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THE

Essays

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

First and Second Series

TWO VOLUMES IN ONE

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

Copyright, 1865 and 1876,

By TICKNOR & FIELDS and RALPH WALDO EMERSONCopyright, 1883,

By EDWARD W. EMERSON.

All rights reserved.

TWELFTH PRINTING R

BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY

CONTENTS

ESSAYS

FIRST SERIES

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.

HISTORY.

There is one mind common to all individuai

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

befallen 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 his-

tory. 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

to mSTORY.

ot nature giye power to but one at a time. A manis the whole encyclopaedia of facts. The creation

of a thousand forests is in one aoorn, 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 man-

ifold 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 cen-

turies of time. As the air I breathe is drawn

/rom 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 univer-

sal mind each individual man is one more incar-

nation. 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

HISTORY, 11

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 As-

drubal 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 tab-

lets and say, ' Under this mask did my Proteus na-

ture hide itself.' This remedies the defect of our

too great nearness to ourselves. This throws our

actions into perspective ; and as crabs, goats, scor-

pions, the balance and the waterpot lose their mean-

ness 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 con-

taining 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, il-

limitable essence. Property also holds of the soul,

covers great spiritual facts, and instinctively we at

12 HISTORY.

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 char-

ity ; the foundation of friendship and love and of

the heroism and grandeur which belong to acts of

self-reliance. It is remarkable that involuntarily

we always read as superior beings. Universal his-

tory, the poets, the romancers, do not in their state-

liest pictures, — in the sacerdotal, the imperial

palaces, in the triumphs of will or of genius,—anywhere lose our ear, anywhere 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 oj*

applauded.

We have the same interest in condition and chai'

acter. We honor the rich because they have extei

nally the freedom, power, and grace which we fee.\

to be proper to man, proper to us. So all that ia

said of the wise man by Stoic or Oriental or modern

mSTORY, 18

essayist, describes to each reader his own idea, de-

8cril)es his unattained but attainable self. All lit-

erature writes the character of the wise man. Books,

monuments, pictures, conversation, 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 per-

sonal allusions. A true aspirant therefore never

needs look for allusions personal and laudatory in

discourse. He hears the commendation, not of him-

self, 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

looked, homage tendered, love flows, from mute na-

ture, from the mountains and the lights of the fir-

mament.

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 ora-

cles, as never to those who do not respect them-

selves. 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 re-

sounded far, has any deeper sense than what he is

doing to-day.

14 HISTORY.

The world exists for the education of each maiic

There is no age or state of society or mode of ac-

tion in history to which there is not somewhat cor-

responding 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 his-

tory is commonly read, from Rome and Athens and

London, to himseK, 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 forever 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, be-

trays itself in the use we make of the signal narra-

tions 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 stiQ in Gibeon, is poetry thence-

forward to all nations. Who cares what the fact

was, when we have made a constellation of it to

HISTORY. 15

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, Coloni-

zation, 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 princi-

ple 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 subjec-

tive ; in other words there is properly no history,

only biography. Every mind must know the whole

lesson for itseK,— 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, some-

time, it will demand and find compensation for

that loss, by doing the work itself. Ferguson dis<

covered many things in astronomy which had long

been known. The better for him.

History must be this or it is nothiug. Every law

which the state enacts indicates a fact in luwaaan

16 HISTORY.

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 Robin-

son ; 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 respects

ing the Pyramids, the excavated cities, Stonehenge,

the Ohio Circles, Mexico, Memphis,— is the de-

sire 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.

HISTORY, 17

passes through them all with satisfaction, and thev

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 re-

member the forest-dwellers, 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 carv-

ing over the whole mountain of stone of a cathe-

dral. When we have gone through this process,

and added thereto the Catholic Church, it? cross,

its music, its processions, its Saints' days and image-

worship, we have as it were been the man that

made the minster ; 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 dif-

ferences. 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 circum*

18 HISTORY,

stance. Every chemical substance, 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 mag-

nify 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

jausal thought, and far back in the womb of things

sees the rays parting from one orb, that diverge,

ere they fall, by infinite diameters. Genius watches

the monad through aU his masks as he performs

the metempsychosis of nature. Genius detects

through the fly, through the caterpillar, through

the grub, through the Qgg^ 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 or-

ganized life the eternal unity. Nature is a muta-

ble 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 ada-

mant streams into soft but precise form before it,

HISTORY. 19

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 lo, in

^schylus, transformed to a cow, offends the im-

agination ; but how changed when as Isis in Egypt

she meets Osiris-Jove, a beautiful woman with noth-

ing 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 sim-

plicity 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 ol

that people, as Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon,

and Plutarch have given it ; a very sufficient ac-

count 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

20 HISTORY.

sculpture^ the " tongue on the balance of expres-

sion," a multitude of forms in the utmost freedom

of action and never transgressing the ideal seren-

ity •, 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 repre-

sentation : and to the senses what more unlike than

an ode of Pindar, a marble centaur, the peristyle

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 sen-

timent 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 fidl 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 foi^

est which at once reminded the eye of a bald moun-

tain summit, and the furrows of the brow suggested

HISTORY. 21

the strata of the rock. There are men whose man-

ners 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'ft

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, be 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.'' 1

