those un-
dermost garments of dissimulation, courtesy, and second thought, which men never put
off, and may deal with him with the simplicity and wholeness, with which one chemical
atom meets another. Sincerity is the luxury allowed, but diadems and authority, only to
the highest rank, that being permitted to speak truth as having none above it to court
or conform unto. Every man alone is sincere. At the entrance of a second person,
hypocrisy begins. We parry and fend the approach of our fellow-man by compliments,
by gossip, by amusements, by affairs. We cover up our thought from him under a
hundred folds. I knew a man who, under a certain religious frenzy, cast off this
drapery, and omitting all compliments and commonplace, spoke to the conscience of
every person he encountered, and that with great insight and beauty. At first he was
resisted, and all men agreed he was mad. But persisting, as indeed he could not help
doing, for some time in this course, he attained to the advantage of bringing every man
of his acquaintance into true relations with him. No man would think of speaking falsely
with him, or of putting him off with any chat of markets or reading-rooms. But every
man was constrained by so much sincerity to the like plain dealing and what love of
nature, what poetry, what symbol of truth he had, he did certainly show him. But to
most of us society shows not its face and eye, but its side and its back. To stand in true
relations with men in a false age, is worth a fit of insanity, is it not? We can seldom go
erect. Almost every man we meet requires some civility,--requires to be humored; he
has some fame, some talent, some whim of religion or philanthropy in his head that is
not to be questioned, and which spoils all conversation with him. But a friend is a sane
man who exercises not my ingenuity, but me. My friend gives me entertainment
without requiring any stipulation on my part. A friend, therefore, is a sort of
paradox in nature. I who alone am, I who see nothing in nature whose existence I
can affirm with equal evidence to my own, behold now the semblance of my being in all
its height, variety and curiosity, reiterated in a foreign form; so that a friend may well be
reckoned the masterpiece of nature.

The other element of friendship is tenderness. We are holden to men by every sort of
tie, by blood, by pride, by fear, by hope, by lucre, by lust, by hate, by admiration, by
every circumstance and badge and trifle, but we can scarce believe that so much
character can subsist in another as to draw us by love. Can another be so blessed, and
we so pure, that we can offer him tenderness? When a man becomes dear to me, I have
touched the goal of fortune. I find very little written directly to the heart of this mat-
ter in books. And yet I have one text which I cannot choose but remember. My author
says,--"I offer myself faintly and bluntly to those whose I effectually am, and tender
myself least to him to whom I am the most devoted." I wish that friendship should
have feet, as well as eyes and eloquence. It must plant itself on the ground, before
it vaults over the moon. I wish it to be a little of a citizen, before it is quite a cherub.
We chide the citizen because he makes love a commodity. It is an exchange of gifts,
of useful loans; it is good neighborhood; it watches with the sick; it holds the pall at
the funeral; and quite loses sight of the delicacies and nobility of the relation. But
though we cannot find the god under this disguise of a sutler, yet, on the other hand,
we cannot forgive the poet if he spins his thread too fine, and does not substantiate
his romance by the municipal virtues of justice, punctuality, fidelity and pity. I hate
the prostitution of the name of friendship to signify modish and worldly alliances. I
much prefer the company of plow-boys and tin-peddlers, to the silken and perfumed
amity which only celebrates its days of encounter by a frivolous display, by rides in
a curricle, and dinners at the best taverns. The end of friendship is a commerce the
most strict and homely that can be joined; more strict than any of which we have ex-
perience. It is for aid and comfort through all the relations and passages of life and
death. It is fit for serene days, and graceful gifts, and country rambles, but also for
rough roads and hard fare, shipwreck, poverty, and persecution. It keeps company
with the sallies of the wit and the trances of religion. We are to dignify to each other
the daily needs and offices of man's life, and embellish it by courage, wisdom and un-
ity. It should never fall into something usual and settled, but should be alert and in-
ventive, and add rhyme and reason to what was drudgery.

Friendship may be said to require natures so rare and costly, each so well-tempered,
and so happily adapted, and withal so circumstanced, (for even in that particular, a
poet says, love demands that the parties be altogether paired,) that its satisfaction can
very seldom be assured. It cannot subsist in its perfection, say some of those who are
learned in this warm lore of the heart, betwixt more than two. I am not quite so strict in
my terms, perhaps because I have never known so high a fellowship as others. I please
my imagination more with a circle of godlike men and women variously related to each
other, and between whom subsists a lofty intelligence. But I find this law of one to
one, peremptory for conversation, which is the practice and consummation of friend-
ship. Do not mix waters too much. The best mix as ill as good and bad. You shall have
very useful and cheering discourse at several times with two several men, but let
all three of you come together, and you shall not have one new and hearty word. Two
may talk and one may hear, but three cannot take part in a conversation of the most
sincere and searching sort. In good company there is never such discourse between
two, across the table, as takes place when you leave them alone. In good company, the
individuals at once merge their egotism into a social soul exactly co-extensive with the
several consciousnesses there present. No partialities of friend to friend, no fondnesses
of brother to sister, of wife to husband, are there pertinent, but quite otherwise. Only
he may then speak who can sail on the common thought of the party, and not poorly
limited to his own. Now this convention, which good sense demands, destroys the high
freedom of great conversation, which requires an absolute running of two souls into
one.

No two men but being left alone with each other, enter into simpler relations. Yet it
is affinity that determines which two shall converse. Unrelated men give little joy to
each other; will never suspect the latent powers of each. We talk sometimes of a great
talent for conversation, as if it were a permanent property in some individuals. Conver-
sation is an evanescent relation,--no more. A man is reputed to have thought and elo-
quence; he cannot, for all that, say a word to his cousin or his uncle. They accuse
his silence with as much reason as they would blame the insignificance of a dial in the
shade. In the sun it will mark the hour. Among those who enjoy his thought, he will
regain his tongue.

Friendship requires that rare mean betwixt likeness and unlikeness, that piques each
with the presence of power and of consent in the other party. Let me be alone to the
end of the world, rather than that my friend should overstep by a word or a look his real
sympathy. I am equally balked by antagonism and by compliance. Let him not cease an
instant to be himself. The only joy I have in his being mine, is that the not mine is mine.
I hate, where I looked for a manly furtherance, or at least a manly resistance, to find a
mush of concession. Better be a nettle in the side of your friend, than his echo. The
condition which high friendship demands is ability to do without it. That high office re-
quires great and sublime parts. There must be very two before there can be very one.
Let it be an alliance of two large formidable natures, mutually beheld, mutually feared,
before yet they recognize the deep identity which beneath these disparities unites
them.

He only is fit for this society who is magnanimous; who is sure that greatness and
goodness are always economy; who is not swift to intermeddle with his fortunes. Let
him not intermeddle with this. Leave to the diamond its ages to grow, nor expect to
accelerate the births of the eternal. Friendship demands a religious treatment. We talk of
choosing our friends, but friends are self-elected. Reverence is a great part of it. Treat
your friend as a spectacle. Of course he has merits that are not yours, and that you
cannot honor, if you must needs hold him close to your person. Stand aside; give those
merits room; let them mount and expand. Are you the friend of your friend's buttons, or
of his thought? To a great heart he will still be a stranger in a thousand particulars, that
he may come near in the holiest ground. Leave it to girls and boys to regard a friend as
property, and to suck a short and all-confounding pleasure instead of the noblest
benefits.

Let us buy our entrance to this guild by a long probation. Why should we desecrate
noble and beautiful souls by intruding on them? Why insist on rash personal
relations with your friend? Why go to his house, or know his mother and brother and
sisters? Why be visited by him at your own? Are these things material to our covenant?
Leave this touching and clawing. Let him be to me a spirit. A message, a thought, a
sincerity, a glance from him I want, but not news, nor pottage. I can get politics, and
chat, and neighborly conveniences, from cheaper companions. Should not the society of
my friend be to me poetic, pure, universal, and great as nature itself? Ought I to feel that
our tie is profane in comparison with yonder bar of cloud that sleeps on the horizon, or
that clump of waving grass that divides the brook? Let us not vilify but raise it to that
standard. That great defying eye, that scornful beauty of his mien and action, do not
pique yourself on reducing, but rather fortify and enhance. Worship his superiorities;
wish him not less by a thought, but hoard and tell them all. Guard him as thy
counterpart. Let him be to thee forever a sort of beautiful enemy, untamable, devoutly
revered, and not a trivial conveniency to be soon outgrown and cast aside. The hues of
the opal, the light of the diamond, are not to be seen, if the eye is too near. To my friend
I write a letter, and from him I receive a letter. That seems to you a little. It suffices me.
It is a spiritual gift worthy of him to give and of me to receive. It profanes nobody. In
these warm lines the heart will trust itself, as it will not to the tongue, and pour
out the prophecy of a godlier existence than all the annals of heroism have yet made
good.

Respect so far the holy laws of this fellowship as not to prejudice its perfect flower
by your impatience for its opening. We must be our own before we can be another's.
There is at least this satisfaction in crime, according to the Latin proverb;--you can
speak to your accomplice on even terms. Crimen quos inquinat, aquat. To those whom
we admire and love, at first we cannot. Yet the least defect of self-possession vitiates,
in my judgment, the entire relation. There can never be deep peace between two
spirits, never mutual respect until, in their dialogue, each stands for the whole world.

What is so great as friendship, let us carry with what grandeur of spirit we can. Let
us be silent,--so we may hear the whisper of the gods. Let us not interfere. Who set you
to cast about what you should say to the select souls, or how to say anything to such?
No matter how ingenious, no matter how graceful and bland. There are innumerable
degrees of folly and wisdom, and for you to say aught is to be frivolous. Wait, and thy
heart shall speak. Wait until the necessary and everlasting overpowers you, until day
and night avail themselves of your lips. The only reward of virtue, is virtue; the only
way to have a friend is to be one. You shall not come nearer a man by getting into his
house. If unlike, his soul only flees the faster from you, and you shall catch never
a true glance of his eye. We see the noble afar off, and they repel us; why should we
intrude? Late,--very late,--we perceive that no arrangements, no introductions, no
consuetudes12 or habits of society, would be of any avail to establish us in such relations
with them as we desire,--but solely the uprise of nature in us to the same degree it is in
them; then shall we meet as water with water; and if we should not meet them then, we
shall not want them, for we are already they. In the last analysis, love is only the
reflection of a man's own worthiness from other men. Men have sometimes exchanged
names with their friends, as if they would signify that in their friend each loved his own
soul.

The higher the style we demand of friendship, of course the less easy to establish it
with flesh and blood. We walk alone in the world. Friends, such as we desire, are dreams
and fables. But a sublime hope cheers ever the faithful heart, that elsewhere, in o-
ther regions of the universal power, souls are now acting, enduring and daring, which
can love us, and which we can love. We may congratulate ourselves that the period of
nonage, of follies, of blunders, and of shame, is passed in solitude, and when we
are finished men, we shall grasp heroic hands in heroic hands. Only be admonished by
what you already see, not to strike leagues of friendship with cheap persons, where no
friendship can be. Our impatience betrays us into rash and foolish alliances which
no God attends. By persisting in your path, though you forfeit the little you gain the
great. You demonstrate yourself, so as to put yourself out of the reach of false relations,
and you draw to you the first-born of the world, those rare pilgrims whereof only one or
two wander in nature at once, and before whom the vulgar great show as specters and
shadows merely.

It is foolish to be afraid of making our ties too spiritual, as if so we could lose any
genuine love. Whatever correction of our popular views we make from insight, nature
will be sure to bear us out in, and though it seem to rob us of some joy, will repay us
with a greater. Let us feel, if we will, the absolute insulation of man. We are sure that
we have all in us. We go to Europe, or we pursue persons, or we read books, in the
instinctive faith that these will call it out and reveal us to ourselves. Beggars all. The
persons are such as we; the Europe, an old faded garment of dead persons; the books,
their ghosts. Let us drop this idolatry. Let us give over this mendicancy. Let us even bid
our dearest friends farewell, and defy them, saying, "Who are you? Unhand me. I will
be dependent no more." Ah! seest thou not, O brother, that thus we part only to meet
again on a higher platform, and only be more each other's, because we are more our
own? A friend is Janus-faced: he looks to the past and the future. He is the child of
all my foregoing hours, the prophet of those to come, and the harbinger of a greater
friend.

I do then with my friends as I do with my books. I would have them where I can find
them, but I seldom use them. We must have society on our own terms, and admit or
exclude it on the slightest cause. I cannot afford to speak much with my friend. If he
is great, he makes me so great that I cannot descend to converse. In the great days,
presentiments hover before me, far before me in the firmament. I ought then to dedicate
myself to them. I go in that I may seize them, I go out that I may seize them. I fear o-
nly that I may lose them receding into the sky in which now they are only a patch of
brighter light. Then, though I prize my friends, I cannot afford to talk with them and
study their visions, lest I lose my own. It would indeed give me a certain household joy
to quit this lofty seeking, this spiritual astronomy, or search of stars, and come down
to warm sympathies with you; but then I know well I shall mourn always the vanishing
of my mighty gods. It is true, next week I shall have languid moods, when I can well
afford to occupy myself with foreign objects; then I shall regret the lost literature of
your mind, and wish you were by my side again. But if you come, perhaps you will fill
my mind only with new visions, not with yourself but with your lusters, and I shall not
be able any more than now to converse with you. So I will owe to my friends this eva-
nescent intercourse. I will receive from them, not what they have, but what they are.
They shall give me that which properly they cannot give, but which emanates from
them. But they shall not hold me by any relations less subtile and pure. We will meet
as though we met not, and part as though we parted not.

It has seemed to me lately more possible than I knew, to carry a friendship greatly,
on one side, without due correspondence on the other. Why should I cumber myself
with regrets that the receiver is not capacious? It never troubles the sun that some of
his rays fall wide and vain into ungrateful space, and only a small part on the reflecting
planet. Let your greatness educate the crude and cold companion. If he is unequal, he
will presently pass away; but thou art enlarged by thy own shining, and no longer a
mate for frogs and worms, dost soar and burn with the gods of the empyrean. It is
thought a disgrace to love unrequited. But the great will see that true love cannot be
unrequited. True love transcends the unworthy object, and dwells and broods on the
eternal, and when the poor interposed mask crumbles, it is not sad, but feels rid of so
much earth, and feels its independency the surer. Yet these things may hardly be said
without a sort of treachery to the relation. The essence of friendship is entireness, a total
magnanimity and trust. It must not surmise or provide for infirmity. It treats its object as
a god, that it may deify both.



VII. Prudence



Theme no poet gladly sung,
Fair to old and foul to young,
Scorn not thou the love of parts,
And the articles of arts.
Grandeur of the perfect sphere
Thanks the atoms that cohere.



What right have I to write on Prudence, whereof I have little, and that of the negative
sort? My prudence consists in avoiding and going without, not in the inventing of means
and methods, not in adroit steering, not in gentle repairing. I have no skill to make mon-
ey spend well, no genius in my economy, and whoever sees my garden discovers that I must
have some other garden. Yet I love facts, and hate lubricity,13 and people without percep-
tion. Then I have the same title to write on prudence, that I have to write on poetry or
holiness. We write from aspiration and antagonism, as well as from experience. We paint
those qualities which we do not possess. The poet admires the man of energy and tactics;
the merchant breeds his son for the church or the bar: and where a man is not vain and
egotistic, you shall find what he has not by his praise. Moreover, it would be hardly
honest in me not to balance these fine lyric words of Love and Friendship with words of
coarser sound, and, whilst my debt to my senses is real and constant, not to own it in
passing.

Prudence is the virtue of the senses. It is the science of appearances. It is the outmost
action of the inward life. It is God taking thought for oxen. It moves matter after the
laws of matter. It is content to seek health of body by complying with physical conditions,
and health of mind by the laws of the intellect.

The world of the senses is a world of shows; it does not exist for itself, but has a symb-
olic character; and a true prudence or law of shows recognizes the copresence of other
laws, and knows that its own office is subaltern; knows that it is surface and not centre
where it works. Prudence is false when detached. It is legitimate when it is the Natural
History of the soul incarnate; when it unfolds the beauty of laws within the narrow scope
of the senses.

There are all degrees of proficiency in knowledge of the world. It is sufficient, to our
present purpose, to indicate three. One class live to the utility of the symbol; esteeming
health and wealth a final good. Another class live above this mark to the beauty of the sym-
bol; as the poet, and artist, and the naturalist, and man of science. A third class live a-
bove the beauty of the symbol to the beauty of the thing signified; these are wise men. The
first class have common sense; the second, taste; and the third, spiritual perception. Once
in a long time, a man traverses the whole scale, and sees and enjoys the symbol solidly;
then also has a clear eye for its beauty, and, lastly, whilst he pitches his tent on this
sacred volcanic isle of nature, does not offer to build houses and barns thereon, rever-
encing the splendor of the God which he sees bursting through each chink and cranny.

The world is filled with the proverbs and acts and winkings of a base prudence, which is a
devotion to matter, as if we possessed no other faculties than the palate, the nose, the
touch, the eye and ear; a prudence which adores the Rule of Three, which never subscribes,
which never gives, which seldom lends, and asks but one question of any project,--Will
it bake bread? This is a disease like a thickening of the skin until the vital organs are
destroyed. But culture, revealing the high origin of the apparent world, and aiming at the
perfection of the man as the end, degrades every thing else, as health and bodily life,
into means. It sees prudence not to be a several faculty, but a name for wisdom and virtue
conversing with the body and its wants. Cultivated men always feel and speak so, as if a
great fortune, the achievement of a civil or social measure, great personal influence, a
graceful and commanding address, had their value as proofs of the energy of the spirit. If
a man lose his balance, and immerse himself in any trades or pleasures for their own sake,
he may be a good wheel or pin, but he is not a cultivated man.

The spurious prudence, making the senses final, is the god of sots and cowards, and is the
subject of all comedy. It is nature's joke, and therefore literature's. The true prudence
limits this sensualism by admitting the knowledge of an internal and real world. This rec-
ognition once made,--the order of the world and the distribution of affairs and times be-
ing studied with the co-perception of their subordinate place, will reward any degree of
attention. For our existence, thus apparently attached in nature to the sun and the return-
ing moon and the periods which they mark,--so susceptible to climate and to country, so
alive to social good and evil, so fond of splendor, and so tender to hunger and cold and debt,
-- reads all its primary lessons out of these books.

Prudence does not go behind nature, and ask whence it is. It takes the laws of the world,
whereby man's being is conditioned, as they are, and keeps these laws, that it may enjoy
their proper good. It respects space and time, climate, want, sleep, the law of polarity,
growth, and death. There revolve to give bound and period to his being, on all sides, the
sun and moon, the great formalists in the sky: here lies stubborn matter, and will not swerve
from its chemical routine. Here is a planted globe, pierced and belted with natural laws,
and fenced and distributed externally with civil partitions and properties which impose new
restraints on the young inhabitant.

We eat of the bread which grows in the field. We live by the air which blows around us, and
we are poisoned by the air that is too cold or too hot, too dry or too wet. Time, which
shows so vacant, indivisible, and divine in its coming, is slit and peddled into trifles
and tatters. A door is to be painted, a lock to be repaired. I want wood, or oil, or meal,
or salt; the house smokes, or I have a headache; then the tax; and an affair to be transact-
ed with a man without heart or brains; and the stinging recollection of an injurious or very
awkward word,--these eat up the hours. Do what we can, summer will have its flies: if we
walk in the woods, we must feed mosquitos: if we go a-fishing, we must expect a wet coat.
Then climate is a great impediment to idle persons: we often resolve to give up the care of
the weather, but still we regard the clouds and the rain.

We are instructed by these petty experiences which usurp the hours and years. The hard soil
and four months of snow make the inhabitant of the northern temperate zone wiser and abler
than his fellow who enjoys the fixed smile of the tropics. The islander may ramble all day
at will. At night, he may sleep on a mat under the moon, and wherever a wild date-tree grows,
nature has, without a prayer even, spread a table for his morning meal. The northerner is
perforce a householder. He must brew, bake, salt, and preserve his food, and pile wood and
coal. But as it happens that not one stroke can labor lay to, without some new acquaintance
with nature; and as nature is inexhaustibly significant, the inhabitants of these climates
have always excelled the southerner in force. Such is the value of these matters, that a man
who knows other things can never know too much of these. Let him have accurate perceptions.
Let him, if he have hands, handle; if eyes, measure and discriminate; let him accept and hive
every fact of chemistry, natural history, and economics; the more he has, the less is he will-
ing to spare any one. Time is always bringing the occasions that disclose their value. Some
wisdom comes out of every natural and innocent action. The domestic man, who loves no mu-
sic so well as his kitchen clock, and the airs which the logs sing to him as they burn on the
hearth, has solaces which others never dream of. The application of means to ends insures
victory and the songs of victory, not less in a farm or a shop than in the tactics of party
or of war. The good husband finds method as efficient in the packing of fire-wood in a shed,
or in the harvesting of fruits in the cellar, as in Peninsular campaigns or the files of the
Department of State. In the rainy day, he builds a work-bench, or gets his tool-box set in the
corner of the barn-chamber, and stored with nails, gimlet, pincers, screwdriver, and chisel.
Herein he tastes an old joy of youth and childhood, the cat-like love of garrets, presses, and
corn-chambers, and of the conveniences of long housekeeping. His garden or his poultry-yard
tells him many pleasant anecdotes. One might find argument for optimism in the abundant flow
of this saccharine element of pleasure in every suburb and extremity of the good world. Let a
man keep the law,--any law,--and his way will be strown with satisfactions. There is more
difference in the quality of our pleasures than in the amount.

On the other hand, nature punishes any neglect of prudence. If you think the senses final,
obey their law. If you believe in the soul, do not clutch at sensual sweetness before it is
ripe on the slow tree of cause and effect. It is vinegar to the eyes, to deal with men of
loose and imperfect perception. Dr. Johnson is reported to have said,--"If the child says
he looked out of this window, when he looked out of that,--whip him." Our American charac-
ter is marked by a more than average delight in accurate perception, which is shown by the
currency of the byword, "No mistake." But the discomfort of unpunctuality, of confusion of
thought about facts, of inattention to the wants of to-morrow, is of no nation. The beautiful
laws of time and space, once dislocated by our inaptitude, are holes and dens. If the hive be
disturbed by rash and stupid hands, instead of honey, it will yield us bees. Our words and
actions to be fair must be timely. A gay and pleasant sound is the whetting of the scythe in
the mornings of June; yet what is more lonesome and sad than the sound of a whetstone or
mower's rifle, when it is too late in the season to make hay? Scatter-brained and "afternoon
men" spoil much more than their own affair, in spoiling the temper of those who deal with
them. I have seen a criticism on some paintings, of which I am reminded when I see the shift-
less and unhappy men who are not true to their senses. The last Grand Duke of Weimar, a man
of superior understanding, said:--"I have sometimes remarked in the presence of great works
of art, and just now especially, in Dresden, how much a certain property contributes to the ef-
fect which gives life to the figures, and to the life an irresistible truth. This property is the
hitting, in all the figures we draw, the right centre of gravity. I mean, the placing the fig-
ures firm upon their feet, making the hands grasp, and fastening the eyes on the spot where
they should look. Even lifeless figures, as vessels and stools,--let them be drawn ever so
correctly, ?lose all effect so soon as they lack the resting upon their centre of gravity, and
have a certain swimming and oscillating appearance. The Raphael, in the Dresden gallery, (the
only greatly affecting picture which I have seen,) is the quietest and most passionless piece
you can imagine; a couple of saints who worship the Virgin and Child. Nevertheless, it awakens
a deeper impression than the contortions of ten crucified martyrs. For, beside all the resist-
less beauty of form, it possesses in the highest degree the property of the perpendicularity of
all the figures." This perpendicularity we demand of all the figures in this picture of life.
Let them stand on their feet, and not float and swing. Let us know where to find them. Let them
discriminate between what they remember and what they dreamed, call a spade a spade, give us
facts, and honor their own senses with trust.

But what man shall dare tax another with imprudence? Who is prudent? The men we call greatest
are least in this kingdom. There is a certain fatal dislocation in our relation to nature, dis-
torting our modes of living, and making every law our enemy, which seems at last to have aroused
all the wit and virtue in the world to ponder the question of Reform. We must call the highest
prudence to counsel, and ask why health and beauty and genius should now be the exception, rather
than the rule, of human nature? We do not know the properties of plants and animals and the laws
of nature through our sympathy with the same; but this remains the dream of poets. Poetry and
prudence should be coincident. Poets should be lawgivers; that is, the boldest lyric inspiration
should not chide and insult, but should announce and lead, the civil code, and the day's work.
But now the two things seem irreconcilably parted. We have violated law upon law, until we stand
amidst ruins, and when by chance we espy a coincidence between reason and the phenomena, we are
surprised. Beauty should be the dowry of every man and woman, as invariably as sensation; but it
is rare. Health or sound organization should be universal. Genius should be the child of genius,
and every child should be inspired; but now it is not to be predicted of any child, and nowhere
is it pure. We call partial half-lights, by courtesy, genius; talent which converts itself to
money; talent which glitters to-day, that it may dine and sleep well to-morrow; and society is
officered by men of parts, as they are properly called, and not by divine men. These use their
gifts to refine luxury, not to abolish it. Genius is always ascetic; and piety and love. Appetite
shows to the finer souls as a disease, and they find beauty in rites and bounds that resist it.

We have found out fine names to cover our sensuality withal, but no gifts can raise intemperance.
The man of talent affects to call his transgressions of the laws of the senses trivial, and to
count them nothing considered with his devotion to his art. His art never taught him lewdness,
nor the love of wine, nor the wish to reap where he had not sowed. His art is less for every ded-
uction from his holiness, and less for every defect of common sense. On him who scorned the world,
as he said, the scorned world wreaks its revenge. He that despiseth small things will perish by
little and little. Goethe's Tasso is very likely to be a pretty fair historical portrait, and
that is true tragedy. It does not seem to me so genuine grief when some tyrannous Richard the
Third oppresses and slays a score of innocent persons, as when Antonio and Tasso, both apparently
right, wrong each other. One living after the maxims of this world, and consistent and true to
them, the other fired with all divine sentiments, yet grasping also at the pleasures of sense,
without submitting to their law. That is a grief we all feel, a knot we cannot untie. Tasso's
is no infrequent case in modern biography. A man of genius, of an ardent temperament, reckless
of physical laws, self-indulgent, becomes presently unfortunate, querulous, a "discomfortable
cousin," a thorn to himself and to others.

The scholar shames us by his bifold life. Whilst something higher than prudence is active, he
is admirable; when common sense is wanted, he is an encumbrance. Yesterday, Caesar was not
so great; to-day, the felon at the gallows' foot is not more miserable. Yesterday, radiant with
the light of an ideal world, in which he lives, the first of men; and now oppressed by wants
and by sickness, for which he must thank himself. He resembles the pitiful drivellers, whom
travellers describe as frequenting the bazaars of Constantinople, who skulk about all day,
yellow, emaciated, ragged, sneaking; and at evening, when the bazaars are open, slink to the
opium-shop, swallow their morsel, and become tranquil and glorified seers. And who has not
seen the tragedy of imprudent genius, struggling for years with paltry pecuniary difficulties,
at last sinking, chilled, exhausted, and fruitless, like a giant slaughtered by pins?

Is it not better that a man should accept the first pains and mortifications of this sort,
which nature is not slack in sending him, as hints that he must expect no other good than the
just fruit of his own labor and self-denial? Health, bread, climate, social position, have
their importance, and he will give them their due. Let him esteem Nature a perpetual counsel-
lor, and her perfections the exact measure of our deviations. Let him make the night night,
and the day day. Let him control the habit of expense. Let him see that as much wisdom may be
expended on a private economy as on an empire, and as much wisdom may be drawn from it. The
laws of the world are written out for him on every piece of money in his hand. There is no-
thing he will not be the better for knowing, were it only the wisdom of Poor Richard; or the
State-Street prudence of buying by the acre to sell by the foot; or the thrift of the agri-
culturist, to stick a tree between whiles, because it will grow whilst he sleeps; or the prud-
ence which consists in husbanding little strokes of the tool, little portions of time, part-
icles of stock, and small gains. The eye of prudence may never shut. Iron, if kept at the
ironmonger's, will rust; beer, if not brewed in the right state of the atmosphere, will sour;
timber of ships will rot at sea, or, if laid up high and dry, will strain, warp, and dry-rot;
money, if kept by us, yields no rent, and is liable to loss; if invested, is liable to depre-
ciation of the particular kind of stock. Strike, says the smith, the iron is white; keep the
rake, says the haymaker, as nigh the scythe as you can, and the cart as nigh the rake. Our
Yankee trade is reputed to be very much on the extreme of this prudence. It takes bank-notes,
--good, bad, clean, ragged,--and saves itself by the speed with which it passes them off. Iron
cannot rust, nor beer sour, nor timber rot, nor calicoes go out of fashion, nor money stocks
depreciate, in the few swift moments in which the Yankee suffers any one of them to remain in
his possession. In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed.

Let him learn a prudence of a higher strain. Let him learn that every thing in nature, even
motes and feathers, go by law and not by luck, and that what he sows he reaps. By diligence
and self-command, let him put the bread he eats at his own disposal, that he may not stand in
bitter and false relations to other men; for the best good of wealth is freedom. Let him prac-
tise the minor virtues. How much of human life is lost in waiting! let him not make his fellow-
creatures wait. How many words and promises are promises of conversation! let his be words of
fate. When he sees a folded and sealed scrap of paper float round the globe in a pine ship,
and come safe to the eye for which it was written, amidst a swarming population, let him like-
wise feel the admonition to integrate his being across all these distracting forces, and keep
a slender human word among the storms, distances, and accidents that drive us hither and thi-
ther, and, by persistency, make the paltry force of one man reappear to redeem its pledge,
after months and years, in the most distant climates.

We must not try to write the laws of any one virtue, looking at that only. Human nature loves
no contradictions, but is symmetrical. The prudence which secures an outward well-being is not
to be studied by one set of men, whilst heroism and holiness are studied by another, but they
are reconcilable. Prudence concerns the present time, persons, property, and existing forms.
But as every fact hath its roots in the soul, and, if the soul were changed, would cease to be,
or would become some other thing, the proper administration of outward things will always rest
on a just apprehension of their cause and origin, that is, the good man will be the wise man,
and the single-hearted, the politic man. Every violation of truth is not only a sort of suicide
in the liar, but is a stab at the health of human society. On the most profitable lie, the
course of events presently lays a destructive tax; whilst frankness invites frankness, puts
the parties on a convenient footing, and makes their business a friendship. Trust men, and they
will be true to you; treat them greatly, and they will show themselves great, though they make
an exception in your favor to all their rules of trade.

So, in regard to disagreeable and formidable things, prudence does not consist in evasion, or
in flight, but in courage. He who wishes to walk in the most peaceful parts of life with any
serenity must screw himself up to resolution. Let him front the object of his worst apprehension,
and his stoutness will commonly make his fear groundless. The Latin proverb says, that "in bat-
tles the eye is first overcome." Entire self-possession may make a battle very little more dan-
gerous to life than a match at foils or at football. Examples are cited by soldiers, of men who
have seen the cannon pointed, and the fire given to it, and who have stepped aside from the path
of the ball. The terrors of the storm are chiefly confined to the parlour and the cabin. The dro-
ver, the sailor, buffets it all day, and his health renews itself at as vigorous a pulse under
the sleet, as under the sun of June.

In the occurrence of unpleasant things among neighbours, fear comes readily to heart, and magn-
ifies the consequence of the other party; but it is a bad counsellor. Every man is actually weak,
and apparently strong. To himself, he seems weak; to others, formidable. You are afraid of Grim;
but Grim also is afraid of you. You are solicitous of the good-will of the meanest person, uneasy
at his ill-will. But the sturdiest offender of your peace and of the neighbourhood, if you rip up
his claims, is as thin and timid as any; and the peace of society is often kept, because, as chil-
dren say, one is afraid, and the other dares not. Far off, men swell, bully, and threaten; bring
them hand to hand, and they are a feeble folk.

It is a proverb, that `courtesy costs nothing'; but calculation might come to value love for its
profit. Love is fabled to be blind; but kindness is necessary to perception; love is not a hood,
but an eye-water. If you meet a sectary, or a hostile partisan, never recognize the dividing lines;
but meet on what common ground remains,--if only that the sun shines, and the rain rains for both;
the area will widen very fast, and ere you know it the boundary mountains, on which the eye had
fastened, have melted into air. If they set out to contend, Saint Paul will lie, and Saint John
will hate. What low, poor, paltry, hypocritical people an argument on religion will make of the
pure and chosen souls! They will shuffle, and crow, crook, and hide, feign to confess here, only
that they may brag and conquer there, and not a thought has enriched either party, and not an emo-
tion of bravery, modesty, or hope. So neither should you put yourself in a false position with your
contemporaries, by indulging a vein of hostility and bitterness. Though your views are in straight
antagonism to theirs, assume an identity of sentiment, assume that you are saying precisely that
which all think, and in the flow of wit and love roll out your paradoxes in solid column, with not
the infirmity of a doubt. So at least shall you get an adequate deliverance. The natural motions of
the soul are so much better than the voluntary ones, that you will never do yourself justice in
dispute. The thought is not then taken hold of by the right handle, does not show itself proporti-
oned, and in its true bearings, but bears extorted, hoarse, and half witness. But assume a consent,
and it shall presently be granted, since, really, and underneath their external diversities, all
men are of one heart and mind.

Wisdom will never let us stand with any man or men on an unfriendly footing. We refuse sympathy
and intimacy with people, as if we waited for some better sympathy and intimacy to come. But whence
and when? To-morrow will be like to-day. Life wastes itself whilst we are preparing to live. Our
friends and fellow-workers die off from us. Scarcely can we say, we see new men, new women, approa-
ching us. We are too old to regard fashion, too old to expect patronage of any greater or more pow-
erful. Let us suck the sweetness of those affections and consuetudes that grow near us. These old
shoes are easy to the feet. Undoubtedly, we can easily pick faults in our company, can easily whis-
per names prouder, and that tickle the fancy more. Every man's imagination hath its friends; and
life would be dearer with such companions. But, if you cannot have them on good mutual terms, you
cannot have them. If not the Deity, but our ambition, hews and shapes the new relations, their
virtue escapes, as strawberries lose their flavor in garden-beds.

Thus truth, frankness, courage, love, humility, and all the virtues, range themselves on the side
of prudence, or the art of securing a present well-being. I do not know if all matter will be found
to be made of one element, as oxygen or hydrogen, at last, but the world of manners and actions is
wrought of one stuff, and, begin where we will, we are pretty sure in a short space to be mumbling
our ten commandments.



VIII. Heroism



"Paradise is under the shadow of swords," Mahomet.



Ruby wine is drunk by knaves,
Sugar spends to fatten slaves,
Rose and vine-leaf deck buffoons;
Thunderclouds are Jove's festoons,
Drooping oft in wreaths of dread
Lightning-knotted round his head;
The hero is not fed on sweets,
Daily his own heart he eats;
Chambers of the great are jails,
And head-winds right for royal sails.



In the elder English dramatists, and mainly in the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher,
there is a constant recognition of gentility, as if a noble behavior were as easily
marked in the society of their age, as color is in our American population. When
any Rodrigo, Pedro, or Valerio enters, though he be a stranger, the duke or governor
exclaims, This is a gentleman,--and proffers civilities without end; but all the rest
are slag and refuse. In harmony with this delight in personal advantages, there is in
their plays a certain heroic cast of character and dialogue,--as in Bonduca, Sophocles,
the Mad Lover, the Double Marriage,--wherein the speaker is so earnest and cordial,
and on such deep grounds of character, that the dialogue, on the slightest additional
incident in the plot, rises naturally into poetry. Among many texts, take the following.
The Roman Martius has conquered Athens--all but the invincible spirits of Sophocles,
the duke of Athens, and Dorigen, his wife. The beauty of the latter inflames Martius,
and he seeks to save her husband; but Sophocles will not ask his life, although assured,
that a word will save him, and the execution of both proceeds.

"Valerius. Bid thy wife farewell.

Soph. No, I will take no leave. My Dorigen,
Yonder, above, 'bout Ariadne's crown.
My spirit shall hover for thee. Prithee, haste.

Dor. Stay, Sophocles--with this, tie up my sight;
Let not soft nature so transformed be,
And lose her gentler sexed humanity,
To make me see my lord bleed. So, 'tis well;
Never one object underneath the sun
Will I behold before my Sophocles:
Farewell; now teach the Romans how to die.

Mar. Dost know what 'tis to die?

Soph. Thou dost not, Martius,
And therefore, not what 'tis to live; to die
Is to begin to live. It is to end
An old, stale, weary work, and to commence
A newer and a better. 'Tis to leave
Deceitful knaves for the society
Of gods and goodness. Thou, thyself, must part
At last, from all thy garlands, pleasures, triumphs,
And prove thy fortitude what then 'twill do.

Val. But art not grieved nor vexed to leave thy life thus?

Soph. Why should I grieve or vex for being sent
To them I ever loved best? Now, I'll kneel,
But with my back toward thee; 'tis the last duty
This trunk can do the gods.

Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius,
Or Martius' heart will leap out at his mouth:
This is a man, a woman! Kiss thy lord,
And live with all the freedom you were wont.
O love! thou doubly hast afflicted me
With virtue and with beauty. Treacherous heart,
My hand shall cast thee quick into my urn,
Ere thou transgress this knot of piety.

Val. What ails my brother?

Soph. Martius, oh Martius,
Thou now hast found a way to conquer me.

Dor. O star of Rome! what gratitude can speak
Fit words to follow such a deed as this?

Mar. This admirable duke, Valerius,
With his disdain of fortune and of death,
Captived himself, has captived me,
And though my arm hath ta'en his body here,
His soul hath subjugated Martius' soul.
By Romulus, he is all soul, I think;
He hath no flesh, and spirit cannot be gyved;
Then we have vanquished nothing; he is free,
And Martius walks now in captivity."


I do not readily remember any poem, play, sermon, novel, or oration, that our press
vents in the last few years, which goes to the same tune. We have a great many flutes
and flageolets, but not often the sound of any fife. Yet, Wordsworth's Laodamia, and
the ode of "Dion," and some sonnets, have a certain noble music; and Scott will
sometimes draw a stroke like the portrait of Lord Evandale, given by Balfour of
Burley. Thomas Carlyle, with his natural taste for what is manly and daring in char-
acter, has suffered no heroic trait in his favorites to drop from his biographical
and historical pictures. Earlier, Robert Burns has given us a song or two. In the
Harleian Miscellanies, there is an account of the battle of Lutzen, which deserves
to be read. And Simon Ockley's History of the Saracens recounts the prodigies of
individual valor with admiration, all the more evident on the part of the narrator,
that he seems to think that his place in Christian Oxford requires of him some pro-
per protestations of abhorrence. But if we explore the literature of Heroism, we
shall quickly come to Plutarch, who is its Doctor and historian. To him we owe the
Brasidas, the Dion, the Epaminondas, the Scipio of old, and I must think we are
more deeply indebted to him than to all the ancient writers. Each of his "Lives" is
a refutation to the despondency and cowardice of our religious and political theo-
rists. A wild courage, a Stoicism not of the schools, but of the blood, shines in
every anecdote, and has given that book its immense fame.

We need books of this tart cathartic virtue, more than books of political science, or of
private economy. Life is a festival only to the wise. Seen from the nook and chimneyside
of prudence, it wears a ragged and dangerous front. The violations of the laws of
nature by our predecessors and our contemporaries are punished in us also. The disease
and deformity around us certify the infraction of natural, intellectual, and moral laws,
and often violation on violation to breed such compound misery. A lockjaw that bends a
man's head back to his heels, hydrophobia that makes him bark at his wife and babes,
insanity that makes him eat grass; war, plague, cholera, famine indicate a certain fer-
ocity in nature, which, as it had its inlet by human crime, must have its outlet by human
suffering. Unhappily, almost no man exists who has not in his own person become, to
some amount, a stockholder in the sin, and so made himself liable to a share in the ex-
piation.

Our culture, therefore, must not omit the arming of the man. Let him hear in season
that he is born into the state of war, and that the commonwealth and his own well-being
require that he should not go dancing in the weeds of peace, but warned, self-collected,
and neither defying nor dreading the thunder, let him take both reputation and life in his
hand, and, with perfect urbanity, dare the gibbet and the mob by the absolute truth of his
speech, and the rectitude of his behavior.

Toward all this external evil, the man within the breast assumes a warlike attitude,
and affirms his ability to cope single-handed with the infinite army of enemies. To this
military attitude of the soul we give the name of Heroism. Its rudest form is the
contempt for safety and ease, which makes the attractiveness of war. It is a self-trust
which slights the restraints of prudence, in the plenitude of its energy and power to
repair the harms it may suffer. The hero is a mind of such balance that no disturbances
can shake his will, but pleasantly, and, as it were, merrily, he advances to his own
music, alike in frightful alarms, and in the tipsy mirth of universal dissoluteness. There
is somewhat not philosophical in heroism; there is somewhat not holy in it; it
seems not to know that other souls are of one texture with it; it has pride; it is the
extreme of individual nature. Nevertheless, we must profoundly revere it. There is
somewhat in great actions, which does not allow us to go behind them. Heroism feels
and never reasons, and therefore is always right; and although a different breeding,
different religion, and greater intellectual activity, would have modified or even
reversed the particular action, yet for the hero, that thing he does is the highest deed,
and is not open to the censure of philosophers or divines. It is the avowal of the
unschooled man, that he finds a quality in him that is negligent of expense, of health, of
life, of danger, of hatred, of reproach, and knows that his will is higher and more
excellent than all actual and all possible antagonists.

Heroism works in contradiction to the voice of mankind, and in contradiction, for a
time, to the voice of the great and good. Heroism is an obedience to a secret
impulse of an individual's character. Now to no other man can its wisdom appear as it
does to him, for every man must be supposed to see a little further on his own proper
path than any one else. Therefore, just and wise men take umbrage at his act, until after
some little time be past: then they see it to be in unison with their acts. All prudent men
see that the action is clean contrary to a sensual prosperity; for every heroic act
measures itself by its contempt of some external good. But it finds its own success
at last, and then the prudent also extol.

Self-trust is the essence of heroism. It is the state of the soul at war, and its ultimate
objects are the last defiance of falsehood and wrong, and the power to bear all that can
be inflicted by evil agents. It speaks the truth, and it is just, generous, hospitable,
temperate, scornful of petty calculations, and scornful of being scorned. It persists;
it is of an undaunted boldness, and of a fortitude not to be wearied out. Its jest is
the littleness of common life. That false prudence which dotes on health and wealth
is the butt and merriment of heroism. Heroism, like Plotinus, is almost ashamed of its
body. What shall it say, then, to the sugar-plums, and cats'-cradles, to the toilet,
compliments, quarrels, cards, and custard, which rack the wit of all human society.
What joys has kind nature provided for us dear creatures! There seems to be no interval
between greatness and meanness. When the spirit is not master of the world then it is its
dupe. Yet the little man takes the great hoax so innocently, works in it so headlong and
believing, is born red, and dies gray, arranging his toilet, attending on his own health,
laying traps for sweet food and strong wine, setting his heart on a horse or a rifle, made
happy with a little gossip or a little praise, that the great soul cannot choose but
laugh at such earnest nonsense. "Indeed, these humble considerations make me out of
love with greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to take note how many pairs of silk
stockings thou hast, namely, these and those that were the peach-colored ones; or to
bear the inventory of thy shirts, as one for superfluity, and one other for use!"

Citizens, thinking after the laws of arithmetic, consider the inconvenience of recei-
ving strangers at their fireside, reckon narrowly the loss of time and the unusual
display: the soul of a better quality thrusts back the unreasonable economy into the
vaults of life, and says, I will obey the God, and the sacrifice and the fire he will
provide. Ibn Hankal, the Arabian geographer, describes a heroic extreme in the
hospitality of Sogd, in Bokhar, "When I was in Sogd I saw a great building, like a
palace, the gates of which were open and fixed back to the wall with large nails. I asked
the reason, and was told that the house had not been shut, night or day, for a hundred
years. Strangers may present themselves at any hour, and in whatever number; the
master has amply provided for the reception of the men and their animals, and is never
happier than when they tarry for some time. Nothing of the kind have I seen in any
other country." The magnanimous know very well that they who give time, or money,
or shelter, to the stranger--so it be done for love, and not for ostentation--do, as
it were, put God under obligation to them, so perfect are the compensations of the
universe. In some way the time they seem to lose is redeemed, and the pains they seem
to take remunerate themselves. These men fan the flame of human love, and raise
the standard of civil virtue among mankind. But hospitality must be for service, and not
for show, or it pulls down the host. The brave soul rates itself too high to value itself
by the splendor of its table and draperies. It gives what it hath, and all it hath, but
its own majesty can lend a better grace to bannocks and fair water than belong to city
feasts.

The temperance of the hero proceeds from the same wish to do no dishonor to the
worthiness he has. But he loves it for its elegancy, not for its austerity. It seems not
worth his while to be solemn, and denounce with bitterness flesh-eating or wine-drink-
ing, the use of tobacco, or opium, or tea, or silk, or gold. A great man scarcely
knows how he dines, how he dresses; but without railing or precision, his living is
natural and poetic. John Eliot, the Indian Apostle, drank water, and said of wine,--
"It is a noble, generous liquor, and we should be humbly thankful for it, but, as I
remember, water was made before it." Better still is the temperance of king David
who poured out on the ground unto the Lord the water which three of his warriors had
brought him to drink, at the peril of their lives.

It is told of Brutus, that when he fell on his sword, after the battle of Philippi,
he quoted a line of Euripides,--"O virtue! I have followed thee through life, and I
find thee at last but a shade." I doubt not the hero is slandered by this report.
The heroic soul does not sell its justice and its nobleness. It does not ask to
dine nicely, and to sleep warm. The essence of greatness is the perception that
virtue is enough. Poverty is its ornament. It does not need plenty, and can very
well abide its loss.

But that which takes my fancy most, in the heroic class, is the good humor and hil-
arity they exhibit. It is a height to which common duty can very well attain, to suffer
and to dare with solemnity. But these rare souls set opinion, success, and life, at so
cheap a rate, that they will not soothe their enemies by petitions, or the show of sorrow,
but wear their own habitual greatness. Scipio, charged with peculation, refuses to
do himself so great a disgrace as to wait for justification, though he had the scroll
of his accounts in his hands, but tears it to pieces before the tribunes. Socrates'
condemnation of himself to be maintained in all honor in the Prytaneum, during
his life, and Sir Thomas More's playfulness at the scaffold, are of the same strain.
In Beaumont and Fletcher's "Sea Voyage," Juletta tells the stout captain and his
company,

Jul. Why, slaves, 'tis in our power to hang ye.

Master. Very likely,
'Tis in our powers, then, to be hanged, and scorn ye.

These replies are sound and whole. Sport is the bloom and glow of a perfect health. The
great will not condescend to take anything seriously; all must be as gay as the song of a
canary, though it were the building of cities, or the eradication of old and foolish
churches and nations, which have cumbered the earth long thousands of years. Simple
hearts put all the history and customs of this world behind them, and play their own play
in innocent defiance of the Blue-Laws of the world; and such would appear, could
we see the human race assembled in vision, like little children frolicking together;
though, to the eyes of mankind at large, they wear a stately and solemn garb of works
and influences.

The interest these fine stories have for us, the power of a romance over the boy
who grasps the forbidden book under his bench at school, our delight in the hero,
is the main fact to our purpose. All these great and transcendent properties
are ours. If we dilate in beholding the Greek energy, the Roman pride, it is that
we are already domesticating the same sentiment. Let us find room for this great
guest in our small houses. The first step of worthiness will be to disabuse us of
our superstitious associations with places and times, with number and size. Why
should these words, Athenian, Roman, Asia, and England, so tingle in the ear? Where
the heart is, there the muses, there the gods sojourn, and not in any geography of
fame. Massachusetts, Connecticut River, and Boston Bay, you think paltry places,
and the ear loves names of foreign and classic topography. But here we are; and,
if we will tarry a little, we may come to learn that here is best. See to it,
only, that thyself is here;--and art and nature, hope and fate, friends, angels,
and the Supreme Being, shall not be absent from the chamber where thou sittest.
Epaminondas, brave and affectionate, does not seem to us to need Olympus to die
upon, nor the Syrian sunshine. He lies very well where he is. The Jerseys were
handsome ground enough for Washington to tread, and London streets for the feet
of Milton. A great man makes his climate genial in the imagination of men, and
its air the beloved element of all delicate spirits. That country is the fairest,
which is inhabited by the noblest minds. The pictures which fill the imagination
in reading the actions of Pericles, Xenophon, Columbus, Bayard, Sidney, Hampden,
teach us how needlessly mean our life is, that we, by the depth of our living,
should deck it with more than regal or national splendor, and act on principles
that should interest man and nature in the length of our days.

We have seen or heard of many extraordinary young men, who never ripened, or whose
performance in actual life was not extraordinary. When we see their air and mien,
when we hear them speak of society, of books, of religion, we admire their super-
iority, they seem to throw contempt on our entire polity and social state; theirs
is the tone of a youthful giant, who is sent to work revolutions. But they enter
an active profession, and the forming Colossus shrinks to the common size of man.
The magic they used was the ideal tendencies, which always make the Actual ridi-
culous; but the tough world had its revenge the moment they put their horses of
the sun to plough in its furrow. They found no example and no companion, and their
heart fainted. What then? The lesson they gave in their first aspirations is yet
true; and a better valor and a purer truth shall one day organize their belief.
Or why should a woman liken herself to any historical woman, and think, because
Sappho, or Sevigne, or De Stael, or the cloistered souls who have had genius and
cultivation, do not satisfy the imagination and the serene Themis, none can,--cer-
tainly not she. Why not? She has a new and unattempted problem to solve, perchance
that of the happiest nature that ever bloomed. Let the maiden, with erect soul,
walk serenely on her way, accept the hint of each new experience, search in turn
all the objects that solicit her eye, that she may learn the power and the charm
of her new-born being, which is the kindling of a new dawn in the recesses of space.
The fair girl, who repels interference by a decided and proud choice of influences,
so careless of pleasing, so wilful and lofty, inspires every beholder with somewhat
of her own nobleness. The silent heart encourages her; O friend, never strike sail
to a fear! Come into port greatly, or sail with God the seas. Not in vain you live,
for every passing eye is cheered and refined by the vision.

The characteristic of heroism is its persistency. All men have wandering impulses,
fits, and starts of generosity. But when you have chosen your part, abide by it, and
do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the com-
mon, nor the common the heroic. Yet we have the weakness to expect the sympathy of
people in those actions whose excellence is that they outrun sympathy, and appeal to
a tardy justice. If you would serve your brother, because it is fit for you to serve
him, do not take back your words when you find that prudent people do not commend you.
Adhere to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you have done something strange
and extravagant, and broken the monotony of a decorous age. It was a high counsel that
I once heardgiven to a young person,--"Always do what you are afraid to do." A simple,
manly character need never make an apology, but should regard its past action with
the calmness of Phocion, when he admitted that the event of the battle was happy, yet
did not regret his dissuasion from the battle.

There is no weakness or exposure for which we cannot find consolation in the thought,
--this is a part of my constitution, part of my relation and office to my fellow-crea-
ture. Has nature covenanted with me that I should never appear to disadvantage, never
make a ridiculous figure? Let us be generous of our dignity, as well as of our money.
Greatness once and for ever has done with opinion. We tell our charities, not because
we wish to be praised for them, not because we think they have great merit, but for
our justification. It is a capital blunder; as you discover, when another man recites
his charities.

To speak the truth, even with some austerity, to live with some rigor of temperance,
or some extremes of generosity, seems to be an asceticism which common good-nature
would appoint to those who are at ease and in plenty, in sign that they feel a broth-
erhood with the great multitude of suffering men. And not only need we breathe and
exercise the soul by assuming the penalties of abstinence, of debt, of solitude, of
unpopularity, but it behooves the wise man to look with a bold eye into those rarer
dangers which sometimes invade men, and to familiarize himself with disgusting forms
of disease, with sounds of execration, and the vision of violent death.

Times of heroism are generally times of terror, but the day never shines in which
this element may not work. The circumstances of man, we say, are historically somewhat
better in this country, and at this hour, than perhaps ever before. More freedom exists
for culture. It will not now run against an axe at the first step out of the beaten
track of opinion. But whoso is heroic will always find crises to try his edge. Human
virtue demands her champions and martyrs, and the trial of persecution always proceeds.
It is but the other day that the brave Lovejoy gave his breast to the bullets of a mob,
for the rights of free speech and opinion, and died when it was better not to live.

I see not any road of perfect peace which a man can walk, but after the counsel of his
own bosom. Let him quit too much association, let him go home much, and stablish him-
self in those courses he approves. The unremitting retention of simple and high sent-
iments in obscure duties is hardening the character to that temper which will work
with honor, if need be, in the tumult, or on the scaffold. Whatever outrages have hap-
pened to men may befall a man again; and very easily in a republic, if there appear
any signs of a decay of religion. Coarse slander, fire, tar and feathers, and the gib-
bet, the youth may freely bring home to his mind, and with what sweetness of temper he
can, and inquire how fast he can fix his sense of duty, braving such penalties, when-
ever it may please the next newspaper and a sufficient number of his neighbours to
pronounce his opinions incendiary.

It may calm the apprehension of calamity in the most susceptible heart to see how
quick a bound nature has set to the utmost infliction of malice. We rapidly approach
a brink over which no enemy can follow us.

"Let them rave: Thou art quiet in thy grave."

In the gloom of our ignorance of what shall be, in the hour when we are deaf to the
higher voices, who does not envy those who have seen safely to an end their manful
endeavour? Who that sees the meanness of our politics, but inly congratulates Wash-
ington that he is long already wrapped in his shroud, and for ever safe; that he was
laid sweet in his grave, the hope of humanity not yet subjugated in him? Who does
not sometimes envy the good and brave, who are no more to suffer from the tumults
of the natural world, and await with curious complacency the speedy term of his own
conversation with finite nature? And yet the love that will be annihilated sooner
than treacherous has already made death impossible, and affirms itself no mortal,
but a native of the deeps of absolute and inextinguishable being.



IX. The Over-Soul



"But souls that of his own good life partake,
He loves as his own self; dear as his eye
They are to Him: He'll never them forsake:
When they shall die, then God himself shall die:
They live, they live in blest eternity."
Henry More.
Space is ample, east and west,
But two cannot go abreast,
Cannot travel in it two:
Yonder masterful cuckoo
Crowds every egg out of the nest,
Quick or dead, except its own;
A spell is laid on sod and stone,
Night and Day ‘ve been tampered with,
Every quality and pith
Surcharged and sultry with a power
That works its will on age and hour.



There is a difference between one and another hour of life in their authority and
subsequent effect. Our faith comes in moments; our vice is habitual. Yet there is
a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them
than to all other experiences. For this reason the argument which is always forth-
coming to silence those who conceive extraordinary hopes of man, namely the appeal
to experience, is for ever invalid and vain. We give up the past to the objector,
and yet we hope. He must explain this hope. We grant that human life is mean, but
how did we find out that it was mean? What is the ground of this uneasiness of ours;
of this old discontent? What is the universal sense of want and ignorance, but the
fine innuendo by which the soul makes its enormous claim? Why do men feel that the
natural history of man has never been written, but he is always leaving behind what
you have said of him, and it becomes old, and books of metaphysics worthless? The
philosophy of six thousand years has not searched the chambers and magazines of
the soul. In its experiments there has always remained, in the last analysis, a
residuum it could not resolve. Man is a stream whose source is hidden. Our being
is descending into us from we know not whence. The most exact calculator has no
prescience that somewhat incalculable may not balk the very next moment. I am
constrained every moment to acknowledge a higher origin for events than the will
I call mine.

As with events, so is it with thoughts. When I watch that flowing river, which,
out of regions I see not, pours for a season its streams into me, I see that I
am a pensioner; not a cause, but a surprised spectator of this ethereal water;
that I desire and look up and put myself in the attitude of reception, but from
some alien energy the visions come.

The Supreme Critic on the errors of the past and the present, and the only pro-
phet of that which must be, is that great nature in which we rest as the earth
lies in the soft arms of the atmosphere; that Unity, that Over-soul, within which
every man's particular being is contained and made one with all other; that
common heart of which all sincere conversation is the worship, to which all right
action is submission; that overpowering reality which confutes our tricks and
talents, and constrains every one to pass for what he is, and to speak from his
character and not from his tongue, and which evermore tends to pass into our
thought and hand and become wisdom and virtue and power and beauty. We live in
succession, in division, in parts, in particles. Meantime within man is the soul
of the whole; the wise silence; the universal beauty, to which every part and
particle is equally related; the eternal ONE. And this deep power in which we
exist and whose beatitude is all accessible to us, is not only self-sufficing
and perfect in every hour, but the act of seeing and the thing seen, the seer
and the spectacle, the subject and the object, are one. We see the world piece
by piece, as the sun, the moon, the animal, the tree; but the whole, of which
these are the shining parts, is the soul. Only by the vision of that Wisdom can
the horoscope of the ages be read, and by falling back on our better thoughts,
by yielding to the spirit of prophecy which is innate in every man, we can know
what it saith. Every man's words who speaks from that life must sound vain to
those who do not dwell in the same thought on their own part. I dare not speak
for it. My words do not carry its august sense; they fall short and cold. Only
itself can inspire whom it will, and behold! their speech shall be lyrical, and
sweet, and universal as the rising of the wind. Yet I desire, even by profane
words, if I may not use sacred, to indicate the heaven of this deity and to re-
port what hints I have collected of the transcendent simplicity and energy of
the Highest Law.

If we consider what happens in conversation, in reveries, in remorse, in times
of passion, in surprises, in the instructions of dreams, wherein often we see
ourselves in masquerade,--the droll disguises only magnifying and enhancing a
real element and forcing it on our distinct notice,--we shall catch many hints
that will broaden and lighten into knowledge of the secret of nature. All goes
to show that the soul in man is not an organ, but animates and exercises all
the organs; is not a function, like the power of memory, of calculation, of
comparison, but uses these as hands and feet; is not a faculty, but a light;
is not the intellect or the will, but the master of the intellect and the
will; is the background of our being, in which they lie,--an immensity not
possessed and that cannot be possessed. From within or from behind, a light
shines through us upon things and makes us aware that we are nothing, but
the light is all. A man is the facade of a temple wherein all wisdom and all
good abide. What we commonly call man, the eating, drinking, planting, count-
ing man, does not, as we know him, represent himself, but misrepresents him-
self. Him we do not respect, but the soul, whose organ he is, would he let
it appear through his action, would make our knees bend. When it breathes
through his intellect, it is genius; when it breathes through his will, it
is virtue; when it flows through his affection, it is love. And the blind-
ness of the intellect begins when it would be something of itself. The weak-
ness of the will begins when the individual would be something of himself.
All reform aims in some one particular to let the soul have its way through
us; in other words, to engage us to obey.

Of this pure nature every man is at some time sensible. Language cannot paint
it with his colors. It is too subtile. It is undefinable, unmeasurable; but
we know that it pervades and contains us. We know that all spiritual being is
in man. A wise old proverb says, "God comes to see us without bell;" that
is, as there is no screen or ceiling between our heads and the infinite hea-
vens, so is there no bar or wall in the soul where man, the effect, ceases,
and God, the cause, begins. The walls are taken away. We lie open on one
side to the deeps of spiritual nature, to the attributes of God. Justice we
see and know, Love, Freedom, Power. These natures no man ever got above,
but they tower over us, and most in the moment when our interests tempt us
to wound them. The sovereignty of this nature whereof we speak is made known
by its independency of those limitations which circumscribe us on every hand.
The soul circumscribes all things. As I have said, it contradicts all exper-
ience. In like manner it abolishes time and space. The influence of the
senses has in most men overpowered the mind to that degree that the walls
of time and space have come to look real and insurmountable; and to speak
with levity of these limits is, in the world, the sign of insanity. Yet
time and space are but inverse measures of the force of the soul. The
spirit sports with time,--

"Can crowd eternity into an hour,
Or stretch an hour to eternity."

We are often made to feel that there is another youth and age than that
which is measured from the year of our natural birth. Some thoughts al-
ways find us young, and keep us so. Such a thought is the love of the
universal and eternal beauty. Every man parts from that contemplation
with the feeling that it rather belongs to ages than to mortal life. The
least activity of the intellectual powers redeems us in a degree from
the conditions of time. In sickness, in languor, give us a strain of po-
etry or a profound sentence, and we are refreshed; or produce a vol-
ume of Plato or Shakspeare, or remind us of their names, and instant-
ly we come into a feeling of longevity. See how the deep divine thought
reduces centuries and millenniums and makes itself present through all
ages. Is the teaching of Christ less effective now than it was when first
his mouth was opened? The emphasis of facts and persons in my thought
has nothing to do with time. And so always the soul's scale is one, the scale
of the senses and the understanding is another. Before the revelations
of the soul, Time, Space and Nature shrink away. In common speech we refer
all things to time, as we habitually refer the immensely sundered stars to
one concave sphere. And so we say that the Judgment is distant or near,
that the Millennium approaches, that a day of certain political, moral, social
reforms is at hand, and the like, when we mean that in the nature of things
one of the facts we contemplate is external and fugitive, and the other is
permanent and connate with the soul. The things we now esteem fixed shall,
one by one, detach themselves like ripe fruit from our experience, and fall.
The wind shall blow them none knows whither. The landscape, the figures,
Boston, London, are facts as fugitive as any institution past, or any whiff
of mist or smoke, and so is society, and so is the world. The soul looketh
steadily forwards, creating a world before her, leaving worlds behind her.
She has no dates, nor rites, nor persons, nor specialties, nor men. The soul
knows only the soul; the web of events is the flowing robe in which she is
clothed.

After its own law and not by arithmetic is the rate of its progress to be
computed. The soul's advances are not made by gradation, such as can be
represented by motion in a straight line; but rather by ascension of state,
such as can be represented by metamorphosis,--from the egg to the worm,
from the worm to the fly. The growths of genius are of a certain total char-
acter, that does not advance the elect individual first over John, then Adam,
then Richard, and give to each the pain of discovered inferiority, but by
every throe of growth the man expands there where he works, passing, at each
pulsation, classes, populations, of men. With each divine impulse the mind
rends the thin rinds of the visible and finite, and comes out into eternity,
and inspires and expires its air. It converses with truths that have always
been spoken in the world, and becomes conscious of a closer sympathy with
Zeno and Arrian, than with persons in the house.

This is the law of moral and of mental gain. The simple rise as by specific
levity, not into a particular virtue, but into the region of all the virtues.
They are in the spirit which contains them all. The soul requires purity,
but purity is not it; requires justice, but justice is not that; requires
beneficence, but is somewhat better; so that there is a kind of descent and
accommodation felt when we leave speaking of moral nature, to urge a virtue
which it enjoins. To the well-born child, all the virtues are natural, and
not painfully acquired. Speak to his heart, and the man becomes suddenly
virtuous.

Within the same sentiment is the germ of intellectual growth, which obeys
the same law. Those who are capable of humility, of justice, of love, of as-
piration, stand already on a platform that commands the sciences and arts,
speech and poetry, action and grace. For whoso dwells in this moral beatitude
already anticipates those special powers which men prize so highly. The lover
has no talent, no skill, which passes for quite nothing with his enamoured
maiden, however little she may possess of related faculty; and the heart which
abandons itself to the Supreme Mind finds itself related to all its works,
and will travel a royal road to particular knowledges and powers. In ascending
to this primary and aboriginal sentiment, we have come from our remote station
on the circumference instantaneously to the centre of the world, where, as in
the closet of God, we see causes, and anticipate the universe, which is but a
slow effect.

One mode of the divine teaching is the incarnation of the spirit in a form,--
in forms, like my own. I live in society; with persons who answer to thoughts
in my own mind, or express a certain obedience to the great instincts to which
I live. I see its presence to them. I am certified of a common nature; and
these other souls, these separated selves, draw me as nothing else can. They
stir in me the new emotions we call passion; of love, hatred, fear, admiration,
pity; thence comes conversation, competition, persuasion, cities, and war.
Persons are supplementary to the primary teaching of the soul. In youth we are
mad for persons. Childhood and youth see all the world in them. But the larger
experience of man discovers the identical nature appearing through them all.
Persons themselves acquaint us with the impersonal. In all conversation between
two persons, tacit reference is made, as to a third party, to a common nature.
That third party or common nature is not social; it is impersonal; is God. And
so in groups where debate is earnest, and especially on high questions, the
company become aware that the thought rises to an equal level in all bosoms,
that all have a spiritual property in what was said, as well as the sayer. They
all become wiser than they were. It arches over them like a temple, this unity
of thought, in which every heart beats with nobler sense of power and duty, and
thinks and acts with unusual solemnity. All are conscious of attaining to a hig-
her self-possession. It shines for all. There is a certain wisdom of humanity
which is common to the greatest men with the lowest, and which our ordinary ed-
ucation often labors to silence and obstruct. The mind is one, and the best minds,
who love truth for its own sake, think much less of property in truth. They accept
it thankfully everywhere, and do not label or stamp it with any man's name, for
it is theirs long beforehand, and from eternity. The learned and the studious of
thought have no monopoly of wisdom. Their violence of direction in some degree
disqualifies them to think truly. We owe many valuable observations to people who
are not very acute or profound, and who say the thing without effort, which we
want and have long been hunting in vain. The action of the soul is oftener in that
which is felt and left unsaid, than in that which is said in any conversation. It
broods over every society, and they unconsciously seek for it in each other. We
know better than we do. We do not yet possess ourselves, and we know at the same
time that we are much more. I feel the same truth how often in my trivial conver-
sation with my neighbours, that somewhat higher in each of us overlooks this by-
play, and Jove nods to Jove from behind each of us.

Men descend to meet. In their habitual and mean service to the world, for which
they forsake their native nobleness, they resemble those Arabian sheiks, who dwell
in mean houses, and affect an external poverty, to escape the rapacity of the Pacha,
and reserve all their display of wealth for their interior and guarded retirements.

As it is present in all persons, so it is in every period of life. It is adult already
in the infant man. In my dealing with my child, my Latin and Greek, my accom-
plishments and my money stead me nothing; but as much soul as I have avails. If
I am wilful, he sets his will against mine, one for one, and leaves me, if I please,
the degradation of beating him by my superiority of strength. But if I renounce my
will, and act for the soul, setting that up as umpire between us two, out of his
young eyes looks the same soul; he reveres and loves with me.

The soul is the perceiver and revealer of truth. We know truth when we see it, let
skeptic and scoffer say what they choose. Foolish people ask you, when you have spo-
ken what they do not wish to hear, `How do you know it is truth, and not an error of
your own?' We know truth when we see it, from opinion, as we know when we are awake
that we are awake. It was a grand sentence of Emanuel Swedenborg, which would alone
indicate the greatness of that man's perception, ?"It is no proof of a man's under-
standing to be able to confirm whatever he pleases; but to be able to discern that
what is true is true, and that what is false is false, this is the mark and character
of intelligence." In the book I read, the good thought returns to me, as every truth
will, the image of the whole soul. To the bad thought which I find in it, the same
soul becomes a discerning, separating sword, and lops it away. We are wiser than we
know. If we will not interfere with our thought, but will act entirely, or see how t
he thing stands in God, we know the particular thing, and every thing, and every man.
For the Maker of all things and all persons stands behind us, and casts his dread om-
niscience through us over things.

But beyond this recognition of its own in particular passages of the individual's ex-
perience, it also reveals truth. And here we should seek to reinforce ourselves by its
very presence, and to speak with a worthier, loftier strain of that advent. For the
soul's communication of truth is the highest event in nature, since it then does not
give somewhat from itself, but it gives itself, or passes into and becomes that man
whom it enlightens; or, in proportion to that truth he receives, it takes him to itself.

We distinguish the announcements of the soul, its manifestations of its own nature, by
the term Revelation. These are always attended by the emotion of the sublime. For this
communication is an influx of the Divine mind into our mind. It is an ebb of the indi-
vidual rivulet before the flowing surges of the sea of life. Every distinct apprehension
of this central commandment agitates men with awe and delight. A thrill passes through
all men at the reception of new truth, or at the performance of a great action, which
comes out of the heart of nature. In these communications, the power to see is not sep-
arated from the will to do, but the insight proceeds from obedience, and the obedience
proceeds from a joyful perception. Every moment when the individual feels himself in-
vaded by it is memorable. By the necessity of our constitution, a certain enthusiasm
attends the individual's consciousness of that divine presence. The character and dura-
tion of this enthusiasm varies with the state of the individual, from an ecstasy and
trance and prophetic inspiration,--which is its rarer appearance,--to the faintest glow
of virtuous emotion, in which form it warms, like our household fires, all the families
and associations of men, and makes society possible. A certain tendency to insanity has
always attended the opening of the religious sense in men, as if they had been "blasted
with excess of light." The trances of Socrates, the "union" of Plotinus,14 the vision of
Porphyry,15 the conversion of Paul, the aurora of Behmen,16 the convulsions of George
Fox17 and his Quakers, the illumination of Swedenborg,18 are of this kind. What was in the
case of these remarkable persons a ravishment has, in innumerable instances in common
life, been exhibited in less striking manner. Everywhere the history of religion betrays a
tendency to enthusiasm. The rapture of the Moravian19 and Quietist;20 the opening of the
internal sense of the Word, in the language of the New Jerusalem Church; the revival of
the Calvin-istic churches; the experiences of the Methodists, are varying forms of that
shudder of awe and delight with which the individual soul always mingles with the universal
soul.

The nature of these revelations is the same; they are perceptions of the absolute law.
They are solutions of the soul's own questions. They do not answer the questions which
the understanding asks. The soul answers never by words, but by the thing itself that is
inquired after.

Revelation is the disclosure of the soul. The popular notion of a revelation is, that it
is a telling of fortunes. In past oracles of the soul, the understanding seeks to find an-
swers to sensual questions, and undertakes to tell from God how long men shall exist, what
their hands shall do, and who shall be their company, adding names, and dates, and places.
But we must pick no locks. We must check this low curiosity. An answer in words is delusive;
it is really no answer to the questions you ask. Do not require a description of the coun-
tries towards which you sail. The description does not describe them to you, and to-morrow
you arrive there, and know them by inhabiting them. Men ask concerning the immortality of
the soul, the employments of heaven, the state of the sinner, and so forth. They even dream
that Jesus has left replies to precisely these interrogatories. Never a moment did that sub-
lime spirit speak in their patois. To truth, justice, love, the attributes of the soul, the
idea of immutableness is essentially associated. Jesus, living in these moral sentiments,
heedless of sensual fortunes, heeding only the manifestations of these, never made the sep-
aration of the idea of duration from the essence of these attributes, nor uttered a syllable
concerning the duration of the soul. It was left to his disciples to sever duration from the
moral elements, and to teach the immortality of the soul as a doctrine, and maintain it by
evidences. The moment the doctrine of the immortality is separately taught, man is already
fallen. In the flowing of love, in the adoration of humility, there is no question of contin-
uance. No inspired man ever asks this question, or condescends to these evidences. For the
soul is true to itself, and the man in whom it is shed abroad cannot wander from the present,
which is infinite, to a future which would be finite.

These questions which we lust to ask about the future are a confession of sin. God has no an-
swer for them. No answer in words can reply to a question of things. It is not in an arbitrary
"decree of God," but in the nature of man, that a veil shuts down on the facts of to-morrow;
for the soul will not have us read any other cipher than that of cause and effect. By this veil,
which curtains events, it instructs the children of men to live in to-day. The only mode of ob-
taining an answer to these questions of the senses is to forego all low curiosity, and, accepting
the tide of being which floats us into the secret of nature, work and live, work and live, and
all unawares the advancing soul has built and forged for itself a new condition, and the quest-
ion and the answer are one.

By the same fire, vital, consecrating, celestial, which burns until it shall dissolve all things
into the waves and surges of an ocean of light, we see and know each other, and what spirit each
is of. Who can tell the grounds of his knowledge of the character of the several individuals in
his circle of friends? No man. Yet their acts and words do not disappoint him. In that man,
though he knew no ill of him, he put no trust. In that other, though they had seldom met, auth-
entic signs had yet passed, to signify that he might be trusted as one who had an interest in his
own character. We know each other very well,--which of us has been just to himself, and whether
that which we teach or behold is only an aspiration, or is our honest effort also.

We are all discerners of spirits. That diagnosis lies aloft in our life or unconscious power. The
intercourse of society,--its trade, its religion, its friendships, its quarrels,-- is one wide,
judicial investigation of character. In full court, or in small committee, or confronted face to
face, accuser and accused, men offer themselves to be judged. Against their will they exhibit those
decisive trifles by which character is read. But who judges? and what? Not our understanding. We
do not read them by learning or craft. No; the wisdom of the wise man consists herein, that he
does not judge them; he lets them judge themselves, and merely reads and records their own ver-
dict.

By virtue of this inevitable nature, private will is overpowered, and, maugre our efforts or our
imperfections, your genius will speak from you, and mine from me. That which we are, we shall
teach, not voluntarily, but involuntarily. Thoughts come into our minds by avenues which we ne-
ver left open, and thoughts go out of our minds through avenues which we never voluntarily open-
ed. Character teaches over our head. The infallible index of true progress is found in the tone
the man takes. Neither his age, nor his breeding, nor company, nor books, nor actions, nor ta-
lents, nor all together, can hinder him from being deferential to a higher spirit than his own.
If he have not found his home in God, his manners, his forms of speech, the turn of his sen-
tences, the build, shall I say, of all his opinions, will involuntarily confess it, let him brave it
out how he will. If he have found his centre, the Deity will shine through him, through all the
disguises of ignorance, of ungenial temperament, of unfavorable circumstance. The tone of seek-
ing is one, and the tone of having is another.

The great distinction between teachers sacred or literary,--between poets like Herbert, and po-
ets like Pope,--between philosophers like Spinoza, Kant, and Coleridge, and philosophers like
Locke, Paley, Mack-intosh, and Stewart,--between men of the world, who are reckoned accomp-
lished talkers, and here and there a fervent mystic, prophesying, half insane under the infinitude
of his thought,--is, that one class speak from within, or from experience, as parties and pos-
sessors of the fact; and the other class, from without, as spectators merely, or perhaps as ac-
quainted with the fact on the evidence of third persons. It is of no use to preach to me from
without. I can do that too easily myself. Jesus speaks always from within, and in a degree that
transcends all others. In that is the miracle. I believe beforehand that it ought so to be. All
men stand continually in the expectation of the appearance of such a teacher. But if a man do
not speak from within the veil, where the word is one with that it tells of, let him lowly con-
fess it.

The same Omniscience flows into the intellect, and makes what we call genius. Much of the wis-
dom of the world is not wisdom, and the most illuminated class of men are no doubt superior to
literary fame, and are not writers. Among the multitude of scholars and authors, we feel no hal-
lowing presence; we are sensible of a knack and skill rather than of inspiration; they have a
light, and know not whence it comes, and call it their own; their talent is some exaggerated
faculty, some overgrown member, so that their strength is a disease. In these instances the in-
tellectual gifts do not make the impression of virtue, but almost of vice; and we feel that a
man's talents stand in the way of his advancement in truth. But genius is religious. It is a
larger imbibing of the common heart. It is not anomalous, but more like, and not less like o-
ther men. There is, in all great poets, a wisdom of humanity which is superior to any talents
they exercise. The author, the wit, the partisan, the fine gentleman, does not take place of
the man. Humanity shines in Homer, in Chaucer, in Spenser, in Shakspeare, in Milton. They are
content with truth. They use the positive degree. They seem frigid and phlegmatic to those who
have been spiced with the frantic passion and violent coloring of inferior, but popular writ-
ers. For they are poets by the free course which they allow to the informing soul, which
through their eyes beholds again, and blesses the things which it hath made. The soul is sup-
erior to its knowledge; wiser than any of its works. The great poet makes us feel our own
wealth, and then we think less of his compositions. His best communication to our mind is to
teach us to despise all he has done. Shakspeare carries us to such a lofty strain of intell-
igent activity, as to suggest a wealth which beggars his own; and we then feel that the splen-
did works which he has created, and which in other hours we extol as a sort of self-existent
poetry, take no stronger hold of real nature than the shadow of a passing traveller on the
rock. The inspiration which uttered itself in Hamlet and Lear could utter things as good from
day to day, for ever. Why, then, should I make account of Hamlet and Lear, as if we had not
the soul from which they fell as syllables from the tongue?

This energy does not descend into individual life on any other condition than entire possess-
ion. It comes to the lowly and simple; it comes to whomsoever will put off what is foreign
and proud; it comes as insight; it comes as serenity and grandeur. When we see those whom it
inhabits, we are apprized of new degrees of greatness. From that inspiration the man comes
back with a changed tone. He does not talk with men with an eye to their opinion. He tries
them. It requires of us to be plain and true. The vain traveller attempts to embellish his
life by quoting my lord, and the prince, and the countess, who thus said or did to him. The
ambitious vulgar show you their spoons, and brooches, and rings, and preserve their cards
and compliments. The more cultivated, in their account of their own experience, cull out the
pleasing, poetic circumstance,--the visit to Rome, the man of genius they saw, the brilliant
friend they know; still further on, perhaps, the gorgeous landscape, the mountain lights,
the mountain thoughts, they enjoyed yesterday,--and so seek to throw a romantic color over
their life. But the soul that ascends to worship the great God is plain and true; has no rose-
color, no fine friends, no chivalry, no adventures; does not want admiration; dwells in the
hour that now is, in the earnest experience of the common day,--by reason of the present
moment and the mere trifle having become porous to thought, and bibulous of the sea of
light.

Converse with a mind that is grandly simple, and literature looks like word-catching. The
simplest utterances are worthiest to be written, yet are they so cheap, and so things of
course, that, in the infinite riches of the soul, it is like gathering a few pebbles off the
ground, or bottling a little air in a phial, when the whole earth and the whole atmosphere
are ours. Nothing can pass there, or make you one of the circle, but the casting aside
your trappings, and dealing man to man in naked truth, plain confession, and omniscient af-
firmation.

Souls such as these treat you as gods would; walk as gods in the earth, accepting without
any admiration your wit, your bounty, your virtue even,--say rather your act of duty, for
your virtue they own as their proper blood, royal as themselves, and over-royal, and the
father of the gods. But what rebuke their plain fraternal bearing casts on the mutual flat-
tery with which authors solace each other and wound themselves! These flatter not. I do not
wonder that these men go to see Cromwell, and Christina, and Charles the Second, and James
the First, and the Grand Turk. For they are, in their own elevation, the fellows of kings,
and must feel the servile tone of conversation in the world. They must always be a godsend
to princes, for they confront them, a king to a king, without ducking or concession, and
give a high nature the refreshment and satisfaction of resistance, of plain humanity, of
even companionship, and of new ideas. They leave them wiser and superior men. Souls like
these make us feel that sincerity is more excellent than flattery. Deal so plainly with
man and woman, as to constrain the utmost sincerity, and destroy all hope of trifling with
you. It is the highest compliment you can pay. Their "highest praising," said Milton, "is
not flattery, and their plainest advice is a kind of praising."

Ineffable is the union of man and God in every act of the soul. The simplest person, who
in his integrity worships God, becomes God; yet for ever and ever the influx of this better
and universal self is new and unsearchable. It inspires awe and astonishment. How dear,
how soothing to man, arises the idea of God, peopling the lonely place, effacing the scars
of our mistakes and disappointments! When we have broken our god of tradition, and ceased
from our god of rhetoric, then may God fire the heart with his presence. It is the doubling
of the heart itself, nay, the infinite enlargement of the heart with a power of growth to a
new infinity on every side. It inspires in man an infallible trust. He has not the convict-
ion, but the sight, that the best is the true, and may in that thought easily dismiss all
particular uncertainties and fears, and adjourn to the sure revelation of time, the solution
of his private riddles. He is sure that his welfare is dear to the heart of being. In the
presence of law to his mind, he is overflowed with a reliance so universal, that it sweeps
away all cherished hopes and the most stable projects of mortal condition in its flood. He
believes that he cannot escape from his good. The things that are really for thee gravitate
to thee. You are running to seek your friend. Let your feet run, but your mind need not. If
you do not find him, will you not acquiesce that it is best you should not find him? for
there is a power, which, as it is in you, is in him also, and could therefore very well
bring you together, if it were for the best. You are preparing with eagerness to go and ren-
der a service to which your talent and your taste invite you, the love of men and the hope
of fame. Has it not occurred to you, that you have no right to go, unless you are equally
willing to be prevented from going? O, believe, as thou livest, that every sound that is
spoken over the round world, which thou oughtest to hear, will vibrate on thine ear! Every
proverb, every book, every byword that belongs to thee for aid or comfort, shall surely
come home through open or winding passages. Every friend whom not thy fantastic will, but
the great and tender heart in thee craveth, shall lock thee in his embrace. And this, be-
cause the heart in thee is the heart of all; not a valve, not a wall, not an intersection
is there anywhere in nature, but one blood rolls uninterruptedly an endless circulation
through all men, as the water of the globe is all one sea, and, truly seen, its tide is one.

Let man, then, learn the revelation of all nature and all thought to his heart; this, name-
ly; that the Highest dwells with him; that the sources of nature are in his own mind, if
the sentiment of duty is there. But if he would know what the great God speaketh, he must
`go into his closet and shut the door,' as Jesus said. God will not make himself manifest
to cowards. He must greatly listen to himself, withdrawing himself from all the accents of
other men's devotion. Even their prayers are hurtful to him, until he have made his own.
Our religion vulgarly stands on numbers of believers. Whenever the appeal is made--no mat-
ter how indirectly--to numbers, proclamation is then and there made, that religion is not.
He that finds God a sweet, enveloping thought to him never counts his company. When I sit
in that presence, who shall dare to come in? When I rest in perfect humility, when I burn
with pure love, what can Calvin or Swedenborg say?

It makes no difference whether the appeal is to numbers or to one. The faith that stands
on authority is not faith. The reliance on authority measures the decline of religion, the
withdrawal of the soul. The position men have given to Jesus, now for many centuries
of history, is a position of authority. It characterizes themselves. It cannot alter the e-
ternal facts. Great is the soul, and plain. It is no flatterer, it is no follower; it never
appeals from itself. It believes in itself. Before the immense possibilities of man, all
mere experience, all past biography, however spotless and sainted, shrinks away. Before
that heaven which our presentiments foreshow us, we cannot easily praise any form of life
we have seen or read of. We not only affirm that we have few great men, but, absolutely
speaking, that we have none; that we have no history, no record of any character or mode
of living, that entirely contents us. The saints and demigods whom history worships we are
constrained to accept with a grain of allowance. Though in our lonely hours we draw a new
strength out of their memory, yet, pressed on our attention, as they are by the thoughtless
and customary, they fatigue and invade. The soul gives itself, alone, original, and pure,
to the Lonely, Original, and Pure, who, on that condition, gladly inhabits, leads, and
speaks through it. Then is it glad, young, and nimble. It is not wise, but it sees through
all things. It is not called religious, but it is innocent. It calls the light its own,
and feels that the grass grows and the stone falls by a law inferior to, and dependent on,
its nature. Behold, it saith, I am born into the great, the universal mind. I, the imper-
fect, adore my own Perfect. I am somehow receptive of the great soul, and thereby I do o-
verlook the sun and the stars, and feel them to be the fair accidents and effects which
change and pass. More and more the surges of everlasting nature enter into me, and I be-
come public and human in my regards and actions. So come I to live in thoughts, and act
with energies, which are immortal. Thus revering the soul, and learning, as the ancient
said, that "its beauty is immense," man will come to see that the world is the perennial
miracle which the soul worketh, and be less astonished at particular wonders; he will
learn that there is no pro-fane history; that all history is sacred; that the universe
is represented in an atom, in a moment of time. He will weave no longer a spotted life
of shreds and patches, but he will live with a divine unity. He will cease from what is
base and frivolous in his life, and be content with all places and with any service he
can render. He will calmly front the morrow in the negligency of that trust which car-
ries God with it, and so hath already the whole future in the bottom of the heart.



X. Circles



Nature centres into balls,
And her proud ephemerals,
Fast to surface and outside,
Scan the profile of the sphere;
Knew they what that signified,
A new genesis were here.



The eye is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature
this primary figure is repeated without end. It is the highest emblem in the cipher of the
world. St. Augustine described the nature of God as a circle whose centre was everywhere,
and its circumference nowhere. We are all our lifetime reading the copious sense of this
first of forms. One moral we have already deduced, in considering the circular or
compensatory character of every human action. Another analogy we shall now trace; that
every action admits of being outdone. Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth, that around
every circle another can be drawn; that there is no end in nature, but every end is a
beginning; that there is always another dawn risen on mid-noon, and under every deep a
lower deep opens.

This fact, as far as it symbolizes the moral fact of the Unattainable, the flying Perfect,
around which the hands of man can never meet, at once the inspirer and the condemner of
every success, may conveniently serve us to connect many illustrations of human power in
every department.

There are no fixtures in nature. The universe is fluid and volatile. Permanence is but a word
of degrees. Our globe seen by God is a transparent law, not a mass of facts. The law
dissolves the fact and holds it fluid. Our culture is the predominance of an idea which draws
after it this train of cities and institutions. Let us rise into another idea: they will disappear.
The Greek sculpture is all melted away, as if it had been statues of ice; here and there a
solitary figure or fragment remaining, as we see flecks and scraps of snow left in cold dells
and mountain clefts, in June and July. For the genius that created it creates now somewhat
else. The Greek letters last a little longer, but are already passing under the same
sentence, and tumbling into the inevitable pit which the creation of new thought opens for
all that is old. The new continents are built out of the ruins of an old planet; the new races
fed out of the decomposition of the foregoing. New arts destroy the old. See the investment
of capital in aqueducts made useless by hydraulics; fortifications, by gunpowder; roads and
canals, by railways; sails, by steam; steam by electricity.

You admire this tower of granite, weathering the hurts of so many ages. Yet a little waving
hand built this huge wall, and that which builds is better than that which is built. The hand
that built can topple it down much faster. Better than the hand, and nimbler, was the
invisible thought which wrought through it; and thus ever, behind the coarse effect, is a fine
cause, which, being narrowly seen, is itself the effect of a finer cause. Every thing looks
permanent until its secret is known. A rich estate appears to women a firm and lasting fact;
to a merchant, one easily created out of any materials, and easily lost. An orchard, good
tillage, good grounds, seem a fixture, like a gold mine, or a river, to a citizen; but to a large
farmer, not much more fixed than the state of the crop. Nature looks provokingly stable and
secular, but it has a cause like all the rest; and when once I comprehend that, will these
fields stretch so immovably wide, these leaves hang so individually considerable?
Permanence is a word of degrees. Every thing is medial. Moons are no more bounds to
spiritual power than bat-balls.

The key to every man is his thought. Sturdy and defying though he look, he has a helm
which he obeys, which is the idea after which all his facts are classified. He can only be
reformed by showing him a new idea which commands his own. The life of man is a self-
evolving circle, which, from a ring imperceptibly small, rushes on all sides outwards to new
and larger circles, and that without end. The extent to which this generation of circles,
wheel without wheel, will go, depends on the force or truth of the individual soul. For it is
the inert effort of each thought, having formed itself into a circular wave of circumstance, --
as, for instance, an empire, rules of an art, a local usage, a religious rite,--to heap itself
on that ridge, and to solidify and hem in the life. But if the soul is quick and strong, it bursts
over that boundary on all sides, and expands another orbit on the great deep, which also
runs up into a high wave, with attempt again to stop and to bind. But the heart refuses to be
imprisoned; in its first and narrowest pulses, it already tends outward with a vast force, and
to immense and innumerable expansions.

Every ultimate fact is only the first of a new series. Every general law only a particular fact
of some more general law presently to disclose itself. There is no outside, no inclosing wall,
no circumference to us. The man finishes his story,--how good! how final! how it puts a
new face on all things! He fills the sky. Lo! on the other side rises also a man, and draws a
circle around the circle we had just pronounced the outline of the sphere. Then already is
our first speaker not man, but only a first speaker. His only redress is forthwith to draw a
circle outside of his antagonist. And so men do by themselves. The result of to-day, which
haunts the mind and cannot be escaped, will presently be abridged into a word, and the
principle that seemed to explain nature will itself be included as one example of a bolder
generalization. In the thought of to-morrow there is a power to upheave all thy creed, all the
creeds, all the literatures, of the nations, and marshal thee to a heaven which no epic
dream has yet depicted. Every man is not so much a workman in the world, as he is a
suggestion of that he should be. Men walk as prophecies of the next age.

Step by step we scale this mysterious ladder: the steps are actions; the new prospect is
power. Every several result is threatened and judged by that which follows. Every one
seems to be contradicted by the new; it is only limited by the new. The new statement is
always hated by the old, and, to those dwelling in the old, comes like an abyss of skep-
ticism. But the eye soon gets wonted to it, for the eye and it are effects of one cause;
then its innocency and benefit appear, and presently, all its energy spent, it pales and
dwindles before the revelation of the new hour.

Fear not the new generalization. Does the fact look crass and material, threatening to
degrade thy theory of spirit? Resist it not; it goes to refine and raise thy theory of matter
just as much.

There are no fixtures to men, if we appeal to consciousness. Every man supposes himself
not to be fully understood; and if there is any truth in him, if he rests at last on the divine
soul, I see not how it can be otherwise. The last chamber, the last closet, he must feel, was
never opened; there is always a residuum unknown, unanalyzable. That is, every man be-
lieves that he has a greater possibility.

Our moods do not believe in each other. To-day I am full of thoughts, and can write what I
please. I see no reason why I should not have the same thought, the same power of
expression, to-morrow. What I write, whilst I write it, seems the most natural thing in the
world; but yesterday I saw a dreary vacuity in this direction in which now I see so much;
and a month hence, I doubt not, I shall wonder who he was that wrote so many continuous
pages. Alas for this infirm faith, this will not strenuous, this vast ebb of a vast flow! I am God
in nature; I am a weed by the wall.

The continual effort to raise himself above himself, to work a pitch above his last height,
betrays itself in a man's relations. We thirst for approbation, yet cannot forgive the
approver. The sweet of nature is love; yet, if I have a friend, I am tormented by my
imperfections. The love of me accuses the other party. If he were high enough to slight me,
then could I love him, and rise by my affection to new heights. A man's growth is seen in
the successive choirs of his friends. For every friend whom he loses for truth, he gains a
better. I thought, as I walked in the woods and mused on my friends, why should I play with
them this game of idolatry? I know and see too well, when not voluntarily blind, the speedy
limits of persons called high and worthy. Rich, noble, and great they are by the liberality of
our speech, but truth is sad. O blessed Spirit, whom I forsake for these, they are not thou!
Every personal consideration that we allow costs us heavenly state. We sell the thrones of
angels for a short and turbulent pleasure.

How often must we learn this lesson? Men cease to interest us when we find their
limitations. The only sin is limitation. As soon as you once come up with a man's limitations,
it is all over with him. Has he talents? has he enterprise? has he knowledge? it boots not.
Infinitely alluring and attractive was he to you yesterday, a great hope, a sea to swim in;
now, you have found his shores, found it a pond, and you care not if you never see it again.

Each new step we take in thought reconciles twenty seemingly discordant facts, as
expressions of one law. Aristotle and Plato are reckoned the respective heads of two
schools. A wise man will see that Aristotle Platonizes. By going one step farther back in
thought, discordant opinions are reconciled, by being seen to be two extremes of one
principle, and we can never go so far back as to preclude a still higher vision.

Beware when the great God lets loose a thinker on this planet. Then all things are at risk. It
is as when a conflagration has broken out in a great city, and no man knows what is safe,
or where it will end. There is not a piece of science, but its flank may be turned to-morrow;
there is not any literary reputation, not the so-called eternal names of fame, that may not be
revised and condemned. The very hopes of man, the thoughts of his heart, the religion of
nations, the manners and morals of mankind, are all at the mercy of a new generalization.
Generalization is always a new influx of the divinity into the mind. Hence the thrill that
attends it.

Valor consists in the power of self-recovery, so that a man cannot have his flank turned,
cannot be out-generalled, but put him where you will, he stands. This can only be by his
preferring truth to his past apprehension of truth; and his alert acceptance of it, from
whatever quarter; the intrepid conviction that his laws, his relations to society, his
Christianity, his world, may at any time be superseded and decease.

There are degrees in idealism. We learn first to play with it academically, as the magnet
was once a toy. Then we see in the heyday of youth and poetry that it may be true, that it is
true in gleams and fragments. Then, its countenance waxes stern and grand, and we see
that it must be true. It now shows itself ethical and practical. We learn that God IS that he is
in me; and that all things are shadows of him. The idealism of Berkeley is only a crude
statement of the idealism of Jesus, and that again is a crude statement of the fact, that all
nature is the rapid efflux of goodness executing and organizing itself. Much more obviously
is history and the state of the world at any one time directly dependent on the intellectual
classification then existing in the minds of men. The things which are dear to men at this
hour are so on account of the ideas which have emerged on their mental horizon, and
which cause the present order of things as a tree bears its apples. A new degree of cul-
ture would instantly revolutionize the entire system of human pursuits.

Conversation is a game of circles. In conversation we pluck up the termini which bound
the common of silence on every side. The parties are not to be judged by the spirit they
partake and even express under this Pentecost. To-morrow they will have receded from
this high-water mark. To-morrow you shall find them stooping under the old pack-saddles.
Yet let us enjoy the cloven flame whilst it glows on our walls. When each new speaker
strikes a new light, emancipates us from the oppression of the last speaker, to oppress us
with the greatness and exclusiveness of his own thought, then yields us to another
redeemer, we seem to recover our rights, to become men. O, what truths profound and
executable only in ages and orbs are supposed in the announcement of every truth! In
common hours, society sits cold and statuesque. We all stand waiting, empty, ?knowing,
possibly, that we can be full, surrounded by mighty symbols which are not symbols to us,
but prose and trivial toys. Then cometh the god, and converts the statues into fiery men,
and by a flash of his eye burns up the veil which shrouded all things, and the meaning of
the very furniture, of cup and saucer, of chair and clock and tester, is manifest. The facts
which loomed so large in the fogs of yesterday,--property, climate, breeding, personal
beauty, and the like, have strangely changed their proportions. All that we reckoned settled
shakes and rattles; and literatures, cities, climates, religions, leave their foundations, and
dance before our eyes. And yet here again see the swift circumspection! Good as is
discourse, silence is better, and shames it. The length of the discourse indicates the
4/8 distance of thought betwixt the speaker and the hearer. If they were at a perfect
understanding in any part, no words would be necessary thereon. If at one in all parts, no
words would be suffered.

Literature is a point outside of our hodiernal 21 circle, through which a new one may be
described. The use of literature is to afford us a platform whence we may command a view
of our present life, a purchase by which we may move it. We fill ourselves with ancient
learning, install ourselves the best we can in Greek, in Punic, in Roman houses, only that
we may wiselier see French, English, and American houses and modes of living. In like
manner, we see literature best from the midst of wild nature, or from the din of affairs, or
from a high religion. The field cannot be well seen from within the field. The astronomer
must have his diameter of the earth's orbit as a base to find the parallax of any star.
Therefore we value the poet. All the argument and all the wisdom is not in the
encyclopaedia, or the treatise on metaphysics, or the Body of Divinity, but in the sonnet or
the play. In my daily work I incline to repeat my old steps, and do not believe in remedial
force, in the power of change and reform. But some Petrarch or Ariosto, filled with the new
wine of his imagination, writes me an ode or a brisk romance, full of daring thought and
action. He smites and arouses me with his shrill tones, breaks up my whole chain of habits,
and I open my eye on my own possibilities. He claps wings to the sides of all the solid old
lumber of the world, and I am capable once more of choosing a straight path in theory and
practice.

We have the same need to command a view of the religion of the world. We can never see
Christianity from the catechism:--from the pastures, from a boat in the pond, from amidst
the songs of wood-birds, we possibly may. Cleansed by the elemental light and wind,
steeped in the sea of beautiful forms which the field offers us, we may chance to cast a
right glance back upon biography. Christianity is rightly dear to the best of mankind; yet was
there never a young philosopher whose breeding had fallen into the Christian church, by
whom that brave text of Paul's was not specially prized:--“Then shall also the Son be
subject unto Him who put all things under him, that God may be all in all.” Let the claims
and virtues of persons be never so great and welcome, the instinct of man presses eagerly
onward to the impersonal and illimitable, and gladly arms itself against the dogmatism of
bigots with this generous word out of the book itself.

The natural world may be conceived of as a system of concentric circles, and we now and
then detect in nature slight dislocations, which apprize us that this surface on which we
now stand is not fixed, but sliding. These manifold tenacious qualities, this chemistry and
vegetation, these metals and animals, which seem to stand there for their own sake, are
means and methods only,--are words of God, and as fugitive as other words. Has the nat-
uralist or chemist learned his craft, who has explored the gravity of atoms and the elective
affinities, who has not yet discerned the deeper law whereof this is only a partial or approx-
imate statement, namely, that like draws to like; and that the goods which belong to you
gravitate to you, and need not be pursued with pains and cost? Yet is that statement ap-
proximate also, and not final. Omnipresence is a higher fact. Not through subtle, subter-
ranean channels need friend and fact be drawn to their counterpart, but, rightly consid-
ered, these things proceed from the eternal generation of the soul. Cause and effect
are two sides of one fact.

The same law of eternal procession ranges all that we call the virtues, and extinguishes
each in the light of a better. The great man will not be prudent in the popular sense; all his
prudence will be so much deduction from his grandeur. But it behooves each to see, when
he sacrifices prudence, to what god he devotes it; if to ease and pleasure, he had better be
prudent still; if to a great trust, he can well spare his mule and panniers who has a winged
chariot instead. Geoffrey draws on his boots to go through the woods, that his feet may be
safer from the bite of snakes; Aaron never thinks of such a peril. In many years neither is
harmed by such an accident. Yet it seems to me, that, with every precaution you take
against such an evil, you put yourself into the power of the evil. I suppose that the highest
prudence is the lowest prudence. Is this too sudden a rushing from the centre to the verge
of our orbit? Think how many times we shall fall back into pitiful calculations before we take
up our rest in the great sentiment, or make the verge of to-day the new centre. Besides,
your bravest sentiment is familiar to the humblest men. The poor and the low have their
way of expressing the last facts of philosophy as well as you. “Blessed be nothing,” and
“the worse things are, the better they are,” are proverbs which express the transcenden-
talism of common life.

One man's justice is another's injustice; one man's beauty, another's ugliness; one man's
wisdom, another's folly; as one beholds the same objects from a higher point. One man
thinks justice consists in paying debts, and has no measure in his abhorrence of another
who is very remiss in this duty, and makes the creditor wait tediously. But that second man
has his own way of looking at things; asks himself which debt must I pay first, the debt to
the rich, or the debt to the poor? the debt of money, or the debt of thought to mankind, of
genius to nature? For you, O broker! there is no other principle but arithmetic. For me,
commerce is of trivial import; love, faith, truth of character, the aspiration of man, these are
sacred; nor can I detach one duty, like you, from all other duties, and concentrate my forces
mechanically on the payment of moneys. Let me live onward; you shall find that, though
slower, the progress of my character will liquidate all these debts without injustice to higher
claims. If a man should dedicate himself to the payment of notes, would not this be
injustice? Does he owe no debt but money? And are all claims on him to be postponed to a
landlord's or a banker's?

There is no virtue which is final; all are initial. The virtues of society are vices of the saint.
The terror of reform is the discovery that we must cast away our virtues, or what we have
always esteemed such, into the same pit that has consumed our grosser vices.

“Forgive his crimes, forgive his virtues too,
Those smaller faults, half converts to the right.”

It is the highest power of divine moments that they abolish our contritions also. I accuse
myself of sloth and unprofitableness day by day; but when these waves of God flow into
me, I no longer reckon lost time. I no longer poorly compute my possible achievement by
what remains to me of the month or the year; for these moments confer a sort of omni-
presence and omnipotence which asks nothing of duration, but sees that the energy of
the mind is commensurate with the work to be done, without time.