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 appre-

hension, and not primarily by a painful acquisition

of many manual skills, the artist attains the power

of awakening other souls to a given activity.

22. HISTORY.

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 scidpture 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 preexists 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 no-

bility 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

Tind seen without heed. A lady with waom I was

HISTORY. 23

riding in the forest said to me that the woods al-

ways seemed to her to wait, as if the genii who in-

habit them suspended their deeds until the way-

farer had 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 arch-

angel at the creation of light and of the world. I

remember one summer day in the fields my com-

panion pointed ou^ to me a broad cloud, which

might extend a quarter of a mile parallel to the

horizon, quite accurately in the form of a cheruh

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 at-

mosphere may appear often, and it was undoubt-

edly 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 cip-

>«mstances we invent anew the orders and the oi>

24 HISTORY.

naments of architecture, as we see how each peo-

pie 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 sub-

terranean houses of their forefathers. *' The cus-

tom of making houses and tombs in the living

rock/' says Heeren in his Researches on the Ethio-

pians, " determined very naturally the principal

character of the Nubian Egyptian architecture tc

the colossal form which it assumed. In these cav.

ems, already prepared by nature, the eye was ao.

customed 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 haUs before which only Colossi could

sit as watchmen or lean on the piUars of the inte-

rior?"

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 piUars still indicate the green withes that

tied them. No one can walk in a road cut through

pine woods, without being struck with the architec-

tural appearance of the grove, especially in winter,

HISTORY. 26

when the barrenness of all other trees shows the

low arch of the Saxons. In the woods in a winter

afternoon one will see as readily tJie origin of the

stained glass window, with which the Gothic cathe-

drals 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, with-

out 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 indi-

vidualized, all private facts are to be generalized.

Then at once History becomes fluid and true, and

Biography deep and sublime. As the Persian imi-

tated in the slender shafts and capitals of his archi-

tecture 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.

it HISTORY.

In the early history of Asia and Africa, Nomad«

ism 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 re-

gions. 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 An-

glo and Italo-mania of Boston Bay. Sacred cities,

to which a periodical religious pilgrimage was en-

joined, or stringent laws and customs tending to

invigorate the national bond, were the check on the

old rovers ; and the cumulative values of long res-

idence are the restraints on the itinerancy of the

present day. The antagonism of the two tenden-

cies is not less active in individuals, as the love of

adventure or the love of repose happens to predom

HISTORY, 27

mate. 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. 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 chim-

Qeys. Or perhaps his facility is deeper seated, in

the increased range of his faculties of observation,

which yield him points of intei^st wherever fresh

objects meet his eyes. The pastoral nations were

needy and hungry to desperation ; and this intel-

lectual 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 cor«

responds to his states of mind, and every thing is

in turn intelligible to him, as his onward think-

ing 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 cata

combs, libraries, and the broken reliefs and torsoc

of ruined villas.

28 HISTORY.

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 pe-

riod. The Grecian state is the era of the bodily

nature, the perfection of the senses, — of the spirit-

ual nature unfolded in strict unity with the body.

In it existed those human forms which supplied the

sculptor with his models of Hercules, Phoebus, 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, sharply

defined and symmetrical features, whose eye-sock-

ets 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 mnst 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 supply

ing his own needs educates the body to wonderful

performances. Such are the Agamemnon and

Diomed of Homer, and not far different is the pie-

HISTORY. 29

ture Xenophou gives of himself and his compatri-

ots in the Retreat of the Ten Thousand. '' After

the army had crossed the river Teleboas in Arme-

nia, there fell much snow, and the troops lay mis-

erably on the ground covered wdth it. But Xeno-

phon 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-tongiied

than most, and so gives as good as he gets. Whodoes 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 in-

deed 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 re-

flective 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 organ-

ization in the world. Adults acted with the sim-

plicity and grace of children. They made vases,

tragedies and statues, such as healthy senses should,

— that is, in good taste. Such things have con-

80 HISTORY.

tinued to be made in all ages, and are now, whei^

ever a healthy physique exists ; but, as a class, from

their superior organization, they have surpassed all.