And thus, O circular philosopher, I hear some reader exclaim, you have arrived at a fine
Pyrrhonism,22 at an equivalence and indifferency of all actions, and would fain teach us that,
if we are true, forsooth, our crimes may be lively stones out of which we shall construct
the temple of the true God!

I am not careful to justify myself. I own I am gladdened by seeing the predominance of the
saccharine principle throughout vegetable nature, and not less by beholding in morals that
unrestrained inundation of the principle of good into every chink and hole that selfishness
has left open, yea, into selfishness and sin itself; so that no evil is pure, nor hell itself
without its extreme satisfactions. But lest I should mislead any when I have my own head
and obey my whims, let me remind the reader that I am only an experimenter. Do not set
the least value on what I do, or the least discredit on what I do not, as if I pretended to
settle any thing as true or false. I unsettle all things. No facts are to me sacred; none are
profane; I simply experiment, an endless seeker, with no Past at my back.

Yet this incessant movement and progression which all things partake could never become
sensible to us but by contrast to some principle of fixture or stability in the soul. Whilst the
eternal generation of circles proceeds, the eternal generator abides. That central life is
somewhat superior to creation, superior to knowledge and thought, and contains all its
circles. For ever it labors to create a life and thought as large and excellent as itself; but in
vain; for that which is made instructs how to make a better.

Thus there is no sleep, no pause, no preservation, but all things renew, germinate, and
spring. Why should we import rags and relics into the new hour? Nature abhors the old, and
old age seems the only disease; all others run into this one. We call it by many names, --
fever, intemperance, insanity, stupidity, and crime; they are all forms of old age; they are
rest, conservatism, appropriation, inertia, not newness, not the way onward. We grizzle
every day. I see no need of it. Whilst we converse with what is above us, we do not grow
old, but grow young. Infancy, youth, receptive, aspiring, with religious eye looking upward,
counts itself nothing, and abandons itself to the instruction flowing from all sides. But the
man and woman of seventy assume to know all, they have outlived their hope, they re-
nounce aspiration, accept the actual for the necessary, and talk down to the young. Let
them, then, become organs of the Holy Ghost; let them be lovers; let them behold truth; and
their eyes are uplifted, their wrinkles smoothed, they are perfumed again with hope and
power. This old age ought not to creep on a human mind. In nature every moment is new;
the past is always swallowed and forgotten; the coming only is sacred. Nothing is secure
but life, transition, the energizing spirit. No love can be bound by oath or covenant to secure
it against a higher love. No truth so sublime but it may be trivial to-morrow in the light of
new thoughts. People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettled is there any hope
for them.

Life is a series of surprises. We do not guess to-day the mood, the pleasure, the power of
to-morrow, when we are building up our being. Of lower states,--of acts of routine and
sense,--we can tell somewhat; but the masterpieces of God, the total growths and
universal movements of the soul, he hideth; they are incalculable. I can know that truth is
divine and helpful; but how it shall help me I can have no guess, for so to be is the sole
inlet of so to know. The new position of the advancing man has all the powers of the old,
yet has them all new. It carries in its bosom all the energies of the past, yet is itself an
exhalation of the morning. I cast away in this new moment all my once hoarded knowledge,
as vacant and vain. Now, for the first time, seem I to know any thing rightly. The simplest
words,--we do not know what they mean, except when we love and aspire.

The difference between talents and character is adroitness to keep the old and trodden
round, and power and courage to make a new road to new and better goals. Character
makes an overpowering present; a cheerful, determined hour, which fortifies all the
company, by making them see that much is possible and excellent that was not thought of.
Character dulls the impression of particular events. When we see the conqueror, we do not
think much of any one battle or success. We see that we had exaggerated the difficulty. It
was easy to him. The great man is not convulsible or tormentable; events pass over him
without much impression. People say sometimes, `See what I have overcome; see how
cheerful I am; see how completely I have triumphed over these black events.' Not if they
still remind me of the black event. True conquest is the causing the calamity to fade and
disappear, as an early cloud of insignificant result in a history so large and advancing.

The one thing which we seek with insatiable desire is to forget ourselves, to be surprised
out of our propriety, to lose our sempiternal23 memory, and to do something without knowing
how or why; in short, to draw a new circle.Nothing great was ever achieved without
enthusiasm. The way of life is wonderful: it is by abandonment. The great moments of
history are the facilities of performance through the strength of ideas, as the works of
genius and religion. “A man,” said Oliver Cromwell, “never rises so high as when he knows
not whither he is going.”Dreams and drunkenness, the use of opium and alcohol are the
semblance and counterfeit of this oracular genius, and hence their dangerous attraction for
men. For the like reason, they ask the aid of wild passions, as in gaming and war, to ape in
some manner these flames and generosities of the heart.



XI. Intellect



Go, speed the stars of Thought
On to their shining goals; --
The sower scatters broad his seed,
The wheat thou strew'st be souls.



Every substance is negatively electric to that which stands above it in the chemical tables,
positively to that which stands below it. Water dissolves wood, and iron, and salt; air dis-
solves water; electric fire dissolves air, but the intellect dissolves fire, gravity, laws, meth-
od, and the subtlest unnamed relations of nature, in its resistless menstruum.24 Intellect
lies behind genius, which is intellect constructive. Intellect is the simple power anterior to
all action or construction. Gladly would I unfold in calm degrees a natural history of the
intellect, but what man has yet been able to mark the steps and boundaries of that
transparent essence? The first questions are always to be asked, and the wisest doctor is
gravelled by the inquisitiveness of a child. How can we speak of the action of the mind
under any divisions, as of its knowledge, of its ethics, of its works, and so forth, since it
melts will into perception, knowledge into act? Each becomes the other. Itself alone is. Its
vision is not like the vision of the eye, but is union with the things known.

Intellect and intellection signify to the common ear consideration of abstract truth. The
considerations of time and place, of you and me, of profit and hurt, tyrannize over most
men's minds. Intellect separates the fact considered from you, from all local and personal
reference, and discerns it as if it existed for its own sake. Heraclitus looked upon the
affections as dense and colored mists. In the fog of good and evil affections, it is hard for
man to walk forward in a straight line. Intellect is void of affection, and sees an object as it
stands in the light of science, cool and disengaged. The intellect goes out of the individual,
floats over its own personality, and regards it as a fact, and not as I and mine. He who
is immersed in what concerns person or place cannot see the problem of existence. This
the intellect always ponders. Nature shows all things formed and bound. The intellect
pierces the form, overleaps the wall, detects intrinsic likeness between remote things, and
reduces all things into a few principles.

The making a fact the subject of thought raises it. All that mass of mental and moral
phenomena, which we do not make objects of voluntary thought, come within the power of
fortune; they constitute the circumstance of daily life; they are subject to change, to fear,
and hope. Every man beholds his human condition with a degree of melancholy. As a ship
aground is battered by the waves, so man, imprisoned in mortal life, lies open to the mercy
of coming events. But a truth, separated by the intellect, is no longer a subject of destiny.
We behold it as a god upraised above care and fear. And so any fact in our life, or any
record of our fancies or reflections, disentangled from the web of our unconsciousness,
becomes an object impersonal and immortal. It is the past restored, but embalmed. A better
art than that of Egypt has taken fear and corruption out of it. It is eviscerated of care. It is
offered for science. What is addressed to us for contemplation does not threaten us, but
makes us intellectual beings.

The growth of the intellect is spontaneous in every expansion. The mind that grows could
not predict the times, the means, the mode of that spontaneity. God enters by a private
door into every individual. Long prior to the age of reflection is the thinking of the mind. Out
of darkness, it came insensibly into the marvellous light of to-day. In the period of infancy it
accepted and disposed of all impressions from the surrounding creation after its own way.
Whatever any mind doth or saith is after a law; and this native law remains over it after it
has come to reflection or conscious thought. In the most worn, pedantic, introverted self-
tormenter's life, the greatest part is incalculable by him, unforeseen, unimaginable, and
must be, until he can take himself up by his own ears. What am I? What has my will done to
make me that I am? Nothing. I have been floated into this thought, this hour, this connection
of events, by secret currents of might and mind, and my ingenuity and wilfulness have not
thwarted, have not aided to an appreciable degree.

Our spontaneous action is always the best. You cannot, with your best deliberation and
heed, come so close to any question as your spontaneous glance shall bring you, whilst
you rise from your bed, or walk abroad in the morning after meditating the matter before
sleep on the previous night. Our thinking is a pious reception. Our truth of thought is
therefore vitiated as much by too violent direction given by our will, as by too great
negligence. We do not determine what we will think. We only open our senses, clear away,
as we can, all obstruction from the fact, and suffer the intellect to see. We have little control
over our thoughts. We are the prisoners of ideas. They catch us up for moments into their
heaven, and so fully engage us, that we take no thought for the morrow, gaze like children,
without an effort to make them our own. By and by we fall out of that rapture, bethink us
where we have been, what we have seen, and repeat, as truly as we can, what we have
beheld. As far as we can recall these ecstasies, we carry away in the ineffaceable memory
the result, and all men and all the ages confirm it. It is called Truth. But the moment we
cease to report, and attempt to correct and contrive, it is not truth.

If we consider what persons have stimulated and profited us, we shall perceive the sup-
eriority of the spontaneous or intuitive principle over the arithmetical or logical. The first
contains the second, but virtual and latent. We want, in every man, a long logic; we cannot
pardon the absence of it, but it must not be spoken. Logic is the procession or propor-
tionate unfolding of the intuition; but its virtue is as silent method; the moment it would
appear as propositions, and have a separate value, it is worthless.

In every man's mind, some images, words, and facts remain, without effort on his part to
imprint them, which others forget, and afterwards these illustrate to him important laws. All
our progress is an unfolding, like the vegetable bud. You have first an instinct, then an
opinion, then a knowledge, as the plant has root, bud, and fruit. Trust the instinct to the end,
though you can render no reason. It is vain to hurry it. By trusting it to the end, it shall ripen
into truth, and you shall know why you believe.

Each mind has its own method. A true man never acquires after college rules. What you
have aggregated in a natural manner surprises and delights when it is produced. For we
cannot oversee each other's secret. And hence the differences between men in natural
endowment are insignificant in comparison with their common wealth. Do you think the
porter and the cook have no anecdotes, no experiences, no wonders for you? Every body
knows as much as the savant. The walls of rude minds are scrawled all over with facts, with
thoughts. They shall one day bring a lantern and read the inscriptions. Every man, in the
degree in which he has wit and culture, finds his curiosity inflamed concerning the modes of
living and thinking of other men, and especially of those classes whose minds have not
been subdued by the drill of school education.

This instinctive action never ceases in a healthy mind, but becomes richer and more
frequent in its informations through all states of culture. At last comes the era of reflection,
when we not only observe, but take pains to observe; when we of set purpose sit down to
consider an abstract truth; when we keep the mind's eye open, whilst we converse, whilst
we read, whilst we act, intent to learn the secret law of some class of facts.

What is the hardest task in the world? To think. I would put myself in the attitude to look in
the eye an abstract truth, and I cannot. I blench and withdraw on this side and on that. I
seem to know what he meant who said, No man can see God face to face and live. For
example, a man explores the basis of civil government. Let him intend his mind without
respite, without rest, in one direction. His best heed long time avails him nothing. Yet
thoughts are flitting before him. We all but apprehend, we dimly forebode the truth. We say,
I will walk abroad, and the truth will take form and clearness to me. We go forth, but cannot
find it. It seems as if we needed only the stillness and composed attitude of the library to
seize the thought. But we come in, and are as far from it as at first. Then, in a moment, and
unannounced, the truth appears. A certain, wandering light appears, and is the distinction,
the principle, we wanted. But the oracle comes, because we had previously laid siege to
the shrine. It seems as if the law of the intellect resembled that law of nature by which we
now inspire, now expire the breath; by which the heart now draws in, then hurls out the
blood,--the law of undulation. So now you must labor with your brains, and now you must
forbear your activity, and see what the great Soul showeth.

The immortality of man is as legitimately preached from the intellections as from the moral
volitions. Every intellection is mainly prospective. Its present value is its least. Inspect what
delights you in Plutarch, in Shakspeare, in Cervantes. Each truth that a writer acquires is a
lantern, which he turns full on what facts and thoughts lay already in his mind, and behold,
all the mats and rubbish which had littered his garret become precious. Every trivial fact in
his private biography becomes an illustration of this new principle, revisits the day, and
delights all men by its piquancy and new charm. Men say, Where did he get this? and think
there was something divine in his life. But no; they have myriads of facts just as good,
would they only get a lamp to ransack their attics withal.

We are all wise. The difference between persons is not in wisdom but in art. I knew, in an
academical club, a person who always deferred to me, who, seeing my whim for writing,
fancied that my experiences had somewhat superior; whilst I saw that his experiences were
as good as mine. Give them to me, and I would make the same use of them. He held the
old; he holds the new; I had the habit of tacking together the old and the new, which he did
not use to exercise. This may hold in the great examples. Perhaps if we should meet
Shakspeare, we should not be conscious of any steep inferiority; no: but of a great equality,
-- only that he possessed a strange skill of using, of classifying, his facts, which we lacked.
For, notwithstanding our utter incapacity to produce any thing like Hamlet and Othello, see
the perfect reception this wit, and immense knowledge of life, and liquid eloquence find in
us all.

If you gather apples in the sunshine, or make hay, or hoe corn, and then retire within doors,
and shut your eyes, and press them with your hand, you shall still see apples hanging in the
bright light, with boughs and leaves thereto, or the tasselled grass, or the corn-flags, and
this for five or six hours afterwards. There lie the impressions on the retentive organ,
though you knew it not. So lies the whole series of natural images with which your life has
made you acquainted in your memory, though you know it not, and a thrill of passion
flashes light on their dark chamber, and the active power seizes instantly the fit image, as
the word of its momentary thought.

It is long ere we discover how rich we are. Our history, we are sure, is quite tame: we have
nothing to write, nothing to infer. But our wiser years still run back to the despised
recollections of childhood, and always we are fishing up some wonderful article out of that
pond; until, by and by, we begin to suspect that the biography of the one foolish person we
know is, in reality, nothing less than the miniature paraphrase of the hundred volumes of
the Universal History.

In the intellect constructive, which we popularly designate by the word Genius, we observe
the same balance of two elements as in intellect receptive. The constructive intellect
produces thoughts, sentences, poems, plans, designs, systems. It is the generation of the
mind, the marriage of thought with nature. To genius must always go two gifts, the thought
and the publication. The first is revelation, always a miracle, which no frequency of occur-
rence or incessant study can ever familiarize, but which must always leave the inquirer
stupid with wonder. It is the advent of truth into the world, a form of thought now, for
the first time, bursting into the universe, a child of the old eternal soul, a piece of genuine
and immeasurable greatness. It seems, for the time, to inherit all that has yet existed, and
to dictate to the unborn. It affects every thought of man, and goes to fashion every
institution. But to make it available, it needs a vehicle or art by which it is conveyed to
men. To be communicable, it must become picture or sensible object. We must learn the
language of facts. The most wonderful inspirations die with their subject, if he has no hand
to paint them to the senses. The ray of light passes invisible through space, and only when
it falls on an object is it seen. When the spiritual energy is directed on something outward,
then it is a thought. The relation between it and you first makes you, the value of you,
apparent to me. The rich, inventive genius of the painter must be smothered and lost for
want of the power of drawing, and in our happy hours we should be inexhaustible poets, if
once we could break through the silence into adequate rhyme. As all men have some
access to primary truth, so all have some art or power of communication in their head, but
only in the artist does it descend into the hand. There is an inequality, whose laws we do
not yet know, between two men and between two moments of the same man, in respect to
this faculty. In common hours, we have the same facts as in the uncommon or inspired, but
they do not sit for their portraits; they are not detached, but lie in a web. The thought of
genius is spontaneous; but the power of picture or expression, in the most enriched and
flowing nature, implies a mixture of will, a certain control over the spontaneous states,
without which no production is possible. It is a conversion of all nature into the rhetoric of
thought, under the eye of judgment, with a strenuous exercise of choice. And yet the
imaginative vocabulary seems to be spontaneous also. It does not flow from experience
only or mainly, but from a richer source. Not by any conscious imitation of particular forms
are the grand strokes of the painter executed, but by repairing to the fountain-head of all
forms in his mind. Who is the first drawing-master? Without instruction we know very well
the ideal of the human form. A child knows if an arm or a leg be distorted in a picture, if the
attitude be natural or grand, or mean, though he has never received any instruction in
drawing, or heard any conversation on the subject, nor can himself draw with correctness a
single feature. A good form strikes all eyes pleasantly, long before they have any science
on the subject, and a beautiful face sets twenty hearts in palpitation, prior to all
consideration of the mechanical proportions of the features and head. We may owe to
dreams some light on the fountain of this skill; for, as soon as we let our will go, and let the
unconscious states ensue, see what cunning draughtsmen we are! We entertain ourselves
with wonderful forms of men, of women, of animals, of gardens, of woods, and of
monsters, and the mystic pencil wherewith we then draw has no awkwardness or
inexperience, no meagreness or poverty; it can design well, and group well; its composition
is full of art, its colors are well laid on, and the whole canvas which it paints is life-like, and
apt to touch us with terror, with tenderness, with desire, and with grief. Neither are the
artist's copies from experience ever mere copies, but always touched and softened by tints
from this ideal domain.

The conditions essential to a constructive mind do not appear to be so often combined but
that a good sentence or verse remains fresh and memorable for a long time. Yet when we
write with ease, and come out into the free air of thought, we seem to be assured that
nothing is easier than to continue this communication at pleasure. Up, down, around, the
kingdom of thought has no inclosures, but the Muse makes us free of her city. Well, the
world has a million writers. One would think, then, that good thought would be as familiar as
air and water, and the gifts of each new hour would exclude the last. Yet we can count all
our good books; nay, I remember any beautiful verse for twenty years. It is true that the
discerning intellect of the world is always much in advance of the creative, so that there are
many competent judges of the best book, and few writers of the best books. But some of
the conditions of intellectual construction are of rare occurrence. The intellect is a whole,
and demands integrity in every work. This is resisted equally by a man's devotion to a
single thought, and by his ambition to combine too many.

Truth is our element of life, yet if a man fasten his attention on a single aspect of truth, and
apply himself to that alone for a long time, the truth becomes distorted and not itself, but
falsehood; herein resembling the air, which is our natural element, and the breath of our
nostrils, but if a stream of the same be directed on the body for a time, it causes cold,
fever, and even death. How wearisome the grammarian, the phrenologist, the political or
religious fanatic, or indeed any possessed mortal whose balance is lost by the exaggeration
of a single topic. It is incipient insanity. Every thought is a prison also. I cannot see what you
see, because I am caught up by a strong wind, and blown so far in one direction that I am
out of the hoop of your horizon.

Is it any better, if the student, to avoid this offence, and to liberalize himself, aims to
make a mechanical whole of history, or science, or philosophy, by a numerical addition of
all the facts that fall within his vision? The world refuses to be analyzed by addition and
subtraction. When we are young, we spend much time and pains in filling our note-books
with all definitions of Religion, Love, Poetry, Politics, Art, in the hope that, in the course
of a few years, we shall have condensed into our encyclopaedia the net value of all the
theories at which the world has yet arrived. But year after year our tables get no com-
pleteness, and at last we discover that our curve is a parabola, whose arcs will never meet.
Neither by detachment, neither by aggregation, is the integrity of the intellect transmitted
to its works, but by a vigilance which brings the intellect in its greatness and best state to
operate every moment. It must have the same wholeness which nature has. Although no
diligence can rebuild the universe in a model, by the best accumulation or disposition of
details, yet does the world reappear in miniature in every event, so that all the laws of
nature may be read in the smallest fact. The intellect must have the like perfection in its
apprehension and in its works. For this reason, an index or mercury of intellectual
proficiency is the perception of identity. We talk with accomplished persons who appear to
be strangers in nature. The cloud, the tree, the turf, the bird are not theirs, have nothing of
them: the world is only their lodging and table. But the poet, whose verses are to be spheral
and complete, is one whom Nature cannot deceive, whatsoever face of strangeness she
may put on. He feels a strict consanguinity, and detects more likeness than variety in all her
changes. We are stung by the desire for new thought; but when we receive a new thought,
it is only the old thought with a new face, and though we make it our own, we instantly
crave another; we are not really enriched. For the truth was in us before it was reflected to
us from natural objects; and the profound genius will cast the likeness of all creatures into
every product of his wit.

But if the constructive powers are rare, and it is given to few men to be poets, yet every
man is a receiver of this descending holy ghost, and may well study the laws of its influx.
Exactly parallel is the whole rule of intellectual duty to the rule of moral duty. A self-denial,
no less austere than the saint's, is demanded of the scholar. He must worship truth, and
forego all things for that, and choose defeat and pain, so that his treasure in thought is
thereby augmented.

God offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose. Take which you please, --
you can never have both. Between these, as a pendulum, man oscillates. He in whom the
love of repose predominates will accept the first creed, the first philosophy, the first political
party he meets,--most likely his father's. He gets rest, commodity, and reputation; but he
shuts the door of truth. He in whom the love of truth predominates will keep himself aloof
from all moorings, and afloat. He will abstain from dogmatism, and recognize all the
opposite negations, between which, as walls, his being is swung. He submits to the
inconvenience of suspense and imperfect opinion, but he is a candidate for truth, as the
other is not, and respects the highest law of his being.

The circle of the green earth he must measure with his shoes, to find the man who can
yield him truth. He shall then know that there is somewhat more blessed and great in
hearing than in speaking. Happy is the hearing man; unhappy the speaking man. As long
as I hear truth, I am bathed by a beautiful element, and am not conscious of any limits to
my nature. The suggestions are thousandfold that I hear and see. The waters of the great
deep have ingress and egress to the soul. But if I speak, I define, I confine, and am less.
When Socrates speaks, Lysis and Menexenus are afflicted by no shame that they do not
speak. They also are good. He likewise defers to them, loves them, whilst he speaks.
Because a true and natural man contains and is the same truth which an eloquent man
articulates: but in the eloquent man, because he can articulate it, it seems something the
less to reside, and he turns to these silent beautiful with the more inclination and respect.
The ancient sentence said, Let us be silent, for so are the gods. Silence is a solvent that
destroys personality, and gives us leave to be great and universal. Every man's progress is
through a succession of teachers, each of whom seems at the time to have a superlative
influence, but it at last gives place to a new. Frankly let him accept it all. Jesus says, Leave
father, mother, house and lands, and follow me. Who leaves all, receives more. This is as
true intellectually as morally. Each new mind we approach seems to require an abdication
of all our past and present possessions. A new doctrine seems, at first, a subversion of all
our opinions, tastes, and manner of living. Such has Swedenborg, such has Kant, such has
Coleridge, such has Hegel or his interpreter Cousin, seemed to many young men in this
country. Take thankfully and heartily all they can give. Exhaust them, wrestle with them, let
them not go until their blessing be won, and, after a short season, the dismay will be
overpast, the excess of influence withdrawn, and they will be no longer an alarming
meteor, but one more bright star shining serenely in your heaven, and blending its light with
all your day.

But whilst he gives himself up unreservedly to that which draws him, because that is his
own, he is to refuse himself to that which draws him not, whatsoever fame and authority
may attend it, because it is not his own. Entire self-reliance belongs to the intellect. One
soul is a counterpoise of all souls, as a capillary column of water is a balance for the sea. It
must treat things, and books, and sovereign genius, as itself also a sovereign. If Aeschylus
be that man he is taken for, he has not yet done his office, when he has educated the
learned of Europe for a thousand years. He is now to approve himself a master of delight to
me also. If he cannot do that, all his fame shall avail him nothing with me. I were a fool not
to sacrifice a thousand Aeschyluses to my intellectual integrity. Especially take the same
ground in regard to abstract truth, the science of the mind. The Bacon, the Spinoza, the
Hume, Schelling, Kant, or whosoever propounds to you a philosophy of the mind, is only a
more or less awkward translator of things in your consciousness, which you have also your
way of seeing, perhaps of denominating. Say, then, instead of too timidly poring into his
obscure sense, that he has not succeeded in rendering back to you your consciousness.
He has not succeeded; now let another try. If Plato cannot, perhaps Spinoza will. If Spinoza
cannot, then perhaps Kant. Anyhow, when at last it is done, you will find it is no recondite,
but a simple, natural, common state, which the writer restores to you.

But let us end these didactics. I will not, though the subject might provoke it, speak to the
open question between Truth and Love. I shall not presume to interfere in the old politics of
the skies;--- “The cherubim know most; the seraphim love most.” The gods shall settle
their own quarrels. But I cannot recite, even thus rudely, laws of the intellect, without
remembering that lofty and sequestered class of men who have been its prophets and
oracles, the high-priesthood of the pure reason, the Trismegisti, the expounders of the
principles of thought from age to age. When, at long intervals, we turn over their abstruse
pages, wonderful seems the calm and grand air of these few, these great spiritual lords,
who have walked in the world,--these of the old religion,--dwelling in a worship which
makes the sanctities of Christianity look parvenues and popular; for “persuasion is in
soul, but necessity is in intellect.” This band of grandees, Hermes, Heraclitus, Empedocles,
Plato, Plotinus, Olympiodorus, Proclus, Synesius, and the rest, have somewhat so vast in
their logic, so primary in their thinking, that it seems antecedent to all the ordinary
distinctions of rhetoric and literature, and to be at once poetry, and music, and dancing,
and astronomy, and mathematics. I am present at the sowing of the seed of the world. With
a geometry of sunbeams, the soul lays the foundations of nature. The truth and grandeur of
their thought is proved by its scope and applicability, for it commands the entire schedule
and inventory of things for its illustration. But what marks its elevation, and has even a
comic look to us, is the innocent serenity with which these babe-like Jupiters sit in their
clouds, and from age to age prattle to each other, and to no contemporary. Well assured
that their speech is intelligible, and the most natural thing in the world, they add thesis to
thesis, without a moment's heed of the universal astonishment of the human race below,
who do not comprehend their plainest argument; nor do they ever relent so much as to
insert a popular or explaining sentence; nor testify the least displeasure or petulance at the
dulness of their amazed auditory. The angels are so enamoured of the language that is
spoken in heaven, that they will not distort their lips with the hissing and unmusical dialects
of men, but speak their own, whether there be any who understand it or not.



XII. Art



Give to barrows, trays, and pans
Grace and glimmer of romance;
Bring the moonlight into noon
Hid in gleaming piles of stone;
On the city's paved street
Plant gardens lined with lilac sweet;
Let spouting fountains cool the air,
Singing in the sun-baked square;
Let statue, picture, park, and hall,
Ballad, flag, and festival,
The past restore, the day adorn,
And make each morrow a new morn.
So shall the drudge in dusty frock
Spy behind the city clock
Retinues of airy kings,
Skirts of angels, starry wings,
His fathers shining in bright fables,
His children fed at heavenly tables.
‘T is the privilege of Art
Thus to play its cheerful part,
Man in Earth to acclimate,
And bend the exile to his fate,
And, moulded of one element
With the days and firmament,
Teach him on these as stairs to climb,
And live on even terms with Time;
Whilst upper life the slender rill
Of human sense doth overfill.



Because the soul is progressive, it never quite repeats itself, but in every act attempts the
production of a new and fairer whole. This appears in works both of the useful and the fine
arts, if we employ the popular distinction of works according to their aim, either at use or
beauty. Thus in our fine arts, not imitation, but creation is the aim. In landscapes, the
painter should give the suggestion of a fairer creation than we know. The details, the prose
of nature he should omit, and give us only the spirit and splendor. He should know that the
landscape has beauty for his eye, because it expresses a thought which is to him good: and
this, because the same power which sees through his eyes, is seen in that spectacle; and
he will come to value the expression of nature, and not nature itself, and so exalt in his
copy, the features that please him. He will give the gloom of gloom, and the sunshine of
sunshine. In a portrait, he must inscribe the character, and not the features, and must
esteem the man who sits to him as himself only an imperfect picture or likeness of the
aspiring original within.

What is that abridgment and selection we observe in all spiritual activity, but itself the
creative impulse? for it is the inlet of that higher illumination which teaches to convey a
larger sense by simpler symbols. What is a man but nature's finer success in selfexplication?
What is a man but a finer and compacter landscape than the horizon figures, --
nature's eclecticism? and what is his speech, his love of painting, love of nature, but a still
finer success? all the weary miles and tons of space and bulk left out, and the spirit or
moral of it contracted into a musical word, or the most cunning stroke of the pencil?

But the artist must employ the symbols in use in his day and nation, to convey his enlarged
sense to his fellow-men. Thus the new in art is always formed out of the old. The Genius of
the Hour sets his ineffaceable seal on the work, and gives it an inexpressible charm for the
imagination. As far as the spiritual character of the period overpowers the artist, and finds
expression in his work, so far it will retain a certain grandeur, and will represent to future
beholders the Unknown, the Inevitable, the Divine. No man can quite exclude this element
of Necessity from his labor. No man can quite emancipate himself from his age and
country, or produce a model in which the education, the religion, the politics, usages, and
arts, of his times shall have no share. Though he were never so original, never so wilful
and fantastic, he cannot wipe out of his work every trace of the thoughts amidst which it
grew. The very avoidance betrays the usage he avoids. Above his will, and out of his sight,
he is necessitated, by the air he breathes, and the idea on which he and his
contemporaries live and toil, to share the manner of his times, without knowing what that
manner is. Now that which is inevitable in the work has a higher charm than individual
talent can ever give, inasmuch as the artist's pen or chisel seems to have been held and
guided by a gigantic hand to inscribe a line in the history of the human race. This
circumstance gives a value to the Egyptian hieroglyphics, to the Indian, Chinese, and
Mexican idols, however gross and shapeless. They denote the height of the human soul in
that hour, and were not fantastic, but sprung from a necessity as deep as the world. Shall I
now add, that the whole extant product of the plastic arts has herein its highest value, as
history; as a stroke drawn in the portrait of that fate, perfect and beautiful, according to
whose ordinations all beings advance to their beatitude?

Thus, historically viewed, it has been the office of art to educate the perception of beauty.
We are immersed in beauty, but our eyes have no clear vision. It needs, by the exhibition of
single traits, to assist and lead the dormant taste. We carve and paint, or we behold what is
carved and painted, as students of the mystery of Form. The virtue of art lies in
detachment, in sequestering one object from the embarrassing variety. Until one thing
comes out from the connection of things, there can be enjoyment, contemplation, but no
thought. Our happiness and unhappiness are unproductive. The infant lies in a pleasing
trance, but his individual character and his practical power depend on his daily progress in
the separation of things, and dealing with one at a time. Love and all the passions concen-
trate all existence around a single form. It is the habit of certain minds to give an all-ex-
cluding fulness to the object, the thought, the word, they alight upon, and to make that for
the time the deputy of the world. These are the artists, the orators, the leaders of society.
The power to detach, and to magnify by detaching, is the essence of rhetoric in the hands
of the orator and the poet. This rhetoric, or power to fix the momentary eminency of an
object,--so remarkable in Burke, in Byron, in Carlyle,--the painter and sculptor exhibit in
color and in stone. The power depends on the depth of the artist's insight of that object he
contemplates. For every object has its roots in central nature, and may of course be so
exhibited to us as to represent the world. Therefore, each work of genius is the tyrant of the
hour, and concentrates attention on itself. For the time, it is the only thing worth naming to
do that,--be it a sonnet, an opera, a landscape, a statue, an oration, the plan of a temple,
of a campaign, or of a voyage of discovery. Presently we pass to some other object, which
rounds itself into a whole, as did the first; for example, a well-laid garden: and nothing
seems worth doing but the laying out of gardens. I should think fire the best thing in the
world, if I were not acquainted with air, and water, and earth. For it is the right and property
of all natural objects, of all genuine talents, of all native properties whatsoever, to be for
their moment the top of the world. A squirrel leaping from bough to bough, and making the
wood but one wide tree for his pleasure, fills the eye not less than a lion,--is beautiful,
self-sufficing, and stands then and there for nature. A good ballad draws my ear and heart
whilst I listen, as much as an epic has done before. A dog, drawn by a master, or a litter of
pigs, satisfies, and is a reality not less than the frescoes of Angelo. From this succession of
excellent objects, we learn at last the immensity of the world, the opulence of human
nature, which can run out to infinitude in any direction. But I also learn that what astonished
and fascinated me in the first work astonished me in the second work also; that excellence
of all things is one.

The office of painting and sculpture seems to be merely initial. The best pictures can easily
tell us their last secret. The best pictures are rude draughts of a few of the miraculous dots
and lines and dyes which make up the ever-changing “landscape with figures” amidst which
we dwell. Painting seems to be to the eye what dancing is to the limbs. When that has edu-
cated the frame to self-possession, to nimbleness, to grace, the steps of the dancingmaster
are better forgotten; so painting teaches me the splendor of color and the expression of
form, and, as I see many pictures and higher genius in the art, I see the boundless opulence
of the pencil, the indifferency in which the artist stands free to choose out of the possible
forms. If he can draw every thing, why draw any thing? and then is my eye opened to the
eternal picture which nature paints in the street with moving men and children, beggars,
and fine ladies, draped in red, and green, and blue, and gray; longhaired, grizzled, white-
faced, black-faced, wrinkled, giant, dwarf, expanded, elfish,--capped and based by heaven,
earth, and sea.

A gallery of sculpture teaches more austerely the same lesson. As picture teaches the
coloring, so sculpture the anatomy of form. When I have seen fine statues, and afterwards
enter a public assembly, I understand well what he meant who said, “When I have been
reading Homer, all men look like giants.” I too see that painting and sculpture are gym-
nastics of the eye, its training to the niceties and curiosities of its function. There is no
statue like this living man, with his infinite advantage over all ideal sculpture, of perpetual
variety. What a gallery of art have I here! No mannerist made these varied groups and
diverse original single figures. Here is the artist himself improvising, grim and glad, at his
block. Now one thought strikes him, now another, and with each moment he alters the
whole air, attitude, and expression of his clay. Away with your nonsense of oil and easels,
of marble and chisels: except to open your eyes to the masteries of eternal art, they are
hypocritical rubbish.

The reference of all production at last to an aboriginal Power explains the traits common to
all works of the highest art,--that they are universally intelligible; that they restore to us
the simplest states of mind; and are religious. Since what skill is therein shown is the
reappearance of the original soul, a jet of pure light, it should produce a similar impression
to that made by natural objects. In happy hours, nature appears to us one with art; art
perfected,--the work of genius. And the individual, in whom simple tastes and
susceptibility to all the great human influences overpower the accidents of a local and
special culture, is the best critic of art. Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful,
we must carry it with us, or we find it not. The best of beauty is a finer charm than skill in
surfaces, in outlines, or rules of art can ever teach, namely, a radiation from the work of art
of human character,--a wonderful expression through stone, or canvas, or musical sound,
of the deepest and simplest attributes of our nature, and therefore most intelligible at last to
those souls which have these attributes. In the sculptures of the Greeks, in the masonry of
the Romans, and in the pictures of the Tuscan and Venetian masters, the highest charm is
the universal language they speak. A confession of moral nature, of purity, love, and hope,
breathes from them all. That which we carry to them, the same we bring back more fairly
illustrated in the memory. The traveller who visits the Vatican, and passes from chamber to
chamber through galleries of statues, vases, sarcophagi, and candelabra, through all forms
of beauty, cut in the richest materials, is in danger of forgetting the simplicity of the
principles out of which they all sprung, and that they had their origin from thoughts and laws
in his own breast. He studies the technical rules on these wonderful remains, but forgets
that these works were not always thus constellated; that they are the contributions of many
ages and many countries; that each came out of the solitary workshop of one artist, who
toiled perhaps in ignorance of the existence of other sculpture, created his work without
other model, save life, household life, and the sweet and smart of personal relations, of
beating hearts, and meeting eyes, of poverty, and necessity, and hope, and fear. These
were his inspirations, and these are the effects he carries home to your heart and mind. In
proportion to his force, the artist will find in his work an outlet for his proper character. He
must not be in any manner pinched or hindered by his material, but through his necessity of
imparting himself the adamant will be wax in his hands, and will allow an adequate
communication of himself, in his full stature and proportion. He need not cumber himself
with a conventional nature and culture, nor ask what is the mode in Rome or in Paris, but
that house, and weather, and manner of living which poverty and the fate of birth have
made at once so odious and so dear, in the gray, unpainted wood cabin, on the corner of a
New Hampshire farm, or in the log-hut of the backwoods, or in the narrow lodging where he
has endured the constraints and seeming of a city poverty, will serve as well as any other
condition as the symbol of a thought which pours itself indifferently through all.

I remember, when in my younger days I had heard of the wonders of Italian painting, I
fancied the great pictures would be great strangers; some surprising combination of color
and form; a foreign wonder, barbaric pearl and gold, like the spontoons and standards of
the militia, which play such pranks in the eyes and imaginations of school-boys. I was to
see and acquire I knew not what. When I came at last to Rome, and saw with eyes the
pictures, I found that genius left to novices the gay and fantastic and ostentatious, and itself
pierced directly to the simple and true; that it was familiar and sincere; that it was the old,
eternal fact I had met already in so many forms,--unto which I lived; that it was the plain
you and me I knew so well,--had left at home in so many conversations. I had the
same experience already in a church at Naples. There I saw that nothing was changed with
me but the place, and said to myself,--`Thou foolish child, hast thou come out hither, over
four thousand miles of salt water, to find that which was perfect to thee there at home?' --
that fact I saw again in the Academmia at Naples, in the chambers of sculpture, and yet
again when I came to Rome, and to the paintings of Raphael, Angelo, Sacchi, Titian, and
Leonardo da Vinci. “What, old mole! workest thou in the earth so fast?” It had travelled by
my side: that which I fancied I had left in Boston was here in the Vatican, and again at
Milan, and at Paris, and made all travelling ridiculous as a treadmill. I now require this of all
pictures, that they domesticate me, not that they dazzle me. Pictures must not be too
picturesque. Nothing astonishes men so much as common-sense and plain dealing. All
great actions have been simple, and all great pictures are.

The Transfiguration, by Raphael, is an eminent example of this peculiar merit. A calm,
benignant beauty shines over all this picture, and goes directly to the heart. It seems almost
to call you by name. The sweet and sublime face of Jesus is beyond praise, yet how it
disappoints all florid expectations! This familiar, simple, home-speaking countenance is as
if one should meet a friend. The knowledge of picture-dealers has its value, but listen not
to their criticism when your heart is touched by genius. It was not painted for them, it was
painted for you; for such as had eyes capable of being touched by simplicity and lofty
emotions.

Yet when we have said all our fine things about the arts, we must end with a frank con-
fession, that the arts, as we know them, are but initial. Our best praise is given to what
they aimed and promised, not to the actual result. He has conceived meanly of the
resources of man, who believes that the best age of production is past. The real value of
the Iliad, or the Transfiguration, is as signs of power; billows or ripples they are of the
stream of tendency; tokens of the everlasting effort to produce, which even in its worst
estate the soul betrays. Art has not yet come to its maturity, if it do not put itself abreast
with the most potent influences of the world, if it is not practical and moral, if it do not stand
in connection with the conscience, if it do not make the poor and uncultivated feel that it
addresses them with a voice of lofty cheer. There is higher work for Art than the arts. They
are abortive births of an imperfect or vitiated instinct. Art is the need to create; but in its
essence, immense and universal, it is impatient of working with lame or tied hands, and of
making cripples and monsters, such as all pictures and statues are. Nothing less than the
creation of man and nature is its end. A man should find in it an outlet for his whole energy.
He may paint and carve only as long as he can do that. Art should exhilarate, and throw
down the walls of circumstance on every side, awakening in the beholder the same sense
of universal relation and power which the work evinced in the artist, and its highest effect
is to make new artists.

Already History is old enough to witness the old age and disappearance of particular arts.
The art of sculpture is long ago perished to any real effect. It was originally a useful art, a
mode of writing, a savage's record of gratitude or devotion, and among a people possessed
of a wonderful perception of form this childish carving was refined to the utmost splendor of
effect. But it is the game of a rude and youthful people, and not the manly labor of a wise
and spiritual nation. Under an oak-tree loaded with leaves and nuts, under a sky full of
eternal eyes, I stand in a thoroughfare; but in the works of our plastic arts, and especially of
sculpture, creation is driven into a corner. I cannot hide from myself that there is a certain
appearance of paltriness, as of toys, and the trumpery of a theatre, in sculpture. Nature
transcends all our moods of thought, and its secret we do not yet find. But the gallery
stands at the mercy of our moods, and there is a moment when it becomes frivolous. I do
not wonder that Newton, with an attention habitually engaged on the paths of planets and
suns, should have wondered what the Earl of Pembroke found to admire in “stone dolls.”
Sculpture may serve to teach the pupil how deep is the secret of form, how purely the spirit
can translate its meanings into that eloquent dialect. But the statue will look cold and false
before that new activity which needs to roll through all things, and is impatient of
counterfeits, and things not alive. Picture and sculpture are the celebrations and festivities
of form. But true art is never fixed, but always flowing. The sweetest music is not in the
oratorio, but in the human voice when it speaks from its instant life tones of tenderness,
truth, or courage. The oratorio has already lost its relation to the morning, to the sun, and
the earth, but that persuading voice is in tune with these. All works of art should not be
detached, but extempore performances. A great man is a new statue in every attitude and
action. A beautiful woman is a picture which drives all beholders nobly mad. Life may be
lyric or epic, as well as a poem or a romance.

A true announcement of the law of creation, if a man were found worthy to declare it, would
carry art up into the kingdom of nature, and destroy its separate and contrasted existence.
The fountains of invention and beauty in modern society are all but dried up. A popular
novel, a theatre, or a ball-room makes us feel that we are all paupers in the alms-house of
this world, without dignity, without skill, or industry. Art is as poor and low. The old tragic
Necessity, which lowers on the brows even of the Venuses and the Cupids of the antique,
and furnishes the sole apology for the intrusion of such anomalous figures into nature, --
namely, that they were inevitable; that the artist was drunk with a passion for form which he
could not resist, and which vented itself in these fine extravagances,--no longer dignifies
the chisel or the pencil. But the artist and the connoisseur now seek in art the exhibition of
their talent, or an asylum from the evils of life. Men are not well pleased with the figure they
make in their own imaginations, and they flee to art, and convey their better sense in an
oratorio, a statue, or a picture. Art makes the same effort which a sensual prosperity makes;
namely, to detach the beautiful from the useful, to do up the work as unavoidable, and,
hating it, pass on to enjoyment. These solaces and compensations, this division of beauty
from use, the laws of nature do not permit. As soon as beauty is sought, not from religion
and love, but for pleasure, it degrades the seeker. High beauty is no longer attainable by
him in canvas or in stone, in sound, or in lyrical construction; an effeminate, prudent, sickly
beauty, which is not beauty, is all that can be formed; for the hand can never execute any
thing higher than the character can inspire.

The art that thus separates is itself first separated. Art must not be a superficial talent, but
must begin farther back in man. Now men do not see nature to be beautiful, and they go to
make a statue which shall be. They abhor men as tasteless, dull, and inconvertible, and
console themselves with color-bags, and blocks of marble. They reject life as prosaic, and
create a death which they call poetic. They despatch the day's weary chores, and fly to
voluptuous reveries. They eat and drink, that they may afterwards execute the ideal. Thus
is art vilified; the name conveys to the mind its secondary and bad senses; it stands in the
imagination as somewhat contrary to nature, and struck with death from the first. Would it
not be better to begin higher up,--to serve the ideal before they eat and drink; to serve
the ideal in eating and drinking, in drawing the breath, and in the functions of life? Beauty
must come back to the useful arts, and the distinction between the fine and the useful arts
be forgotten. If history were truly told, if life were nobly spent, it would be no longer easy or
possible to distinguish the one from the other. In nature, all is useful, all is beautiful. It is
therefore beautiful, because it is alive, moving, reproductive; it is therefore useful, because
it is symmetrical and fair. Beauty will not come at the call of a legislature, nor will it repeat
in England or America its history in Greece. It will come, as always, unannounced, and
spring up between the feet of brave and earnest men. It is in vain that we look for genius to
reiterate its miracles in the old arts; it is its instinct to find beauty and holiness in new and
necessary facts, in the field and road-side, in the shop and mill. Proceeding from a religious
heart it will raise to a divine use the railroad, the insurance office, the joint-stock company,
our law, our primary assemblies, our commerce, the galvanic battery, the electric jar, the
prism, and the chemist's retort, in which we seek now only an economical use. Is not the
selfish and even cruel aspect which belongs to our great mechanical works,--to mills,
railways, and machinery,--the effect of the mercenary impulses which these works obey?
When its errands are noble and adequate, a steamboat bridging the Atlantic between Old
and New England, and arriving at its ports with the punctuality of a planet, is a step of man
into harmony with nature. The boat at St. Petersburgh, which plies along the Lena by
magnetism, needs little to make it sublime. When science is learned in love, and its powers
are wielded by love, they will appear the supplements and continuations of the material
creation.





　　　　　　　　　
　　　　　　Second Series
　　　　　　　(1844)

I. The Poet



A moody child and wildly wise
Pursued the game with joyful eyes,
Which chose, like meteors, their way,
And rived the dark with private ray:
They overleapt the horizon's edge,
Searched with Apollo's privilege;
Through man, and woman, and sea, and star,
Saw the dance of nature forward far;
Through worlds, and races, and terms, and times,
Saw musical order, and pairing rhymes.
Olympian bards who sung
Divine ideas below,
Which always find us young,
And always keep us so.



Those who are esteemed umpires of taste are often persons who have acquired some
knowledge of admired pictures or sculptures, and have an inclination for whatever is
elegant; but if you inquire whether they are beautiful souls, and whether their own acts are
like fair pictures, you learn that they are selfish and sensual. Their cultivation is local, as if
you should rub a log of dry wood in one spot to produce fire, all the rest remaining cold.
Their knowledge of the fine arts is some study of rules and particulars, or some limited
judgment of color or form, which is exercised for amusement or for show. It is a proof of the
shallowness of the doctrine of beauty, as it lies in the minds of our amateurs, that men
seem to have lost the perception of the instant dependence of form upon soul. There is no
doctrine of forms in our philosophy. We were put into our bodies, as fire is put into a pan, to
be carried about; but there is no accurate adjustment between the spirit and the organ,
much less is the latter the germination of the former. So in regard to other forms, the
intellectual men do not believe in any essential dependence of the material world on
thought and volition. Theologians think it a pretty air-castle to talk of the spiritual meaning
of a ship or a cloud, of a city or a contract, but they prefer to come again to the solid ground
of historical evidence; and even the poets are contented with a civil and conformed manner
of living, and to write poems from the fancy, at a safe distance from their own experience.
But the highest minds of the world have never ceased to explore the double meaning, or,
shall I say, the quadruple, or the centuple, or much more manifold meaning, of every
sensuous fact: Orpheus, Empedocles, Heraclitus, Plato, Plutarch, Dante, Swedenborg, and
the masters of sculpture, picture, and poetry. For we are not pans and barrows, nor even
porters of the fire and torch-bearers, but children of the fire, made of it, and only the same
divinity transmuted, and at two or three removes, when we know least about it. And this
hidden truth, that the fountains whence all this river of Time, and its creatures, floweth, are
intrinsically ideal and beautiful, draws us to the consideration of the nature and functions of
the Poet, or the man of Beauty, to the means and materials he uses, and to the general
aspect of the art in the present time.

The breadth of the problem is great, for the poet is representative. He stands among partial
men for the complete man, and apprises us not of his wealth, but of the common-wealth.
The young man reveres men of genius, because, to speak truly, they are more himself than
he is. They receive of the soul as he also receives, but they more. Nature enhances her
beauty, to the eye of loving men, from their belief that the poet is beholding her shows at
the same time. He is isolated among his contemporaries, by truth and by his art, but with
this consolation in his pursuits, that they will draw all men sooner or later. For all men live
by truth, and stand in need of expression. In love, in art, in avarice, in politics, in labor, in
games, we study to utter our painful secret. The man is only half himself, the other half is
his expression.

Notwithstanding this necessity to be published, adequate expression is rare. I know not
how it is that we need an interpreter; but the great majority of men seem to be minors, who
have not yet come into possession of their own, or mutes, who cannot report the
conversation they have had with nature. There is no man who does not anticipate a
supersensual utility in the sun, and stars, earth, and water. These stand and wait to render
him a peculiar service. But there is some obstruction, or some excess of phlegm in our
constitution, which does not suffer them to yield the due effect. Too feeble fall the
impressions of nature on us to make us artists. Every touch should thrill. Every man should
be so much an artist, that he could report in conversation what had befallen him. Yet, in our
experience, the rays or appulses have sufficient force to arrive at the senses, but not
enough to reach the quick, and compel the reproduction of themselves in speech. The poet
is the person in whom these powers are in balance, the man without impediment, who sees
and handles that which others dream of, traverses the whole scale of experience, and is
representative of man, in virtue of being the largest power to receive and to impart.

For the Universe has three children, born at one time, which reappear, under different
names, in every system of thought, whether they be called cause, operation, and effect; or,
more poetically, Jove, Pluto, Neptune; or, theologically, the Father, the Spirit, and the Son;
but which we will call here, the Knower, the Doer, and the Sayer. These stand respectively
for the love of truth, for the love of good, and for the love of beauty. These three are equal.
Each is that which he is essentially, so that he cannot be surmounted or analyzed, and
each of these three has the power of the others latent in him, and his own patent.

The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents beauty. He is a sovereign, and stands on
the centre. For the world is not painted, or adorned, but is from the beginning beautiful;
and God has not made some beautiful things, but Beauty is the creator of the universe.
Therefore the poet is not any permissive potentate, but is emperor in his own right.
Criticism is infested with a cant of materialism, which assumes that manual skill and activity
is the first merit of all men, and disparages such as say and do not, overlooking the fact,
that some men, namely, poets, are natural sayers, sent into the world to the end of
expression, and confounds them with those whose province is action, but who quit it to
imitate the sayers. But Homer's words are as costly and admirable to Homer, as
Agamemnon's victories are to Agamemnon. The poet does not wait for the hero or the
sage, but, as they act and think primarily, so he writes primarily what will and must be
spoken, reckoning the others, though primaries also, yet, in respect to him, secondaries
and servants; as sitters or models in the studio of a painter, or as assistants who bring
building materials to an architect.

For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that
we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings,
and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word, or a verse, and
substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate
ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect,
become the songs of the nations. For nature is as truly beautiful as it is good, or as it is
reasonable, and must as much appear, as it must be done, or be known. Words and deeds
are quite indifferent modes of the divine energy. Words are also actions, and actions are a
kind of words.

The sign and credentials of the poet are, that he announces that which no man foretold. He
is the true and only doctor; he knows and tells; he is the only teller of news, for he was
present and privy to the appearance which he describes. He is a beholder of ideas, and an
utterer of the necessary and causal. For we do not speak now of men of poetical talents, or
of industry and skill in metre, but of the true poet. I took part in a conversation the other day,
concerning a recent writer of lyrics, a man of subtle mind, whose head appeared to be a
music-box of delicate tunes and rhythms, and whose skill, and command of language, we
could not sufficiently praise. But when the question arose, whether he was not only a lyrist,
but a poet, we were obliged to confess that he is plainly a contemporary, not an eternal
man. He does not stand out of our low limitations, like a Chimborazo25 under the line, running
up from the torrid base through all the climates of the globe, with belts of the herbage of
every latitude on its high and mottled sides; but this genius is the landscape-garden of a
modern house, adorned with fountains and statues, with well-bred men and women
standing and sitting in the walks and terraces. We hear, through all the varied music, the
ground-tone of conventional life. Our poets are men of talents who sing, and not the
children of music. The argument is secondary, the finish of the verses is primary.

For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument, that makes a poem,--a thought so
passionate and alive, that, like the spirit of a plant or an animal, it has an architecture of its
own, and adorns nature with a new thing. The thought and the form are equal in the order
of time, but in the order of genesis the thought is prior to the form. The poet has a new
thought: he has a whole new experience to unfold; he will tell us how it was with him, and
all men will be the richer in his fortune. For, the experience of each new age requires a
new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet. I remember, when I was
young, how much I was moved one morning by tidings that genius had appeared in a youth
who sat near me at table. He had left his work, and gone rambling none knew whither, and
had written hundreds of lines, but could not tell whether that which was in him was therein
told: he could tell nothing but that all was changed,--man, beast, heaven, earth, and sea.
How gladly we listened! how credulous! Society seemed to be compromised. We sat in the
aurora of a sunrise which was to put out all the stars. Boston seemed to be at twice the
distance it had the night before, or was much farther than that. Rome,--what was Rome?
Plutarch and Shakspeare were in the yellow leaf, and Homer no more should be heard of. It
is much to know that poetry has been written this very day, under this very roof, by your
side. What! that wonderful spirit has not expired! these stony moments are still sparkling
and animated! I had fancied that the oracles were all silent, and nature had spent her fires,
and behold! all night, from every pore, these fine auroras have been streaming. Every one
has some interest in the advent of the poet, and no one knows how much it may concern
him. We know that the secret of the world is profound, but who or what shall be our
interpreter, we know not. A mountain ramble, a new style of face, a new person, may put
the key into our hands. Of course, the value of genius to us is in the veracity of its report.
Talent may frolic and juggle; genius realizes and adds. Mankind, in good earnest, have
availed so far in understanding themselves and their work, that the foremost watchman on
the peak announces his news. It is the truest word ever spoken, and the phrase will be the
fittest, most musical, and the unerring voice of the world for that time.

All that we call sacred history attests that the birth of a poet is the principal event in
chronology. Man, never so often deceived, still watches for the arrival of a brother who can
hold him steady to a truth, until he has made it his own. With what joy I begin to read a
poem, which I confide in as an inspiration! And now my chains are to be broken; I shall
mount above these clouds and opaque airs in which I live,--opaque, though they seem
transparent,--and from the heaven of truth I shall see and comprehend my relations. That
will reconcile me to life, and renovate nature, to see trifles animated by a tendency, and to
know what I am doing. Life will no more be a noise; now I shall see men and women, and
know the signs by which they may be discerned from fools and satans. This day shall be
better than my birth-day: then I became an animal: now I am invited into the science of the
real. Such is the hope, but the fruition is postponed. Oftener it falls, that this winged man,
who will carry me into the heaven, whirls me into the clouds, then leaps and frisks about
with me from cloud to cloud, still affirming that he is bound heavenward; and I, being myself
a novice, am slow in perceiving that he does not know the way into the heavens, and is
merely bent that I should admire his skill to rise, like a fowl or a flying fish, a little way from
the ground or the water; but the all-piercing, all-feeding, and ocular air of heaven, that man
shall never inhabit. I tumble down again soon into my old nooks, and lead the life of
exaggerations as before, and have lost my faith in the possibility of any guide who can lead
me thither where I would be.

But leaving these victims of vanity, let us, with new hope, observe how nature, by worthier
impulses, has ensured the poet's fidelity to his office of announcement and affirming,
namely, by the beauty of things, which becomes a new, and higher beauty, when
expressed. Nature offers all her creatures to him as a picture-language. Being used as a
type, a second wonderful value appears in the object, far better than its old value, as the
carpenter's stretched cord, if you hold your ear close enough, is musical in the breeze.
“Things more excellent than every image,” says Jamblichus, “are expressed through
images.” Things admit of being used as symbols, because nature is a symbol, in the whole,
and in every part. Every line we can draw in the sand, has expression; and there is no body
without its spirit or genius. All form is an effect of character; all condition, of the quality of
the life; all harmony, of health; (and, for this reason, a perception of beauty should be
sympathetic, or proper only to the good.) The beautiful rests on the foundations of the
necessary. The soul makes the body, as the wise Spenser teaches: --

“So every spirit, as it is most pure,
And hath in it the more of heavenly light,
So it the fairer body doth procure
To habit in, and it more fairly dight,
With cheerful grace and amiable sight.
For, of the soul, the body form doth take,
For soul is form, and doth the body make.”

Here we find ourselves, suddenly, not in a critical speculation, but in a holy place, and
should go very warily and reverently. We stand before the secret of the world, there where
Being passes into Appearance, and Unity into Variety.

The Universe is the externisation of the soul. Wherever the life is, that bursts into
appearance around it. Our science is sensual, and therefore superficial. The earth, and the
heavenly bodies, physics, and chemistry, we sensually treat, as if they were self-existent;
but these are the retinue of that Being we have. “The mighty heaven,” said Proclus,
“exhibits, in its transfigurations, clear images of the splendor of intellectual perceptions;
being moved in conjunction with the unapparent periods of intellectual natures.” Therefore,
science always goes abreast with the just elevation of the man, keeping step with religion
and metaphysics; or, the state of science is an index of our self-knowledge. Since
everything in nature answers to a moral power, if any phenomenon remains brute and dark,
it is that the corresponding faculty in the observer is not yet active.

No wonder, then, if these waters be so deep, that we hover over them with a religious
regard. The beauty of the fable proves the importance of the sense; to the poet, and to all
others; or, if you please, every man is so far a poet as to be susceptible of these
enchantments of nature: for all men have the thoughts whereof the universe is the
celebration. I find that the fascination resides in the symbol. Who loves nature? Who does
not? Is it only poets, and men of leisure and cultivation, who live with her? No; but also
hunters, farmers, grooms, and butchers, though they express their affection in their choice
of life, and not in their choice of words. The writer wonders what the coachman or the
hunter values in riding, in horses, and dogs. It is not superficial qualities. When you talk with
him, he holds these at as slight a rate as you. His worship is sympathetic; he has no
definitions, but he is commanded in nature, by the living power which he feels to be there
present. No imitation, or playing of these things, would content him; he loves the earnest of
the northwind, of rain, of stone, and wood, and iron. A beauty not explicable, is dearer than
a beauty which we can see to the end of. It is nature the symbol, nature certifying the
supernatural, body overflowed by life, which he worships, with coarse, but sincere rites.

The inwardness, and mystery, of this attachment, drives men of every class to the use of
emblems. The schools of poets, and philosophers, are not more intoxicated with their
symbols, than the populace with theirs. In our political parties, compute the power of
badges and emblems. See the great ball which they roll from Baltimore to Bunker hill! In the
political processions, Lowell goes in a loom, and Lynn in a shoe, and Salem in a ship.
Witness the cider-barrel, the log-cabin, the hickory-stick, the palmetto, and all the
cognizances of party. See the power of national emblems. Some stars, lilies, leopards, a
crescent, a lion, an eagle, or other figure, which came into credit God knows how, on an old
rag of bunting, blowing in the wind, on a fort, at the ends of the earth, shall make the blood
tingle under the rudest, or the most conventional exterior. The people fancy they hate
poetry, and they are all poets and mystics!

Beyond this universality of the symbolic language, we are apprised of the divineness of this
superior use of things, whereby the world is a temple, whose walls are covered with
emblems, pictures, and commandments of the Deity, in this, that there is no fact in nature
which does not carry the whole sense of nature; and the distinctions which we make in
events, and in affairs, of low and high, honest and base, disappear when nature is used as
a symbol. Thought makes every thing fit for use. The vocabulary of an omniscient man
would embrace words and images excluded from polite conversation. What would be base,
or even obscene, to the obscene, becomes illustrious, spoken in a new connexion of
thought. The piety of the Hebrew prophets purges their grossness. The circumcision is an
example of the power of poetry to raise the low and offensive. Small and mean things
serve as well as great symbols. The meaner the type by which a law is expressed, the more
pungent it is, and the more lasting in the memories of men: just as we choose the smallest
box, or case, in which any needful utensil can be carried. Bare lists of words are found
suggestive, to an imaginative and excited mind; as it is related of Lord Chatham, that he
was accustomed to read in Bailey's Dictionary, when he was preparing to speak in
Parliament. The poorest experience is rich enough for all the purposes of expressing
thought. Why covet a knowledge of new facts? Day and night, house and garden, a few
books, a few actions, serve us as well as would all trades and all spectacles. We are far
from having exhausted the significance of the few symbols we use. We can come to use
them yet with a terrible simplicity. It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word
was once a poem. Every new relation is a new word. Also, we use defects and deformities
to a sacred purpose, so expressing our sense that the evils of the world are such only to
the evil eye. In the old mythology, mythologists observe, defects are ascribed to divine
natures, as lameness to Vulcan, blindness to Cupid, and the like, to signify exuberances.

For, as it is dislocation and detachment from the life of God, that makes things ugly, the
poet, who re-attaches things to nature and the Whole,--re-attaching even artificial things,
and violations of nature, to nature, by a deeper insight,--disposes very easily of the most
disagreeable facts. Readers of poetry see the factory-village, and the railway, and fancy
that the poetry of the landscape is broken up by these; for these works of art are not yet
consecrated in their reading; but the poet sees them fall within the great Order not less than
the beehive, or the spider's geometrical web. Nature adopts them very fast into her vital
circles, and the gliding train of cars she loves like her own. Besides, in a centred mind, it
signifies nothing how many mechanical inventions you exhibit. Though you add millions,
and never so surprising, the fact of mechanics has not gained a grain's weight. The spir-
itual fact remains unalterable, by many or by few particulars; as no mountain is of any
appreciable height to break the curve of the sphere. A shrewd country-boy goes to the city
for the first time, and the complacent citizen is not satisfied with his little wonder. It is not
that he does not see all the fine houses, and know that he never saw such before, but he
disposes of them as easily as the poet finds place for the railway. The chief value of the
new fact, is to enhance the great and constant fact of Life, which can dwarf any and every
circumstance, and to which the belt of wampum, and the commerce of America, are alike.

The world being thus put under the mind for verb and noun, the poet is he who can
articulate it. For, though life is great, and fascinates, and absorbs,--and though all men
are intelligent of the symbols through which it is named,--yet they cannot originally use
them. We are symbols, and inhabit symbols; workman, work, and tools, words and things,
birth and death, all are emblems; but we sympathize with the symbols, and, being infat-
uated with the economical uses of things, we do not know that they are thoughts. The
poet, by an ulterior intellectual perception, gives them a power which makes their old use
forgotten, and puts eyes, and a tongue, into every dumb and inanimate object. He
perceives the independence of the thought on the symbol, the stability of the thought, the
accidency and fugacity26 of the symbol. As the eyes of Lyncaeus were said to see through
the earth, so the poet turns the world to glass, and shows us all things in their right series
and procession. For, through that better perception, he stands one step nearer to things,
and sees the flowing or metamorphosis; perceives that thought is multiform; that within the
form of every creature is a force impelling it to ascend into a higher form; and, following with
his eyes the life, uses the forms which express that life, and so his speech flows with the
flowing of nature. All the facts of the animal economy, sex, nutriment, gestation, birth,
growth, are symbols of the passage of the world into the soul of man, to suffer there a
change, and reappear a new and higher fact. He uses forms according to the life, and not
according to the form. This is true science. The poet alone knows astronomy, chemistry,
vegetation, and animation, for he does not stop at these facts, but employs them as signs.
He knows why the plain, or meadow of space, was strewn with these flowers we call suns,
and moons, and stars; why the great deep is adorned with animals, with men, and gods;
for, in every word he speaks he rides on them as the horses of thought.

By virtue of this science the poet is the Namer, or Language-maker, naming things
sometimes after their appearance, sometimes after their essence, and giving to every
one its own name and not another's, thereby rejoicing the intellect, which delights in
detachment or boundary. The poets made all the words, and therefore language is the
archives of history, and, if we must say it, a sort of tomb of the muses. For, though the
origin of most of our words is forgotten, each word was at first a stroke of genius, and
obtained currency, because for the moment it symbolized the world to the first speaker and
to the hearer. The etymologist finds the deadest word to have been once a brilliant picture.
Language is fossil poetry. As the limestone of the continent consists of infinite masses of
the shells of animalcules, so language is made up of images, or tropes, which now, in their
secondary use, have long ceased to remind us of their poetic origin. But the poet names
the thing because he sees it, or comes one step nearer to it than any other. This expres-
sion, or naming, is not art, but a second nature, grown out of the first, as a leaf out of
a tree. What we call nature, is a certain self-regulated motion, or change; and nature does
all things by her own hands, and does not leave another to baptise her, but baptises
herself; and this through the metamorphosis again. I remember that a certain poet
described it to me thus:


Genius is the activity which repairs the decays of things, whether wholly or partly of a
material and finite kind. Nature, through all her kingdoms, insures herself. Nobody cares for
planting the poor fungus: so she shakes down from the gills of one agaric27 countless spores,
any one of which, being preserved, transmits new billions of spores to-morrow or next day.
The new agaric of this hour has a chance which the old one had not. This atom of seed is
thrown into a new place, not subject to the accidents which destroyed its parent two rods
off. She makes a man; and having brought him to ripe age, she will no longer run the risk of
losing this wonder at a blow, but she detaches from him a new self, that the kind may be
safe from accidents to which the individual is exposed. So when the soul of the poet has
come to ripeness of thought, she detaches and sends away from it its poems or songs,--a
fearless, sleepless, deathless progeny, which is not exposed to the accidents of the weary
kingdom of time: a fearless, vivacious offspring, clad with wings (such was the virtue of the
soul out of which they came), which carry them fast and far, and infix them irrecoverably
into the hearts of men. These wings are the beauty of the poet's soul. The songs, thus
flying immortal from their mortal parent, are pursued by clamorous flights of censures,
which swarm in far greater numbers, and threaten to devour them; but these last are not
winged. At the end of a very short leap they fall plump down, and rot, having received from
the souls out of which they came no beautiful wings. But the melodies of the poet ascend,
and leap, and pierce into the deeps of infinite time.

So far the bard taught me, using his freer speech. But nature has a higher end, in the
production of new individuals, than security, namely, ascension, or, the passage of the soul
into higher forms. I knew, in my younger days, the sculptor who made the statue of the
youth which stands in the public garden. He was, as I remember, unable to tell directly,
what made him happy, or unhappy, but by wonderful indirections he could tell. He rose one
day, according to his habit, before the dawn, and saw the morning break, grand as the
eternity out of which it came, and, for many days after, he strove to express this tranquillity,
and, lo! his chisel had fashioned out of marble the form of a beautiful youth, Phosphorus,
whose aspect is such, that, it is said, all persons who look on it become silent. The poet
also resigns himself to his mood, and that thought which agitated him is expressed, but alter
idem, in a manner totally new. The expression is organic, or, the new type which things
themselves take when liberated. As, in the sun, objects paint their images on the retina of
the eye, so they, sharing the aspiration of the whole universe, tend to paint a far more
delicate copy of their essence in his mind. Like the metamorphosis of things into higher
organic forms, is their change into melodies. Over everything stands its daemon, or soul,
and, as the form of the thing is reflected by the eye, so the soul of the thing is reflected by a
melody. The sea, the mountain-ridge, Niagara, and every flower-bed, pre-exist, or superexist,
in pre-cantations, which sail like odors in the air, and when any man goes by with an
ear sufficiently fine, he overhears them, and endeavors to write down the notes, without
diluting or depraving them. And herein is the legitimation of criticism, in the mind's faith, that
the poems are a corrupt version of some text in nature, with which they ought to be made
to tally. A rhyme in one of our sonnets should not be less pleasing than the iterated nodes
of a sea-shell, or the resembling difference of a group of flowers. The pairing of the birds is
an idyl, not tedious as our idyls are; a tempest is a rough ode, without falsehood or rant: a
8/14 summer, with its harvest sown, reaped, and stored, is an epic song, subordinating how
many admirably executed parts. Why should not the symmetry and truth that modulate
these, glide into our spirits, and we participate the invention of nature?

This insight, which expresses itself by what is called Imagination, is a very high sort of
seeing, which does not come by study, but by the intellect being where and what it sees, by
sharing the path, or circuit of things through forms, and so making them translucid to others.
The path of things is silent. Will they suffer a speaker to go with them? A spy they will not
suffer; a lover, a poet, is the transcendency of their own nature,--him they will suffer. The
condition of true naming, on the poet's part, is his resigning himself to the divine aura which
breathes through forms, and accompanying that.

It is a secret which every intellectual man quickly learns, that, beyond the energy of his
possessed and conscious intellect, he is capable of a new energy (as of an intellect
doubled on itself), by abandonment to the nature of things; that, beside his privacy of power
as an individual man, there is a great public power, on which he can draw, by unlocking, at
all risks, his human doors, and suffering the ethereal tides to roll and circulate through him:
then he is caught up into the life of the Universe, his speech is thunder, his thought is law,
and his words are universally intelligible as the plants and animals. The poet knows that he
speaks adequately, then, only when he speaks somewhat wildly, or, “with the flower of the
mind;” not with the intellect, used as an organ, but with the intellect released from all
service, and suffered to take its direction from its celestial life; or, as the ancients were wont
to express themselves, not with intellect alone, but with the intellect inebriated by nectar.
As the traveller who has lost his way, throws his reins on his horse's neck, and trusts to the
instinct of the animal to find his road, so must we do with the divine animal who carries us
through this world. For if in any manner we can stimulate this instinct, new passages are
opened for us into nature, the mind flows into and through things hardest and highest, and
the metamorphosis is possible.

This is the reason why bards love wine, mead, narcotics, coffee, tea, opium, the fumes of
sandal-wood and tobacco, or whatever other species of animal exhilaration. All men avail
themselves of such means as they can, to add this extraordinary power to their normal
powers; and to this end they prize conversation, music, pictures, sculpture, dancing,
theatres, travelling, war, mobs, fires, gaming, politics, or love, or science, or animal in-
toxication, which are several coarser or finer quasi-mechanical substitutes for the true
nectar, which is the ravishment of the intellect by coming nearer to the fact. These are
auxiliaries to the centrifugal tendency of a man, to his passage out into free space, and
they help him to escape the custody of that body in which he is pent up, and of that jail-
yard of individual relations in which he is enclosed. Hence a great number of such as were
professionally expressors of Beauty, as painters, poets, musicians, and actors, have been
more than others wont to lead a life of pleasure and indulgence; all but the few who re-
ceived the true nectar; and, as it was a spurious mode of attaining freedom, as it was an
emancipation not into the heavens, but into the freedom of baser places, they were
punished for that advantage they won, by a dissipation and deterioration. But never can
any advantage be taken of nature by a trick. The spirit of the world, the great calm
presence of the creator, comes not forth to the sorceries of opium or of wine. The sub-
lime vision comes to the pure and simple soul in a clean and chaste body. That is not an
inspiration which we owe to narcotics, but some counterfeit excitement and fury. Milton
says, that the lyric poet may drink wine and live generously, but the epic poet, he who shall
sing of the gods, and their descent unto men, must drink water out of a wooden bowl. For
poetry is not `Devil's wine,' but God's wine. It is with this as it is with toys. We fill the hands
and nurseries of our children with all manner of dolls, drums, and horses, withdrawing their
eyes from the plain face and sufficing objects of nature, the sun, and moon, the animals,
the water, and stones, which should be their toys. So the poet's habit of living should be set
on a key so low and plain, that the common influences should delight him. His cheerfulness
should be the gift of the sunlight; the air should suffice for his inspiration, and he should be
tipsy with water. That spirit which suffices quiet hearts, which seems to come forth to such
from every dry knoll of sere grass, from every pine-stump, and half-imbedded stone, on
which the dull March sun shines, comes forth to the poor and hungry, and such as are of
simple taste. If thou fill thy brain with Boston and New York, with fashion and covetousness,
and wilt stimulate thy jaded senses with wine and French coffee, thou shalt find no
radiance of wisdom in the lonely waste of the pinewoods.

If the imagination intoxicates the poet, it is not inactive in other men. The metamorphosis
excites in the beholder an emotion of joy. The use of symbols has a certain power of
emancipation and exhilaration for all men. We seem to be touched by a wand, which makes
us dance and run about happily, like children. We are like persons who come out of a cave
or cellar into the open air. This is the effect on us of tropes, fables, oracles, and all poetic
forms. Poets are thus liberating gods. Men have really got a new sense, and found within
their world, another world, or nest of worlds; for, the metamorphosis once seen, we divine
that it does not stop. I will not now consider how much this makes the charm of algebra and
the mathematics, which also have their tropes, but it is felt in every definition; as, when
Aristotle defines space to be an immovable vessel, in which things are contained;--or,
when Plato defines a line to be a flowing point; or, figure to be a bound of solid; and many
the like. What a joyful sense of freedom we have, when Vitruvius announces the old opinion
of artists, that no architect can build any house well, who does not know something of
anatomy. When Socrates, in Charmides, tells us that the soul is cured of its maladies by
certain incantations, and that these incantations are beautiful reasons, from which
temperance is generated in souls; when Plato calls the world an animal; and Timaeus
affirms that the plants also are animals; or affirms a man to be a heavenly tree, growing
with his root, which is his head, upward; and, as George Chapman, following him, writes, --

“So in our tree of man, whose nervie root
Springs in his top;”

when Orpheus speaks of hoariness as “that white flower which marks extreme old age;”
when Proclus calls the universe the statue of the intellect; when Chaucer, in his praise of
`Gentilesse,' compares good blood in mean condition to fire, which, though carried to the
darkest house betwixt this and the mount of Caucasus, will yet hold its natural office, and
burn as bright as if twenty thousand men did it behold; when John saw, in the apocalypse,
the ruin of the world through evil, and the stars fall from heaven, as the figtree casteth her
untimely fruit; when Aesop reports the whole catalogue of common daily relations through
the masquerade of birds and beasts;--we take the cheerful hint of the immortality of our
essence, and its versatile habit and escapes, as when the gypsies say, “it is in vain to hang
them, they cannot die.”

The poets are thus liberating gods. The ancient British bards had for the title of their or-
der, “Those who are free throughout the world.” They are free, and they make free. An
imaginative book renders us much more service at first, by stimulating us through its
tropes, than afterward, when we arrive at the precise sense of the author. I think nothing is
of any value in books, excepting the transcendental and extraordinary. If a man is inflamed
and carried away by his thought, to that degree that he forgets the authors and the public,
and heeds only this one dream, which holds him like an insanity, let me read his paper, and
you may have all the arguments and histories and criticism. All the value which attaches to
Pythagoras, Paracelsus, Cornelius Agrippa, Cardan, Kepler, Swedenborg, Schelling, Oken,
or any other who introduces questionable facts into his cosmogony, as angels, devils,
magic, astrology, palmistry, mesmerism, and so on, is the certificate we have of departure
from routine, and that here is a new witness. That also is the best success in conversation,
the magic of liberty, which puts the world, like a ball, in our hands. How cheap even the
liberty then seems; how mean to study, when an emotion communicates to the intellect the
power to sap and upheave nature: how great the perspective! nations, times, systems,
enter and disappear, like threads in tapestry of large figure and many colors; dream
delivers us to dream, and, while the drunkenness lasts, we will sell our bed, our philosophy,
our religion, in our opulence.

There is good reason why we should prize this liberation. The fate of the poor shepherd,
who, blinded and lost in the snow-storm, perishes in a drift within a few feet of his cottage
door, is an emblem of the state of man. On the brink of the waters of life and truth, we are
miserably dying. The inaccessibleness of every thought but that we are in, is wonderful.
What if you come near to it,--you are as remote, when you are nearest, as when you are
farthest. Every thought is also a prison; every heaven is also a prison. Therefore we love
the poet, the inventor, who in any form, whether in an ode, or in an action, or in looks and
behavior, has yielded us a new thought. He unlocks our chains, and admits us to a new
scene.

This emancipation is dear to all men, and the power to impart it, as it must come from
greater depth and scope of thought, is a measure of intellect. Therefore all books of the
imagination endure, all which ascend to that truth, that the writer sees nature beneath him,
and uses it as his exponent. Every verse or sentence, possessing this virtue, will take care
of its own immortality. The religions of the world are the ejaculations of a few imaginative
men.

But the quality of the imagination is to flow, and not to freeze. The poet did not stop at
the color, or the form, but read their meaning; neither may he rest in this meaning, but he
makes the same objects exponents of his new thought. Here is the difference betwixt the
poet and the mystic, that the last nails a symbol to one sense, which was a true sense for
a moment, but soon becomes old and false. For all symbols are fluxional; all language is
vehicular and transitive, and is good, as ferries and horses are, for conveyance, not as
farms and houses are, for homestead. Mysticism consists in the mistake of an accidental
and individual symbol for an universal one. The morning-redness happens to be the favorite
meteor to the eyes of Jacob Behmen, and comes to stand to him for truth and faith;
and he believes should stand for the same realities to every reader. But the first reader
prefers as naturally the symbol of a mother and child, or a gardener and his bulb, or a
jeweller polishing a gem. Either of these, or of a myriad more, are equally good to the
person to whom they are significant. Only they must be held lightly, and be very willingly
translated into the equivalent terms which others use. And the mystic must be steadily told,
-- All that you say is just as true without the tedious use of that symbol as with it. Let us
have a little algebra, instead of this trite rhetoric,--universal signs, instead of these village
symbols,--and we shall both be gainers. The history of hierarchies seems to show, that all
religious error consisted in making the symbol too stark and solid, and, at last, nothing but
an excess of the organ of language.

Swedenborg, of all men in the recent ages, stands eminently for the translator of nature
into thought. I do not know the man in history to whom things stood so uniformly for words.
Before him the metamorphosis continually plays. Everything on which his eye rests, obeys
the impulses of moral nature. The figs become grapes whilst he eats them. When some of
his angels affirmed a truth, the laurel twig which they held blossomed in their hands. The
noise which, at a distance, appeared like gnashing and thumping, on coming nearer was
found to be the voice of disputants. The men, in one of his visions, seen in heavenly light,
appeared like dragons, and seemed in darkness: but, to each other, they appeared as men,
and, when the light from heaven shone into their cabin, they complained of the darkness,
and were compelled to shut the window that they might see.

There was this perception in him, which makes the poet or seer, an object of awe and
terror, namely, that the same man, or society of men, may wear one aspect to themselves
and their companions, and a different aspect to higher intelligences. Certain priests, whom
he describes as conversing very learnedly together, appeared to the children, who were at
some distance, like dead horses: and many the like misappearances. And instantly the
mind inquires, whether these fishes under the bridge, yonder oxen in the pasture, those
dogs in the yard, are immutably fishes, oxen, and dogs, or only so appear to me, and
perchance to themselves appear upright men; and whether I appear as a man to all eyes.
The Bramins and Pythagoras propounded the same question, and if any poet has
witnessed the transformation, he doubtless found it in harmony with various experiences.
We have all seen changes as considerable in wheat and caterpillars. He is the poet, and
shall draw us with love and terror, who sees, through the flowing vest, the firm nature, and
can declare it.

I look in vain for the poet whom I describe. We do not, with sufficient plainness, or suffi-
cient profoundness, address ourselves to life, nor dare we chaunt our own times and social
circumstance. If we filled the day with bravery, we should not shrink from celebrating it.
Time and nature yield us many gifts, but not yet the timely man, the new religion, the
reconciler, whom all things await. Dante's praise is, that he dared to write his autobio-
graphy in colossal cipher, or into universality. We have yet had no genius in America, with
tyrannous eye, which knew the value of our incomparable materials, and saw, in the
barbarism and materialism of the times, another carnival of the same gods whose picture
he so much admires in Homer; then in the middle age; then in Calvinism. Banks and tariffs,
the newspaper and caucus, methodism and unitarianism, are flat and dull to dull people, but
rest on the same foundations of wonder as the town of Troy, and the temple of Delphos,
and are as swiftly passing away. Our logrolling, our stumps and their politics, our fisheries,
our Negroes, and Indians, our boasts, and our repudiations, the wrath of rogues, and the
pusillanimity of honest men, the northern trade, the southern planting, the western clear-
ing, Oregon, and Texas, are yet unsung. Yet America is a poem in our eyes; its ample
geography dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for metres. If I have not found
that excellent combination of gifts in my countrymen which I seek, neither could I aid my-
self to fix the idea of the poet by reading now and then in Chalmers's collection of five
centuries of English poets. These are wits, more than poets, though there have been poets
among them. But when we adhere to the ideal of the poet, we have our difficulties even
with Milton and Homer. Milton is too literary, and Homer too literal and historical.

But I am not wise enough for a national criticism, and must use the old largeness a little
longer, to discharge my errand from the muse to the poet concerning his art.

Art is the path of the creator to his work. The paths, or methods, are ideal and eternal,
though few men ever see them, not the artist himself for years, or for a lifetime, unless he
come into the conditions. The painter, the sculptor, the composer, the epic rhapsodist, the
orator, all partake one desire, namely, to express themselves symmetrically and
abundantly, not dwarfishly and fragmentarily. They found or put themselves in certain
conditions, as, the painter and sculptor before some impressive human figures; the orator,
into the assembly of the people; and the others, in such scenes as each has found exciting
to his intellect; and each presently feels the new desire. He hears a voice, he sees a
beckoning. Then he is apprised, with wonder, what herds of daemons hem him in. He can
no more rest; he says, with the old painter, “By God, it is in me, and must go forth of me.”
He pursues a beauty, half seen, which flies before him. The poet pours out verses in eve-
ry solitude. Most of the things he says are conventional, no doubt; but by and by he says
something which is original and beautiful. That charms him. He would say nothing else but
such things. In our way of talking, we say, `That is yours, this is mine;' but the poet knows
well that it is not his; that it is as strange and beautiful to him as to you; he would fain hear
the like eloquence at length. Once having tasted this immortal ichor, he cannot have
enough of it, and, as an admirable creative power exists in these intellections, it is of the
last importance that these things get spoken. What a little of all we know is said! What
drops of all the sea of our science are baled up! and by what accident it is that these are
exposed, when so many secrets sleep in nature! Hence the necessity of speech and song;
hence these throbs and heart-beatings in the orator, at the door of the assembly, to the
end, namely, that thought may be ejaculated as Logos, or Word.

Doubt not, O poet, but persist. Say, `It is in me, and shall out.' Stand there, baulked and
dumb, stuttering and stammering, hissed and hooted, stand and strive, until, at last, rage
draw out of thee that dream-power which every night shows thee is thine own; a power
transcending all limit and privacy, and by virtue of which a man is the conductor of the
whole river of electricity. Nothing walks, or creeps, or grows, or exists, which must not in
turn arise and walk before him as exponent of his meaning. Comes he to that power, his
genius is no longer exhaustible. All the creatures, by pairs and by tribes, pour into his mind
as into a Noah's ark, to come forth again to people a new world. This is like the stock of
air for our respiration, or for the combustion of our fireplace, not a measure of gallons,
but the entire atmosphere if wanted. And therefore the rich poets, as Homer, Chaucer,
Shakspeare, and Raphael, have obviously no limits to their works, except the limits of their
lifetime, and resemble a mirror carried through the street, ready to render an image of
every created thing.

O poet! a new nobility is conferred in groves and pastures, and not in castles, or by the
sword-blade, any longer. The conditions are hard, but equal. Thou shalt leave the world,
and know the muse only. Thou shalt not know any longer the times, customs, graces,
politics, or opinions of men, but shalt take all from the muse. For the time of towns is tolled
from the world by funereal chimes, but in nature the universal hours are counted by
succeeding tribes of animals and plants, and by growth of joy on joy. God wills also that
thou abdicate a manifold and duplex life, and that thou be content that others speak for
thee. Others shall be thy gentlemen, and shall represent all courtesy and worldly life for
thee; others shall do the great and resounding actions also. Thou shalt lie close hid with
nature, and canst not be afforded to the Capitol or the Exchange. The world is full of
renunciations and apprenticeships, and this is thine: thou must pass for a fool and a churl
for a long season. This is the screen and sheath in which Pan has protected his wellbeloved
flower, and thou shalt be known only to thine own, and they shall console thee with
tenderest love. And thou shalt not be able to rehearse the names of thy friends in thy verse,
for an old shame before the holy ideal. And this is the reward: that the ideal shall be real to
thee, and the impressions of the actual world shall fall like summer rain, copious, but not
troublesome, to thy invulnerable essence. Thou shalt have the whole land for thy park and
manor, the sea for thy bath and navigation, without tax and without envy; the woods and
the rivers thou shalt own; and thou shalt possess that wherein others are only tenants and
boarders. Thou true land-lord! sea-lord! air-lord! Wherever snow falls, or water flows, or
birds fly, wherever day and night meet in twilight, wherever the blue heaven is hung by
clouds, or sown with stars, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries, wherever are
outlets into celestial space, wherever is danger, and awe, and love, there is Beauty,
plenteous as rain, shed for thee, and though thou shouldest walk the world over, thou shalt
not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble.

II. Experience

The lords of life, the lords of life,?
I saw them pass,
In their own guise,
Like and unlike,
Portly and grim,
Use and Surprise,
Surface and Dream,
Succession swift, and spectral Wrong,
Temperament without a tongue,
And the inventor of the game
Omnipresent without name;--
Some to see, some to be guessed,
They marched from east to west:
Little man, least of all,
Among the legs of his guardians tall,
Walked about with puzzled look:--
Him by the hand dear nature took;
Dearest nature, strong and kind,
Whispered, `Darling, never mind!
Tomorrow they will wear another face,
The founder thou! these are thy race!'



Where do we find ourselves? In a series of which we do not know the extremes, and
believe that it has none. We wake and find ourselves on a stair; there are stairs below us,
which we seem to have ascended; there are stairs above us, many a one, which go upward
and out of sight. But the Genius which, according to the old belief, stands at the door by
which we enter, and gives us the lethe to drink, that we may tell no tales, mixed the cup
too strongly, and we cannot shake off the lethargy now at noonday. Sleep lingers all our
lifetime about our eyes, as night hovers all day in the boughs of the fir-tree. All things swim
and glitter. Our life is not so much threatened as our perception. Ghostlike we glide through
nature, and should not know our place again. Did our birth fall in some fit of indigence and
frugality in nature, that she was so sparing of her fire and so liberal of her earth, that it
appears to us that we lack the affirmative principle, and though we have health and reason,
yet we have no superfluity of spirit for new creation? We have enough to live and bring the
year about, but not an ounce to impart or to invest. Ah that our Genius were a little more of
a genius! We are like millers on the lower levels of a stream, when the factories above them
have exhausted the water. We too fancy that the upper people must have raised their
dams.

If any of us knew what we were doing, or where we are going, then when we think we
best know! We do not know today whether we are busy or idle. In times when we thought
ourselves indolent, we have afterwards discovered, that much was accomplished, and much
was begun in us. All our days are so unprofitable while they pass, that 'tis wonderful where
or when we ever got anything of this which we call wisdom, poetry, virtue. We never got it
on any dated calendar day. Some heavenly days must have been intercalated28 somewhere,
like those that Hermes won with dice of the Moon, that Osiris might be born. It is said,
all martyrdoms looked mean when they were suffered. Every ship is a romantic object,
except that we sail in. Embark, and the romance quits our vessel, and hangs on every
other sail in the horizon. Our life looks trivial, and we shun to record it. Men seem to
have learned of the horizon the art of perpetual retreating and reference. `Yonder uplands
are rich pasturage, and my neighbor has fertile meadow, but my field,' says the querulous
farmer, `only holds the world together.' I quote another man's saying; unluckily, that other
withdraws himself in the same way, and quotes me. ‘Tis the trick of nature thus to degrade
today; a good deal of buzz, and somewhere a result slipped magically in. Every roof is agree-
able to the eye, until it is lifted; then we find tragedy and moaning women, and hardeyed
husbands, and deluges of lethe, and the men ask, `What's the news?' as if the old
were so bad. How many individuals can we count in society? how many actions? how
many opinions? So much of our time is preparation, so much is routine, and so much
retrospect, that the pith of each man's genius contracts itself to a very few hours. The
history of literature--take the net result of Tiraboschi,29 Warton,30 or Schlegel,31--is a sum of
very few ideas, and of very few original tales,--all the rest being variation of these. So in
this great society wide lying around us, a critical analysis would find very few spontaneous
actions. It is almost all custom and gross sense. There are even few opinions, and these
seem organic in the speakers, and do not disturb the universal necessity. What opium is
instilled into all disaster! It shows formidable as we approach it, but there is at last no
rough rasping friction, but the most slippery sliding surfaces. We fall soft on a thought.
Ate Dea is gentle,

“Over men's heads walking aloft,
With tender feet treading so soft.”

People grieve and bemoan themselves, but it is not half so bad with them as they say.
There are moods in which we court suffering, in the hope that here, at least, we shall find
reality, sharp peaks and edges of truth. But it turns out to be scene-painting and counterfeit.
The only thing grief has taught me, is to know how shallow it is. That, like all the rest, plays
about the surface, and never introduces me into the reality, for contact with which, we
would even pay the costly price of sons and lovers. Was it Boscovich32 who found out that
bodies never come in contact? Well, souls never touch their objects. An innavigable sea
washes with silent waves between us and the things we aim at and converse with. Grief too
will make us idealists. In the death of my son, now more than two years ago, I seem to
have lost a beautiful estate,--no more. I cannot get it nearer to me. If tomorrow I should be
informed of the bankruptcy of my principal debtors, the loss of my property would be a great
inconvenience to me, perhaps, for many years; but it would leave me as it found me,--
neither better nor worse. So is it with this calamity: it does not touch me: some thing which
I fancied was a part of me, which could not be torn away without tearing me, nor enlarged
without enriching me, falls off from me, and leaves no scar. It was caducous.33 I grieve that
grief can teach me nothing, nor carry me one step into real nature. The Indian who was laid
under a curse, that the wind should not blow on him, nor water flow to him, nor fire burn
him, is a type of us all. The dearest events are summer-rain, and we the Para coats that
shed every drop. Nothing is left us now but death. We look to that with a grim satisfaction,
saying, there at least is reality that will not dodge us.

I take this evanescence and lubricity of all objects, which lets them slip through our fingers
then when we clutch hardest, to be the most unhandsome part of our condition. Nature
does not like to be observed, and likes that we should be her fools and playmates. We may
have the sphere for our cricket-ball, but not a berry for our philosophy. Direct strokes she
never gave us power to make; all our blows glance, all our hits are accidents. Our relations
to each other are oblique and casual.

Dream delivers us to dream, and there is no end to illusion. Life is a train of moods like
a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses
which paint the world their own hue, and each shows only what lies in its focus. From
the mountain you see the mountain. We animate what we can, and we see only what we
animate. Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them. It depends on the mood of
the man, whether he shall see the sunset or the fine poem. There are always sunsets, and
there is always genius; but only a few hours so serene that we can relish nature or criticism.
The more or less depends on structure or temperament. Temperament is the iron wire on
which the beads are strung. Of what use is fortune or talent to a cold and defective nature?
Who cares what sensibility or discrimination a man has at some time shown, if he falls a-
sleep in his chair? or if he laugh and giggle? or if he apologize? or is affected with ego-
tism? or thinks of his dollar? or cannot go by food? or has gotten a child in his boyhood?
Of what use is genius, if the organ is too convex or too concave, and cannot find a focal
distance within the actual horizon of human life? Of what use, if the brain is too cold or too
hot, and the man does not care enough for results, to stimulate him to experiment, and hold
him up in it? or if the web is too finely woven, too irritable by pleasure and pain, so that life
stagnates from too much reception, without due outlet? Of what use to make heroic vows
of amendment, if the same old law-breaker is to keep them? What cheer can the religious
sentiment yield, when that is suspected to be secretly dependent on the seasons of the
year, and the state of the blood? I knew a witty physician who found theology in the biliary
duct, and used to affirm that if there was disease in the liver, the man became a Calvinist,
and if that organ was sound, he became a Unitarian. Very mortifying is the reluctant
experience that some unfriendly excess or imbecility neutralizes the promise of genius. We
see young men who owe us a new world, so readily and lavishly they promise, but they
never acquit the debt; they die young and dodge the account: or if they live, they lose
themselves in the crowd.

Temperament also enters fully into the system of illusions, and shuts us in a prison of glass
which we cannot see. There is an optical illusion about every person we meet. In truth, they
are all creatures of given temperament, which will appear in a given character, whose
boundaries they will never pass: but we look at them, they seem alive, and we presume
there is impulse in them. In the moment it seems impulse; in the year, in the lifetime, it
turns out to be a certain uniform tune which the revolving barrel of the music-box must play.
Men resist the conclusion in the morning, but adopt it as the evening wears on, that temper
prevails over everything of time, place, and condition, and is inconsumable in the flames of
religion. Some modifications the moral sentiment avails to impose, but the individual texture
holds its dominion, if not to bias the moral judgments, yet to fix the measure of activity and
of enjoyment.

I thus express the law as it is read from the platform of ordinary life, but must not leave it
without noticing the capital exception. For temperament is a power which no man willingly
hears any one praise but himself. On the platform of physics, we cannot resist the con-
tracting influences of so-called science. Temperament puts all divinity to rout. I know the
mental proclivity of physicians. I hear the chuckle of the phrenologists.34 Theoretic kid-
nappers and slave-drivers, they esteem each man the victim of another, who winds him
round his finger by knowing the law of his being, and by such cheap signboards as the
color of his beard, or the slope of his occiput,35 reads the inventory of his fortunes and
character. The grossest ignorance does not disgust like this impudent knowingness. The
physicians say, they are not materialists; but they are:--Spirit is matter reduced to an
extreme thinness: O so thin!--But the definition of spiritual should be, that which is its
own evidence. What notions do they attach to love! what to religion! One would not will-
ingly pronounce these words in their hearing, and give them the occasion to profane them.
I saw a gracious gentleman who adapts his conversation to the form of the head of the
man he talks with! I had fancied that the value of life lay in its inscrutable possibilities; in
the fact that I never know, in addressing myself to a new individual, what may befall me. I
carry the keys of my castle in my hand, ready to throw them at the feet of my lord, when-
ever and in what disguise soever he shall appear. I know he is in the neighborhood hidden
among vagabonds. Shall I preclude my future, by taking a high seat, and kindly adapting my
conversation to the shape of heads? When I come to that, the doctors shall buy me for a
cent.?- `But, sir, medical history; the report to the Institute; the proven facts!'--I distrust
the facts and the inferences. Temperament is the veto or limitation-power in the consti-
tution, very justly applied to restrain an opposite excess in the constitution, but absurdly
offered as a bar to original equity. When virtue is in presence, all subordinate powers sleep.
On its own level, or in view of nature, temperament is final. I see not, if one be once
caught in this trap of so-called sciences, any escape for the man from the links of the
chain of physical necessity. Given such an embryo, such a history must follow. On this
platform, one lives in a sty of sensualism, and would soon come to suicide. But it is im-
possible that the creative power should exclude itself. Into every intelligence there is a
door which is never closed, through which the creator passes. The intellect, seeker of
absolute truth, or the heart, lover of absolute good, intervenes for our succor, and at one
whisper of these high powers, we awake from ineffectual struggles with this nightmare.
We hurl it into its own hell, and cannot again contract ourselves to so base a state.


The secret of the illusoriness is in the necessity of a succession of moods or objects.
Gladly we would anchor, but the anchorage is quicksand. This onward trick of nature is
too strong for us: Pero si muove.36 When, at night, I look at the moon and stars, I seem
stationary, and they to hurry. Our love of the real draws us to permanence, but health of
body consists in circulation, and sanity of mind in variety or facility of association. We need
change of objects. Dedication to one thought is quickly odious. We house with the insane,
and must humor them; then conversation dies out. Once I took such delight in Montaigne,
that I thought I should not need any other book; before that, in Shakspeare; then in
Plutarch; then in Plotinus; at one time in Bacon; afterwards in Goethe; even in Bettine; but
now I turn the pages of either of them languidly, whilst I still cherish their genius. So with
pictures; each will bear an emphasis of attention once, which it cannot retain, though we
fain would continue to be pleased in that manner. How strongly I have felt of pictures, that
when you have seen one well, you must take your leave of it; you shall never see it again. I
have had good lessons from pictures, which I have since seen without emotion or remark. A
deduction must be made from the opinion, which even the wise express of a new book or
occurrence. Their opinion gives me tidings of their mood, and some vague guess at the
new fact but is nowise to be trusted as the lasting relation between that intellect and that
thing. The child asks, `Mamma, why don't I like the story as well as when you told it me
yesterday?' Alas, child, it is even so with the oldest cherubim of knowledge. But will it
answer thy question to say, Because thou wert born to a whole, and this story is a
particular? The reason of the pain this discovery causes us (and we make it late in respect
to works of art and intellect), is the plaint of tragedy which murmurs from it in regard to
persons, to friendship and love.

That immobility and absence of elasticity which we find in the arts, we find with more pain
in the artist. There is no power of expansion in men. Our friends early appear to us as
representatives of certain ideas, which they never pass or exceed. They stand on the brink
of the ocean of thought and power, but they never take the single step that would bring
them there. A man is like a bit of Labrador spar, which has no lustre as you turn it in your
hand, until you come to a particular angle; then it shows deep and beautiful colors. There
is no adaptation or universal applicability in men, but each has his special talent, and the
mastery of successful men consists in adroitly keeping themselves where and when that
turn shall be oftenest to be practised. We do what we must, and call it by the best names
we can, and would fain have the praise of having intended the result which ensues. I can-
not recall any form of man who is not superfluous sometimes. But is not this pitiful? Life
is not worth the taking, to do tricks in.

Of course, it needs the whole society, to give the symmetry we seek. The parti-colored
wheel must revolve very fast to appear white. Something is learned too by conversing with
so much folly and defect. In fine, whoever loses, we are always of the gaining party. Div-
inity is behind our failures and follies also. The plays of children are nonsense, but very
educative nonsense. So it is with the largest and solemnest things, with commerce,
government, church, marriage, and so with the history of every man's bread, and the ways
by which he is to come by it. Like a bird which alights nowhere, but hops perpetually from
bough to bough, is the Power which abides in no man and in no woman, but for a moment
speaks from this one, and for another moment from that one.

But what help from these fineries or pedantries? What help from thought? Life is not
dialectics. We, I think, in these times, have had lessons enough of the futility of criticism.
Our young people have thought and written much on labor and reform, and for all that they
have written, neither the world nor themselves have got on a step. Intellectual tasting of life
will not supersede muscular activity. If a man should consider the nicety of the passage of a
piece of bread down his throat, he would starve. At Education-Farm, the noblest theory of
life sat on the noblest figures of young men and maidens, quite powerless and melancholy.
It would not rake or pitch a ton of hay; it would not rub down a horse; and the men and
maidens it left pale and hungry. A political orator wittily compared our party promises to
western roads, which opened stately enough, with planted trees on either side, to tempt the
traveller, but soon became narrow and narrower, and ended in a squirrel-track, and ran up
a tree. So does culture with us; it ends in head-ache. Unspeakably sad and barren does life
look to those, who a few months ago were dazzled with the splendor of the promise of the
times. “There is now no longer any right course of action, nor any self-devotion left among
the Iranis.” Objections and criticism we have had our fill of. There are objections to every
course of life and action, and the practical wisdom infers an indifferency, from the
omnipresence of objection. The whole frame of things preaches indifferency. Do not craze
yourself with thinking, but go about your business anywhere. Life is not intellectual or
critical, but sturdy. Its chief good is for well-mixed people who can enjoy what they find,
without question. Nature hates peeping, and our mothers speak her very sense when they
say, “Children, eat your victuals, and say no more of it.” To fill the hour,--that is
happiness; to fill the hour, and leave no crevice for a repentance or an approval. We live
amid surfaces, and the true art of life is to skate well on them. Under the oldest mouldiest
conventions, a man of native force prospers just as well as in the newest world, and that by
skill of handling and treatment. He can take hold anywhere. Life itself is a mixture of power
and form, and will not bear the least excess of either. To finish the moment, to find the
journey's end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is
wisdom. It is not the part of men, but of fanatics, or of mathematicians, if you will, to say,
that, the shortness of life considered, it is not worth caring whether for so short a duration
we were sprawling in want, or sitting high. Since our office is with moments, let us husband
them. Five minutes of today are worth as much to me, as five minutes in the next
millennium. Let us be poised, and wise, and our own, today. Let us treat the men and
women well: treat them as if they were real: perhaps they are. Men live in their fancy, like
drunkards whose hands are too soft and tremulous for successful labor. It is a tempest of
fancies, and the only ballast I know, is a respect to the present hour. Without any shadow of
doubt, amidst this vertigo of shows and politics, I settle myself ever the firmer in the creed,
that we should not postpone and refer and wish, but do broad justice where we are, by
whomsoever we deal with, accepting our actual companions and circumstances, however
humble or odious, as the mystic officials to whom the universe has delegated its whole
pleasure for us. If these are mean and malignant, their contentment, which is the last victory
of justice, is a more satisfying echo to the heart, than the voice of poets and the casual
sympathy of admirable persons. I think that however a thoughtful man may suffer from the
defects and absurdities of his company, he cannot without affectation deny to any set of
men and women, a sensibility to extraordinary merit. The coarse and frivolous have an
instinct of superiority, if they have not a sympathy, and honor it in their blind capricious way
with sincere homage.