They combine the energy of manhood with the en-

gaging unconsciousness of childhood. The attrac-

tion 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 individ-

uals who retain these characteristics. A person of

childlike genius and inborn energy is still a Grreek,

and revives our love of the Muse of Hellas. I ad-

mire the love of nature in the Philoctetes. In read-

ing those fine apostrophes to sleep, to the stars,

rocks, mountaias 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 be-

tween Greek and English, between Classic and Ro-

mantic 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 ?

HISTORY. 31

The student interprets the age of chivalry by

his own age of chivahy, and the days of maritime

adventure and circumnavigation by quite parallel

miniature experiences of his own. To fche sacred

history of the world he has the same key. Whenthe 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 car-

icature 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 evi-

dently 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 in-

tuitions and aspire to live holily, thei?? own piety

explains every fact, every word.

How easily these old worships of Moses, of Zo-

roaster, of Menu, of Socrates, domesticate therri-

selves in the mind. I cannot find any antiquity in

them. They are mine as much as theirs.

I have seen the first monks and anchorets, with'

But crossing seas or centuries. More than once

32 HISTORY.

some individual has appeared to me with such neg.

ligence of labor and such commanding contempla-

tion, a haughty beneficiary begging in the name

of God, as made good to the nineteenth century

Simeon the Stylite, the Thebais, and the first Ca-

puchins.

The priestcraft of the East and West, of the

Magian, Brahmin, Druid, and Inca, is expounded in

the individual's private life. The cramping influ-

ence of a hard formalist on a young child, in re-

pressing his spirits and courage, paralyzing the un-

derstanding, and that without producing indigna-

tion, but only fear and obedience, and even much

sympathy with the tyranny,— is a familiar fact, ex-

plained to the child when he becomes a man, only

by seeing that the oppressor of his youth is himself

a child tjrrannized over by those names and words

and forms of whose influence he was merely the or-

gan to the youth. The fact teaches him how Belus

was worshipped and how the Pyramids were built,

better than the discovery by ChampoUion 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,

ind in the search after truth finds, like them, ne^

HISTORY. 33

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 ref-

ormation. 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 prop-

erty he has in literature,— in all fable as well as in

all history. He finds that the poet was no odd fel-

low who described strange and impossible situations,

but that universal man wrote by his pen a confes-

sion true for one and true for all. His own secret

biography he finds in lines wonderfully intelligi-

ble to him, dotted down before he was born. One

after another he comes up in his private adventures

with every fable of ^sop, 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 pertinence has the story of Pro-

metheus ! Beside its primary value as the first

chapter of the history of Europe, (the mythology

B4 HISTORY.

thinly veiKng 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 Pather

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, objective form, and which seems

the self-defence of man against this untruth, namely

a discontent with the believed fact that a God ex-

ists, 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 aU time are the

details of that stately apologue. ApoUo 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 suffoca+ed 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 invig-

orated by habits of conversation with nature. The

mSTORY. 85

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 percep

tion of identity through endless mutations of form

makes him know the Proteus. What else am 1

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 im-

possibility 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 ^ts 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,

ghe swallowed him ali^a If he could solve the

86 HISTORY.

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 obe-

dience 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 re-

fuses 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 mean-

est of them glorifies him.

See in Goethe's Helena the same desire that

every word should be a thing. These figures, he

would say, tliese Chirons, Griffins, Phorkyas, Helen

and Leda, are somewhat, and do exert a specific in-

fluence on the mind. So far then are they eternal

entities, as real to-day as in the first Olympiad.

Much revolving them he writes out freely his

humor, and gives them body to his 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

HISTORY. 37

mind from the routine of customary images, —awakens the reader's invention and fancy by the

wild freedom of the design, and by the imceasing

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 'le seems to vent

a mere caprice and wild romance, 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 as-

cribed 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 tht*

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 endeavor 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 faith-

ful, 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

38 HISTORY.

pleasure at the triumph of the gentle Venelas ; 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 for-

eign 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 an-

other name for fidelity, which is always beautiful

and always liable to calamity in this world.

But along with the civil and metaphysical his-

tory 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 proY-

HISTORY. 89

ince of the empire, making each market -town 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 na-

ture, to reduce it under the dominion of man. Aman is a bundle of relations, a knot of roots, whose

flower and fruitage is the world. His faculties re-

fer 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 e^^

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 vir-

tual 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 contam it."

Henry VI.

Columbus needs a planet to shape his course

upon. Newton and Laplace need myriads of age

40 HISTORY.

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 fusi-

ble, hard, and temperable texture of metals, the

properties of stone, water, and wood ? Do not the

lovely attributes of the maiden child predict the re-

finements and decorations of civil society? Here

also we are reminded of the action of man on man.