The fine young people despise life, but in me, and in such as with me are free from
dyspepsia, and to whom a day is a sound and solid good, it is a great excess of politeness
to look scornful and to cry for company. I am grown by sympathy a little eager and
sentimental, but leave me alone, and I should relish every hour and what it brought me, the
pot-luck of the day, as heartily as the oldest gossip in the bar-room. I am thankful for small
mercies. I compared notes with one of my friends who expects everything of the universe,
and is disappointed when anything is less than the best, and I found that I begin at the
other extreme, expecting nothing, and am always full of thanks for moderate goods. I
accept the clangor and jangle of contrary tendencies. I find my account in sots and bores
also. They give a reality to the circumjacent picture, which such a vanishing meteorous
appearance can ill spare. In the morning I awake, and find the old world, wife, babes, and
mother, Concord and Boston, the dear old spiritual world, and even the dear old devil not
far off. If we will take the good we find, asking no questions, we shall have heaping
measures. The great gifts are not got by analysis. Everything good is on the highway. The
middle region of our being is the temperate zone. We may climb into the thin and cold
realm of pure geometry and lifeless science, or sink into that of sensation. Between these
extremes is the equator of life, of thought, of spirit, of poetry,--a narrow belt. Moreover, in
popular experience, everything good is on the highway. A collector peeps into all the
picture-shops of Europe, for a landscape of Poussin, a crayon-sketch of Salvator; but the
Transfiguration, the Last Judgment, the Communion of St. Jerome, and what are as
transcendent as these, are on the walls of the Vatican, the Uffizii, or the Louvre, where
every footman may see them; to say nothing of nature's pictures in every street, of sunsets
and sunrises every day, and the sculpture of the human body never absent. A collector
recently bought at public auction, in London, for one hundred and fifty-seven guineas, an
autograph of Shakspeare: but for nothing a school-boy can read Hamlet, and can detect
secrets of highest concernment yet unpublished therein. I think I will never read any but the
commonest books,--the Bible, Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, and Milton. Then we are
impatient of so public a life and planet, and run hither and thither for nooks and secrets.
The imagination delights in the wood-craft of Indians, trappers, and bee-hunters. We fancy
that we are strangers, and not so intimately domesticated in the planet as the wild man, and
the wild beast and bird. But the exclusion reaches them also; reaches the climbing, flying,
gliding, feathered and four-footed man. Fox and woodchuck, hawk and snipe, and bittern,
when nearly seen, have no more root in the deep world than man, and are just such
superficial tenants of the globe. Then the new molecular philosophy shows astronomical
interspaces betwixt atom and atom, shows that the world is all outside: it has no inside.

The mid-world is best. Nature, as we know her, is no saint. The lights of the church, the
ascetics, Gentoos and Grahamites, she does not distinguish by any favor. She comes
eating and drinking and sinning. Her darlings, the great, the strong, the beautiful, are not
children of our law, do not come out of the Sunday School, nor weigh their food, nor
punctually keep the commandments. If we will be strong with her strength, we must not
harbor such disconsolate consciences, borrowed too from the consciences of other
nations. We must set up the strong present tense against all the rumors of wrath, past or to
come. So many things are unsettled which it is of the first importance to settle,--and,
pending their settlement, we will do as we do. Whilst the debate goes forward on the equity
of commerce, and will not be closed for a century or two, New and Old England may keep
shop. Law of copyright and international copyright is to be discussed, and, in the interim,
we will sell our books for the most we can. Expediency of literature, reason of literature,
lawfulness of writing down a thought, is questioned; much is to say on both sides, and,
while the fight waxes hot, thou, dearest scholar, stick to thy foolish task, add a line every
hour, and between whiles add a line. Right to hold land, right of property, is disputed, and
the conventions convene, and before the vote is taken, dig away in your garden, and spend
your earnings as a waif or godsend to all serene and beautiful purposes. Life itself is a
bubble and a skepticism, and a sleep within a sleep. Grant it, and as much more as they
will,--but thou, God's darling! heed thy private dream: thou wilt not be missed in the
scorning and skepticism: there are enough of them: stay there in thy closet, and toil, until
the rest are agreed what to do about it. Thy sickness, they say, and thy puny habit, require
that thou do this or avoid that, but know that thy life is a flitting state, a tent for a night, and
do thou, sick or well, finish that stint. Thou art sick, but shalt not be worse, and the
universe, which holds thee dear, shall be the better.

Human life is made up of the two elements, power and form, and the proportion must be
invariably kept, if we would have it sweet and sound. Each of these elements in excess
makes a mischief as hurtful as its defect. Everything runs to excess: every good quality is
noxious, if unmixed, and, to carry the danger to the edge of ruin, nature causes each man's
peculiarity to superabound. Here, among the farms, we adduce the scholars as examples
of this treachery. They are nature's victims of expression. You who see the artist, the
orator, the poet, too near, and find their life no more excellent than that of mechanics or
farmers, and themselves victims of partiality, very hollow and haggard, and pronounce
them failures,--not heroes, but quacks,--conclude very reasonably, that these arts are
not for man, but are disease. Yet nature will not bear you out. Irresistible nature made men
such, and makes legions more of such, every day. You love the boy reading in a book,
gazing at a drawing, or a cast: yet what are these millions who read and behold, but inci-
pient writers and sculptors? Add a little more of that quality which now reads and sees,
and they will seize the pen and chisel. And if one remembers how innocently he began to
be an artist, he perceives that nature joined with his enemy. A man is a golden impossi-
bility. The line he must walk is a hair's breadth. The wise through excess of wisdom
is made a fool.

How easily, if fate would suffer it, we might keep forever these beautiful limits, and adjust
ourselves, once for all, to the perfect calculation of the kingdom of known cause and effect.
In the street and in the newspapers, life appears so plain a business, that manly resolution
and adherence to the multiplication-table through all weathers, will insure success. But ah!
presently comes a day, or is it only a half-hour, with its angel-whispering,--which
discomfits the conclusions of nations and of years! Tomorrow again, everything looks real
and angular, the habitual standards are reinstated, common sense is as rare as genius,--
is the basis of genius, and experience is hands and feet to every enterprise;--and yet, he
who should do his business on this understanding, would be quickly bankrupt. Power keeps
quite another road than the turnpikes of choice and will, namely, the subterranean and
invisible tunnels and channels of life. It is ridiculous that we are diplomatists, and doctors,
and considerate people: there are no dupes like these. Life is a series of surprises, and
would not be worth taking or keeping, if it were not. God delights to isolate us every day,
and hide from us the past and the future. We would look about us, but with grand
politeness he draws down before us an impenetrable screen of purest sky, and another
behind us of purest sky. `You will not remember,' he seems to say, `and you will not
expect.' All good conversation, manners, and action, come from a spontaneity which
forgets usages, and makes the moment great. Nature hates calculators; her methods are
saltatory36 and impulsive. Man lives by pulses; our organic movements are such; and the
chemical and ethereal agents are undulatory and alternate; and the mind goes
antagonizing on, and never prospers but by fits. We thrive by casualties. Our chief
experiences have been casual. The most attractive class of people are those who are
powerful obliquely, and not by the direct stroke: men of genius, but not yet accredited: one
gets the cheer of their light, without paying too great a tax. Theirs is the beauty of the bird,
or the morning light, and not of art. In the thought of genius there is always a surprise; and
the moral sentiment is well called “the newness,” for it is never other; as new to the oldest
intelligence as to the young child,--“the kingdom that cometh without observation.” In like
manner, for practical success, there must not be too much design. A man will not be
observed in doing that which he can do best. There is a certain magic about his properest
action, which stupefies your powers of observation, so that though it is done before you,
you wist not of it. The art of life has a pudency, and will not be exposed. Every man is an
impossibility, until he is born; every thing impossible, until we see a success. The ardors of
piety agree at last with the coldest skepticism,--that nothing is of us or our works,--that
all is of God. Nature will not spare us the smallest leaf of laurel. All writing comes by the
grace of God, and all doing and having. I would gladly be moral, and keep due metes and
bounds, which I dearly love, and allow the most to the will of man, but I have set my heart
on honesty in this chapter, and I can see nothing at last, in success or failure, than more
or less of vital force supplied from the Eternal. The results of life are uncalculated and
uncalculable. The years teach much which the days never know. The persons who
compose our company, converse, and come and go, and design and execute many things,
and somewhat comes of it all, but an unlooked for result. The individual is always mistaken.
He designed many things, and drew in other persons as coadjutors, quarrelled with some
or all, blundered much, and something is done; all are a little advanced, but the individual is
always mistaken. It turns out somewhat new, and very unlike what he promised himself.

The ancients, struck with this irreducibleness of the elements of human life to calculation,
exalted Chance into a divinity, but that is to stay too long at the spark,--which glitters truly
at one point,--but the universe is warm with the latency of the same fire. The miracle of
life which will not be expounded, but will remain a miracle, introduces a new element. In the
growth of the embryo, Sir Everard Home, I think, noticed that the evolution was not from
one central point, but co-active from three or more points. Life has no memory. That which
proceeds in succession might be remembered, but that which is coexistent, or ejaculated
from a deeper cause, as yet far from being conscious, knows not its own tendency. So is it
with us, now skeptical, or without unity, because immersed in forms and effects all seeming
to be of equal yet hostile value, and now religious, whilst in the reception of spiritual law.
Bear with these distractions, with this coetaneous growth of the parts: they will one day be
members, and obey one will. On that one will, on that secret cause, they nail our attention
and hope. Life is hereby melted into an expectation or a religion. Underneath the
inharmonious and trivial particulars, is a musical perfection, the Ideal journeying always
with us, the heaven without rent or seam. Do but observe the mode of our illumination.
When I converse with a profound mind, or if at any time being alone I have good thoughts, I
do not at once arrive at satisfactions, as when, being thirsty, I drink water, or go to the fire,
being cold: no! but I am at first apprised of my vicinity to a new and excellent region of life.
By persisting to read or to think, this region gives further sign of itself, as it were in flashes
of light, in sudden discoveries of its profound beauty and repose, as if the clouds that
covered it parted at intervals, and showed the approaching traveller the inland mountains,
with the tranquil eternal meadows spread at their base, whereon flocks graze, and
shepherds pipe and dance. But every insight from this realm of thought is felt as initial, and
promises a sequel. I do not make it; I arrive there, and behold what was there already. I
make! O no! I clap my hands in infantine joy and amazement, before the first opening to me
of this august magnificence, old with the love and homage of innumerable ages, young with
the life of life, the sunbright Mecca of the desert. And what a future it opens! I feel a new
heart beating with the love of the new beauty. I am ready to die out of nature, and be born
again into this new yet unapproachable America I have found in the West.

“Since neither now nor yesterday began
These thoughts, which have been ever, nor yet can
A man be found who their first entrance knew.”

If I have described life as a flux of moods, I must now add, that there is that in us which
changes not, and which ranks all sensations and states of mind. The consciousness in
each man is a sliding scale, which identifies him now with the First Cause, and now with the
flesh of his body; life above life, in infinite degrees. The sentiment from which it sprung
determines the dignity of any deed, and the question ever is, not, what you have done or
forborne, but, at whose command you have done or forborne it.

Fortune, Minerva, Muse, Holy Ghost,--these are quaint names, too narrow to cover this
unbounded substance. The baffled intellect must still kneel before this cause, which refuses
to be named,--ineffable cause, which every fine genius has essayed to represent by
some emphatic symbol, as, Thales by water, Anaximenes by air, Anaxagoras by (Nous)
thought, Zoroaster by fire, Jesus and the moderns by love: and the metaphor of each has
become a national religion. The Chinese Mencius has not been the least successful in his
generalization. “I fully understand language,” he said, “and nourish well my vast-flowing
vigor.”--“I beg to ask what you call vast-flowing vigor?”--said his companion. “The
explanation,” replied Mencius, “is difficult. This vigor is supremely great, and in the highest
degree unbending. Nourish it correctly, and do it no injury, and it will fill up the vacancy
between heaven and earth. This vigor accords with and assists justice and reason, and
leaves no hunger.”--In our more correct writing, we give to this generalization the name of
Being, and thereby confess that we have arrived as far as we can go. Suffice it for the joy
of the universe, that we have not arrived at a wall, but at interminable oceans. Our life
seems not present, so much as prospective; not for the affairs on which it is wasted, but as
a hint of this vast-flowing vigor. Most of life seems to be mere advertisement of faculty:
information is given us not to sell ourselves cheap; that we are very great. So, in
particulars, our greatness is always in a tendency or direction, not in an action. It is for us to
believe in the rule, not in the exception. The noble are thus known from the ignoble. So in
accepting the leading of the sentiments, it is not what we believe concerning the immortality
of the soul, or the like, but the universal impulse to believe, that is the material
circumstance, and is the principal fact in the history of the globe. Shall we describe this
cause as that which works directly? The spirit is not helpless or needful of mediate organs.
It has plentiful powers and direct effects. I am explained without explaining, I am felt without
acting, and where I am not. Therefore all just persons are satisfied with their own praise.
They refuse to explain themselves, and are content that new actions should do them that
office. They believe that we communicate without speech, and above speech, and that no
right action of ours is quite unaffecting to our friends, at whatever distance; for the influ-
ence of action is not to be measured by miles. Why should I fret myself, because a circum-
stance has occurred, which hinders my presence where I was expected? If I am not at the
meeting, my presence where I am, should be as useful to the commonwealth of friendship
and wisdom, as would be my presence in that place. I exert the same quality of power in all
places. Thus journeys the mighty Ideal before us; it never was known to fall into the rear.
No man ever came to an experience which was satiating, but his good is tidings of a better.
Onward and onward! In liberated moments, we know that a new picture of life and duty is
already possible; the elements already exist in many minds around you, of a doctrine of life
which shall transcend any written record we have. The new statement will comprise the
skepticisms, as well as the faiths of society, and out of unbeliefs a creed shall be formed.
For, skepticisms are not gratuitous or lawless, but are limitations of the affirmative
statement, and the new philosophy must take them in, and make affirmations out-side of
them, just as much as it must include the oldest beliefs.

It is very unhappy, but too late to be helped, the discovery we have made, that we exist.
That discovery is called the Fall of Man. Ever afterwards, we suspect our instruments. We
have learned that we do not see directly, but mediately, and that we have no means of
correcting these colored and distorting lenses which we are, or of computing the amount of
their errors. Perhaps these subject-lenses have a creative power; perhaps there are no
objects. Once we lived in what we saw; now, the rapaciousness of this new power, which
threatens to absorb all things, engages us. Nature, art, persons, letters, religions,--
objects, successively tumble in, and God is but one of its ideas. Nature and literature are
subjective phenomena; every evil and every good thing is a shadow which we cast. The
street is full of humiliations to the proud. As the fop contrived to dress his bailiffs in his
livery, and make them wait on his guests at table, so the chagrins which the bad heart gives
off as bubbles, at once take form as ladies and gentlemen in the street, shopmen or
barkeepers in hotels, and threaten or insult whatever is threatenable and insultable in us.
‘Tis the same with our idolatries. People forget that it is the eye which makes the horizon,
and the rounding mind's eye which makes this or that man a type or representative of
humanity with the name of hero or saint. Jesus the “providential man,” is a good man on
whom many people are agreed that these optical laws shall take effect. By love on one
part, and by forbearance to press objection on the other part, it is for a time settled, that we
will look at him in the centre of the horizon, and ascribe to him the properties that will attach
to any man so seen. But the longest love or aversion has a speedy term. The great and
crescive37 self, rooted in absolute nature, supplants all relative existence, and ruins the
kingdom of mortal friendship and love. Marriage (in what is called the spiritual world) is
impossible, because of the inequality between every subject and every object. The subject
is the receiver of Godhead, and at every comparison must feel his being enhanced by that
cryptic might. Though not in energy, yet by presence, this magazine of substance cannot
be otherwise than felt: nor can any force of intellect attribute to the object the proper de-
ity which sleeps or wakes forever in every subject. Never can love make consciousness
and ascription equal in force. There will be the same gulf between every me and thee, as
between the original and the picture. The universe is the bride of the soul. All private sym-
pathy is partial. Two human beings are like globes, which can touch only in a point, and,
whilst they remain in contact, all other points of each of the spheres are inert; their turn
must also come, and the longer a particular union lasts, the more energy of appetency38
the parts not in union acquire.

Life will be imaged, but cannot be divided nor doubled. Any invasion of its unity would be
chaos. The soul is not twin-born, but the only begotten, and though revealing itself as child
in time, child in appearance, is of a fatal and universal power, admitting no co-life. Every
day, every act betrays the ill-concealed deity. We believe in ourselves, as we do not believe
in others. We permit all things to ourselves, and that which we call sin in others, is
experiment for us. It is an instance of our faith in ourselves, that men never speak of crime
as lightly as they think: or, every man thinks a latitude safe for himself, which is nowise to
be indulged to another. The act looks very differently on the inside, and on the outside; in
its quality, and in its consequences. Murder in the murderer is no such ruinous thought as
poets and romancers will have it; it does not unsettle him, or fright him from his ordinary
notice of trifles: it is an act quite easy to be contemplated, but in its sequel, it turns out
to be a horrible jangle and confounding of all relations. Especially the crimes that spring
from love, seem right and fair from the actor's point of view, but, when acted, are found
destructive of society. No man at last believes that he can be lost, nor that the crime in
him is as black as in the felon. Because the intellect qualifies in our own case the moral
judgments. For there is no crime to the intellect. That is antinomian or hypernomian, and
judges law as well as fact. “It is worse than a crime, it is a blunder,” said Napoleon, speak-
ing the language of the intellect. To it, the world is a problem in mathematics or the science
of quantity, and it leaves out praise and blame, and all weak emotions. All stealing is com-
parative. If you come to absolutes, pray who does not steal? Saints are sad, because they
behold sin, (even when they speculate,) from the point of view of the conscience, and not
of the intellect; a confusion of thought. Sin seen from the thought, is a diminution or less:
seen from the conscience or will, it is pravity or bad. The intellect names it shade, absence
of light, and no essence. The conscience must feel it as essence, essential evil. This it is
not: it has an objective existence, but no subjective.

Thus inevitably does the universe wear our color, and every object fall successively into the
subject itself. The subject exists, the subject enlarges; all things sooner or later fall into
place. As I am, so I see; use what language we will, we can never say anything but what we
are; Hermes, Cadmus, Columbus, Newton, Buonaparte, are the mind's ministers. Instead
of feeling a poverty when we encounter a great man, let us treat the new comer like a
travelling geologist, who passes through our estate, and shows us good slate, or limestone,
or anthracite, in our brush pasture. The partial action of each strong mind in one direction,
is a telescope for the objects on which it is pointed. But every other part of knowledge is to
be pushed to the same extravagance, ere the soul attains her due sphericity. Do you see
that kitten chasing so prettily her own tail? If you could look with her eyes, you might see
her surrounded with hundreds of figures performing com-plex dramas, with tragic and
comic issues, long conversations, many characters, many ups and downs of fate,--and
meantime it is only puss and her tail. How long before our masquerade will end its noise
of tamborines, laughter, and shouting, and we shall find it was a solitary performance?--
A subject and an object,--it takes so much to make the galvanic circuit complete, but
magnitude adds nothing. What imports it whether it is Kepler and the sphere; Columbus
and America; a reader and his book; or puss with her tail?

It is true that all the muses and love and religion hate these developments, and will find a
way to punish the chemist, who publishes in the parlor the secrets of the laboratory. And
we cannot say too little of our constitutional necessity of seeing things under private
aspects, or saturated with our humors. And yet is the God the native of these bleak rocks.
That need makes in morals the capital virtue of self-trust. We must hold hard to this poverty,
however scandalous, and by more vigorous self-recoveries, after the sallies of action,
possess our axis more firmly. The life of truth is cold, and so far mournful; but it is not the
slave of tears, contritions, and perturbations. It does not attempt another's work, nor adopt
another's facts. It is a main lesson of wisdom to know your own from another's. I have
learned that I cannot dispose of other people's facts; but I possess such a key to my own,
as persuades me against all their denials, that they also have a key to theirs. A sympathetic
person is placed in the dilemma of a swimmer among drowning men, who all catch at him,
and if he give so much as a leg or a finger, they will drown him. They wish to be saved from
the mischiefs of their vices, but not from their vices. Charity would be wasted on this poor
waiting on the symptoms. A wise and hardy physician will say, Come out of that, as the first
condition of advice.

In this our talking America, we are ruined by our good nature and listening on all sides. This
compliance takes away the power of being greatly useful. A man should not be able to look
other than directly and forthright. A preoccupied attention is the only answer to the
importunate frivolity of other people: an attention, and to an aim which makes their wants
frivolous. This is a divine answer, and leaves no appeal, and no hard thoughts. In Flaxman's
drawing of the Eumenides39 of Aeschylus, Orestes supplicates Apollo, whilst the Furies sleep
on the threshold. The face of the god expresses a shade of regret and compassion, but
calm with the conviction of the irreconcilableness of the two spheres. He is born into o-
ther politics, into the eternal and beautiful. The man at his feet asks for his interest in
turmoils of the earth, into which his nature cannot enter. And the Eumenides there lying
express pictorially this disparity. The god is surcharged with his divine destiny.

Illusion, Temperament, Succession, Surface, Surprise, Reality, Subjectiveness,--these
are threads on the loom of time, these are the lords of life. I dare not assume to give
their order, but I name them as I find them in my way. I know better than to claim any
completeness for my picture. I am a fragment, and this is a fragment of me. I can very
confidently announce one or another law, which throws itself into relief and form, but I am
too young yet by some ages to compile a code. I gossip for my hour concerning the eternal
politics. I have seen many fair pictures not in vain. A wonderful time I have lived in. I am not
the novice I was fourteen, nor yet seven years ago. Let who will ask, where is the fruit? I
find a private fruit sufficient. This is a fruit,--that I should not ask for a rash effect from
meditations, counsels, and the hiving of truths. I should feel it pitiful to demand a result on
this town and county, an overt effect on the instant month and year. The effect is deep and
secular as the cause. It works on periods in which mortal lifetime is lost. All I know is
reception; I am and I have: but I do not get, and when I have fancied I had gotten anything,
I found I did not. I worship with wonder the great Fortune. My reception has been so large,
that I am not annoyed by receiving this or that superabundantly. I say to the Genius, if he
will pardon the proverb, In for a mill, in for a million. When I receive a new gift, I do not
macerate my body to make the account square, for, if I should die, I could not make the
account square. The benefit overran the merit the first day, and has overran the merit ever
since. The merit itself, so-called, I reckon part of the receiving.

Also, that hankering after an overt or practical effect seems to me an apostasy. In good
earnest, I am willing to spare this most unnecessary deal of doing. Life wears to me a
visionary face. Hardest, roughest action is visionary also. It is but a choice between soft and
turbulent dreams. People disparage knowing and the intellectual life, and urge doing. I am
very content with knowing, if only I could know. That is an august entertainment, and would
suffice me a great while. To know a little, would be worth the expense of this world. I hear
always the law of Adrastia, “that every soul which had acquired any truth, should be safe
from harm until another period.”

I know that the world I converse with in the city and in the farms, is not the world I think. I
observe that difference and shall observe it. One day, I shall know the value and law of this
discrepance. But I have not found that much was gained by manipular attempts to realize
the world of thought. Many eager persons successively make an experiment in this way,
and make themselves ridiculous. They acquire democratic manners, they foam at the
mouth, they hate and deny. Worse, I observe, that, in the history of mankind, there is never
a solitary example of success,--taking their own tests of success. I say this polemically, or
in reply to the inquiry, why not realize your world? But far be from me the despair which
prejudges the law by a paltry empiricism,--since there never was a right endeavor, but it
succeeded. Patience and patience, we shall win at the last. We must be very suspicious of
the deceptions of the element of time. It takes a good deal of time to eat or to sleep, or to
earn a hundred dollars, and a very little time to entertain a hope and an insight which
becomes the light of our life. We dress our garden, eat our dinners, discuss the household
with our wives, and these things make no impression, are forgotten next week; but in the
solitude to which every man is always returning, he has a sanity and revelations, which in
his passage into new worlds he will carry with him. Never mind the ridicule, never mind the
defeat: up again, old heart!--it seems to say,--there is victory yet for all justice; and the
true romance which the world exists to realize, will be the transformation of genius into
practical power.

III. Character

The sun set; but set not his hope:
Stars rose; his faith was earlier up:
Fixed on the enormous galaxy,
Deeper and older seemed his eye:
And matched his sufferance sublime
The taciturnity of time.
He spoke, and words more soft than rain
Brought the Age of Gold again:
His action won such reverence sweet,
As hid all measure of the feat.
Work of his hand
He nor commends nor grieves:
Pleads for itself the fact;
As unrepenting Nature leaves
Her every act.



I have read that those who listened to Lord Chatham felt that there was something finer
in the man, than anything which he said. It has been complained of our brilliant English
historian of the French Revolution, that when he has told all his facts about Mirabeau, they
do not justify his estimate of his genius. The Gracchi, Agis, Cleomenes, and others of
Plutarch's heroes, do not in the record of facts equal their own fame. Sir Philip Sidney, the
Earl of Essex, Sir Walter Raleigh, are men of great figure, and of few deeds. We cannot
find the smallest part of the personal weight of Washington, in the narrative of his exploits.
The authority of the name of Schiller is too great for his books. This inequality of the
reputation to the works or the anecdotes, is not accounted for by saying that the
reverberation is longer than the thunder-clap; but somewhat resided in these men which
begot an expectation that outran all their performance. The largest part of their power was
latent. This is that which we call Character,--a reserved force which acts directly by
presence, and without means. It is conceived of as a certain undemonstrable force, a
Familiar or Genius, by whose impulses the man is guided, but whose counsels he cannot
impart; which is company for him, so that such men are often solitary, or if they chance to
be social, do not need society, but can entertain themselves very well alone. The purest
literary talent appears at one time great, at another time small, but character is of a stellar
and undiminishable greatness. What others effect by talent or by eloquence, this man
accomplishes by some magnetism. “Half his strength he put not forth.” His victories are by
demonstration of superiority, and not by crossing of bayonets. He conquers, because his
arrival alters the face of affairs. “O Iole! how did you know that Hercules was a god?”
“Because,” answered Iole, “I was content the moment my eyes fell on him. When I beheld
Theseus, I desired that I might see him offer battle, or at least guide his horses in the
chariot-race; but Hercules did not wait for a contest; he conquered whether he stood, or
walked, or sat, or whatever thing he did.” Man, ordinarily a pendant to events, only half
attached, and that awkwardly, to the world he lives in, in these examples appears to share
the life of things, and to be an expression of the same laws which control the tides and the
sun, numbers and quantities.

But to use a more modest illustration, and nearer home, I observe, that in our political
elections, where this element, if it appears at all, can only occur in its coarsest form, we
sufficiently understand its incomparable rate. The people know that they need in their
representative much more than talent, namely, the power to make his talent trusted. They
cannot come at their ends by sending to Congress a learned, acute, and fluent speaker, if
he be not one, who, before he was appointed by the people to represent them, was
appointed by Almighty God to stand for a fact,--invincibly persuaded of that fact in
himself,--so that the most confident and the most violent persons learn that here is
resistance on which both impudence and terror are wasted, namely, faith in a fact. The men
who carry their points do not need to inquire of their constituents what they should say, but
are themselves the country which they represent: nowhere are its emotions or opinions so
instant and true as in them; nowhere so pure from a selfish infusion. The constituency at
home hearkens to their words, watches the color of their cheek, and therein, as in a glass,
dresses its own. Our public assemblies are pretty good tests of manly force. Our frank
countrymen of the west and south have a taste for character, and like to know whether the
New Englander is a substantial man, or whether the hand can pass through him.

The same motive force appears in trade. There are geniuses in trade, as well as in war, or
the state, or letters; and the reason why this or that man is fortunate, is not to be told. It
lies in the man: that is all anybody can tell you about it. See him, and you will know as easily
why he succeeds, as, if you see Napoleon, you would comprehend his fortune. In the new
objects we recognize the old game, the habit of fronting the fact, and not dealing with it at
second hand, through the perceptions of somebody else. Nature seems to authorize trade,
as soon as you see the natural merchant, who appears not so much a private agent, as her
factor and Minister of Commerce. His natural probity combines with his insight into the
fabric of society, to put him above tricks, and he communicates to all his own faith, that
contracts are of no private interpretation. The habit of his mind is a reference to standards
of natural equity and public advantage; and he inspires respect, and the wish to deal with
him, both for the quiet spirit of honor which attends him, and for the intellectual pastime
which the spectacle of so much ability affords. This immensely stretched trade, which
makes the capes of the Southern Ocean his wharves, and the Atlantic Sea his familiar port,
centres in his brain only; and nobody in the universe can make his place good. In his parlor,
I see very well that he has been at hard work this morning, with that knitted brow, and that
settled humor, which all his desire to be courteous cannot shake off. I see plainly how many
firm acts have been done; how many valiant noes have this day been spoken, when others
would have uttered ruinous yeas. I see, with the pride of art, and skill of masterly arithmetic
and power of remote combination, the consciousness of being an agent and playfellow of
the original laws of the world. He too believes that none can supply him, and that a man
must be born to trade, or he cannot learn it.

This virtue draws the mind more, when it appears in action to ends not so mixed. It works
with most energy in the smallest companies and in private relations. In all cases, it is an
extraordinary and incomputable agent. The excess of physical strength is paralyzed by it.
Higher natures overpower lower ones by affecting them with a certain sleep. The faculties
are locked up, and offer no resistance. Perhaps that is the universal law. When the high
cannot bring up the low to itself, it benumbs it, as man charms down the resistance of the
lower animals. Men exert on each other a similar occult power. How often has the influence
of a true master realized all the tales of magic! A river of command seemed to run down
from his eyes into all those who beheld him, a torrent of strong sad light, like an Ohio or
Danube, which pervaded them with his thoughts, and colored all events with the hue of his
mind. “What means did you employ?” was the question asked of the wife of Concini, in
regard to her treatment of Mary of Medici; and the answer was, “Only that influence which
every strong mind has over a weak one.” Cannot Caesar in irons shuffle off the irons, and
transfer them to the person of Hippo or Thraso the turnkey? Is an iron handcuff so
immutable a bond? Suppose a slaver on the coast of Guinea should take on board a gang
of negroes, which should contain persons of the stamp of Toussaint L'Ouverture: or, let us
fancy, under these swarthy masks he has a gang of Washingtons in chains. When they
arrive at Cuba, will the relative order of the ship's company be the same? Is there nothing
but rope and iron? Is there no love, no reverence? Is there never a glimpse of right in a
poor slave-captain's mind; and cannot these be supposed available to break, or elude, or in
any manner overmatch the tension of an inch or two of iron ring?

This is a natural power, like light and heat, and all nature cooperates with it. The reason
why we feel one man's presence, and do not feel another's, is as simple as gravity. Truth is
the summit of being: justice is the application of it to affairs. All individual natures stand in a
scale, according to the purity of this element in them. The will of the pure runs down from
them into other natures, as water runs down from a higher into a lower vessel. This natural
force is no more to be withstood, than any other natural force. We can drive a stone upward
for a moment into the air, but it is yet true that all stones will forever fall; and whatever
instances can be quoted of unpunished theft, or of a lie which somebody credited, justice
must prevail, and it is the privilege of truth to make itself believed. Character is this moral
order seen through the medium of an individual nature. An individual is an encloser. Time
and space, liberty and necessity, truth and thought, are left at large no longer. Now, the
universe is a close or pound. All things exist in the man tinged with the manners of his soul.
With what quality is in him, he infuses all nature that he can reach; nor does he tend to lose
himself in vastness, but, at how long a curve soever, all his regards return into his own good
at last. He animates all he can, and he sees only what he animates. He encloses the world,
as the patriot does his country, as a material basis for his character, and a theatre for
action. A healthy soul stands united with the Just and the True, as the magnet arranges
itself with the pole, so that he stands to all beholders like a transparent object betwixt them
and the sun, and whoso journeys towards the sun, journeys towards that person. He is thus
the medium of the highest influence to all who are not on the same level. Thus, men of
character are the conscience of the society to which they belong.

The natural measure of this power is the resistance of circumstances. Impure men consider
life as it is reflected in opinions, events, and persons. They cannot see the action, until it is
done. Yet its moral element pre-existed in the actor, and its quality as right or wrong, it was
easy to predict. Everything in nature is bipolar, or has a positive and negative pole. There is
a male and a female, a spirit and a fact, a north and a south. Spirit is the positive, the event
is the negative. Will is the north, action the south pole. Character may be ranked as having
its natural place in the north. It shares the magnetic currents of the system. The feeble
souls are drawn to the south or negative pole. They look at the profit or hurt of the action.
They never behold a principle until it is lodged in a person. They do not wish to be lovely,
but to be loved. The class of character like to hear of their faults: the other class do not like
to hear of faults; they worship events; secure to them a fact, a connexion, a certain chain of
circumstances, and they will ask no more. The hero sees that the event is ancillary: it must
follow him. A given order of events has no power to secure to him the satisfaction which the
imagination attaches to it; the soul of goodness escapes from any set of circumstances,
whilst prosperity belongs to a certain mind, and will introduce that power and victory which
is its natural fruit, into any order of events. No change of circumstances can repair a defect
of character. We boast our emancipation from many superstitions; but if we have broken
any idols, it is through a transfer of the idolatry. What have I gained, that I no longer
immolate a bull to Jove, or to Neptune, or a mouse to Hecate; that I do not tremble before
the Eumenides, or the Catholic Purgatory, or the Calvinistic Judgment-day,? if I quake at
opinion, the public opinion, as we call it; or at the threat of assault, or contumely, or bad
neighbors, or poverty, or mutilation, or at the rumor of revolution, or of murder? If I quake,
what matters it what I quake at? Our proper vice takes form in one or another shape,
according to the sex, age, or temperament of the person, and, if we are capable of fear, will
readily find terrors. The covetousness or the malignity which saddens me, when I ascribe it
to society, is my own. I am always environed by myself. On the other part, rectitude is a
perpetual victory, celebrated not by cries of joy, but by serenity, which is joy fixed or
habitual. It is disgraceful to fly to events for confirmation of our truth and worth. The
capitalist does not run every hour to the broker, to coin his advantages into current money
of the realm; he is satisfied to read in the quotations of the market, that his stocks have
risen. The same transport which the occurrence of the best events in the best order would
occasion me, I must learn to taste purer in the perception that my position is every hour
meliorated, and does already command those events I desire. That exultation is only to be
checked by the foresight of an order of things so excellent, as to throw all our prosperities
into the deepest shade.

The face which character wears to me is self-sufficingness. I revere the person who is
riches; so that I cannot think of him as alone, or poor, or exiled, or unhappy, or a client, but
as perpetual patron, benefactor, and beatified man. Character is centrality, the impossibility
of being displaced or overset. A man should give us a sense of mass. Society is frivolous,
and shreds its day into scraps, its conversation into ceremonies and escapes. But if I go to
see an ingenious man, I shall think myself poorly entertained if he give me nimble pieces of
benevolence and etiquette; rather he shall stand stoutly in his place, and let me apprehend,
if it were only his resistance; know that I have encountered a new and positive quality;--
great refreshment for both of us. It is much, that he does not accept the conventional
opinions and practices. That nonconformity will remain a goad and remembrancer, and
every inquirer will have to dispose of him, in the first place. There is nothing real or useful
that is not a seat of war. Our houses ring with laughter and personal and critical gossip, but
it helps little. But the uncivil, unavailable man, who is a problem and a threat to society,
whom it cannot let pass in silence, but must either worship or hate,--and to whom all
parties feel related, both the leaders of opinion, and the obscure and eccentric,--he helps;
he puts America and Europe in the wrong, and destroys the skepticism which says, ‘man is
a doll, let us eat and drink, 'tis the best we can do,' by illuminating the untried and unknown.
Acquiescence in the establishment, and appeal to the public, indicate infirm faith, heads
which are not clear, and which must see a house built, before they can comprehend the
plan of it. The wise man not only leaves out of his thought the many, but leaves out the
few. Fountains, fountains, the self-moved, the absorbed, the commander because he is
commanded, the assured, the primary,? they are good; for these announce the instant
presence of supreme power.

Our action should rest mathematically on our substance. In nature, there are no false
valuations. A pound of water in the ocean-tempest has no more gravity than in a
midsummer pond. All things work exactly according to their quality, and according to their
quantity; attempt nothing they cannot do, except man only. He has pretension: he wishes
and attempts things beyond his force. I read in a book of English memoirs, “Mr. Fox
(afterwards Lord Holland) said, he must have the Treasury; he had served up to it, and
would have it.”--Xenophon and his Ten Thousand were quite equal to what they
attempted, and did it; so equal, that it was not suspected to be a grand and inimitable
exploit. Yet there stands that fact unrepeated, a high-water-mark in military history. Many
have attempted it since, and not been equal to it. It is only on reality, that any power of
action can be based. No institution will be better than the institutor. I knew an amiable and
accomplished person who undertook a practical reform, yet I was never able to find in him
the enterprise of love he took in hand. He adopted it by ear and by the understanding from
the books he had been reading. All his action was tentative, a piece of the city carried out
into the fields, and was the city still, and no new fact, and could not inspire enthusiasm.
Had there been something latent in the man, a terrible undemonstrated genius agitating and
embarrassing his demeanor, we had watched for its advent. It is not enough that the
intellect should see the evils, and their remedy. We shall still postpone our existence, nor
take the ground to which we are entitled, whilst it is only a thought, and not a spirit that
incites us. We have not yet served up to it.

These are properties of life, and another trait is the notice of incessant growth. Men should
be intelligent and earnest. They must also make us feel, that they have a controlling happy
future, opening before them, which sheds a splendor on the passing hour. The hero is
misconceived and misreported: he cannot therefore wait to unravel any man's blunders: he
is again on his road, adding new powers and honors to his domain, and new claims on your
heart, which will bankrupt you, if you have loitered about the old things, and have not kept
your relation to him, by adding to your wealth. New actions are the only apologies and
explanations of old ones, which the noble can bear to offer or to receive. If your friend has
displeased you, you shall not sit down to consider it, for he has already lost all memory of
the passage, and has doubled his power to serve you, and, ere you can rise up again, will
burden you with blessings.

We have no pleasure in thinking of a benevolence that is only measured by its works. Love
is inexhaustible, and if its estate is wasted, its granary emptied, still cheers and enriches,
and the man, though he sleep, seems to purify the air, and his house to adorn the
landscape and strengthen the laws. People always recognize this difference. We know who
is benevolent, by quite other means than the amount of subscription to soup-societies. It is
only low merits that can be enumerated. Fear, when your friends say to you what you have
done well, and say it through; but when they stand with uncertain timid looks of respect and
half-dislike, and must suspend their judgment for years to come, you may begin to hope.
Those who live to the future must always appear selfish to those who live to the present.
Therefore it was droll in the good Riemer, who has written memoirs of Goethe, to make out
a list of his donations and good deeds, as, so many hundred thalers given to Stilling, to
Hegel, to Tischbein: a lucrative place found for Professor Voss, a post under the Grand
Duke for Herder, a pension for Meyer, two professors recommended to foreign universities,
&c. &c. The longest list of specifications of benefit, would look very short. A man is a poor
creature, if he is to be measured so. For, all these, of course, are exceptions; and the rule
and hodiernal life of a good man is benefaction. The true charity of Goethe is to be inferred
from the account he gave Dr. Eckermann, of the way in which he had spent his fortune.
“Each bon-mot of mine has cost a purse of gold. Half a million of my own money, the
fortune I inherited, my salary, and the large income derived from my writings for fifty years
back, have been expended to instruct me in what I now know. I have besides seen,” &c.

I own it is but poor chat and gossip to go to enumerate traits of this simple and rapid power,
and we are painting the lightning with charcoal; but in these long nights and vacations, I like
to console myself so. Nothing but itself can copy it. A word warm from the heart enriches
me. I surrender at discretion. How death-cold is literary genius before this fire of life! These
are the touches that reanimate my heavy soul, and give it eyes to pierce the dark of nature.
I find, where I thought myself poor, there was I most rich. Thence comes a new intellectual
exaltation, to be again rebuked by some new exhibition of character. Strange alternation of
attraction and repulsion! Character repudiates intellect, yet excites it; and character passes
into thought, is published so, and then is ashamed before new flashes of moral worth.

Character is nature in the highest form. It is of no use to ape it, or to contend with it.
Somewhat is possible of resistance, and of persistence, and of creation, to this power,
which will foil all emulation.

This masterpiece is best where no hands but nature's have been laid on it. Care is taken
that the greatly-destined shall slip up into life in the shade, with no thousand-eyed Athens
to watch and blazon every new thought, every blushing emotion of young genius. Two
persons lately,--very young children of the most high God,--have given me occasion for
thought. When I explored the source of their sanctity, and charm for the imagination, it
seemed as if each answered, `From my non-conformity: I never listened to your people's
law, or to what they call their gospel, and wasted my time. I was content with the simple
rural poverty of my own: hence this sweetness: my work never reminds you of that;--is
pure of that.' And nature advertises me in such persons, that, in democratic America, she
will not be democratized. How cloistered and constitutionally sequestered from the market
and from scandal! It was only this morning, that I sent away some wild flowers of these
wood-gods. They are a relief from literature,--these fresh draughts from the sources of
thought and sentiment; as we read, in an age of polish and criticism, the first lines of written
prose and verse of a nation. How captivating is their devotion to their favorite books,
whether Aeschylus, Dante, Shakspeare, or Scott, as feeling that they have a stake in that
book: who touches that, touches them;--and especially the total solitude of the critic, the
Patmos40 of thought from which he writes, in unconsciousness of any eyes that shall ever
read this writing. Could they dream on still, as angels, and not wake to comparisons, and to
be flattered! Yet some natures are too good to be spoiled by praise, and wherever the vein
of thought reaches down into the profound, there is no danger from vanity. Solemn friends
will warn them of the danger of the head's being turned by the flourish of trumpets, but they
can afford to smile. I remember the indignation of an eloquent Methodist at the kind
admonitions of a Doctor of Divinity,--`My friend, a man can neither be praised nor
insulted.' But forgive the counsels; they are very natural. I remember the thought which
occurred to me when some ingenious and spiritual foreigners came to America, was, Have
you been victimized in being brought hither?--or, prior to that, answer me this, `Are you
victimizable?'

As I have said, nature keeps these sovereignties in her own hands, and however pertly our
sermons and disciplines would divide some share of credit, and teach that the laws fashion
the citizen, she goes her own gait, and puts the wisest in the wrong. She makes very light
of gospels and prophets, as one who has a great many more to produce, and no excess of
time to spare on any one. There is a class of men, individuals of which appear at long
intervals, so eminently endowed with insight and virtue, that they have been unanimously
saluted as divine, and who seem to be an accumulation of that power we consider. Divine
persons are character born, or, to borrow a phrase from Napoleon, they are victory
organized. They are usually received with ill-will, because they are new, and because they
set a bound to the exaggeration that has been made of the personality of the last divine
person. Nature never rhymes her children, nor makes two men alike. When we see a great
man, we fancy a resemblance to some historical person, and predict the sequel of his
character and fortune, a result which he is sure to disappoint. None will ever solve the
problem of his character according to our prejudice, but only in his own high unprecedent-
ed way. Character wants room; must not be crowded on by persons, nor be judged from
glimpses got in the press of affairs or on few occasions. It needs perspective, as a great
building. It may not, probably does not, form relations rapidly; and we should not require
rash explanation, either on the popular ethics, or on our own, of its action.

I look on Sculpture as history. I do not think the Apollo and the Jove impossible in flesh and
blood. Every trait which the artist recorded in stone, he had seen in life, and better than his
copy. We have seen many counterfeits, but we are born believers in great men. How easily
we read in old books, when men were few, of the smallest action of the patriarchs. We
require that a man should be so large and columnar in the landscape, that it should deserve
to be recorded, that he arose, and girded up his loins, and departed to such a place. The
most credible pictures are those of majestic men who prevailed at their entrance, and
convinced the senses; as happened to the eastern magian who was sent to test the merits
of Zertusht or Zoroaster. When the Yunani sage arrived at Balkh, the Persians tell us,
Gushtasp appointed a day on which the Mobeds of every country should assemble, and a
golden chair was placed for the Yunani sage. Then the beloved of Yezdam, the prophet
Zertusht, advanced into the midst of the assembly. The Yunani sage, on seeing that chief,
said, “This form and this gait cannot lie, and nothing but truth can proceed from them.” Plato
said, it was impossible not to believe in the children of the gods, “though they should speak
without probable or necessary arguments.” I should think myself very unhappy in my
associates, if I could not credit the best things in history. “John Bradshaw,” says Milton,
“appears like a consul, from whom the fasces are not to depart with the year; so that not on
the tribunal only, but throughout his life, you would regard him as sitting in judgment upon
kings.” I find it more credible, since it is anterior information, that one man should know
heaven, as the Chinese say, than that so many men should know the world. “The virtuous
prince confronts the gods, without any misgiving. He waits a hundred ages till a sage
comes, and does not doubt. He who confronts the gods, without any misgiving, knows
heaven; he who waits a hundred ages until a sage comes, without doubting, knows men.
Hence the virtuous prince moves, and for ages shows empire the way.” But there is no
need to seek remote examples. He is a dull observer whose experience has not taught him
the reality and force of magic, as well as of chemistry. The coldest precisian cannot go
abroad without encountering inexplicable influences. One man fastens an eye on him, and
the graves of the memory render up their dead; the secrets that make him wretched either
to keep or to betray, must be yielded;--another, and he cannot speak, and the bones of
his body seem to lose their cartilages; the entrance of a friend adds grace, boldness, and
eloquence to him; and there are persons, he cannot choose but remember, who gave a
transcendant expansion to his thought, and kindled another life in his bosom.

What is so excellent as strict relations of amity, when they spring from this deep root? The
sufficient reply to the skeptic, who doubts the power and the furniture of man, is in that
possibility of joyful intercourse with persons, which makes the faith and practice of all
reasonable men. I know nothing which life has to offer so satisfying as the profound good
understanding, which can subsist, after much exchange of good offices, between two
virtuous men, each of whom is sure of himself, and sure of his friend. It is a happiness
which postpones all other gratifications, and makes politics, and commerce, and churches,
cheap. For, when men shall meet as they ought, each a benefactor, a shower of stars,
clothed with thoughts, with deeds, with accomplishments, it should be the festival of nature
which all things announce. Of such friendship, love in the sexes is the first symbol, as all
other things are symbols of love. Those relations to the best men, which, at one time, we
reckoned the romances of youth, become, in the progress of the character, the most solid
enjoyment.

If it were possible to live in right relations with men!--if we could abstain from asking
anything of them, from asking their praise, or help, or pity, and content us with compelling
them through the virtue of the eldest laws! Could we not deal with a few persons,--with
one person,--after the unwritten statutes, and make an experiment of their efficacy?
Could we not pay our friend the compliment of truth, of silence, of forbearing? Need we be
so eager to seek him? If we are related, we shall meet. It was a tradition of the ancient
world, that no metamorphosis could hide a god from a god; and there is a Greek verse
which runs,

“The Gods are to each other not unknown.”

Friends also follow the laws of divine necessity; they gravitate to each other, and cannot
otherwise:--

When each the other shall avoid,
Shall each by each be most enjoyed.

Their relation is not made, but allowed. The gods must seat themselves without seneschal
in our Olympus, and as they can instal themselves by seniority divine. Society is spoiled, if
pains are taken, if the associates are brought a mile to meet. And if it be not society, it is a
mischievous, low, degrading jangle, though made up of the best. All the greatness of each
is kept back, and every foible in painful activity, as if the Olympians should meet to
exchange snuff-boxes.

Life goes headlong. We chase some flying scheme, or we are hunted by some fear or
command behind us. But if suddenly we encounter a friend, we pause; our heat and hurry
look foolish enough; now pause, now possession, is required, and the power to swell the
moment from the resources of the heart. The moment is all, in all noble relations.

A divine person is the prophecy of the mind; a friend is the hope of the heart. Our beatitude
waits for the fulfilment of these two in one. The ages are opening this moral force. All force
is the shadow or symbol of that. Poetry is joyful and strong, as it draws its inspiration
thence. Men write their names on the world, as they are filled with this. History has been
mean; our nations have been mobs; we have never seen a man: that divine form we do not
yet know, but only the dream and prophecy of such: we do not know the majestic manners
which belong to him, which appease and exalt the beholder. We shall one day see that the
most private is the most public energy, that quality atones for quantity, and grandeur of
character acts in the dark, and succors them who never saw it. What greatness has yet
appeared, is beginnings and encouragements to us in this direction. The history of those
gods and saints which the world has written, and then worshipped, are documents of
character. The ages have exulted in the manners of a youth who owed nothing to fortune,
and who was hanged at the Tyburn of his nation, who, by the pure quality of his nature,
shed an epic splendor around the facts of his death, which has transfigured every particular
into an universal symbol for the eyes of mankind. This great defeat is hitherto our highest
fact. But the mind requires a victory to the senses, a force of character which will convert
judge, jury, soldier, and king; which will rule animal and mineral virtues, and blend with the
courses of sap, of rivers, of winds, of stars, and of moral agents.

If we cannot attain at a bound to these grandeurs, at least, let us do them homage. In
society, high advantages are set down to the possessor, as disadvantages. It requires the
more wariness in our private estimates. I do not forgive in my friends the failure to know a
fine character, and to entertain it with thankful hospitality. When, at last, that which we have
always longed for, is arrived, and shines on us with glad rays out of that far celestial land,
then to be coarse, then to be critical, and treat such a visitant with the jabber and suspicion
of the streets, argues a vulgarity that seems to shut the doors of heaven. This is confusion,
this the right insanity, when the soul no longer knows its own, nor where its allegiance, its
religion, are due. Is there any religion but this, to know, that, wherever in the wide desert of
being, the holy sentiment we cherish has opened into a flower, it blooms for me? if none
sees it, I see it; I am aware, if I alone, of the greatness of the fact. Whilst it blooms, I will
keep sabbath or holy time, and suspend my gloom, and my folly and jokes. Nature is
indulged by the presence of this guest. There are many eyes that can detect and honor the
prudent and household virtues; there are many that can discern Genius on his starry track,
though the mob is incapable; but when that love which is all-suffering, all-abstaining, allaspiring,
which has vowed to itself, that it will be a wretch and also a fool in this world,
sooner than soil its white hands by any compliances, comes into our streets and houses,--
only the pure and aspiring can know its face, and the only compliment they can pay it, is to
own it.

IV. Manners

“How near to good is what is fair!
Which we no sooner see,
But with the lines and outward air
Our senses taken be.
Again yourselves compose,
And now put all the aptness on
Of Figure, that Proportion
Or Color can disclose;
That if those silent arts were lost,
Design and Picture, they might boast
From you a newer ground,
Instructed by the heightening sense
Of dignity and reverence
In their true motions found.”

Ben Jonson



Half the world, it is said, knows not how the other half live. Our Exploring Expedition saw
the Feejee islanders getting their dinner off human bones; and they are said to eat their
own wives and children. The husbandry of the modern inhabitants of Gournou (west of old
Thebes) is philosophical to a fault. To set up their housekeeping, nothing is requisite but
two or three earthern pots, a stone to grind meal, and a mat which is the bed. The house,
namely, a tomb, is ready without rent or taxes. No rain can pass through the roof, and there
is no door, for there is no want of one, as there is nothing to lose. If the house do not
please them, they walk out and enter another, as there are several hundreds at their
command. “It is somewhat singular,” adds Belzoni, to whom we owe this account, “to talk of
happiness among people who live in sepulchres, among the corpses and rags of an
ancient nation which they know nothing of.” In the deserts of Borgoo, the rock-Tibboos still
dwell in caves, like cliff-swallows, and the language of these negroes is compared by their
neighbors to the shrieking of bats, and to the whistling of birds. Again, the Bornoos have
no proper names; individuals are called after their height, thickness, or other accidental
quality, and have nicknames merely. But the salt, the dates, the ivory, and the gold, for
which these horrible regions are visited,find their way into countries, where the purchaser
and consumer can hardly be ranked in one race with these cannibals and man-stealers;
countries where man serves himself with metals, wood, stone, glass, gum,cotton, silk, and
wool; honors himself with architecture; writes laws, and contrives to execute his will through
the hands of many nations; and, especially, establishes a select society, running through all
the countries of intelligent men, a self-constituted aristocracy, or fraternity of the best,
which, without written law or exact usage of any kind, perpetuates itself, colonizes every
new-planted island, and adopts and makes its own whatever personal beauty or
extraordinary native endowment anywhere appears.

What fact more conspicuous in modern history, than the creation of the gentleman?
Chivalry is that, and loyalty is that, and, in English literature, half the drama, and all the
novels, from Sir Philip Sidney to Sir Walter Scott, paint this figure. The word gentleman,
which, like the word Christian, must hereafter characterize the present and the few
preceding centuries, by the importance attached to it, is a homage to personal and
incommunicable properties. Frivolous and fantastic additions have got associated with the
name, but the steady interest of mankind in it must be attributed to the valuable properties
which it designates. An element which unites all the most forcible persons of every country;
makes them intelligible and agreeable to each other, and is somewhat so precise, that it is
at once felt if an individual lack the masonic sign, cannot be any casual product, but must
be an average result of the character and faculties universally found in men. It seems a
certain permanent average; as the atmosphere is a permanent composition, whilst so many
gases are combined only to be decompounded. Comme il faut, is the Frenchman's
description of good society, as we must be. It is a spontaneous fruit of talents and feelings
of precisely that class who have most vigor, who take the lead in the world of this hour, and,
though far from pure, far from constituting the gladdest and highest tone of human feeling,
is as good as the whole society permits it to be. It is made of the spirit, more than of the
talent of men, and is a compound result, into which every great force enters as an
ingredient, namely, virtue, wit, beauty, wealth, and power.

There is something equivocal in all the words in use to express the excellence of manners
and social cultivation, because the quantities are fluxional, and the last effect is assumed
by the senses as the cause. The word gentleman has not any correlative abstract to
express the quality. Gentility is mean, and gentilesse is obsolete. But we must keep alive
in the vernacular, the distinction between fashion, a word of narrow and often sinister
meaning, and the heroic character which the gentleman imports. The usual words, how-
ever, must be respected: they will be found to contain the root of the matter. The point
of distinction in all this class of names, as courtesy, chivalry, fashion, and the like, is, that
the flower and fruit, not the grain of the tree, are contemplated. It is beauty which is the aim
this time, and not worth. The result is now in question, although our words intimate well
enough the popular feeling, that the appearance supposes a substance. The gentleman is a
man of truth, lord of his own actions, and expressing that lordship in his behavior, not in
any manner dependent and servile either on persons, or opinions, or possessions. Beyond
this fact of truth and real force, the word denotes good-nature or benevolence: manhood
first, and then gentleness. The popular notion certainly adds a condition of ease and for-
tune; but that is a natural result of personal force and love, that they should possess and
dispense the goods of the world. In times of violence, every eminent person must fall in
with many opportunities to approve his stoutness and worth; therefore every man's name
that emerged at all from the mass in the feudal ages, rattles in our ear like a flourish of
trumpets. But personal force never goes out of fashion. That is still paramount today, and,
in the moving crowd of good society, the men of valor and reality are known, and rise to
their natural place. The competition is transferred from war to politics and trade, but the
personal force appears readily enough in these new arenas.

Power first, or no leading class. In politics and in trade, bruisers and pirates are of better
promise than talkers and clerks. God knows that all sorts of gentlemen knock at the door;
but whenever used in strictness, and with any emphasis, the name will be found to point at
original energy. It describes a man standing in his own right, and working after untaught
methods. In a good lord, there must first be a good animal, at least to the extent of yielding
the incomparable advantage of animal spirits. The ruling class must have more, but they
must have these, giving in every company the sense of power, which makes things easy to
be done which daunt the wise. The society of the energetic class, in their friendly and
festive meetings, is full of courage, and of attempts, which intimidate the pale scholar. The
courage which girls exhibit is like a battle of Lundy's Lane, or a sea-fight. The intellect relies
on memory to make some supplies to face these extemporaneous squadrons. But memory
is a base mendicant with basket and badge, in the presence of these sudden masters. The
rulers of society must be up to the work of the world, and equal to their versatile office: men
of the right Caesarian pattern, who have great range of affinity. I am far from believing the
timid maxim of Lord Falkland, (“that for ceremony there must go two to it; since a bold
fellow will go through the cunningest forms,”) and am of opinion that the gentleman is the
bold fellow whose forms are not to be broken through; and only that plenteous nature is
rightful master, which is the complement of whatever person it converses with. My
gentleman gives the law where he is; he will outpray saints in chapel, outgeneral veterans
in the field, and outshine all courtesy in the hall. He is good company for pirates, and good
with academicians; so that it is useless to fortify yourself against him; he has the private
entrance to all minds, and I could as easily exclude myself, as him. The famous gentlemen
of Asia and Europe have been of this strong type: Saladin, Sapor, the Cid, Julius Caesar,
Scipio, Alexander, Pericles, and the lordliest personages. They sat very carelessly in their
chairs, and were too excellent themselves, to value any condition at a high rate.

A plentiful fortune is reckoned necessary, in the popular judgment, to the completion of this
man of the world: and it is a material deputy which walks through the dance which the first
has led. Money is not essential, but this wide affinity is, which transcends the habits of
clique and caste, and makes itself felt by men of all classes. If the aristocrat is only valid in
fashionable circles, and not with truckmen, he will never be a leader in fashion; and if the
man of the people cannot speak on equal terms with the gentleman, so that the gentleman
shall perceive that he is already really of his own order, he is not to be feared. Diogenes,
Socrates, and Epaminondas, are gentlemen of the best blood, who have chosen the
condition of poverty, when that of wealth was equally open to them. I use these old names,
but the men I speak of are my contemporaries. Fortune will not supply to every generation
one of these well-appointed knights, but every collection of men furnishes some example
of the class: and the politics of this country, and the trade of every town, are controlled by
these hardy and irresponsible doers, who have invention to take the lead, and a broad
sympathy which puts them in fellowship with crowds, and makes their action popular.

The manners of this class are observed and caught with devotion by men of taste. The
association of these masters with each other, and with men intelligent of their merits, is
mutually agreeable and stimulating. The good forms, the happiest expressions of each, are
repeated and adopted. By swift consent, everything superfluous is dropped, everything
graceful is renewed. Fine manners show themselves formidable to the uncultivated man.
They are a subtler science of defence to parry and intimidate; but once matched by the skill
of the other party, they drop the point of the sword,--points and fences disappear, and the
youth finds himself in a more transparent atmosphere, wherein life is a less troublesome
game, and not a misunderstanding rises between the players. Manners aim to facilitate life,
to get rid of impediments, and bring the man pure to energize. They aid our dealing and
conversation, as a railway aids travelling, by getting rid of all avoidable obstructions of the
road, and leaving nothing to be conquered but pure space. These forms very soon become
fixed, and a fine sense of propriety is cultivated with the more heed, that it becomes a
badge of social and civil distinctions. Thus grows up Fashion, an equivocal semblance, the
most puissant, the most fantastic and frivolous, the most feared and followed, and which
morals and violence assault in vain.

There exists a strict relation between the class of power, and the exclusive and polished
circles. The last are always filled or filling from the first. The strong men usually give some
allowance even to the petulances of fashion, for that affinity they find in it. Napoleon, child
of the revolution, destroyer of the old noblesse, never ceased to court the Faubourg St.
Germain: doubtless with the feeling, that fashion is a homage to men of his stamp. Fashion,
though in a strange way, represents all manly virtue. It is virtue gone to seed: it is a kind of
posthumous honor. It does not often caress the great, but the children of the great: it is a
hall of the Past. It usually sets its face against the great of this hour. Great men are not
commonly in its halls: they are absent in the field: they are working, not triumphing. Fashion
is made up of their children; of those, who, through the value and virtue of somebody, have
acquired lustre to their name, marks of distinction, means of cultivation and generosity,
and, in their physical organization, a certain health and excellence, which secures to them,
if not the highest power to work, yet high power to enjoy. The class of power, the working
heroes, the Cortez, the Nelson, the Napoleon, see that this is the festivity and permanent
celebration of such as they; that fashion is funded talent; is Mexico, Marengo, and Trafalgar
beaten out thin; that the brilliant names of fashion run back to just such busy names as
their own, fifty or sixty years ago. They are the sowers, their sons shall be the reapers, and
their sons, in the ordinary course of things, must yield the possession of the harvest to new
competitors with keener eyes and stronger frames. The city is recruited from the country. In
the year 1805, it is said, every legitimate monarch in Europe was imbecile. The city would
have died out, rotted, and exploded, long ago, but that it was reinforced from the fields. It is
only country which came to town day before yesterday, that is city and court today.

Aristocracy and fashion are certain inevitable results. These mutual selections are
indestructible. If they provoke anger in the least favored class, and the excluded majority
revenge themselves on the excluding minority, by the strong hand, and kill them, at once a
new class finds itself at the top, as certainly as cream rises in a bowl of milk: and if the
people should destroy class after class, until two men only were left, one of these would be
the leader, and would be involuntarily served and copied by the other. You may keep this
minority out of sight and out of mind, but it is tenacious of life, and is one of the estates of
the realm. I am the more struck with this tenacity, when I see its work. It respects the
administration of such unimportant matters, that we should not look for any durability in its
rule. We sometimes meet men under some strong moral influence, as, a patriotic, a literary,
a religious movement, and feel that the moral sentiment rules man and nature. We think all
other distinctions and ties will be slight and fugitive, this of caste or fashion, for example;
yet come from year to year, and see how permanent that is, in this Boston or New York life
of man, where, too, it has not the least countenance from the law of the land. Not in Egypt
or in India a firmer or more impassable line. Here are associations whose ties go over, and
under, and through it, a meeting of merchants, a military corps, a college-class, a fire-club,
a professional association, a political, a religious convention;--the persons seem to draw
inseparably near; yet, that assembly once dispersed, its members will not in the year meet
again. Each returns to his degree in the scale of good society, porcelain remains porcelain,
and earthen earthen. The objects of fashion may be frivolous, or fashion may be objectless,
but the nature of this union and selection can be neither frivolous nor accidental. Each
man's rank in that perfect graduation depends on some symmetry in his structure, or some
agreement in his structure to the symmetry of society. Its doors unbar instantaneously to a
natural claim of their own kind. A natural gentleman finds his way in, and will keep the
oldest patrician out, who has lost his intrinsic rank. Fashion understands itself; goodbreeding
and personal superiority of whatever country readily fraternize with those of every
other. The chiefs of savage tribes have distinguished themselves in London and Paris, by
the purity of their tournure.

To say what good of fashion we can,--it rests on reality, and hates nothing so much as
pretenders;--to exclude and mystify pretenders, and send them into everlasting
`Coventry,' is its delight. We contemn, in turn, every other gift of men of the world; but the
habit even in little and the least matters, of not appealing to any but our own sense of
propriety, constitutes the foundation of all chivalry. There is almost no kind of self-reliance,
so it be sane and proportioned, which fashion does not occasionally adopt, and give it the
freedom of its saloons. A sainted soul is always elegant, and, if it will, passes unchallenged
into the most guarded ring. But so will Jock the teamster pass, in some crisis that brings
him thither, and find favor, as long as his head is not giddy with the new circumstance, and
the iron shoes do not wish to dance in waltzes and cotillons. For there is nothing settled in
manners, but the laws of behavior yield to the energy of the individual. The maiden at her
first ball, the country-man at a city dinner, believes that there is a ritual according to which
every act and compliment must be performed, or the failing party must be cast out of this
presence. Later, they learn that good sense and character make their own forms every
moment, and speak or abstain, take wine or refuse it, stay or go, sit in a chair or sprawl with
children on the floor, or stand on their head, or what else soever, in a new and aboriginal
way: and that strong will is always in fashion, let who will be unfashionable. All that fashion
demands is composure, and self-content. A circle of men perfectly well-bred would be a
company of sensible persons, in which every man's native manners and character
appeared. If the fashionist have not this quality, he is nothing. We are such lovers of self-
reliance, that we excuse in a man many sins, if he will show us a complete satisfaction in
his position, which asks no leave to be, of mine, or any man's good opinion. But any
deference to some eminent man or woman of the world, forfeits all privilege of nobility. He
is an underling: I have nothing to do with him; I will speak with his master. A man should not
go where he cannot carry his whole sphere or society with him,--not bodily, the whole
circle of his friends, but atmospherically. He should preserve in a new company the same
attitude of mind and reality of relation, which his daily associates draw him to, else he is
shorn of his best beams, and will be an orphan in the merriest club. “If you could see Vich
Ian Vohr with his tail on!?-” But Vich Ian Vohr must always carry his belongings in some
fashion, if not added as honor, then severed as disgrace.

There will always be in society certain persons who are mercuries of its approbation, and
whose glance will at any time determine for the curious their standing in the world. These
are the chamberlains of the lesser gods. Accept their coldness as an omen of grace with
the loftier deities, and allow them all their privilege. They are clear in their office, nor could
they be thus formidable, without their own merits. But do not measure the importance of
this class by their pretension, or imagine that a fop can be the dispenser of honor and
shame. They pass also at their just rate; for how can they otherwise, in circles which exist
as a sort of herald's office for the sifting of character?

As the first thing man requires of man, is reality, so, that appears in all the forms of society.
We pointedly, and by name, introduce the parties to each other. Know you before all
heaven and earth, that this is Andrew, and this is Gregory;--they look each other in the
eye; they grasp each other's hand, to identify and signalize each other. It is a great
satisfaction. A gentleman never dodges: his eyes look straight forward, and he assures the
other party, first of all, that he has been met. For what is it that we seek, in so many visits
and hospitalities? Is it your draperies, pictures, and decorations? Or, do we not insatiably
ask, Was a man in the house? I may easily go into a great household where there is much
substance, excellent provision for comfort, luxury, and taste, and yet not encounter there
any Amphitryon, who shall subordinate these appendages. I may go into a cottage, and find
a farmer who feels that he is the man I have come to see, and fronts me accordingly. It was
therefore a very natural point of old feudal etiquette, that a gentleman who received a visit,
though it were of his sovereign, should not leave his roof, but should wait his arrival at the
door of his house. No house, though it were the Thuilleries, or the Escurial, is good for
anything without a master. And yet we are not often gratified by this hospitality. Every body
we know surrounds himself with a fine house, fine books, conservatory, gardens, equipage,
and all manner of toys, as screens to interpose between himself and his guest. Does it not
seem as if man was of a very sly, elusive nature, and dreaded nothing so much as a full
rencontre front to front with his fellow? It were unmerciful, I know, quite to abolish the use of
these screens, which are of eminent convenience, whether the guest is too great, or too
little. We call together many friends who keep each other in play, or, by luxuries and
ornaments we amuse the young people, and guard our retirement. Or if, perchance, a
searching realist comes to our gate, before whose eye we have no care to stand, then
again we run to our curtain, and hide ourselves as Adam at the voice of the Lord God in the
garden. Cardinal Caprara, the Pope's legate at Paris, defended himself from the glances of
Napoleon, by an immense pair of green spectacles. Napoleon remarked them, and speedily
managed to rally them off: and yet Napoleon, in his turn, was not great enough with eight
hundred thousand troops at his back, to face a pair of freeborn eyes, but fenced himself
with etiquette, and within triple barriers of reserve: and, as all the world knows from
Madame de Stael, was wont, when he found himself observed, to discharge his face of all
expression. But emperors and rich men are by no means the most skilful masters of good
manners. No rentroll nor army-list can dignify skulking and dissimulation: and the first point
of courtesy must always be truth, as really all the forms of good-breeding point that way.

I have just been reading, in Mr. Hazlitt's translation, Montaigne's account of his journey into
Italy, and am struck with nothing more agreeably than the self-respecting fashions of the
time. His arrival in each place, the arrival of a gentleman of France, is an event of some
consequence. Wherever he goes, he pays a visit to whatever prince or gentleman of note
resides upon his road, as a duty to himself and to civilization. When he leaves any house in
which he has lodged for a few weeks, he causes his arms to be painted and hung up as a
perpetual sign to the house, as was the custom of gentlemen.

The complement of this graceful self-respect, and that of all the points of good breeding I
most require and insist upon, is deference. I like that every chair should be a throne, and
hold a king. I prefer a tendency to stateliness, to an excess of fellowship. Let the
incommunicable objects of nature and the metaphysical isolation of man teach us
independence. Let us not be too much acquainted. I would have a man enter his house
through a hall filled with heroic and sacred sculptures, that he might not want the hint of
tranquillity and self-poise. We should meet each morning, as from foreign countries, and
spending the day together, should depart at night, as into foreign countries. In all things I
would have the island of a man inviolate. Let us sit apart as the gods, talking from peak to
peak all round Olympus. No degree of affection need invade this religion. This is myrrh and
rosemary to keep the other sweet. Lovers should guard their strangeness. If they forgive too
much, all slides into confusion and meanness. It is easy to push this deference to a
Chinese etiquette; but coolness and absence of heat and haste indicate fine qualities. A
gentleman makes no noise: a lady is serene. Proportionate is our disgust at those invaders
who fill a studious house with blast and running, to secure some paltry convenience. Not
less I dislike a low sympathy of each with his neighbor's needs. Must we have a good
understanding with one another's palates? as foolish people who have lived long together,
know when each wants salt or sugar. I pray my companion, if he wishes for bread, to ask
me for bread, and if he wishes for sassafras or arsenic, to ask me for them, and not to hold
out his plate, as if I knew already. Every natural function can be dignified by deliberation
and privacy. Let us leave hurry to slaves. The compliments and ceremonies of our breeding
should signify, however remotely, the recollection of the grandeur of our destiny.

The flower of courtesy does not very well bide handling, but if we dare to open another leaf,
and explore what parts go to its conformation, we shall find also an intellectual quality. To
the leaders of men, the brain as well as the flesh and the heart must furnish a proportion.
Defect in manners is usually the defect of fine perceptions. Men are too coarsely made for
the delicacy of beautiful carriage and customs. It is not quite sufficient to good-breeding, a
union of kindness and independence. We imperatively require a perception of, and a
homage to beauty in our companions. Other virtues are in request in the field and
workyard, but a certain degree of taste is not to be spared in those we sit with. I could
better eat with one who did not respect the truth or the laws, than with a sloven and
unpresentable person. Moral qualities rule the world, but at short distances, the senses are
despotic. The same discrimination of fit and fair runs out, if with less rigor, into all parts of
life. The average spirit of the energetic class is good sense, acting under certain limitations
and to certain ends. It entertains every natural gift. Social in its nature, it respects
everything which tends to unite men. It delights in measure. The love of beauty is mainly
the love of measure or proportion. The person who screams, or uses the superlative
degree, or converses with heat, puts whole drawing-rooms to flight. If you wish to be loved,
love measure. You must have genius, or a prodigious usefulness, if you will hide the want
of measure. This perception comes in to polish and perfect the parts of the social
instrument. Society will pardon much to genius and special gifts, but, being in its nature a
convention, it loves what is conventional, or what belongs to coming together. That makes
the good and bad of manners, namely, what helps or hinders fellowship. For, fashion is not
good sense absolute, but relative; not good sense private, but good sense entertaining
company. It hates corners and sharp points of character, hates quarrelsome, egotistical,
solitary, and gloomy people; hates whatever can interfere with total blending of parties;
whilst it values all peculiarities as in the highest degree refreshing, which can consist with
good fellowship. And besides the general infusion of wit to heighten civility, the direct
splendor of intellectual power is ever welcome in fine society as the costliest addition to its
rule and its credit.

The dry light must shine in to adorn our festival, but it must be tempered and shaded, or
that will also offend. Accuracy is essential to beauty, and quick perceptions to politeness,
but not too quick perceptions. One may be too punctual and too precise. He must leave the
omniscience of business at the door, when he comes into the palace of beauty. Society
loves creole natures, and sleepy, languishing manners, so that they cover sense, grace,
and good-will; the air of drowsy strength, which disarms criticism; perhaps, because such a
person seems to reserve himself for the best of the game, and not spend himself on
surfaces; an ignoring eye, which does not see the annoyances, shifts, and inconveniences,
that cloud the brow and smother the voice of the sensitive.

Therefore, besides personal force and so much perception as constitutes unerring taste,
society demands in its patrician class, another element already intimated, which it
significantly terms good-nature, expressing all degrees of generosity, from the lowest
willingness and faculty to oblige, up to the heights of magnanimity and love. Insight we
must have, or we shall run against one another, and miss the way to our food; but intellect
is selfish and barren. The secret of success in society, is a certain heartiness and
sympathy. A man who is not happy in the company, cannot find any word in his memory
that will fit the occasion. All his information is a little impertinent. A man who is happy there,
finds in every turn of the conversation equally lucky occasions for the introduction of that
which he has to say. The favorites of society, and what it calls whole souls, are able men,
and of more spirit than wit, who have no uncomfortable egotism, but who exactly fill the
hour and the company, contented and contenting, at a marriage or a funeral, a ball or a jury,
a water-party or a shooting-match. England, which is rich in gentlemen, furnished, in the
beginning of the present century, a good model of that genius which the world loves, in Mr.
Fox, who added to his great abilities the most social disposition, and real love of men.
Parliamentary history has few better passages than the debate, in which Burke and Fox
separated in the House of Commons; when Fox urged on his old friend the claims of old
friendship with such tenderness, that the house was moved to tears. Another anecdote is
so close to my matter, that I must hazard the story. A tradesman who had long dunned him
for a note of three hundred guineas, found him one day counting gold, and demanded
payment: “No,” said Fox, “I owe this money to Sheridan: it is a debt of honor: if an accident
should happen to me, he has nothing to show.” “Then,” said the creditor, “I change my debt
into a debt of honor,” and tore the note in pieces. Fox thanked the man for his confidence,
and paid him, saying, “his debt was of older standing, and Sheridan must wait.” Lover of
liberty, friend of the Hindoo, friend of the African slave, he possessed a great personal
popularity; and Napoleon said of him on the occasion of his visit to Paris, in 1805, “Mr. Fox
will always hold the first place in an assembly at the Thuilleries.”

We may easily seem ridiculous in our eulogy of courtesy, whenever we insist on
benevolence as its foundation. The painted phantasm Fashion rises to cast a species of
derision on what we say. But I will neither be driven from some allowance to Fashion as a
symbolic institution, nor from the belief that love is the basis of courtesy. We must obtain
that, if we can; but by all means we must affirm this. Life owes much of its spirit to these
sharp contrasts. Fashion which affects to be honor, is often, in all men's experience, only a
ballroom-code. Yet, so long as it is the highest circle, in the imagination of the best heads
on the planet, there is something necessary and excellent in it; for it is not to be supposed
that men have agreed to be the dupes of anything preposterous; and the respect which
these mysteries inspire in the most rude and sylvan characters, and the curiosity with which
details of high life are read, betray the universality of the love of cultivated manners. I know
that a comic disparity would be felt, if we should enter the acknowledged `first circles,' and
apply these terrific standards of justice, beauty, and benefit, to the individuals actually
found there. Monarchs and heroes, sages and lovers, these gallants are not. Fashion has
many classes and many rules of probation and admission; and not the best alone. There is
not only the right of conquest, which genius pretends,--the individual, demonstrating his
natural aristocracy best of the best;--but less claims will pass for the time; for Fashion
loves lions, and points, like Circe, to her horned company. This gentleman is this afternoon
arrived from Denmark; and that is my Lord Ride, who came yesterday from Bagdat; here is
Captain Friese, from Cape Turnagain; and Captain Symmes, from the interior of the earth;
and Monsieur Jovaire, who came down this morning in a balloon; Mr. Hobnail, the reformer;
and Reverend Jul Bat, who has converted the whole torrid zone in his Sunday school; and
Signor Torre del Greco, who extinguished Vesuvius by pouring into it the Bay of Naples;
Spahi, the Persian ambassador; and Tul Wil Shan, the exiled nabob of Nepaul, whose sad-
dle is the new moon.--But these are monsters of one day, and tomorrow will be dismissed
to their holes and dens; for, in these rooms, every chair is waited for. The artist, the
scholar, and, in general, the clerisy, wins its way up into these places, and gets repre-
sented here, somewhat on this footing of conquest. Another mode is to pass through
all the degrees, spending a year and a day in St. Michael's Square, being steeped in
Cologne water, and perfumed, and dined, and introduced, and properly grounded in all
the biography, and politics, and anecdotes of the boudoirs.

Yet these fineries may have grace and wit. Let there be grotesque sculpture about the
gates and offices of temples. Let the creed and commandments even have the saucy
homage of parody. The forms of politeness universally express benevolence in superlative
degrees. What if they are in the mouths of selfish men, and used as means of selfishness?
What if the false gentleman almost bows the true out of the world? What if the false
gentleman contrives so to address his companion, as civilly to exclude all others from his
discourse, and also to make them feel excluded? Real service will not lose its nobleness.
All generosity is not merely French and sentimental; nor is it to be concealed, that living
blood and a passion of kindness does at last distinguish God's gentleman from Fashion's.
The epitaph of Sir Jenkin Grout is not wholly unintelligible to the present age. “Here lies
Sir Jenkin Grout, who loved his friend, and persuaded his enemy: what his mouth ate, his
hand paid for: what his servants robbed, he restored: if a woman gave him pleasure, he
supported her in pain: he never forgot his children: and whoso touched his finger, drew
after it his whole body.” Even the line of heroes is not utterly extinct. There is still ever
some admirable person in plain clothes, standing on the wharf, who jumps in to rescue a
drowning man; there is still some absurd inventor of charities; some guide and comforter of
runaway slaves; some friend of Poland; some Philhellene; some fanatic who plants shade-trees
for the second and third generation, and orchards when he is grown old; some well-concealed
piety; some just man happy in an ill-fame; some youth ashamed of the favors of
fortune, and impatiently casting them on other shoulders. And these are the centres of
society, on which it returns for fresh impulses. These are the creators of Fashion, which is
an attempt to organize beauty of behavior. The beautiful and the generous are, in the
theory, the doctors and apostles of this church: Scipio, and the Cid, and Sir Philip Sidney,
and Washington, and every pure and valiant heart, who worshipped Beauty by word and by
deed. The persons who constitute the natural aristocracy, are not found in the actual
aristocracy, or, only on its edge; as the chemical energy of the spectrum is found to be
greatest just outside of the spectrum. Yet that is the infirmity of the seneschals, who do not
know their sovereign, when he appears. The theory of society supposes the existence and
sovereignty of these. It divines afar off their coming. It says with the elder gods,--
“As Heaven and Earth are fairer far Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs;
And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth, In form and shape compact and beautiful;
So, on our heels a fresh perfection treads; A power, more strong in beauty, born of us, And
fated to excel us, as we pass In glory that old Darkness:--?? for, ‘t is the eternal law, That
first in beauty shall be first in might.”

Therefore, within the ethnical circle of good society, there is a narrower and higher circle,
concentration of its light, and flower of courtesy, to which there is always a tacit appeal of
pride and reference, as to its inner and imperial court, the parliament of love and chivalry.
And this is constituted of those persons in whom heroic dispositions are native, with the
love of beauty, the delight in society, and the power to embellish the passing day. If the
individuals who compose the purest circles of aristocracy in Europe, the guarded blood of
centuries, should pass in review, in such manner as that we could, at leisure, and critically
inspect their behavior, we might find no gentleman, and no lady; for, although excellent
specimens of courtesy and high-breeding would gratify us in the assemblage, in the
particulars, we should detect offence. Because, elegance comes of no breeding, but of
birth. There must be romance of character, or the most fastidious exclusion of
impertinencies will not avail. It must be genius which takes that direction: it must be not
courteous, but courtesy. High behavior is as rare in fiction, as it is in fact. Scott is praised
for the fidelity with which he painted the demeanor and conversation of the superior
classes. Certainly, kings and queens, nobles and great ladies, had some right to complain
of the absurdity that had been put in their mouths, before the days of Waverley; but neither
does Scott's dialogue bear criticism. His lords brave each other in smart epigramatic
speeches, but the dialogue is in costume, and does not please on the second reading: it is
not warm with life. In Shakspeare alone, the speakers do not strut and bridle, the dialogue
is easily great, and he adds to so many titles that of being the best-bred man in England,
and in Christendom. Once or twice in a lifetime we are permitted to enjoy the charm of
noble manners, in the presence of a man or woman who have no bar in their nature, but
whose character emanates freely in their word and gesture. A beautiful form is better than a
beautiful face; a beautiful behavior is better than a beautiful form: it gives a higher pleasure
than statues or pictures; it is the finest of the fine arts. A man is but a little thing in the midst
of the objects of nature, yet, by the moral quality radiating from his countenance, he may
abolish all considerations of magnitude, and in his manners equal the majesty of the world.
I have seen an individual, whose manners, though wholly within the conventions of elegant
society, were never learned there, but were original and commanding, and held out
protection and prosperity; one who did not need the aid of a court-suit, but carried the
holiday in his eye; who exhilarated the fancy by flinging wide the doors of new modes of
existence; who shook off the captivity of etiquette, with happy, spirited bearing, goodnatured
and free as Robin Hood; yet with the port of an emperor,--if need be, calm,
serious, and fit to stand the gaze of millions.

The open air and the fields, the street and public chambers, are the places where Man
executes his will; let him yield or divide the sceptre at the door of the house. Woman, with
her instinct of behavior, instantly detects in man a love of trifles, any coldness or imbecility,
or, in short, any want of that large, flowing, and magnanimous deportment, which is
indispensable as an exterior in the hall. Our American institutions have been friendly to her,
and at this moment, I esteem it a chief felicity of this country, that it excels in women. A
certain awkward consciousness of inferiority in the men, may give rise to the new chivalry
in behalf of Woman's Rights. Certainly, let her be as much better placed in the laws and in
social forms, as the most zealous reformer can ask, but I confide so entirely in her inspiring
and musical nature, that I believe only herself can show us how she shall be served. The
wonderful generosity of her sentiments raises her at times into heroical and godlike
regions, and verifies the pictures of Minerva, Juno, or Polymnia; and, by the firmness with
which she treads her upward path, she convinces the coarsest calculators that another
road exists, than that which their feet know. But besides those who make good in our
imagination the place of muses and of Delphic Sibyls, are there not women who fill our
vase with wine and roses to the brim, so that the wine runs over and fills the house with
perfume; who inspire us with courtesy; who unloose our tongues, and we speak; who
anoint our eyes, and we see? We say things we never thought to have said; for once, our
walls of habitual reserve vanished, and left us at large; we were children playing with
children in a wide field of flowers. Steep us, we cried, in these influences, for days, for
weeks, and we shall be sunny poets, and will write out in many-colored words the romance
that you are. Was it Hafiz or Firdousi that said of his Persian Lilla, She was an elemental
force, and astonished me by her amount of life, when I saw her day after day radiating,
every instant, redundant joy and grace on all around her. She was a solvent powerful to
reconcile all heterogeneous persons into one society: like air or water, an element of such a
great range of affinities, that it combines readily with a thousand substances. Where she is
present, all others will be more than they are wont. She was a unit and whole, so that
whatsoever she did, became her. She had too much sympathy and desire to please, than
that you could say, her manners were marked with dignity, yet no princess could surpass
her clear and erect demeanor on each occasion. She did not study the Persian grammar,
nor the books of the seven poets, but all the poems of the seven seemed to be written upon
her. For, though the bias of her nature was not to thought, but to sympathy, yet was she so
perfect in her own nature, as to meet intellectual persons by the fulness of her heart,
warming them by her sentiments; believing, as she did, that by dealing nobly with all, all
would show themselves noble.

I know that this Byzantine pile of chivalry or Fashion, which seems so fair and picturesque
to those who look at the contemporary facts for science or for entertainment, is not equally
pleasant to all spectators. The constitution of our society makes it a giant's castle to the
ambitious youth who have not found their names enrolled in its Golden Book, and whom it
has excluded from its coveted honors and privileges. They have yet to learn that its
seeming grandeur is shadowy and relative: it is great by their allowance: its proudest gates
will fly open at the approach of their courage and virtue. For the present distress, however,
of those who are predisposed to suffer from the tyrannies of this caprice, there are easy
remedies. To remove your residence a couple of miles, or at most four, will commonly
relieve the most extreme susceptibility. For, the advantages which fashion values, are
plants which thrive in very confined localities, in a few streets, namely. Out of this precinct,
they go for nothing; are of no use in the farm, in the forest, in the market, in war, in the
nuptial society, in the literary or scientific circle, at sea, in friendship, in the heaven of
thought or virtue.

But we have lingered long enough in these painted courts. The worth of the thing signified
must vindicate our taste for the emblem. Everything that is called fashion and courtesy
humbles itself before the cause and fountain of honor, creator of titles and dignities,
namely, the heart of love. This is the royal blood, this the fire, which, in all countries and
contingencies, will work after its kind, and conquer and expand all that approaches it. This
gives new meanings to every fact. This impoverishes the rich, suffering no grandeur but its
own. What is rich? Are you rich enough to help anybody? to succor the unfashionable and
the eccentric? rich enough to make the Canadian in his wagon, the itinerant with his
consul's paper which commends him “To the charitable,” the swarthy Italian with his few
broken words of English, the lame pauper hunted by overseers from town to town, even the
poor insane or besotted wreck of man or woman, feel the noble exception of your presence
and your house, from the general bleakness and stoniness; to make such feel that they
were greeted with a voice which made them both remember and hope? What is vulgar, but
to refuse the claim on acute and conclusive reasons? What is gentle, but to allow it, and
give their heart and yours one holiday from the national caution? Without the rich heart,
wealth is an ugly beggar. The king of Schiraz could not afford to be so bountiful as the poor
Osman who dwelt at his gate. Osman had a humanity so broad and deep, that although his
speech was so bold and free with the Koran, as to disgust all the dervishes, yet was there
never a poor outcast, eccentric, or insane man, some fool who had cut off his beard, or who
had been mutilated under a vow, or had a pet madness in his brain, but fled at once to him,
--that great heart lay there so sunny and hospitable in the centre of the country,--that it
seemed as if the instinct of all sufferers drew them to his side. And the madness which he
harbored, he did not share. Is not this to be rich? this only to be rightly rich?

But I shall hear without pain, that I play the courtier very ill, and talk of that which I do not
well understand. It is easy to see, that what is called by distinction society and fashion, has
good laws as well as bad, has much that is necessary, and much that is absurd. Too good
for banning, and too bad for blessing, it reminds us of a tradition of the pagan mythology, in
any attempt to settle its character. `I overheard Jove, one day,' said Silenus, `talking of
destroying the earth; he said, it had failed; they were all rogues and vixens, who went from
bad to worse, as fast as the days succeeded each other. Minerva said, she hoped not; they
were only ridiculous little creatures, with this odd circumstance, that they had a blur, or
indeterminate aspect, seen far or seen near; if you called them bad, they would appear so;
if you called them good, they would appear so; and there was no one person or action
among them, which would not puzzle her owl, much more all Olympus, to know whether it
was fundamentally bad or good.'

V. Gifts

Gifts of one who loved me,--
‘T was high time they came;
When he ceased to love me,
Time they stopped for shame.



It is said that the world is in a state of bankruptcy, that the world owes the world more than
the world can pay, and ought to go into chancery, and be sold. I do not think this general
insolvency, which involves in some sort all the population, to be the reason of the difficulty
experienced at Christmas and New Year, and other times, in bestowing gifts; since it is
always so pleasant to be generous, though very vexatious to pay debts. But the
impediment lies in the choosing. If, at any time, it comes into my head, that a present is due
from me to somebody, I am puzzled what to give, until the opportunity is gone. Flowers and
fruits are always fit presents; flowers, because they are a proud assertion that a ray of
beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world. These gay natures contrast with the somewhat
stern countenance of ordinary nature: they are like music heard out of a work-house.
Nature does not cocker us: we are children, not pets: she is not fond: everything is dealt to
us without fear or favor, after severe universal laws. Yet these delicate flowers look like the
frolic and interference of love and beauty. Men use to tell us that we love flattery, even
though we are not deceived by it, because it shows that we are of importance enough to be
courted. Something like that pleasure, the flowers give us: what am I to whom these sweet
hints are addressed? Fruits are acceptable gifts, because they are the flower of
commodities, and admit of fantastic values being attached to them. If a man should send to
me to come a hundred miles to visit him, and should set before me a basket of fine
summerfruit, I should think there was some proportion between the labor and the reward.

For common gifts, necessity makes pertinences and beauty every day, and one is glad
when an imperative leaves him no option, since if the man at the door have no shoes, you
have not to consider whether you could procure him a paint-box. And as it is always
pleasing to see a man eat bread, or drink water, in the house or out of doors, so it is always
a great satisfaction to supply these first wants. Necessity does everything well. In our
condition of universal dependence, it seems heroic to let the petitioner be the judge of his
necessity, and to give all that is asked, though at great inconvenience. If it be a fantastic
desire, it is better to leave to others the office of punishing him. I can think of many parts I
should prefer playing to that of the Furies. Next to things of necessity, the rule for a gift,
which one of my friends prescribed, is, that we might convey to some person that which
properly belonged to his character, and was easily associated with him in thought. But our
tokens of compliment and love are for the most part barbarous. Rings and other jewels are
not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou must bleed for
me. Therefore the poet brings his poem; the shepherd, his lamb; the farmer, corn; the
miner, a gem; the sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his picture; the girl, a handkerchief of
her own sewing. This is right and pleasing, for it restores society in so far to its primary
basis, when a man's biography is conveyed in his gift, and every man's wealth is an index
of his merit. But it is a cold, lifeless business when you go to the shops to buy me
something, which does not represent your life and talent, but a goldsmith's. This is fit for
kings, and rich men who represent kings, and a false state of property, to make presents of
gold and silver stuffs, as a kind of symbolical sin-offering, or payment of black-mail.

The law of benefits is a difficult channel, which requires careful sailing, or rude boats. It
is not the office of a man to receive gifts. How dare you give them? We wish to be self-
sustained. We do not quite forgive a giver. The hand that feeds us is in some danger of
being bitten. We can receive anything from love, for that is a way of receiving it from
ourselves; but not from any one who assumes to bestow. We sometimes hate the meat
which we eat, because there seems something of degrading dependence in living by it.

“Brother, if Jove to thee a present make,
Take heed that from his hands thou nothing take.”

We ask the whole. Nothing less will content us. We arraign society, if it do not give us
besides earth, and fire, and water, opportunity, love, reverence, and objects of veneration.

He is a good man, who can receive a gift well. We are either glad or sorry at a gift, and both
emotions are unbecoming. Some violence, I think, is done, some degradation borne, when
I rejoice or grieve at a gift. I am sorry when my independence is invaded, or when a gift
comes from such as do not know my spirit, and so the act is not supported; and if the gift
pleases me overmuch, then I should be ashamed that the donor should read my heart, and
see that I love his commodity, and not him. The gift, to be true, must be the flowing of the
giver unto me, correspondent to my flowing unto him. When the waters are at level, then my
goods pass to him, and his to me. All his are mine, all mine his. I say to him, How can you
give me this pot of oil, or this flagon of wine, when all your oil and wine is mine, which belief
of mine this gift seems to deny? Hence the fitness of beautiful, not useful things for gifts.
This giving is flat usurpation, and therefore when the beneficiary is ungrateful, as all
beneficiaries hate all Timons, not at all considering the value of the gift, but looking back to
the greater store it was taken from, I rather sympathize with the beneficiary, than with the
anger of my lord Timon. For, the expectation of gratitude is mean, and is continually
punished by the total insensibility of the obliged person. It is a great happiness to get off
without injury and heart-burning, from one who has had the ill luck to be served by you. It is
a very onerous business, this of being served, and the debtor naturally wishes to give you a
slap. A golden text for these gentlemen is that which I so admire in the Buddhist, who never
thanks, and who says, “Do not flatter your benefactors.”

The reason of these discords I conceive to be, that there is no commensurability between a
man and any gift. You cannot give anything to a magnanimous person. After you have
served him, he at once puts you in debt by his magnanimity. The service a man renders his
friend is trivial and selfish, compared with the service he knows his friend stood in
readiness to yield him, alike before he had begun to serve his friend, and now also.
Compared with that good-will I bear my friend, the benefit it is in my power to render him
seems small. Besides, our action on each other, good as well as evil, is so incidental and at
random, that we can seldom hear the acknowledgments of any person who would thank us
for a benefit, without some shame and humiliation. We can rarely strike a direct stroke, but
must be content with an oblique one; we seldom have the satisfaction of yielding a direct
benefit, which is directly received. But rectitude scatters favors on every side without
knowing it, and receives with wonder the thanks of all people.

I fear to breathe any treason against the majesty of love, which is the genius and god of
gifts, and to whom we must not affect to prescribe. Let him give kingdoms or flower-leaves
indifferently. There are persons, from whom we always expect fairy tokens; let us not cease
to expect them. This is prerogative, and not to be limited by our municipal rules. For the
rest, I like to see that we cannot be bought and sold. The best of hospitality and of
generosity is also not in the will, but in fate. I find that I am not much to you; you do not
need me; you do not feel me; then am I thrust out of doors, though you proffer me house
and lands. No services are of any value, but only likeness. When I have attempted to join
myself to others by services, it proved an intellectual trick,--no more. They eat your
service like apples, and leave you out. But love them, and they feel you, and delight in you
all the time.

VI. Nature

The rounded world is fair to see,
Nine times folded in mystery:
Though baffled seers cannot impart
The secret of its laboring heart,
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,
And all is clear from east to west.
Spirit that lurks each form within
Beckons to spirit of its kin;
Self-kindled every atom glows,
And hints the future which it owes.



There are days which occur in this climate, at almost any season of the year, wherein the
world reaches its perfection, when the air, the heavenly bodies, and the earth, make a
harmony, as if nature would indulge her offspring; when, in these bleak upper sides of the
planet, nothing is to desire that we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and we bask in the
shining hours of Florida and Cuba; when everything that has life gives sign of satisfaction,
and the cattle that lie on the ground seem to have great and tranquil thoughts. These
halcyons may be looked for with a little more assurance in that pure October weather,
which we distinguish by the name of the Indian Summer. The day, immeasurably long,
sleeps over the broad hills and warm wide fields. To have lived through all its sunny hours,
seems longevity enough. The solitary places do not seem quite lonely. At the gates of the
forest, the surprised man of the world is forced to leave his city estimates of great and
small, wise and foolish. The knapsack of custom falls off his back with the first step he
makes into these precincts. Here is sanctity which shames our religions, and reality which
discredits our heroes. Here we find nature to be the circumstance which dwarfs every other
circumstance, and judges like a god all men that come to her. We have crept out of our
close and crowded houses into the night and morning, and we see what majestic beauties
daily wrap us in their bosom. How willingly we would escape the barriers which render them
comparatively impotent, escape the sophistication and second thought, and suffer nature to
intrance us. The tempered light of the woods is like a perpetual morning, and is stimulating
and heroic. The anciently reported spells of these places creep on us. The stems of pines,
hemlocks, and oaks, almost gleam like iron on the excited eye. The incommunicable trees
begin to persuade us to live with them, and quit our life of solemn trifles. Here no history, or
church, or state, is interpolated on the divine sky and the immortal year. How easily we
might walk onward into the opening landscape, absorbed by new pictures, and by thoughts
fast succeeding each other, until by degrees the recollection of home was crowded out of
the mind, all memory obliterated by the tyranny of the present, and we were led in triumph
by nature.

These enchantments are medicinal, they sober and heal us. These are plain pleasures,
kindly and native to us. We come to our own, and make friends with matter, which the
ambitious chatter of the schools would persuade us to despise. We never can part with it;
the mind loves its old home: as water to our thirst, so is the rock, the ground, to our eyes,
and hands, and feet. It is firm water: it is cold flame: what health, what affinity! Ever an old
friend, ever like a dear friend and brother, when we chat affectedly with strangers, comes in
this honest face, and takes a grave liberty with us, and shames us out of our nonsense.
Cities give not the human senses room enough. We go out daily and nightly to feed the
eyes on the horizon, and require so much scope, just as we need water for our bath. There
are all degrees of natural influence, from these quarantine powers of nature, up to her
dearest and gravest ministrations to the imagination and the soul. There is the bucket of
cold water from the spring, the wood-fire to which the chilled traveller rushes for safety,--
and there is the sublime moral of autumn and of noon. We nestle in nature, and draw our
living as parasites from her roots and grains, and we receive glances from the heavenly
bodies, which call us to solitude, and foretell the remotest future. The blue zenith is the
point in which romance and reality meet. I think, if we should be rapt away into all that we
dream of heaven, and should converse with Gabriel and Uriel, the upper sky would be all
that would remain of our furniture.

It seems as if the day was not wholly profane, in which we have given heed to some natural
object. The fall of snowflakes in a still air, preserving to each crystal its perfect form; the
blowing of sleet over a wide sheet of water, and over plains, the waving rye-field, the mimic
waving of acres of houstonia, whose innumerable florets whiten and ripple before the eye;
the reflections of trees and flowers in glassy lakes; the musical steaming odorous south
wind, which converts all trees to windharps; the crackling and spurting of hemlock in the
flames; or of pine logs, which yield glory to the walls and faces in the sittingroom,--these
are the music and pictures of the most ancient religion. My house stands in low land, with
limited outlook, and on the skirt of the village. But I go with my friend to the shore of our
little river, and with one stroke of the paddle, I leave the village politics and personalities,
yes, and the world of villages and personalities behind, and pass into a delicate realm of
sunset and moonlight, too bright almost for spotted man to enter without noviciate and
probation. We penetrate bodily this incredible beauty; we dip our hands in this painted
element: our eyes are bathed in these lights and forms. A holiday, a villeggiatura, a royal
revel, the proudest, most heart-rejoicing festival that valor and beauty, power and taste,
ever decked and enjoyed, establishes itself on the instant. These sunset clouds, these
delicately emerging stars, with their private and ineffable glances, signify it and proffer it. I
am taught the poorness of our invention, the ugliness of towns and palaces. Art and luxury
have early learned that they must work as enhancement and sequel to this original beauty. I
am over-instructed for my return. Henceforth I shall be hard to please. I cannot go back to
toys. I am grown expensive and sophisticated. I can no longer live without elegance: but a
countryman shall be my master of revels. He who knows the most, he who knows what
sweets and virtues are in the ground, the waters, the plants, the heavens, and how to come
at these enchantments, is the rich and royal man. Only as far as the masters of the world
have called in nature to their aid, can they reach the height of magnificence. This is the
meaning of their hanging-gardens, villas, garden-houses, islands, parks, and preserves, to
back their faulty personality with these strong accessories. I do not wonder that the landed
interest should be invincible in the state with these dangerous auxiliaries. These bribe and
invite; not kings, not palaces, not men, not women, but these tender and poetic stars,
eloquent of secret promises. We heard what the rich man said, we knew of his villa, his
grove, his wine, and his company, but the provocation and point of the invitation came out
of these beguiling stars. In their soft glances, I see what men strove to realize in some
Versailles, or Paphos, or Ctesiphon. Indeed, it is the magical lights of the horizon, and the
blue sky for the background, which save all our works of art, which were otherwise
bawbles. When the rich tax the poor with servility and obsequiousness, they should
consider the effect of men reputed to be the possessors of nature, on imaginative minds.
Ah! if the rich were rich as the poor fancy riches! A boy hears a military band play on the
field at night, and he has kings and queens, and famous chivalry palpably before him. He
hears the echoes of a horn in a hill country, in the Notch Mountains, for example, which
converts the mountains into an Aeolian harp, and this supernatural tiralira restores to him
the Dorian mythology, Apollo, Diana, and all divine hunters and huntresses. Can a musical
note be so lofty, so haughtily beautiful! To the poor young poet, thus fabulous is his picture
of society; he is loyal; he respects the rich; they are rich for the sake of his imagination;
how poor his fancy would be, if they were not rich! That they have some high-fenced grove,
which they call a park; that they live in larger and better-garnished saloons than he has
visited, and go in coaches, keeping only the society of the elegant, to watering-places, and
to distant cities, are the groundwork from which he has delineated estates of romance,
compared with which their actual possessions are shanties and paddocks. The muse
herself betrays her son, and enhances the gifts of wealth and well-born beauty, by a
radiation out of the air, and clouds, and forests that skirt the road,--a certain haughty
favor, as if from patrician genii to patricians, a kind of aristocracy in nature, a prince of
the power of the air.

The moral sensibility which makes Edens and Tempes so easily, may not be always found,
but the material landscape is never far off. We can find these enchantments without visiting
the Como Lake, or the Madeira Islands. We exaggerate the praises of local scenery. In
every landscape, the point of astonishment is the meeting of the sky and the earth, and that
is seen from the first hillock as well as from the top of the Alleghanies. The stars at night
stoop down over the brownest, homeliest common, with all the spiritual magnificence which
they shed on the Campagna, or on the marble deserts of Egypt. The uprolled clouds and
the colors of morning and evening, will transfigure maples and alders. The difference
between landscape and landscape is small, but there is great difference in the beholders.
There is nothing so wonderful in any particular landscape, as the necessity of being
beautiful under which every landscape lies. Nature cannot be surprised in undress. Beauty
breaks in everywhere.

But it is very easy to outrun the sympathy of readers on this topic, which schoolmen called
natura naturata, or nature passive. One can hardly speak directly of it without excess. It is
as easy to broach in mixed companies what is called “the subject of religion.” A susceptible
person does not like to indulge his tastes in this kind, without the apology of some trivial
necessity: he goes to see a wood-lot, or to look at the crops, or to fetch a plant or a mineral
from a remote locality, or he carries a fowling piece, or a fishing-rod. I suppose this shame
must have a good reason. A dilettantism in nature is barren and unworthy. The fop of fields
is no better than his brother of Broadway. Men are naturally hunters and inquisitive of
wood-craft, and I suppose that such a gazetteer as wood-cutters and Indians should furnish
facts for, would take place in the most sumptuous drawingrooms of all the “Wreaths” and
“Flora's chaplets” of the bookshops; yet ordinarily, whether we are too clumsy for so subtle
a topic, or from whatever cause, as soon as men begin to write on nature, they fall into
euphuism. Frivolity is a most unfit tribute to Pan, who ought to be represented in the
mythology as the most continent of gods. I would not be frivolous before the admirable
reserve and prudence of time, yet I cannot renounce the right of returning often to this old
topic. The multitude of false churches accredits the true religion. Literature, poetry, science,
are the homage of man to this unfathomed secret, concerning which no sane man can
affect an indifference or incuriosity. Nature is loved by what is best in us. It is loved as the
city of God, although, or rather because there is no citizen. The sunset is unlike anything
that is underneath it: it wants men. And the beauty of nature must always seem unreal and
mocking, until the landscape has human figures, that are as good as itself. If there were
good men, there would never be this rapture in nature. If the king is in the palace, nobody
looks at the walls. It is when he is gone, and the house is filled with grooms and gazers,
that we turn from the people, to find relief in the majestic men that are suggested by the
pictures and the architecture. The critics who complain of the sickly separation of the
beauty of nature from the thing to be done, must consider that our hunting of the
picturesque is inseparable from our protest against false society. Man is fallen; nature is
erect, and serves as a differential thermometer, detecting the presence or absence of the
divine sentiment in man. By fault of our dulness and selfishness, we are looking up to
nature, but when we are convalescent, nature will look up to us. We see the foaming brook
with compunction: if our own life flowed with the right energy, we should shame the brook.
The stream of zeal sparkles with real fire, and not with reflex rays of sun and moon. Na-
ture may be as selfishly studied as trade. Astronomy to the selfish becomes astrology;
psychology, mesmerism (with intent to show where our spoons are gone); and anatomy
and physiology, become phrenology and palmistry.

But taking timely warning, and leaving many things unsaid on this topic, let us not longer
omit our homage to the Efficient Nature, natura naturans, the quick cause, before which
all forms flee as the driven snows, itself secret, its works driven before it in flocks and
multitudes, (as the ancient represented nature by Proteus, a shepherd,) and in unde-
scribable variety. It publishes itself in creatures, reaching from particles and spicula,
through transformation on transformation to the highest symmetries, arriving at consu-
mmate results without a shock or a leap. A little heat, that is, a little motion, is all that
differences the bald, dazzling white, and deadly cold poles of the earth from the prolific
tropical climates. All changes pass without violence, by reason of the two cardinal con-
ditions of boundless space and boundless time. Geology has initiated us into the secu-
larity of nature, and taught us to disuse our dame-school measures, and exchange our
Mosaic and Ptolemaic schemes for her large style. We knew nothing rightly, for want of
perspective. Now we learn what patient periods must round themselves before the rock is
formed, then before the rock is broken, and the first lichen race has disintegrated the
thinnest external plate into soil, and opened the door for the remote Flora, Fauna, Ceres,
and Pomona, to come in. How far off yet is the trilobite! how far the quadruped! how
inconceivably remote is man! All duly arrive, and then race after race of men. It is a long
way from granite to the oyster; farther yet to Plato, and the preaching of the immortality of
the soul. Yet all must come, as surely as the first atom has two sides.

Motion or change, and identity or rest, are the first and second secrets of nature: Motion
and Rest. The whole code of her laws may be written on the thumbnail, or the signet of a
ring. The whirling bubble on the surface of a brook, admits us to the secret of the
mechanics of the sky. Every shell on the beach is a key to it. A little water made to rotate in
a cup explains the formation of the simpler shells; the addition of matter from year to year,
arrives at last at the most complex forms; and yet so poor is nature with all her craft, that,
from the beginning to the end of the universe, she has but one stuff,--but one stuff with its
two ends, to serve up all her dream-like variety. Compound it how she will, star, sand, fire,
water, tree, man, it is still one stuff, and betrays the same properties.

Nature is always consistent, though she feigns to contravene her own laws. She keeps her
laws, and seems to transcend them. She arms and equips an animal to find its place and
living in the earth, and, at the same time, she arms and equips another animal to destroy it.
Space exists to divide creatures; but by clothing the sides of a bird with a few feathers, she
gives him a petty omnipresence. The direction is forever onward, but the artist still goes
back for materials, and begins again with the first elements on the most advanced stage:
otherwise, all goes to ruin. If we look at her work, we seem to catch a glance of a system in
transition. Plants are the young of the world, vessels of health and vigor; but they grope
ever upward towards consciousness; the trees are imperfect men, and seem to bemoan
their imprisonment, rooted in the ground. The animal is the novice and probationer of a
more advanced order. The men, though young, having tasted the first drop from the cup of
thought, are already dissipated: the maples and ferns are still uncorrupt; yet no doubt,
when they come to consciousness, they too will curse and swear. Flowers so strictly belong
to youth, that we adult men soon come to feel, that their beautiful generations concern not
us: we have had our day; now let the children have theirs. The flowers jilt us, and we are
old bachelors with our ridiculous tenderness.

Things are so strictly related, that according to the skill of the eye, from any one object the
parts and properties of any other may be predicted. If we had eyes to see it, a bit of stone
from the city wall would certify us of the necessity that man must exist, as readily as the
city. That identity makes us all one, and reduces to nothing great intervals on our
customary scale. We talk of deviations from natural life, as if artificial life were not also
natural. The smoothest curled courtier in the boudoirs of a palace has an animal nature,
rude and aboriginal as a white bear, omnipotent to its own ends, and is directly related,
there amid essences and billetsdoux, to Himmaleh mountain-chains, and the axis of the
globe. If we consider how much we are nature's, we need not be superstitious about towns,
as if that terrific or benefic force did not find us there also, and fashion cities. Nature who
made the mason, made the house. We may easily hear too much of rural influences. The
cool disengaged air of natural objects, makes them enviable to us, chafed and irritable
creatures with red faces, and we think we shall be as grand as they, if we camp out and eat
roots; but let us be men instead of woodchucks, and the oak and the elm shall gladly serve
us, though we sit in chairs of ivory on carpets of silk.

This guiding identity runs through all the surprises and contrasts of the piece, and
characterizes every law. Man carries the world in his head, the whole astronomy and
chemistry suspended in a thought. Because the history of nature is charactered in his brain,
therefore is he the prophet and discoverer of her secrets. Every known fact in natural
science was divined by the presentiment of somebody, before it was actually verified. A
man does not tie his shoe without recognising laws which bind the farthest regions of
nature: moon, plant, gas, crystal, are concrete geometry and numbers. Common sense
knows its own, and recognises the fact at first sight in chemical experiment. The common
sense of Franklin, Dalton, Davy, and Black, is the same common sense which made the
arrangements which now it discovers.

If the identity expresses organized rest, the counter action runs also into organization.
The astronomers said, `Give us matter, and a little motion, and we will construct the u-
niverse. It is not enough that we should have matter, we must also have a single impulse,
one shove to launch the mass, and generate the harmony of the centrifugal and centri-
petal forces. Once heave the ball from the hand, and we can show how all this mighty
order grew.'--`A very unreasonable postulate,' said the metaphysicians, `and a plain beg-
ging of the question. Could you not prevail to know the genesis of projection, as well as
the continuation of it?' Nature, meanwhile, had not waited for the discussion, but, right or
wrong, bestowed the impulse, and the balls rolled. It was no great affair, a mere push, but
the astronomers were right in making much of it, for there is no end to the consequences
of the act. That famous aboriginal push propagates itself through all the balls of the system,
and through every atom of every ball, through all the races of creatures, and through the
history and performances of every individual. Exaggeration is in the course of things. Na-
ture sends no creature, no man into the world, without adding a small excess of his proper
quality. Given the planet, it is still necessary to add the impulse; so, to every creature na-
ture added a little violence of direction in its proper path, a shove to put it on its way; in
every instance, a slight generosity, a drop too much. Without electricity the air would rot,
and without this violence of direction, which men and women have, without a spice of
bigot and fanatic, no excitement, no efficiency. We aim above the mark, to hit the mark.
Every act hath some falsehood of exaggeration in it. And when now and then comes
along some sad, sharp-eyed man, who sees how paltry a game is played, and refuses to
play, but blabs the secret;--how then? is the bird flown? O no, the wary Nature sends a
new troop of fairer forms, of lordlier youths, with a little more excess of direction to hold
them fast to their several aim; makes them a little wrongheaded in that direction in which
they are rightest, and on goes the game again with new whirl, for a generation or two more.
The child with his sweet pranks, the fool of his senses, commanded by every sight and
sound, without any power to compare and rank his sensations, abandoned to a whistle
or a painted chip, to a lead dragoon, or a gingerbread-dog, individualizing everything, gen-
eralizing nothing, delighted with every new thing, lies down at night overpowered by the
fatigue, which this day of continual pretty madness has incurred. But Nature has answered
her purpose with the curly, dimpled lunatic. She has tasked every faculty, and has secured
the symmetrical growth of the bodily frame, by all these attitudes and exertions,--an end
of the first importance, which could not be trusted to any care less perfect than her own.
This glitter, this opaline lustre plays round the top of every toy to his eye, to ensure his
fidelity, and he is deceived to his good. We are made alive and kept alive by the same arts.
Let the stoics say what they please, we do not eat for the good of living, but because the
meat is savory and the appetite is keen. The vegetable life does not content itself with
casting from the flower or the tree a single seed, but it fills the air and earth with a
prodigality of seeds, that, if thousands perish, thousands may plant themselves, that
hundreds may come up, that tens may live to maturity, that, at least, one may replace the
parent. All things betray the same calculated profusion. The excess of fear with which the
animal frame is hedged round, shrinking from cold, starting at sight of a snake, or at a
sudden noise, protects us, through a multitude of groundless alarms, from some one real
danger at last. The lover seeks in marriage his private felicity and perfection, with no
prospective end; and nature hides in his happiness her own end, namely, progeny, or the
perpetuity of the race.

But the craft with which the world is made, runs also into the mind and character of men.
No man is quite sane; each has a vein of folly in his composition, a slight determination of
blood to the head, to make sure of holding him hard to some one point which nature had
taken to heart. Great causes are never tried on their merits; but the cause is reduced to
particulars to suit the size of the partizans, and the contention is ever hottest on minor
matters. Not less remarkable is the overfaith of each man in the importance of what he has
to do or say. The poet, the prophet, has a higher value for what he utters than any hearer,
and therefore it gets spoken. The strong, self-complacent Luther declares with an
emphasis, not to be mistaken, that “God himself cannot do without wise men.” Jacob
Behmen and George Fox betray their egotism in the pertinacity of their controversial tracts,
and James Naylor once suffered himself to be worshipped as the Christ. Each prophet
comes presently to identify himself with his thought, and to esteem his hat and shoes
sacred. However this may discredit such persons with the judicious, it helps them with the
people, as it gives heat, pungency, and publicity to their words. A similar experience is not
infrequent in private life. Each young and ardent person writes a diary, in which, when the
hours of prayer and penitence arrive, he inscribes his soul. The pages thus written are, to
him, burning and fragrant: he reads them on his knees by midnight and by the morning star;
he wets them with his tears: they are sacred; too good for the world, and hardly yet to be
shown to the dearest friend. This is the man-child that is born to the soul, and her life still
circulates in the babe. The umbilical cord has not yet been cut. After some time has
elapsed, he begins to wish to admit his friend to this hallowed experience, and with hes-
itation, yet with firmness, exposes the pages to his eye. Will they not burn his eyes? The
friend coldly turns them over, and passes from the writing to conversation, with easy
transition, which strikes the other party with astonishment and vexation. He cannot suspect
the writing itself. Days and nights of fervid life, of communion with angels of darkness and
of light, have engraved their shadowy characters on that tear-stained book. He suspects
the intelligence or the heart of his friend. Is there then no friend? He cannot yet credit that
one may have impressive experience, and yet may not know how to put his private fact into
literature; and perhaps the discovery that wisdom has other tongues and ministers than we,
that though we should hold our peace, the truth would not the less be spoken, might check
injuriously the flames of our zeal. A man can only speak, so long as he does not feel his
speech to be partial and inadequate. It is partial, but he does not see it to be so, whilst he
utters it. As soon as he is released from the instinctive and particular, and sees its partiality,
he shuts his mouth in disgust. For, no man can write anything, who does not think that
what he writes is for the time the history of the world; or do anything well, who does not
esteem his work to be of importance. My work may be of none, but I must not think it of
none, or I shall not do it with impunity.

In like manner, there is throughout nature something mocking, something that leads us on
and on, but arrives nowhere, keeps no faith with us. All promise outruns the performance.
We live in a system of approximations. Every end is prospective of some other end, which
is also temporary; a round and final success nowhere. We are encamped in nature, not
domesticated. Hunger and thirst lead us on to eat and to drink; but bread and wine, mix and
cook them how you will, leave us hungry and thirsty, after the stomach is full. It is the same
with all our arts and performances. Our music, our poetry, our language itself are not
satisfactions, but suggestions. The hunger for wealth, which reduces the planet to a
garden, fools the eager pursuer. What is the end sought? Plainly to secure the ends of
good sense and beauty, from the intrusion of deformity or vulgarity of any kind. But what an
operose method! What a train of means to secure a little conversation! This palace of brick
and stone, these servants, this kitchen, these stables, horses and equipage, this bankstock,
and file of mortgages; trade to all the world, country-house and cottage by the
waterside, all for a little conversation, high, clear, and spiritual! Could it not be had as well
by beggars on the highway? No, all these things came from successive efforts of these
beggars to remove friction from the wheels of life, and give opportunity. Conversation,
character, were the avowed ends; wealth was good as it appeased the animal cravings,
cured the smoky chimney, silenced the creaking door, brought friends together in a warm
and quiet room, and kept the children and the dinner-table in a different apartment.
Thought, virtue, beauty, were the ends; but it was known that men of thought and virtue
sometimes had the headache, or wet feet, or could lose good time whilst the room was
getting warm in winter days. Unluckily, in the exertions necessary to remove these
inconveniences, the main attention has been diverted to this object; the old aims have been
lost sight of, and to remove friction has come to be the end. That is the ridicule of rich men,
and Boston, London, Vienna, and now the governments generally of the world, are cities
and governments of the rich, and the masses are not men, but poor men, that is, men who
would be rich; this is the ridicule of the class, that they arrive with pains and sweat and fury
nowhere; when all is done, it is for nothing. They are like one who has interrupted the
conversation of a company to make his speech, and now has forgotten what he went to
say. The appearance strikes the eye everywhere of an aimless society, of aimless nations.
Were the ends of nature so great and cogent, as to exact this immense sacrifice of men?

Quite analogous to the deceits in life, there is, as might be expected, a similar effect on the
eye from the face of external nature. There is in woods and waters a certain enticement and
flattery, together with a failure to yield a present satisfaction. This disappointment is felt in
every landscape. I have seen the softness and beauty of the summer-clouds floating
feathery overhead, enjoying, as it seemed, their height and privilege of motion, whilst yet
they appeared not so much the drapery of this place and hour, as forelooking to some
pavilions and gardens of festivity beyond. It is an odd jealousy: but the poet finds himself
not near enough to his object. The pine-tree, the river, the bank of flowers before him, does
not seem to be nature. Nature is still elsewhere. This or this is but outskirt and far-off
reflection and echo of the triumph that has passed by, and is now at its glancing splendor
and heyday, perchance in the neighboring fields, or, if you stand in the field, then in the
adjacent woods. The present object shall give you this sense of stillness that follows a
pageant which has just gone by. What splendid distance, what recesses of ineffable pomp
and loveliness in the sunset! But who can go where they are, or lay his hand or plant his
foot thereon? Off they fall from the round world forever and ever. It is the same among the
men and women, as among the silent trees; always a referred existence, an absence,
never a presence and satisfaction. Is it, that beauty can never be grasped? in persons and
in landscape is equally inaccessible? The accepted and betrothed lover has lost the wildest
charm of his maiden in her acceptance of him. She was heaven whilst he pursued her as a
star: she cannot be heaven, if she stoops to such a one as he.

What shall we say of this omnipresent appearance of that first projectile impulse, of this
flattery and baulking of so many well-meaning creatures? Must we not suppose
somewhere in the universe a slight treachery and derision? Are we not engaged to a
serious resentment of this use that is made of us? Are we tickled trout, and fools of nature?
One look at the face of heaven and earth lays all petulance at rest, and soothes us to wiser
convictions. To the intelligent, nature converts itself into a vast promise, and will not be
rashly explained. Her secret is untold. Many and many an Oedipus arrives: he has the
whole mystery teeming in his brain. Alas! the same sorcery has spoiled his skill; no syllable
can he shape on his lips. Her mighty orbit vaults like the fresh rainbow into the deep, but no
archangel's wing was yet strong enough to follow it, and report of the return of the curve.
But it also appears, that our actions are seconded and disposed to greater conclusions
than we designed. We are escorted on every hand through life by spiritual agents, and a
beneficent purpose lies in wait for us. We cannot bandy words with nature, or deal with her
as we deal with persons. If we measure our individual forces against hers, we may easily
feel as if we were the sport of an insuperable destiny. But if, instead of identifying ourselves
with the work, we feel that the soul of the workman streams through us, we shall find the
peace of the morning dwelling first in our hearts, and the fathomless powers of gravity and
chemistry, and, over them, of life, preexisting within us in their highest form.

The uneasiness which the thought of our helplessness in the chain of causes occasions us,
results from looking too much at one condition of nature, namely, Motion. But the drag is
never taken from the wheel. Wherever the impulse exceeds, the Rest or Identity insinuates
its compensation. All over the wide fields of earth grows the prunella or self-heal. After
every foolish day we sleep off the fumes and furies of its hours; and though we are always
engaged with particulars, and often enslaved to them, we bring with us to every experiment
the innate universal laws. These, while they exist in the mind as ideas, stand around us in
nature forever embodied, a present sanity to expose and cure the insanity of men. Our
servitude to particulars betrays into a hundred foolish expectations. We anticipate a new
era from the invention of a locomotive, or a balloon; the new engine brings with it the old
checks. They say that by electro-magnetism, your sallad shall be grown from the seed,
whilst your fowl is roasting for dinner: it is a symbol of our modern aims and endeavors,?of
our condensation and acceleration of objects: but nothing is gained: nature cannot be
cheated: man's life is but seventy sallads long, grow they swift or grow they slow. In these
checks and impossibilities, however, we find our advantage, not less than in the impulses.
Let the victory fall where it will, we are on that side. And the knowledge that we traverse the
whole scale of being, from the centre to the poles of nature, and have some stake in every
possibility, lends that sublime lustre to death, which philosophy and religion have too
outwardly and literally striven to express in the popular doctrine of the immortality of the
soul. The reality is more excellent than the report. Here is no ruin, no discontinuity, no
spent ball. The divine circulations never rest nor linger. Nature is the incarnation of a
thought, and turns to a thought again, as ice becomes water and gas. The world is mind
precipitated, and the volatile essence is forever escaping again into the state of free
thought. Hence the virtue and pungency of the influence on the mind, of natural objects,
whether inorganic or organized. Man imprisoned, man crystallized, man vegetative, speaks
to man impersonated. That power which does not respect quantity, which makes the whole
and the particle its equal channel, delegates its smile to the morning, and distils its essence
into every drop of rain. Every moment instructs, and every object: for wisdom is infused into
every form. It has been poured into us as blood; it convulsed us as pain; it slid into us as
pleasure; it enveloped us in dull, melancholy days, or in days of cheerful labor; we did not
guess its essence, until after a long time.



VII. Politics



Gold and iron are good
To buy iron and gold;
All earth's fleece and food
For their like are sold.
Boded Merlin wise,
Proved Napoleon great,--
Nor kind nor coinage buys
Aught above its rate.
Fear, Craft, and Avarice
Cannot rear a State.
Out of dust to build
What is more than dust,--
Walls Amphion piled
Phoebus stablish must.
When the Muses nine
With the Virtues meet,
Find to their design
An Atlantic seat,
By green orchard boughs
Fended from the heat,
Where the statesman ploughs
Furrow for the wheat;
When the Church is social worth,
When the state-house is the hearth,
Then the perfect State is come,
The republican at home.



In dealing with the State, we ought to remember that its institutions are not aboriginal,
though they existed before we were born: that they are not superior to the citizen: that
every one of them was once the act of a single man: every law and usage was a man's
expedient to meet a particular case: that they all are imitable, all alterable; we may make as
good; we may make better. Society is an illusion to the young citizen. It lies before him in
rigid repose, with certain names, men, and institutions, rooted like oak-trees to the centre,
round which all arrange themselves the best they can. But the old statesman knows that
society is fluid; there are no such roots and centres; but any particle may suddenly become
the centre of the movement, and compel the system to gyrate round it, as every man of
strong will, like Pisistratus, or Cromwell, does for a time, and every man of truth, like Plato,
or Paul, does forever. But politics rest on necessary foundations, and cannot be treated
with levity. Republics abound in young civilians, who believe that the laws make the city,
that grave modifications of the policy and modes of living, and employments of the
population, that commerce, education, and religion, may be voted in or out; and that any
measure, though it were absurd, may be imposed on a people, if only you can get sufficient
voices to make it a law. But the wise know that foolish legislation is a rope of sand, which
perishes in the twisting; that the State must follow, and not lead the character and progress
of the citizen; the strongest usurper is quickly got rid of; and they only who build on Ideas,
build for eternity; and that the form of government which prevails, is the expression of what
cultivation exists in the population which permits it. The law is only a memorandum. We are
superstitious, and esteem the statute somewhat: so much life as it has in the character of
living men, is its force. The statute stands there to say, yesterday we agreed so and so, but
how feel ye this article today? Our statute is a currency, which we stamp with our own
portrait: it soon becomes unrecognizable, and in process of time will return to the mint.
Nature is not democratic, nor limited-monarchical, but despotic, and will not be fooled or
abated of any jot of her authority, by the pertest of her sons: and as fast as the public mind
is opened to more intelligence, the code is seen to be brute and stammering. It speaks not
articulately, and must be made to. Meantime the education of the general mind never
stops. The reveries of the true and simple are prophetic. What the tender poetic youth
dreams, and prays, and paints today, but shuns the ridicule of saying aloud, shall presently
be the resolutions of public bodies, then shall be carried as grievance and bill of rights
through conflict and war, and then shall be triumphant law and establishment for a hundred
years, until it gives place, in turn, to new prayers and pictures. The history of the State
sketches in coarse outline the progress of thought, and follows at a distance the delicacy of
culture and of aspiration.

The theory of politics, which has possessed the mind of men, and which they have
expressed the best they could in their laws and in their revolutions, considers persons and
property as the two objects for whose protection government exists. Of persons, all have
equal rights, in virtue of being identical in nature. This interest, of course, with its whole
power demands a democracy. Whilst the rights of all as persons are equal, in virtue of their
access to reason, their rights in property are very unequal. One man owns his clothes, and
another owns a county. This accident, depending, primarily, on the skill and virtue of the
parties, of which there is every degree, and, secondarily, on patrimony, falls unequally, and
its rights, of course, are unequal. Personal rights, universally the same, demand a
government framed on the ratio of the census: property demands a government framed on
the ratio of owners and of owning. Laban, who has flocks and herds, wishes them looked
after by an officer on the frontiers, lest the Midianites shall drive them off, and pays a tax to
that end. Jacob has no flocks or herds, and no fear of the Midianites, and pays no tax to the
officer. It seemed fit that Laban and Jacob should have equal rights to elect the officer, who
is to defend their persons, but that Laban, and not Jacob, should elect the officer who is to
guard the sheep and cattle. And, if question arise whether additional officers or watchtowers
should be provided, must not Laban and Isaac, and those who must sell part of their
herds to buy protection for the rest, judge better of this, and with more right, than Jacob,
who, because he is a youth and a traveller, eats their bread and not his own.

In the earliest society the proprietors made their own wealth, and so long as it comes to the
owners in the direct way, no other opinion would arise in any equitable community, than
that property should make the law for property, and persons the law for persons.

But property passes through donation or inheritance to those who do not create it. Gift, in
one case, makes it as really the new owner's, as labor made it the first owner's: in the other
case, of patrimony, the law makes an ownership, which will be valid in each man's view
according to the estimate which he sets on the public tranquillity.

It was not, however, found easy to embody the readily admitted principle, that property
should make law for property, and persons for persons: since persons and property mixed
themselves in every transaction. At last it seemed settled, that the rightful distinction was,
that the proprietors should have more elective franchise than non-proprietors, on the
Spartan principle of “calling that which is just, equal; not that which is equal, just.”

That principle no longer looks so self-evident as it appeared in former times, partly,
because doubts have arisen whether too much weight had not been allowed in the laws, to
property, and such a structure given to our usages, as allowed the rich to encroach on the
poor, and to keep them poor; but mainly, because there is an instinctive sense, however
obscure and yet inarticulate, that the whole constitution of property, on its present tenures,
is injurious, and its influence on persons deteriorating and degrading; that truly, the only
interest for the consideration of the State, is persons: that property will always follow
persons; that the highest end of government is the culture of men: and if men can be
educated, the institutions will share their improvement, and the moral sentiment will write
the law of the land.

If it be not easy to settle the equity of this question, the peril is less when we take note of
our natural defences. We are kept by better guards than the vigilance of such magistrates
as we commonly elect. Society always consists, in greatest part, of young and foolish
persons. The old, who have seen through the hypocrisy of courts and statesmen, die, and
leave no wisdom to their sons. They believe their own newspaper, as their fathers did at
their age. With such an ignorant and deceivable majority, States would soon run to ruin, but
that there are limitations, beyond which the folly and ambition of governors cannot go.
Things have their laws, as well as men; and things refuse to be trifled with. Property will be
protected. Corn will not grow, unless it is planted and manured; but the farmer will not plant
or hoe it, unless the chances are a hundred to one, that he will cut and harvest it. Under
any forms, persons and property must and will have their just sway. They exert their power,
as steadily as matter its attraction. Cover up a pound of earth never so cunningly, divide
and subdivide it; melt it to liquid, convert it to gas; it will always weigh a pound: it will always
attract and resist other matter, by the full virtue of one pound weight;--and the attributes
of a person, his wit and his moral energy, will exercise, under any law or extinguishing
tyranny, their proper force,--if not overtly, then covertly; if not for the law, then against it;
with right, or by might.

The boundaries of personal influence it is impossible to fix, as persons are organs of moral
or supernatural force. Under the dominion of an idea, which possesses the minds of
multitudes, as civil freedom, or the religious sentiment, the powers of persons are no longer
subjects of calculation. A nation of men unanimously bent on freedom, or conquest, can
easily confound the arithmetic of statists, and achieve extravagant actions, out of all
proportion to their means; as, the Greeks, the Saracens, the Swiss, the Americans, and the
French have done.

In like manner, to every particle of property belongs its own attraction. A cent is the
representative of a certain quantity of corn or other commodity. Its value is in the
necessities of the animal man. It is so much warmth, so much bread, so much water, so
much land. The law may do what it will with the owner of property, its just power will still
attach to the cent. The law may in a mad freak say, that all shall have power except the
owners of property: they shall have no vote. Nevertheless, by a higher law, the property
will, year after year, write every statute that respects property. The non-proprietor will be
the scribe of the proprietor. What the owners wish to do, the whole power of property will
do, either through the law, or else in defiance of it. Of course, I speak of all the property,
not merely of the great estates. When the rich are outvoted, as frequently happens, it is the
joint treasury of the poor which exceeds their accumulations. Every man owns something, if
it is only a cow, or a wheelbarrow, or his arms, and so has that property to dispose of.
The same necessity which secures the rights of person and property against the malignity
or folly of the magistrate, determines the form and methods of governing, which are proper
to each nation, and to its habit of thought, and nowise transferable to other states of
society. In this country, we are very vain of our political institutions, which are singular in
this, that they sprung, within the memory of living men, from the character and condition of
the people, which they still express with sufficient fidelity,--and we ostentatiously prefer
them to any other in history. They are not better, but only fitter for us. We may be wise in
asserting the advantage in modern times of the democratic form, but to other states of
society, in which religion consecrated the monarchical, that and not this was expedient.
Democracy is better for us, because the religious sentiment of the present time accords
better with it. Born democrats, we are nowise qualified to judge of monarchy, which, to our
fathers living in the monarchical idea, was also relatively right. But our institutions, though
in coincidence with the spirit of the age, have not any exemption from the practical defects
which have discredited other forms. Every actual State is corrupt. Good men must not obey
the laws too well. What satire on government can equal the severity of censure conveyed in
the word politic, which now for ages has signified cunning, intimating that the State is a
trick?

The same benign necessity and the same practical abuse appear in the parties into which
each State divides itself, of opponents and defenders of the administration of the
government. Parties are also founded on instincts, and have better guides to their own
humble aims than the sagacity of their leaders. They have nothing perverse in their origin,
but rudely mark some real and lasting relation. We might as wisely reprove the east wind,
or the frost, as a political party, whose members, for the most part, could give no account of
their position, but stand for the defence of those interests in which they find themselves.
Our quarrel with them begins, when they quit this deep natural ground at the bidding of
some leader, and, obeying personal considerations, throw themselves into the
maintenance and defence of points, nowise belonging to their system. A party is perpetually
corrupted by personality. Whilst we absolve the association from dishonesty, we cannot
extend the same charity to their leaders. They reap the rewards of the docility and zeal of
the masses which they direct. Ordinarily, our parties are parties of circumstance, and not of
principle; as, the planting interest in conflict with the commercial; the party of capitalists,
and that of operatives; parties which are identical in their moral character, and which can
easily change ground with each other, in the support of many of their measures. Parties of
principle, as, religious sects, or the party of free-trade, of universal suffrage, of abolition of
slavery, of abolition of capital punishment, degenerate into personalities, or would inspire
enthusiasm. The vice of our leading parties in this country (which may be cited as a fair
specimen of these societies of opinion) is, that they do not plant themselves on the deep
and necessary grounds to which they are respectively entitled, but lash themselves to fury
in the carrying of some local and momentary measure, nowise useful to the commonwealth.
Of the two great parties, which, at this hour, almost share the nation between them, I
should say, that, one has the best cause, and the other contains the best men. The
philosopher, the poet, or the religious man, will, of course, wish to cast his vote with the
democrat, for free-trade, for wide suffrage, for the abolition of legal cruelties in the
penal code, and for facilitating in every manner the access of the young and the poor to the
sources of wealth and power. But he can rarely accept the persons whom the so-called
popular party propose to him as representatives of these liberalities. They have not at heart
the ends which give to the name of democracy what hope and virtue are in it. The spirit of
our American radicalism is destructive and aimless: it is not loving; it has no ulterior and
divine ends; but is destructive only out of hatred and selfishness. On the other side, the
conservative party, composed of the most moderate, able, and cultivated part of the
population, is timid, and merely defensive of property. It vindicates no right, it aspires to no
real good, it brands no crime, it proposes no generous policy, it does not build, nor write,
nor cherish the arts, nor foster religion, nor establish schools, nor encourage science, nor
emancipate the slave, nor befriend the poor, or the Indian, or the immigrant. From neither
party, when in power, has the world any benefit to expect in science, art, or humanity, at all
commensurate with the resources of the nation.

I do not for these defects despair of our republic. We are not at the mercy of any waves of
chance. In the strife of ferocious parties, human nature always finds itself cherished, as the
children of the convicts at Botany Bay are found to have as healthy a moral sentiment as
other children. Citizens of feudal states are alarmed at our democratic institutions lapsing
into anarchy; and the older and more cautious among ourselves are learning from
Europeans to look with some terror at our turbulent freedom. It is said that in our license of
construing the Constitution, and in the despotism of public opinion, we have no anchor; and
one foreign observer thinks he has found the safeguard in the sanctity of Marriage among
us; and another thinks he has found it in our Calvinism. Fisher Ames expressed the popular
security more wisely, when he compared a monarchy and a republic, saying, “that a
monarchy is a merchantman, which sails well, but will sometimes strike on a rock, and go
to the bottom; whilst a republic is a raft, which would never sink, but then your feet are
always in water.” No forms can have any dangerous importance, whilst we are befriended
by the laws of things. It makes no difference how many tons weight of atmosphere presses
on our heads, so long as the same pressure resists it within the lungs. Augment the mass a
thousand fold, it cannot begin to crush us, as long as reaction is equal to action. The fact of
two poles, of two forces, centripetal and centrifugal, is universal, and each force by its own
activity develops the other. Wild liberty develops iron conscience. Want of liberty, by
strengthening law and decorum, stupefies conscience. `Lynch-law' prevails only where
there is greater hardihood and self-subsistency in the leaders. A mob cannot be a
permanency: everybody's interest requires that it should not exist, and only justice satisfies
all.

We must trust infinitely to the beneficent necessity which shines through all laws. Human
nature expresses itself in them as characteristically as in statues, or songs, or railroads,
and an abstract of the codes of nations would be a transcript of the common conscience.
Governments have their origin in the moral identity of men. Reason for one is seen to be
reason for another, and for every other. There is a middle measure which satisfies all
parties, be they never so many, or so resolute for their own. Every man finds a sanction for
his simplest claims and deeds in decisions of his own mind, which he calls Truth and
Holiness. In these decisions all the citizens find a perfect agreement, and only in these; not
in what is good to eat, good to wear, good use of time, or what amount of land, or of public
aid, each is entitled to claim. This truth and justice men presently endeavor to make
application of, to the measuring of land, the apportionment of service, the protection of life
and property. Their first endeavors, no doubt, are very awkward. Yet absolute right is the
first governor; or, every government is an impure theocracy. The idea, after which each
community is aiming to make and mend its law, is, the will of the wise man. The wise man,
it cannot find in nature, and it makes awkward but earnest efforts to secure his government
by contrivance; as, by causing the entire people to give their voices on every measure; or,
by a double choice to get the representation of the whole; or, by a selection of the best
citizens; or, to secure the advantages of efficiency and internal peace, by confiding the
government to one, who may himself select his agents. All forms of government symbolize
an immortal government, common to all dynasties and independent of numbers, perfect
where two men exist, perfect where there is only one man.

Every man's nature is a sufficient advertisement to him of the character of his fellows. My
right and my wrong, is their right and their wrong. Whilst I do what is fit for me, and abstain
from what is unfit, my neighbor and I shall often agree in our means, and work together for
a time to one end. But whenever I find my dominion over myself not sufficient for me, and
undertake the direction of him also, I overstep the truth, and come into false relations to
him. I may have so much more skill or strength than he, that he cannot express adequately
his sense of wrong, but it is a lie, and hurts like a lie both him and me. Love and nature
cannot maintain the assumption: it must be executed by a practical lie, namely, by force.
This undertaking for another, is the blunder which stands in colossal ugliness in the
governments of the world. It is the same thing in numbers, as in a pair, only not quite so
intelligible. I can see well enough a great difference between my setting myself down to a
self-control, and my going to make somebody else act after my views: but when a quarter
of the human race assume to tell me what I must do, I may be too much disturbed by the
circumstances to see so clearly the absurdity of their command. Therefore, all public ends
look vague and quixotic beside private ones. For, any laws but those which men make for
themselves, are laughable. If I put myself in the place of my child, and we stand in one
thought, and see that things are thus or thus, that perception is law for him and me. We are
both there, both act. But if, without carrying him into the thought, I look over into his plot,
and, guessing how it is with him, ordain this or that, he will never obey me. This is the
history of governments,--one man does something which is to bind another. A man who
cannot be acquainted with me, taxes me; looking from afar at me, ordains that a part of my
labor shall go to this or that whimsical end, not as I, but as he happens to fancy. Behold the
consequence. Of all debts, men are least willing to pay the taxes. What a satire is this on
government! Everywhere they think they get their money's worth, except for these.
Hence, the less government we have, the better,--the fewer laws, and the less confided
power. The antidote to this abuse of formal Government, is, the influence of private
character, the growth of the Individual; the appearance of the principal to supersede the
proxy; the appearance of the wise man, of whom the existing government, is, it must be
owned, but a shabby imitation. That which all things tend to educe, which freedom,
cultivation, intercourse, revolutions, go to form and deliver, is character; that is the end of
nature, to reach unto this coronation of her king. To educate the wise man, the State exists;
and with the appearance of the wise man, the State expires. The appearance of character
makes the State unnecessary. The wise man is the State. He needs no army, fort, or navy,
--he loves men too well; no bribe, or feast, or palace, to draw friends to him; no vantage
ground, no favorable circumstance. He needs no library, for he has not done thinking; no
church, for he is a prophet; no statute book, for he has the lawgiver; no money, for he is
value; no road, for he is at home where he is; no experience, for the life of the creator
shoots through him, and looks from his eyes. He has no personal friends, for he who has
the spell to draw the prayer and piety of all men unto him, needs not husband and educate
a few, to share with him a select and poetic life. His relation to men is angelic; his memory
is myrrh to them; his presence, frankincense and flowers.

We think our civilization near its meridian, but we are yet only at the cock-crowing and the
morning star. In our barbarous society the influence of character is in its infancy. As a
political power, as the rightful lord who is to tumble all rulers from their chairs, its presence
is hardly yet suspected. Malthus and Ricardo quite omit it; the Annual Register is silent; in
the Conversations' Lexicon, it is not set down; the President's Message, the Queen's
Speech, have not mentioned it; and yet it is never nothing. Every thought which genius and
piety throw into the world, alters the world. The gladiators in the lists of power feel, through
all their frocks of force and simulation, the presence of worth. I think the very strife of trade
and ambition are confession of this divinity; and successes in those fields are the poor
amends, the fig-leaf with which the shamed soul attempts to hide its nakedness. I find the
like unwilling homage in all quarters. It is because we know how much is due from us, that
we are impatient to show some petty talent as a substitute for worth. We are haunted by a
conscience of this right to grandeur of character, and are false to it. But each of us has
some talent, can do somewhat useful, or graceful, or formidable, or amusing, or lucrative.
That we do, as an apology to others and to ourselves, for not reaching the mark of a good
and equal life. But it does not satisfy us, whilst we thrust it on the notice of our companions.
It may throw dust in their eyes, but does not smooth our own brow, or give us the
tranquillity of the strong when we walk abroad. We do penance as we go. Our talent is a
sort of expiation, and we are constrained to reflect on our splendid moment, with a certain
humiliation, as somewhat too fine, and not as one act of many acts, a fair expression of our
permanent energy. Most persons of ability meet in society with a kind of tacit appeal. Each
seems to say, `I am not all here.' Senators and presidents have climbed so high with pain
enough, not because they think the place specially agreeable, but as an apology for real
worth, and to vindicate their manhood in our eyes. This conspicuous chair is their
compensation to themselves for being of a poor, cold, hard nature. They must do what they
can. Like one class of forest animals, they have nothing but a prehensile tail: climb they
must, or crawl. If a man found himself so rich-natured that he could enter into strict relations
with the best persons, and make life serene around him by the dignity and sweetness of his
behavior, could he afford to circumvent the favor of the caucus and the press, and covet
relations so hollow and pompous, as those of a politician? Surely nobody would be a
charlatan, who could afford to be sincere.

The tendencies of the times favor the idea of self-government, and leave the individual, for
all code, to the rewards and penalties of his own constitution, which work with more energy
than we believe, whilst we depend on artificial restraints. The movement in this direction
has been very marked in modern history. Much has been blind and discreditable, but the
nature of the revolution is not affected by the vices of the revolters; for this is a purely
moral force. It was never adopted by any party in history, neither can be. It separates the
individual from all party, and unites him, at the same time, to the race. It promises a
recognition of higher rights than those of personal freedom, or the security of property. A
man has a right to be employed, to be trusted, to be loved, to be revered. The power of
love, as the basis of a State, has never been tried. We must not imagine that all things are
lapsing into confusion, if every tender protestant be not compelled to bear his part in certain
social conventions: nor doubt that roads can be built, letters carried, and the fruit of labor
secured, when the government of force is at an end. Are our methods now so excellent that
all competition is hopeless? Could not a nation of friends even devise better ways? On the
other hand, let not the most conservative and timid fear anything from a premature
surrender of the bayonet, and the system of force. For, according to the order of nature,
which is quite superior to our will, it stands thus; there will always be a government of force,
where men are selfish; and when they are pure enough to abjure the code of force, they
will be wise enough to see how these public ends of the post-office, of the highway, of
commerce, and the exchange of property, of museums and libraries, of institutions of art
and science, can be answered.

We live in a very low state of the world, and pay unwilling tribute to governments founded
on force. There is not, among the most religious and instructed men of the most religious
and civil nations, a reliance on the moral sentiment, and a sufficient belief in the unity of
things to persuade them that society can be maintained without artificial restraints, as well
as the solar system; or that the private citizen might be reasonable, and a good neighbor,
without the hint of a jail or a confiscation. What is strange too, there never was in any man
sufficient faith in the power of rectitude, to inspire him with the broad design of renovating
the State on the principle of right and love. All those who have pretended this design, have
been partial reformers, and have admitted in some manner the supremacy of the bad State.
I do not call to mind a single human being who has steadily denied the authority of the
laws, on the simple ground of his own moral nature. Such designs, full of genius and full of
fate as they are, are not entertained except avowedly as air-pictures. If the individual who
exhibits them, dare to think them practicable, he disgusts scholars and churchmen; and
men of talent, and women of superior sentiments, cannot hide their contempt. Not the less
does nature continue to fill the heart of youth with suggestions of this enthusiasm, and
there are now men,--if indeed I can speak in the plural number,--more exactly, I will
say, I have just been conversing with one man, to whom no weight of adverse experience
will make it for a moment appear impossible, that thousands of human beings might exercise
towards each other the grandest and simplest sentiments, as well as a knot of friends, or
a pair of lovers.



VII. Nominalist and Realist



In countless upward-striving waves
The moon-drawn tide-wave strives;
In thousand far-transplanted grafts
The parent fruit survives;
So, in the new-born millions,
The perfect Adam lives.
Not less are summer-mornings dear
To every child they wake,
And each with novel life his sphere
Fills for his proper sake.



I cannot often enough say, that a man is only a relative and representative nature. Each is a
hint of the truth, but far enough from being that truth, which yet he quite newly and
inevitably suggests to us. If I seek it in him, I shall not find it. Could any man conduct into
me the pure stream of that which he pretends to be! Long afterwards, I find that quality
elsewhere which he promised me. The genius of the Platonists, is intoxicating to the
student, yet how few particulars of it can I detach from all their books. The man momentarily
stands for the thought, but will not bear examination; and a society of men will cursorily
represent well enough a certain quality and culture, for example, chivalry or beauty of
manners, but separate them, and there is no gentleman and no lady in the group. The least
hint sets us on the pursuit of a character, which no man realizes. We have such exorbitant
eyes, that on seeing the smallest arc, we complete the curve, and when the curtain is lifted
from the diagram which it seemed to veil, we are vexed to find that no more was drawn,
than just that fragment of an arc which we first beheld. We are greatly too liberal in our
construction of each other's faculty and promise. Exactly what the parties have already
done, they shall do again; but that which we inferred from their nature and inception, they
will not do. That is in nature, but not in them. That happens in the world, which we often
witness in a public debate. Each of the speakers expresses himself imperfectly: no one of
them hears much that another says, such is the preoccupation of mind of each; and the
audience, who have only to hear and not to speak, judge very wisely and superiorly how
wrongheaded and unskilful is each of the debaters to his own affair. Great men or men of
great gifts you shall easily find, but symmetrical men never. When I meet a pure intellectual
force, or a generosity of affection, I believe, here then is man; and am presently mortified by
the discovery, that this individual is no more available to his own or to the general ends,
than his companions; because the power which drew my respect, is not supported by the
total symphony of his talents. All persons exist to society by some shining trait of beauty or
utility, which they have. We borrow the proportions of the man from that one fine feature,
and finish the portrait symmetrically; which is false; for the rest of his body is small or
deformed. I observe a person who makes a good public appearance, and conclude thence
the perfection of his private character, on which this is based; but he has no private
character. He is a graceful cloak or lay-figure for holidays. All our poets, heroes, and saints,
fail utterly in some one or in many parts to satisfy our idea, fail to draw our spontaneous
interest, and so leave us without any hope of realization but in our own future. Our
exaggeration of all fine characters arises from the fact, that we identify each in turn with the
soul. But there are no such men as we fable; no Jesus, nor Pericles, nor Caesar, nor
Angelo, nor Washington, such as we have made. We consecrate a great deal of nonsense,
because it was allowed by great men. There is none without his foible. I verily believe if an
angel should come to chaunt the chorus of the moral law, he would eat too much
gingerbread, or take liberties with private letters, or do some precious atrocity. It is bad
enough, that our geniuses cannot do anything useful, but it is worse that no man is fit for
society, who has fine traits. He is admired at a distance, but he cannot come near without
appearing a cripple. The men of fine parts protect themselves by solitude, or by courtesy, or
by satire, or by an acid worldly manner, each concealing, as he best can, his incapacity for
useful association, but they want either love or self-reliance.

Our native love of reality joins with this experience to teach us a little reserve, and to
dissuade a too sudden surrender to the brilliant qualities of persons. Young people admire
talents or particular excellences; as we grow older, we value total powers and effects, as,
the impression, the quality, the spirit of men and things. The genius is all. The man,--it is
his system: we do not try a solitary word or act, but his habit. The acts which you praise, I
praise not, since they are departures from his faith, and are mere compliances. The
magnetism which arranges tribes and races in one polarity, is alone to be respected; the
men are steel-filings. Yet we unjustly select a particle, and say, `O steel-filing number one!
what heart-drawings I feel to thee! what prodigious virtues are these of thine! how
constitutional to thee, and incommunicable.' Whilst we speak, the loadstone is withdrawn;
down falls our filing in a heap with the rest, and we continue our mummery to the wretched
shaving. Let us go for universals; for the magnetism, not for the needles. Human life and its
persons are poor empirical pretensions. A personal influence is an ignis fatuus. If they say,
it is great, it is great; if they say, it is small, it is small; you see it, and you see it not, by
turns; it borrows all its size from the momentary estimation of the speakers: the Will-of-the-
wisp vanishes, if you go too near, vanishes if you go too far, and only blazes at one angle.
Who can tell if Washington be a great man, or no? Who can tell if Franklin be? Yes, or any
but the twelve, or six, or three great gods of fame? And they, too, loom and fade before the
eternal.

We are amphibious creatures, weaponed for two elements, having two sets of faculties, the
particular and the catholic. We adjust our instrument for general observation, and sweep
the heavens as easily as we pick out a single figure in the terrestrial landscape. We are
practically skilful in detecting elements, for which we have no place in our theory, and no
name. Thus we are very sensible of an atmospheric influence in men and in bodies of men,
not accounted for in an arithmetical addition of all their measurable properties. There is a
genius of a nation, which is not to be found in the numerical citizens, but which
characterizes the society. England, strong, punctual, practical, well-spoken England, I
should not find, if I should go to the island to seek it. In the parliament, in the playhouse, at
dinner-tables, I might see a great number of rich, ignorant, book-read, conventional, proud
men,--many old women,--and not anywhere the Englishman who made the good
speeches, combined the accurate engines, and did the bold and nervous deeds. It is even
worse in America, where, from the intellectual quickness of the race, the genius of the
country is more splendid in its promise, and more slight in its performance. Webster cannot
do the work of Webster. We conceive distinctly enough the French, the Spanish, the
German genius, and it is not the less real, that perhaps we should not meet in either of
those nations, a single individual who corresponded with the type. We infer the spirit of the
nation in great measure from the language, which is a sort of monument, to which each
forcible individual in a course of many hundred years has contributed a stone. And,
universally, a good example of this social force, is the veracity of language, which cannot
be debauched. In any controversy concerning morals, an appeal may be made with safety
to the sentiments, which the language of the people expresses. Proverbs, words, and
grammar inflections convey the public sense with more purity and precision, than the wisest
individual.

In the famous dispute with the Nominalists, the Realists had a good deal of reason. General
ideas are essences. They are our gods: they round and ennoble the most partial and sordid
way of living. Our proclivity to details cannot quite degrade our life, and divest it of poetry.
The day-laborer is reckoned as standing at the foot of the social scale, yet he is saturated
with the laws of the world. His measures are the hours; morning and night, solstice and
equinox, geometry, astronomy, and all the lovely accidents of nature play through his mind.
Money, which represents the prose of life, and which is hardly spoken of in parlors without
an apology, is, in its effects and laws, as beautiful as roses. Property keeps the accounts of
the world, and is always moral. The property will be found where the labor, the wisdom,
and the virtue have been in nations, in classes, and (the whole life-time considered, with
the compensations) in the individual also. How wise the world appears, when the laws and
usages of nations are largely detailed, and the completeness of the municipal system is
considered! Nothing is left out. If you go into the markets, and the custom-houses, the
insurers' and notaries' offices, the offices of sealers of weights and measures, of inspection
of provisions,--it will appear as if one man had made it all. Wherever you go, a wit like
your own has been before you, and has realized its thought. The Eleusinian mysteries, the
Egyptian architecture, the Indian astronomy, the Greek sculpture, show that there always
were seeing and knowing men in the planet. The world is full of masonic ties, of guilds, of
secret and public legions of honor; that of scholars, for example; and that of gentlemen
fraternizing with the upper class of every country and every culture.

I am very much struck in literature by the appearance, that one person wrote all the books;
as if the editor of a journal planted his body of reporters in different parts of the field of
action, and relieved some by others from time to time; but there is such equality and
identity both of judgment and point of view in the narrative, that it is plainly the work of one
all-seeing, all-hearing gentleman. I looked into Pope's Odyssey yesterday: it is as correct
and elegant after our canon of today, as if it were newly written. The modernness of all
good books seems to give me an existence as wide as man. What is well done, I feel as if I
did; what is ill-done, I reck not of. Shakspeare's passages of passion (for example, in Lear
and Hamlet) are in the very dialect of the present year. I am faithful again to the whole over
the members in my use of books. I find the most pleasure in reading a book in a manner
least flattering to the author. I read Proclus, and sometimes Plato, as I might read a
dictionary, for a mechanical help to the fancy and the imagination. I read for the lustres, as
if one should use a fine picture in a chromatic experiment, for its rich colors. ‘Tis not
Proclus, but a piece of nature and fate that I explore. It is a greater joy to see the author's
author, than himself. A higher pleasure of the same kind I found lately at a concert, where I
went to hear Handel's Messiah. As the master overpowered the littleness and
incapableness of the performers, and made them conductors of his electricity, so it was
easy to observe what efforts nature was making through so many hoarse, wooden, and
imperfect persons, to produce beautiful voices, fluid and soul-guided men and women. The
genius of nature was paramount at the oratorio.

This preference of the genius to the parts is the secret of that deification of art, which is
found in all superior minds. Art, in the artist, is proportion, or, a habitual respect to the
whole by an eye loving beauty in details. And the wonder and charm of it is the sanity in
insanity which it denotes. Proportion is almost impossible to human beings. There is no one
who does not exaggerate. In conversation, men are encumbered with personality, and talk
too much. In modern sculpture, picture, and poetry, the beauty is miscellaneous; the artist
works here and there, and at all points, adding and adding, instead of unfolding the unit of
his thought. Beautiful details we must have, or no artist: but they must be means and never
other. The eye must not lose sight for a moment of the purpose. Lively boys write to their
ear and eye, and the cool reader finds nothing but sweet jingles in it. When they grow older,
they respect the argument.

We obey the same intellectual integrity, when we study in exceptions the law of the world.
Anomalous facts, as the never quite obsolete rumors of magic and demonology, and the
new allegations of phrenologists and neurologists, are of ideal use. They are good
indications. Homoeopathy is insignificant as an art of healing, but of great value as criticism
on the hygeia or medical practice of the time. So with Mesmerism, Swedenborgism,
Fourierism, and the Millennial Church; they are poor pretensions enough, but good criticism
on the science, philosophy, and preaching of the day. For these abnormal insights of the
adepts, ought to be normal, and things of course.

All things show us, that on every side we are very near to the best. It seems not worth while
to execute with too much pains some one intellectual, or aesthetical, or civil feat, when
presently the dream will scatter, and we shall burst into universal power. The reason of
idleness and of crime is the deferring of our hopes. Whilst we are waiting, we beguile the
time with jokes, with sleep, with eating, and with crimes.


Thus we settle it in our cool libraries, that all the agents with which we deal are subalterns,
which we can well afford to let pass, and life will be simpler when we live at the centre, and
flout the surfaces. I wish to speak with all respect of persons, but sometimes I must pinch
myself to keep awake, and preserve the due decorum. They melt so fast into each other,
that they are like grass and trees, and it needs an effort to treat them as individuals.
Though the uninspired man certainly finds persons a conveniency in household matters, the
divine man does not respect them: he sees them as a rack of clouds, or a fleet of ripples
which the wind drives over the surface of the water. But this is flat rebellion. Nature will not
be Buddhist: she resents generalizing, and insults the philosopher in every moment with a
million of fresh particulars. It is all idle talking: as much as a man is a whole, so is he also a
part; and it were partial not to see it. What you say in your pompous distribution only
distributes you into your class and section. You have not got rid of parts by denying them,
but are the more partial. You are one thing, but nature is one thing and the other thing, in
the same moment. She will not remain orbed in a thought, but rushes into persons; and
when each person, inflamed to a fury of personality, would conquer all things to his poor
crotchet, she raises up against him another person, and by many persons incarnates again
a sort of whole. She will have all. Nick Bottom cannot play all the parts, work it how he
may: there will be somebody else, and the world will be round. Everything must have its
flower or effort at the beautiful, coarser or finer according to its stuff. They relieve and
recommend each other, and the sanity of society is a balance of a thousand insanities. She
punishes abstractionists, and will only forgive an induction which is rare and casual. We
like to come to a height of land and see the landscape, just as we value a general remark in
conversation. But it is not the intention of nature that we should live by general views. We
fetch fire and water, run about all day among the shops and markets, and get our clothes
and shoes made and mended, and are the victims of these details, and once in a fortnight
we arrive perhaps at a rational moment. If we were not thus infatuated, if we saw the real
from hour to hour, we should not be here to write and to read, but should have been burned
or frozen long ago. She would never get anything done, if she suffered admirable
Crichtons, and universal geniuses. She loves better a wheelwright who dreams all night of
wheels, and a groom who is part of his horse: for she is full of work, and these are her
hands. As the frugal farmer takes care that his cattle shall eat down the rowan, and swine
shall eat the waste of his house, and poultry shall pick the crumbs, so our economical
mother despatches a new genius and habit of mind into every district and condition of
existence, plants an eye wherever a new ray of light can fall, and gathering up into some
man every property in the universe, establishes thousandfold occult mutual attractions
among her offspring, that all this wash and waste of power may be imparted and
exchanged.

Great dangers undoubtedly accrue from this incarnation and distribution of the godhead,
and hence nature has her maligners, as if she were Circe; and Alphonso of Castille fancied
he could have given useful advice. But she does not go unprovided; she has hellebore at
the bottom of the cup. Solitude would ripen a plentiful crop of despots. The recluse thinks
of men as having his manner, or as not having his manner; and as having degrees of it, more
and less. But when he comes into a public assembly, he sees that men have very different
manners from his own, and in their way admirable. In his childhood and youth, he has had
many checks and censures, and thinks modestly enough of his own endowment. When
afterwards he comes to unfold it in propitious circumstance, it seems the only talent: he is
delighted with his success, and accounts himself already the fellow of the great. But he
goes into a mob, into a banking-house, into a mechanic's shop, into a mill, into a laboratory,
into a ship, into a camp, and in each new place he is no better than an idiot: other talents
take place, and rule the hour. The rotation which whirls every leaf and pebble to the
meridian, reaches to every gift of man, and we all take turns at the top.

For nature, who abhors mannerism, has set her heart on breaking up all styles and tricks,
and it is so much easier to do what one has done before, than to do a new thing, that there
is a perpetual tendency to a set mode. In every conversation, even the highest, there is a
certain trick, which may be soon learned by an acute person, and then that particular style
continued indefinitely. Each man, too, is a tyrant in tendency, because he would impose his
idea on others; and their trick is their natural defence. Jesus would absorb the race; but
Tom Paine or the coarsest blasphemer helps humanity by resisting this exuberance of
power. Hence the immense benefit of party in politics, as it reveals faults of character in a
chief, which the intellectual force of the persons, with ordinary opportunity, and not hurled
into aphelion by hatred, could not have seen. Since we are all so stupid, what benefit that
there should be two stupidities! It is like that brute advantage so essential to astronomy, of
having the diameter of the earth's orbit for a base of its triangles. Democracy is morose,
and runs to anarchy, but in the state, and in the schools, it is indispensable to resist the
consolidation of all men into a few men. If John was perfect, why are you and I alive? As
long as any man exists, there is some need of him; let him fight for his own. A new poet has
appeared; a new character approached us; why should we refuse to eat bread, until we
have found his regiment and section in our old army-files? Why not a new man? Here is a
new enterprise of Brook Farm, of Skeneateles, of Northampton: why so impatient to baptise
them Essenes, or Port-Royalists, or Shakers, or by any known and effete name? Let it be a
new way of living. Why have only two or three ways of life, and not thousands? Every man
is wanted, and no man is wanted much. We came this time for condiments, not for corn.
We want the great genius only for joy; for one star more in our constellation, for one tree
more in our grove. But he thinks we wish to belong to him, as he wishes to occupy us. He
greatly mistakes us. I think I have done well, if I have acquired a new word from a good
author; and my business with him is to find my own, though it were only to melt him down
into an epithet or an image for daily use.


“Into paint will I grind thee, my bride!”


To embroil the confusion, and make it impossible to arrive at any general statement, when
we have insisted on the imperfection of individuals, our affections and our experience urge
that every individual is entitled to honor, and a very generous treatment is sure to be
repaid. A recluse sees only two or three persons, and allows them all their room; they
spread themselves at large. The man of state looks at many, and compares the few
habitually with others, and these look less. Yet are they not entitled to this generosity of
reception? and is not munificence the means of insight? For though gamesters say, that
the cards beat all the players, though they were never so skilful, yet in the contest we are
now considering, the players are also the game, and share the power of the cards. If you
criticise a fine genius, the odds are that you are out of your reckoning, and, instead of the
poet, are censuring your own caricature of him. For there is somewhat spheral and infinite
in every man, especially in every genius, which, if you can come very near him, sports with
all your limitations. For, rightly, every man is a channel through which heaven floweth, and,
whilst I fancied I was criticising him, I was censuring or rather terminating my own soul.
After taxing Goethe as a courtier, artificial, unbelieving, worldly,--I took up this book of
Helena, and found him an Indian of the wilderness, a piece of pure nature like an apple or
an oak, large as morning or night, and virtuous as a briar-rose.

But care is taken that the whole tune shall be played. If we were not kept among surfaces,
every thing would be large and universal: now the excluded attributes burst in on us with
the more brightness, that they have been excluded. “Your turn now, my turn next,” is the
rule of the game. The universality being hindered in its primary form, comes in the
secondary form of all sides: the points come in succession to the meridian, and by the
speed of rotation, a new whole is formed. Nature keeps herself whole, and her
representation complete in the experience of each mind. She suffers no seat to be vacant
in her college. It is the secret of the world that all things subsist, and do not die, but only
retire a little from sight, and afterwards return again. Whatever does not concern us, is
concealed from us. As soon as a person is no longer related to our present well-being, he
is concealed, or dies, as we say. Really, all things and persons are related to us, but
according to our nature, they act on us not at once, but in succession, and we are made
aware of their presence one at a time. All persons, all things which we have known, are
here present, and many more than we see; the world is full. As the ancient said, the world is
a plenum or solid; and if we saw all things that really surround us, we should be imprisoned
and unable to move. For, though nothing is impassable to the soul, but all things are
pervious to it, and like highways, yet this is only whilst the soul does not see them. As soon
as the soul sees any object, it stops before that object. Therefore, the divine Providence,
which keeps the universe open in every direction to the soul, conceals all the furniture and
all the persons that do not concern a particular soul, from the senses of that individual.
Through solidest eternal things, the man finds his road, as if they did not subsist, and does
not once suspect their being. As soon as he needs a new object, suddenly he beholds it,
and no longer attempts to pass through it, but takes another way. When he has exhausted
for the time the nourishment to be drawn from any one person or thing, that object is
withdrawn from his observation, and though still in his immediate neighborhood, he does
not suspect its presence.

Nothing is dead: men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals and mournful
obituaries, and there they stand looking out of the window, sound and well, in some new
and strange disguise. Jesus is not dead: he is very well alive: nor John, nor Paul, nor
Mahomet, nor Aristotle; at times we believe we have seen them all, and could easily tell the
names under which they go.

If we cannot make voluntary and conscious steps in the admirable science of universals, let
us see the parts wisely, and infer the genius of nature from the best particulars with a
becoming charity. What is best in each kind is an index of what should be the average of
that thing. Love shows me the opulence of nature, by disclosing to me in my friend a
hidden wealth, and I infer an equal depth of good in every other direction. It is commonly
said by farmers, that a good pear or apple costs no more time or pains to rear, than a poor
one; so I would have no work of art, no speech, or action, or thought, or friend, but the best.
The end and the means, the gamester and the game,--life is made up of the intermixture
and reaction of these two amicable powers, whose marriage appears beforehand
monstrous, as each denies and tends to abolish the other. We must reconcile the
contradictions as we can, but their discord and their concord introduce wild absurdities into
our thinking and speech. No sentence will hold the whole truth, and the only way in which
we can be just, is by giving ourselves the lie; Speech is better than silence; silence is better
than speech;--All things are in contact; every atom has a sphere of repulsion;--Things
are, and are not, at the same time;--and the like. All the universe over, there is but one
thing, this old Two-Face, creator-creature, mind-matter, right-wrong, of which any
proposition may be affirmed or denied. Very fitly, therefore, I assert, that every man is a
partialist, that nature secures him as an instrument by self-conceit, preventing the
tendencies to religion and science; and now further assert, that, each man's genius being
nearly and affectionately explored, he is justified in his individuality, as his nature is found
to be immense; and now I add, that every man is a universalist also, and, as our earth,
whilst it spins on its own axis, spins all the time around the sun through the celestial
spaces, so the least of its rational children, the most dedicated to his private affair, works
out, though as it were under a disguise, the universal problem. We fancy men are
individuals; so are pumpkins; but every pumpkin in the field, goes through every point of
pumpkin history. The rabid democrat, as soon as he is senator and rich man, has ripened
beyond possibility of sincere radicalism, and unless he can resist the sun, he must be
conservative the remainder of his days. Lord Eldon said in his old age, “that, if he were to
begin life again, he would be damned but he would begin as agitator.”

We hide this universality, if we can, but it appears at all points. We are as ungrateful as
children. There is nothing we cherish and strive to draw to us, but in some hour we turn and
rend it. We keep a running fire of sarcasm at ignorance and the life of the senses; then
goes by, perchance, a fair girl, a piece of life, gay and happy, and making the commonest
offices beautiful, by the energy and heart with which she does them, and seeing this, we
admire and love her and them, and say, “Lo! a genuine creature of the fair earth, not
dissipated, or too early ripened by books, philosophy, religion, society, or care!” insinuating
a treachery and contempt for all we had so long loved and wrought in ourselves and others.

If we could have any security against moods! If the profoundest prophet could be holden to
his words, and the hearer who is ready to sell all and join the crusade, could have any
certificate that tomorrow his prophet shall not unsay his testimony! But the Truth sits veiled
there on the Bench, and never interposes an adamantine syllable; and the most sincere
and revolutionary doctrine, put as if the ark of God were carried forward some furlongs, and
planted there for the succor of the world, shall in a few weeks be coldly set aside by the
same speaker, as morbid; “I thought I was right, but I was not,”--and the same
immeasurable credulity demanded for new audacities. If we were not of all opinions! if we
did not in any moment shift the platform on which we stand, and look and speak from
another! if there could be any regulation, any `one-hour-rule,' that a man should never leave
his point of view, without sound of trumpet. I am always insincere, as always knowing there
are other moods.

How sincere and confidential we can be, saying all that lies in the mind, and yet go away
feeling that all is yet unsaid, from the incapacity of the parties to know each other, although
they use the same words! My companion assumes to know my mood and habit of thought,
and we go on from explanation to explanation, until all is said which words can, and we
leave matters just as they were at first, because of that vicious assumption. Is it that every
man believes every other to be an incurable partialist, and himself an universalist? I talked
yesterday with a pair of philosophers: I endeavored to show my good men that I love
everything by turns, and nothing long; that I loved the centre, but doated on the superficies;
that I loved man, if men seemed to me mice and rats; that I revered saints, but woke up
glad that the old pagan world stood its ground, and died hard; that I was glad of men of
every gift and nobility, but would not live in their arms. Could they but once understand, that
I loved to know that they existed, and heartily wished them Godspeed, yet, out of my
poverty of life and thought, had no word or welcome for them when they came to see me,
and could well consent to their living in Oregon, for any claim I felt on them, it would be a
great satisfaction.




IX. New England Reformers



IN the suburb, in the town,
On the railway, in the square,
Came a beam of goodness down
Doubling daylight everywhere:
Peace now each for malice takes,
Beauty for his sinful weeds,
For the angel Hope aye makes
Him an angel whom she leads.



A Lecture read before the Society in Amory Hall,
on Sunday, 3 March, 1844


Whoever has had opportunity of acquaintance with society in New England, during the last
twenty-five years, with those middle and with those leading sections that may constitute any
just representation of the character and aim of the community, will have been struck with
the great activity of thought and experimenting. His attention must be commanded by the
signs that the Church, or religious party, is falling from the church nominal, and is
appearing in temperance and non-resistance societies, in movements of abolitionists and
of socialists, and in very significant assemblies, called Sabbath and Bible Conventions,
composed of ultraists, of seekers, of all the soul of the soldiery of dissent, and meeting to
call in question the authority of the Sabbath, of the priesthood, and of the church. In these
movements, nothing was more remarkable than the discontent they begot in the movers.
The spirit of protest and of detachment, drove the members of these Conventions to bear
testimony against the church, and immediately afterward, to declare their discontent with
these Conventions, their independence of their colleagues, and their impatience of the
methods whereby they were working. They defied each other, like a congress of kings,
each of whom had a realm to rule, and a way of his own that made concert unprofitable.
What a fertility of projects for the salvation of the world! One apostle thought all men should
go to farming; and another, that no man should buy or sell: that the use of money was the
cardinal evil; another, that the mischief was in our diet, that we eat and drink damnation.
These made unleavened bread, and were foes to the death to fermentation. It was in vain
urged by the housewife, that God made yeast, as well as dough, and loves fermentation
just as dearly as he loves vegetation; that fermentation develops the saccharine element in
the grain, and makes it more palatable and more digestible. No; they wish the pure wheat,
and will die but it shall not ferment. Stop, dear nature, these incessant advances of thine;
let us scotch these ever-rolling wheels! Others attacked the system of agriculture, the use
of animal manures in farming; and the tyranny of man over brute nature; these abuses
polluted his food. The ox must be taken from the plough, and the horse from the cart, the
hundred acres of the farm must be spaded, and the man must walk wherever boats and
locomotives will not carry him. Even the insect world was to be defended, that had been
too long neglected, and a society for the protection of ground-worms, slugs, and mosquitos
was to be incorporated without delay. With these appeared the adepts of homeopathy, of
hydropathy, of mesmerism, of phrenology, and their wonderful theories of the Christian
miracles! Others assailed particular vocations, as that of the lawyer, that of the merchant,
of the manufacturer, of the clergyman, of the scholar. Others attacked the institution of
marriage, as the fountain of social evils. Others devoted themselves to the worrying of
churches and meetings for public worship; and the fertile forms of antinomianism among
the elder puritans, seemed to have their match in the plenty of the new harvest of reform.

With this din of opinion and debate, there was a keener scrutiny of institutions and domestic
life than any we had known, there was sincere protesting against existing evils, and there
were changes of employment dictated by conscience. No doubt, there was plentiful
vaporing, and cases of backsliding might occur. But in each of these movements emerged
a good result, a tendency to the adoption of simpler methods, and an assertion of the
sufficiency of the private man. Thus it was directly in the spirit and genius of the age, what
happened in one instance, when a church censured and threatened to excommunicate one
of its members, on account of the somewhat hostile part to the church, which his
conscience led him to take in the anti-slavery business; the threatened individual
immediately excommunicated the church in a public and formal process. This has been
several times repeated: it was excellent when it was done the first time, but, of course,
loses all value when it is copied. Every project in the history of reform, no matter how
violent and surprising, is good, when it is the dictate of a man's genius and constitution, but
very dull and suspicious when adopted from another. It is right and beautiful in any man to
say, ‘I will take this coat, or this book, or this measure of corn of yours,' in whom we see
the act to be original, and to flow from the whole spirit and faith of him; for then that taking
will have a giving as free and divine: but we are very easily disposed to resist the same
generosity of speech, when we miss originality and truth to character in it.

There was in all the practical activities of New England, for the last quarter of a century,
a gradual withdrawal of tender consciences from the social organizations. There is
observable throughout, the contest between mechanical and spiritual methods, but with a
steady tendency of the thoughtful and virtuous to a deeper belief and reliance on spiritual
facts.

In politics, for example, it is easy to see the progress of dissent. The country is full of
rebellion; the country is full of kings. Hands off! let there be no control and no interference
in the administration of the affairs of this kingdom of me. Hence the growth of the doctrine
and of the party of Free Trade, and the willingness to try that experiment, in the face of
what appear incontestable facts. I confess, the motto of the Globe newspaper is so
attractive to me, that I can seldom find much appetite to read what is below it in its columns,
“The world is governed too much.” So the country is frequently affording solitary examples
of resistance to the government, solitary nullifiers, who throw themselves on their reserved
rights; nay, who have reserved all their rights; who reply to the assessor, and to the clerk of
court, that they do not know the State; and embarrass the courts of law, by non-juring, and
the commander-in-chief of the militia, by non-resistance.

The same disposition to scrutiny and dissent appeared in civil, festive, neighborly, and
domestic society. A restless, prying, conscientious criticism broke out in unexpected
quarters. Who gave me the money with which I bought my coat? Why should professional
labor and that of the counting-house be paid so disproportionately to the labor of the porter,
and woodsawyer? This whole business of Trade gives me to pause and think, as it
constitutes false relations between men; inasmuch as I am prone to count myself relieved
of any responsibility to behave well and nobly to that person whom I pay with money,
whereas if I had not that commodity, I should be put on my good behavior in all companies,
and man would be a benefactor to man, as being himself his only certificate that he had a
right to those aids and services which each asked of the other. Am I not too protected a
person? is there not a wide disparity between the lot of me and the lot of thee, my poor
brother, my poor sister? Am I not defrauded of my best culture in the loss of those
gymnastics which manual labor and the emergencies of poverty constitute? I find nothing
healthful or exalting in the smooth conventions of society; I do not like the close air of
saloons. I begin to suspect myself to be a prisoner, though treated with all this courtesy and
luxury. I pay a destructive tax in my conformity.

The same insatiable criticism may be traced in the efforts for the reform of Education. The
popular education has been taxed with a want of truth and nature. It was complained that
an education to things was not given. We are students of words: we are shut up in schools,
and colleges, and recitation-rooms, for ten or fifteen years, and come out at last with a bag
of wind, a memory of words, and do not know a thing. We cannot use our hands, or our
legs, or our eyes, or our arms. We do not know an edible root in the woods, we cannot tell
our course by the stars, nor the hour of the day by the sun. It is well if we can swim and
skate. We are afraid of a horse, of a cow, of a dog, of a snake, of a spider. The Roman rule
was, to teach a boy nothing that he could not learn standing. The old English rule was, ‘All
summer in the field, and all winter in the study.' And it seems as if a man should learn to
plant, or to fish, or to hunt, that he might secure his subsistence at all events, and not be
painful to his friends and fellow men. The lessons of science should be experimental also.
The sight of the planet through a telescope, is worth all the course on astronomy: the shock
of the electric spark in the elbow, out-values all the theories; the taste of the nitrous oxide,
the firing of an artificial volcano, are better than volumes of chemistry.

One of the traits of the new spirit, is the inquisition it fixed on our scholastic devotion to
the dead languages. The ancient languages, with great beauty of structure, contain won-
derful remains of genius, which draw, and always will draw, certain likeminded men, Greek
men, and Roman men, in all countries, to their study; but by a wonderful drowsiness of
usage, they had exacted the study of all men. Once (say two centuries ago), Latin and
Greek had a strict relation to all the science and culture there was in Europe, and the
Mathematics had a momentary importance at some era of activity in physical science.
These things became stereotyped as education, as the manner of men is. But the Good
Spirit never cared for the colleges, and though all men and boys were now drilled in Latin,
Greek, and Mathematics, it had quite left these shells high and dry on the beach, and was
now creating and feeding other matters at other ends of the world. But in a hundred high
schools and colleges, this warfare against common sense still goes on. Four, or six, or ten
years, the pupil is parsing Greek and Latin, and as soon as he leaves the University, as it is
ludicrously called, he shuts those books for the last time. Some thousands of young men
are graduated at our colleges in this country every year, and the persons who, at forty
years, still read Greek, can all be counted on your hand. I never met with ten. Four or five
persons I have seen who read Plato.

But is not this absurd, that the whole liberal talent of this country should be directed in its
best years on studies which lead to nothing? What was the consequence? Some intelligent
persons said or thought; ‘Is that Greek and Latin some spell to conjure with, and not words
of reason? If the physician, the lawyer, the divine, never use it to come at their ends, I need
never learn it to come at mine. Conjuring is gone out of fashion, and I will omit this
conjugating, and go straight to affairs.' So they jumped the Greek and Latin, and read law,
medicine, or sermons, without it. To the astonishment of all, the self-made men took even
ground at once with the oldest of the regular graduates, and in a few months the most
conservative circles of Boston and New York had quite forgotten who of their gownsmen
was college-bred, and who was not.

One tendency appears alike in the philosophical speculation, and in the rudest democrat-
ical movements, through all the petulance and all the puerility, the wish, namely, to cast
aside the superfluous, and arrive at short methods, urged, as I suppose, by an intuition
that the human spirit is equal to all emergencies, alone, and that man is more often
injured than helped by the means he uses.

I conceive this gradual casting off of material aids, and the indication of growing trust in the
private, self-supplied powers of the individual, to be the affirmative principle of the recent
philosophy: and that it is feeling its own profound truth, and is reaching forward at this very
hour to the happiest conclusions. I readily concede that in this, as in every period of
intellectual activity, there has been a noise of denial and protest; much was to be resisted,
much was to be got rid of by those who were reared in the old, before they could begin to
affirm and to construct. Many a reformer perishes in his removal of rubbish, and that
makes the offensiveness of the class. They are partial; they are not equal to the work they
pretend. They lose their way; in the assault on the kingdom of darkness, they expend all
their energy on some accidental evil, and lose their sanity and power of benefit. It is of little
moment that one or two, or twenty errors of our social system be corrected, but of much
that the man be in his senses.

The criticism and attack on institutions which we have witnessed, has made one thing plain,
that society gains nothing whilst a man, not himself renovated, attempts to renovate things
around him: he has become tediously good in some particular, but negligent or narrow in
the rest; and hypocrisy and vanity are often the disgusting result.

It is handsomer to remain in the establishment better than the establishment, and conduct
that in the best manner, than to make a sally against evil by some single improvement,
without supporting it by a total regeneration. Do not be so vain of your one objection. Do
you think there is only one? Alas! my good friend, there is no part of society or of life better
than any other part. All our things are right and wrong together. The wave of evil washes all
our institutions alike. Do you complain of our Marriage? Our marriage is no worse than our
education, our diet, our trade, our social customs. Do you complain of the laws of Property?
It is a pedantry to give such importance to them. Can we not play the game of life with
these counters, as well as with those; in the institution of property, as well as out of it. Let
into it the new and renewing principle of love, and property will be universality. No one
gives the impression of superiority to the institution, which he must give who will reform it.
It makes no difference what you say: you must make me feel that you are aloof from it; by
your natural and super-natural advantages, do easily see to the end of it, do see how
man can do without it. Now all men are on one side. No man deserves to be heard against
property. Only Love, only an Idea, is against property, as we hold it.

I cannot afford to be irritable and captious, nor to waste all my time in attacks. If I should go
out of church whenever I hear a false sentiment, I could never stay there five minutes. But
why come out? the street is as false as the church, and when I get to my house, or to my
manners, or to my speech, I have not got away from the lie. When we see an eager
assailant of one of these wrongs, a special reformer, we feel like asking him, What right
have you, sir, to your one virtue? Is virtue piecemeal? This is a jewel amidst the rags of a
beggar.

In another way the right will be vindicated. In the midst of abuses, in the heart of cities, in
the aisles of false churches, alike in one place and in another, wherever, namely, a just
and heroic soul finds itself, there it will do what is next at hand, and by the new quality of
character it shall put forth, it shall abrogate that old condition, law or school in which it
stands, before the law of its own mind.

If partiality was one fault of the movement party, the other defect was their reliance on
Association. Doubts such as those I have intimated, drove many good persons to agitate
the questions of social reform. But the revolt against the spirit of commerce, the spirit of
aristocracy, and the inveterate abuses of cities, did not appear possible to individuals; and
to do battle against numbers, they armed themselves with numbers, and against concert,
they relied on new concert.

Following, or advancing beyond the ideas of St. Simon, of Fourier, and of Owen, three
communities have already been formed in Massachusetts on kindred plans, and many
more in the country at large. They aim to give every member a share in the manual labor,
to give an equal reward to labor and to talent, and to unite a liberal culture with an
education to labor. The scheme offers, by the economies of associated labor and expense,
to make every member rich, on the same amount of property, that, in separate families,
would leave every member poor. These new associations are composed of men and
women of superior talents and sentiments: yet it may easily be questioned, whether such a
community will draw, except in its beginnings, the able and the good; whether those who
have energy, will not prefer their chance of superiority and power in the world, to the
humble certainties of the association; whether such a retreat does not promise to become
an assylum to those who have tried and failed, rather than a field to the strong; and
whether the members will not necessarily be fractions of men, because each finds that he
cannot enter it, without some compromise. Friendship and association are very fine things,
and a grand phalanx of the best of the human race, banded for some catholic object: yes,
excellent; but remember that no society can ever be so large as one man. He in his
friendship, in his natural and momentary associations, doubles or multiplies himself; but in
the hour in which he mortgages himself to two or ten or twenty, he dwarfs himself below the
stature of one.

But the men of less faith could not thus believe, and to such, concert appears the sole
specific of strength. I have failed, and you have failed, but perhaps together we shall not
fail. Our housekeeping is not satisfactory to us, but perhaps a phalanx, a community, might
be. Many of us have differed in opinion, and we could find no man who could make the
truth plain, but possibly a college, or an ecclesiastical council might. I have not been able
either to persuade my brother or to prevail on myself, to disuse the traffic or the potation
of brandy, but perhaps a pledge of total abstinence might effectually restrain us. The
candidate my party votes for is not to be trusted with a dollar, but he will be honest in the
Senate, for we can bring public opinion to bear on him. Thus concert was the specific in all
cases. But concert is neither better nor worse, neither more nor less potent than individual
force. All the men in the world cannot make a statue walk and speak, cannot make a drop
of blood, or a blade of grass, any more than one man can. But let there be one man, let
there be truth in two men, in ten men, then is concert for the first time possible, because the
force which moves the world is a new quality, and can never be furnished by adding
whatever quantities of a different kind. What is the use of the concert of the false and the
disunited? There can be no concert in two, where there is no concert in one. When the
individual is not individual but is dual; when his thoughts look one way, and his actions
another; when his faith is traversed by his habits; when his will, enlightened by reason, is
warped by his sense; when with one hand he rows, and with the other backs water, what
concert can be?

I do not wonder at the interest these projects inspire. The world is awaking to the idea of
union, and these experiments show what it is thinking of. It is and will be magic. Men will
live and communicate, and plough, and reap, and govern, as by added ethereal power,
when once they are united; as in a celebrated experiment, by expiration and respiration
exactly together, four persons lift a heavy man from the ground by the little finger only, and
without sense of weight. But this union must be inward, and not one of covenants, and is to
be reached by a reverse of the methods they use. The union is only perfect, when all the
uniters are isolated. It is the union of friends who live in different streets or towns. Each
man, if he attempts to join himself to others, is on all sides cramped and diminished of his
proportion; and the stricter the union, the smaller and the more pitiful he is. But leave him
alone, to recognize in every hour and place the secret soul, he will go up and down doing
the works of a true member, and, to the astonishment of all, the work will be done with
concert, though no man spoke. Government will be adamantine without any governor. The
union must be ideal in actual individualism.

I pass to the indication in some particulars of that faith in man, which the heart is preaching
to us in these days, and which engages the more regard, from the consideration, that the
speculations of one generation are the history of the next following.

In alluding just now to our system of education, I spoke of the deadness of its details. But
it is open to graver criticism than the palsy of its members: it is a system of despair. The
disease with which the human mind now labors, is want of faith. Men do not believe in a
power of education. We do not think we can speak to divine sentiments in man, and we do
not try. We renounce all high aims. We believe that the defects of so many perverse and
so many frivolous people, who make up society, are organic, and society is a hospital of
incurables. A man of good sense but of little faith, whose compassion seemed to lead him
to church as often as he went there, said to me; “that he liked to have concerts, and fairs,
and churches, and other public amusements go on.” I am afraid the remark is too honest,
and comes from the same origin as the maxim of the tyrant, “If you would rule the world
quietly, you must keep it amused.” I notice too, that the ground on which eminent public
servants urge the claims of popular education is fear: ‘This country is filling up with
thousands and millions of voters, and you must educate them to keep them from our
throats.' We do not believe that any education, any system of philosophy, any influence of
genius, will ever give depth of insight to a superficial mind. Having settled ourselves into
this infidelity, our skill is expended to procure alleviations, diversion, opiates. We adorn the
victim with manual skill, his tongue with languages, his body with inoffensive and comely
manners. So have we cunningly hid the tragedy of limitation and inner death we cannot
avert. Is it strange that society should be devoured by a secret melancholy, which breaks
through all its smiles, and all its gayety and games?

But even one step farther our infidelity has gone. It appears that some doubt is felt by good
and wise men, whether really the happiness and probity of men is increased by the culture
of the mind in those disciplines to which we give the name of education. Unhappily, too, the
doubt comes from scholars, from persons who have tried these methods. In their
experience, the scholar was not raised by the sacred thoughts amongst which he dwelt, but
used them to selfish ends. He was a profane person, and became a showman, turning his
gifts to a marketable use, and not to his own sustenance and growth. It was found that the
intellect could be independently developed, that is, in separation from the man, as any
single organ can be invigorated, and the result was monstrous. A canine appetite for
knowledge was generated, which must still be fed, but was never satisfied, and this
knowledge not being directed on action, never took the character of substantial, humane
truth, blessing those whom it entered. It gave the scholar certain powers of expression, the
power of speech, the power of poetry, of literary art, but it did not bring him to peace, or to
beneficence.

When the literary class betray a destitution of faith, it is not strange that society should be
disheartened and sensualized by unbelief. What remedy? Life must be lived on a higher
plane. We must go up to a higher platform, to which we are always invited to ascend; there,
the whole aspect of things changes. I resist the skepticism of our education, and of our
educated men. I do not believe that the differences of opinion and character in men are
organic. I do not recognize, beside the class of the good and the wise, a permanent class of
skeptics, or a class of conservatives, or of malignants, or of materialists. I do not believe in
two classes. You remember the story of the poor woman who importuned King Philip of
Macedon to grant her justice, which Philip refused: the woman exclaimed, “I appeal”: the
king, astonished, asked to whom she appealed: the woman replied, “from Philip drunk to
Philip sober.” The text will suit me very well. I believe not in two classes of men, but in man
in two moods, in Philip drunk and Philip sober. I think, according to the good-hearted word
of Plato, “Unwillingly the soul is deprived of truth.” Iron conservative, miser, or thief, no man
is, but by a supposed necessity, which he tolerates by shortness or torpidity of sight. The
soul lets no man go without some visitations and holy-days of a diviner presence. It would
be easy to show, by a narrow scanning of any man's biography, that we are not so wedded
to our paltry performances of every kind, but that every man has at intervals the grace to
scorn his performances, in comparing them with his belief of what he should do, that he
puts himself on the side of his enemies, listening gladly to what they say of him, and
accusing himself of the same things.

What is it men love in Genius, but its infinite hope, which degrades all it has done? Genius
counts all its miracles poor and short. Its own idea it never executed. The Iliad, the Hamlet,
the Doric column, the Roman arch, the Gothic minster, the German anthem, when they are
ended, the master casts behind him. How sinks the song in the waves of melody which the
universe pours over his soul! Before that gracious Infinite, out of which he drew these few
strokes, how mean they look, though the praises of the world attend them. From the
triumphs of his art, he turns with desire to this greater defeat. Let those admire who will.
With silent joy he sees himself to be capable of a beauty that eclipses all which his hands
have done, all which human hands have ever done.

Well, we are all the children of genius, the children of virtue, and feel their inspirations
in our happier hours. Is not every man sometimes a radical in politics? Men are
conservatives when they are least vigorous, or when they are most luxurious. They are
conservatives after dinner, or before taking their rest; when they are sick, or aged: in the
morning, or when their intellect or their conscience have been aroused, when they hear
music, or when they read poetry, they are radicals. In the circle of the rankest tories that
could be collected in England, Old or New, let a powerful and stimulating intellect, a man of
great heart and mind, act on them, and very quickly these frozen conservators will yield to
the friendly influence, these hopeless will begin to hope, these haters will begin to love,
these immovable statues will begin to spin and revolve. I cannot help recalling the fine
anecdote which Warton relates of Bishop Berkeley, when he was preparing to leave
England, with his plan of planting the gospel among the American savages. “Lord Bathurst
told me, that the members of the Scriblerus club, being met at his house at dinner, they
agreed to rally Berkeley, who was also his guest, on his scheme at Bermudas. Berkeley,
having listened to the many lively things they had to say, begged to be heard in his turn,
and displayed his plan with such an astonishing and animating force of eloquence and
enthusiasm, that they were struck dumb, and, after some pause, rose up all together with
earnestness, exclaiming, ‘Let us set out with him immediately.'” Men in all ways are better
than they seem. They like flattery for the moment, but they know the truth for their own. It
is a foolish cowardice which keeps us from trusting them, and speaking to them rude truth.
They resent your honesty for an instant, they will thank you for it always. What is it we
heartily wish of each other? Is it to be pleased and flattered? No, but to be convicted and
exposed, to be shamed out of our nonsense of all kinds, and made men of, instead of
ghosts and phantoms. We are weary of gliding ghostlike through the world, which is itself
so slight and unreal. We crave a sense of reality, though it come in strokes of pain. I
explain so, by this manlike love of truth, those excesses and errors into which souls
of great vigor, but not equal insight, often fall. They feel the poverty at the bottom of all
the seeming affluence of the world. They know the speed with which they come straight
through the thin masquerade, and conceive a disgust at the indigence of nature: Rousseau,
Mirabeau, Charles Fox, Napoleon, Byron, and I could easily add names nearer home,
of raging riders, who drive their steeds so hard, in the violence of living to forget its illusion:
they would know the worst, and tread the floors of hell. The heroes of ancient and modern
fame, Cimon, Themistocles, Alcibiades, Alexander, CA|sar, have treated life and fortune as
a game to be well and skillfully played, but the stake not to be so valued, but that any time,
it could be held as a trifle light as air, and thrown up. Caesar, just before the battle of
Pharsalia, discourses with the Egyptian priest, concerning the fountains of the Nile, and
offers to quit the army, the empire, and Cleopatra, if he will show him those mysterious
sources.

The same magnanimity shows itself in our social relations, in the preference, namely,
which each man gives to the society of superiors over that of his equals. All that a man
has, will he give for right relations with his mates. All that he has, will he give for an e-
rect demeanor in every company and on each occasion. He aims at such things as his
neighbors prize, and gives his days and nights, his talents and his heart, to strike a good
stroke, to acquit himself in all men's sight as a man. The consideration of an eminent
citizen, of a noted merchant, of a man of mark in his profession; naval and military honor, a
general's commission, a marshal's baton, a ducal coronet, the laurel of poets, and, anyhow
procured, the acknowledgment of eminent merit, have this lustre for each candidate, that
they enable him to walk erect and unashamed, in the presence of some persons, before
whom he felt himself inferior. Having raised himself to this rank, having established his
equality with class after class, of those with whom he would live well, he still finds certain
others, before whom he cannot possess himself, because they have somewhat fairer,
somewhat grander, somewhat purer, which extorts homage of him. Is his ambition pure?
then, will his laurels and his possessions seem worthless: instead of avoiding these men
who make his fine gold dim, he will cast all behind him, and seek their society only, woo
and embrace this his humiliation and mortification, until he shall know why his eye sinks, his
voice is husky, and his brilliant talents are paralyzed in this presence. He is sure that the
soul which gives the lie to all things, will tell none. His constitution will not mislead him. If it
cannot carry itself as it ought, high and unmatchable in the presence of any man, if the
secret oracles whose whisper makes the sweetness and dignity of his life, do here withdraw
and accompany, him no longer, it is time to undervalue what he has valued, to dispossess
himself of what he has acquired, and with Caesar to take in his hand the army, the empire,
and Cleopatra, and say, ‘All these will I relinquish, if you will show me the fountains of the
Nile.' Dear to us are those who love us, the swift moments we spend with them are a
compensation for a great deal of misery they enlarge our life; but dearer are those who
reject us as unworthy, for they add another life: they build a heaven before us, whereof we
had not dreamed, and thereby supply to us new powers out of the recesses of the spirit,
and urge us to new and unattempted performances.

As every man at heart wishes the best and not inferior society, wishes to be convicted of
his error, and to come to himself, so he wishes that the same healing should not stop in his
thought, but should penetrate his will or active power. The selfish man suffers more from his
selfishness, than he from whom that selfishness withholds some important benefit. What he
most wishes is to be lifted to some higher platform, that he may see beyond his present
fear the transalpine good, so that his fear, his coldness, his custom may be broken up like
fragments of ice, melted and carried away in the great stream of good will. Do you ask my
aid? I also wish to be a benefactor. I wish more to be a benefactor and servant, than you
wish to be served by me, and surely the greatest good fortune that could befall me, is
precisely to be so moved by you that I should say, ‘Take me and all nine, and use me and
mine freely to your ends'! for, I could not say it, otherwise than because a great
enlargement had come to my heart and mind, which made me superior to my fortunes.
Here we are paralyzed with fear; we hold on to our little properties, house and land, office
and money, for the bread which they have in our experience yielded us, although we
confess, that our being does not flow through them. We desire to be made great, we desire
to be touched with that fire which shall command this ice to stream, and make our existence
a benefit. If therefore we start objections to your project, O friend of the slave, or friend of
the poor, or of the race, understand well, that it is because we wish to drive you to drive us
into your measures. We wish to hear ourselves confuted. We are haunted with a belief that
you have a secret, which it would highliest advantage us to learn, and we would force you
to impart it to us, though it should bring us to prison, or to worse extremity.

Nothing shall warp me from the belief, that every man is a lover of truth. There is no pure
lie, no pure malignity in nature. The entertainment of the proposition of depravity is the last
profligacy and profanation. There is no skepticism, no atheism but that. Could it be received
into common belief, suicide would unpeople the planet. It has had a name to live in some
dogmatic theology, but each man's innocence and his real liking of his neighbor, have kept
it a dead letter. I remember standing at the polls one day, when the anger of the political
contest gave a certain grimness to the faces of the independent electors, and a good man
at my side looking on the people, remarked, “I am satisfied that the largest part of these
men, on either side, mean to vote right.” I suppose, considerate observers looking at the
masses of men, in their blameless, and in their equivocal actions, will assent, that in spite
of selfishness and frivolity, the general purpose in the great number of persons is fidelity.
The reason why any one refuses his assent to your opinion, or his aid to your benevolent
design, is in you: he refuses to accept you as a bringer of truth, because, though you think
you have it, he feels that you have it not. You have not given him the authentic sign.

If it were worth while to run into details this general doctrine of the latent but ever soliciting
Spirit, it would be easy to adduce illustration in particulars of a man's equality to the church,
of his equality to the state, and of his equality to every other man. It is yet in all men's
memory, that, a few years ago, the liberal churches complained, that the Calvinistic church
denied to them the name of Christian. I think the complaint was confession: a religious
church would not complain. A religious man like Behmen, Fox, or Swedenborg, is not
irritated by wanting the sanction of the church, but the church feels the accusation of his
presence and belief.

It only needs, that a just man should walk in our streets, to make it appear how pitiful and
inartificial a contrivance is our legislation. The man whose part is taken, and who does not
wait for society in anything, has a power which society cannot choose but feel. The familiar
experiment, called the hydrostatic paradox, in which a capillary column of water balances
the ocean, is a symbol of the relation of one man to the whole family of men. The wise
Dandini, on hearing the lives of Socrates, Pythagoras, and Diogenes read, “judged them to
be great men every way, excepting, that they were too much subjected to the reverence of
the laws, which to second and authorize, true virtue must abate very, much of its original
vigor.”

And as a man is equal to the church, and equal to the state, so he is equal to every other
man. The disparities of power in men are superficial; and all frank and searching
conversation, in which a man lays himself open to his brother, apprizes each of their radical
unity. When two persons sit and converse in a thoroughly good understanding, the remark
is sure to be made, See how we have disputed about words! Let a clear, apprehensive
mind, such as every man knows among his friends, converse with the most commanding
poetic genius, I think, it would appear that there was no inequality such as men fancy
between them; that a perfect understanding, a like receiving, a like perceiving, abolished
differences, and the poet would confess, that his creative imagination gave him no deep
advantage, but only the superficial one, that he could express himself, and the other could
not; that his advantage was a knack, which might impose on indolent men, but could not
impose on lovers of truth; for they know the tax of talent, or, what a price of greatness the
power of expression too often pays. I believe it is the conviction of the purest men, that the
net amount of man and man does not much vary. Each is incomparably superior to his
companion in some faculty. His want of skill in other directions, has added to his fitness for
his own work. Each seems to have some compensation yielded to him by his infirmity, and
every hindrance operates as a concentration of his force.

These and the like experiences intimate, that man stands in strict connexion with a higher
fact never yet manifested. There is power over and behind us, and we are the channels of
its communications. We seek to say thus and so, and over our head some spirit sits, which
contradicts what we say. We would persuade our fellow to this or that; another self within
our eyes dissuades him. That which we keep back, this reveals. In vain we compose our
faces and our words; it holds uncontrollable communication with the enemy, and he an-
swers civilly to us, but believes the spirit. We exclaim, ‘There's a traitor in the house!' but
at last it appears that he is the true man, and I am the traitor. This open channel to the
highest life is the first and last reality, so subtle, so quiet, yet so tenacious, that although I
have never expressed the truth, and although I have never heard the expression of it from
any other, I know that the whole truth is here for me. What if I cannot answer your
questions? I am not pained that I cannot frame a reply to the question, What is the
operation we call Providence? There lies the unspoken thing, present, omnipresent. Every
time we converse, we seek to translate it into speech, but whether we hit, or whether we
miss, we have the fact. Every discourse is an approximate answer: but it is of small
consequence, that we do not get it into verbs and nouns, whilst it abides for contemplation
forever.

If the auguries of the prophesying heart shall make themselves good in time, the man who
shall be born, whose advent men and events prepare and foreshow, is one who shall enjoy
his connexion with a higher life, with the man within man; shall destroy distrust by his trust,
shall use his native but forgotten methods, shall not take counsel of flesh and blood, but
shall rely on the Law alive and beautiful, which works over our heads and under our feet.
Pitiless, it avails itself of our success, when we obey it, and of our ruin, when we
contravene it. Men are all secret believers in it, else, the word justice would have no
meaning: they believe that the best is the true; that right is done at last; or chaos would
come. It rewards actions after their nature, and not after the design of the agent. ‘Work,' it
saith to man, ‘in every hour, paid or unpaid, see only that thou work, and thou canst not
escape the reward: whether thy work be fine or coarse, planting corn, or writing epics, so
only it be honest work, done to thine own approbation, it shall earn a reward to the senses
as well as to the thought: no matter, how often defeated, you are born to victory. The
reward of a thing well done, is to have done it.'

As soon as a man is wonted to look beyond surfaces, and to see how this high will prevails
without an exception or an interval, he settles himself into serenity. He can already rely on
the laws of gravity, that every stone will fall where it is due; the good globe is faithful, and
carries us securely through the celestial spaces, anxious or resigned: we need not interfere
to help it on, and he will learn, one day, the mild lesson they teach, that our own orbit is all
our task, and we need not assist the administration of the universe. Do not be so impatient
to set the town right concerning the unfounded pretensions and the false reputation of
certain men of standing. They are laboring harder to set the town right concerning
themselves, and will certainly succeed. Suppress for a few days your criticism on the
insufficiency of this or that teacher or experimenter, and he will have demonstrated his
insufficiency to all men's eyes. In like manner, let a man fall into the divine circuits, and he
is enlarged. Obedience to his genius is the only liberating influence. We wish to escape
from subjection, and a sense of inferiority, and we make self-denying ordinances, we
drink water, we eat grass, we refuse the laws, we go to jail: it is all in vain; only by
obedience to his genius; only by the freest activity in the way constitutional to him, does an
angel seem to arise before a man, and lead him by the hand out of all the wards of the
prison.

That which befits us, embosomed in beauty and wonder as we are, is cheerfulness and
courage, and the endeavor to realize our aspirations. The life of man is the true romance,
which, when it is valiantly conducted, will yield the imagination a higher joy than any fiction.
All around us, what powers are wrapped up under the coarse mattings of custom, and all
wonder prevented. It is so wonderful to our neurologists that a man can see without his
eyes, that it does not occur to them, that it is just as wonderful, that he should see with
them; and that is ever the difference between the wise and the unwise: the latter wonders
at what is unusual, the wise man wonders at the usual. Shall not the heart which has
received so much, trust the Power by which it lives? May it not quit other leadings, and
listen to the Soul that has guided it so gently, and taught it so much, secure that the future
will be worthy of the past?