A mind might ponder its thoughts 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 exulta-

tion or alarm ? No man can antedate liis experi-

ence, or guess what faculty or feeling a new object

shaU unlock, any more than he can draw to-day the

fac^ of a person whom he shall see to-morrow for

the yirst time.

i will not now go behind the general statement to

explore the reason of this correspondency. Let it

HISTORY. 41

suffice that in the light of these two facts, namely,

that the mind is One, and that nature is its correl

ative, 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 mefeel what periods you have livea. 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 Expedi-

tion, the calling of Abraham, the building of the

Temple, the Advent of Christ, Dark Ages, the Re-

vival 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 bless-

ing of the morning stars, and all the recorded ben-

efits of heaven and earth.

Is there somewhat overweening in this claim ?

42 HISTORY.

Then I reject all I have written, for what is the

ase 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 Cau-

casian 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 Immortal-

ity ? Yet every history should be written in a wis-

dom 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 Consu-

lates to these neighboring systems of being ? Nay,

what food or experience or succor have they for

the Esquimaux seal-hunter, for the Kanaka in Wsi

HISTORY. 4S

canoe, for the fisherman, the stevedore, the por-

ter?

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. Al-

ready that day exists for us, shines in on us at un-

awares, 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, xtvxo the

dissector or the antiquaiv

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 i

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

a.

SELF-RELIANCE.

I READ the other day some verses written by an

eminent painter which were original and not con-

ventional. The soul always hears an admonition

in such lines, let the subject be what it may. The

sentiment cney instil 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 ren-

dered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judg-

ment. 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 tradi-

tions, 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 no-

48 SELF-RELIANCE.

tice his thought, because it is his. In every work

of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts

;

tthey come back to us with a certain alienated maj-

»jsty. 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 in-

flexibility 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 him-

self for better for worse as his portion ; that though

the wide universe is full of good, no kernel of nour-

ishing corn can come to him but through his toil

bestowed on that plot of ground whfch 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 with-

out preestablished harmony. The eye was placed

where one ray should fall, that it might testify

of that particular ray. We but half express our

SELF-RELIANCE. 49"

selves, 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 faithful!}

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 de-

serts him ; no muse befriends ; no invention, no

hope.

Trust thyseK : ever}' 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 ac-

eept 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, redeemers and benefactors, obeying the Al-

mighty effort and advancing on Chaos and the

Dark.

What pretty oracles nature yields us on this text

in the face and behavior of children, babes, and

50 SELF-^RELIANCE,

even brutes ! That divided and rebel mind, tliat

distrust of a sentiment because 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 con-

forms 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 unnec-

essary.

The nonchalance of boys who are sure of a din-

iiCr, and would disdain as much as a lord to do or

&ay aught to conciliate one, is the healthy attitude

of human nature. A boy is in the parlor 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

j(ood, bad, interesting, silly, eloquent, troublesome.

SELF-RELIANCE, 61

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 Sclat he is a committed person,

watched by the sympathy or the hatred of hun

dreds, whose affections must now enter into his ac-

count. There is no Lethe for this. Ah, that h^

could pass again into his neutrality ! Who can

thus avoid all pledges and, having observed, ob-

serve again from the same unaffected, unbiased, un-

bribable, unaffrighted innocence,— must always be

formidable. He would utter opinions on all pass-

ing 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 mem-

bers agree, for the better securing of his bread to

each shareholder, to surrender the liberty and cul-

ture of the eater. The virtue in most request is

conformity. Self-reliance is its aversion. It loves

U5t realities and creators, but names and customs.

Whoso would be a man, must be a nonconform'

62 SELF-RELIANCE.

ist. 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, " Whathave I to do with the sacredness of traditions, if 1

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 amashamed 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 phi-

lanthropy, shall that pass ? If an angry bigot as-

SELF-RELIANCE. 63

Bumes 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

chy wood-chopper ; be good - natured and modest

;

have that grace ; and never varnish your hard, un-

3haritable ambition with this incredible tendernesn

for black folk a thousand miles off. Thy love afai

is spite at home.' Rough and graceless would be

such greeting, but truth is handsomer than the af".

fectation of love. Your goodness must have some

edge to it, — else it is none. The doctrine of ha-

tred 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 woidd 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 ob-

ligation to put all poor men in good situations.

Are they my poor ? I tell thee thou foolish philan-

thropist that I grudge the dollar, the dime, the

cent I give to such men as do not belong to meand to whom I do not belong. There is a class of

persons to whom by all spiritual affinity I ambought and sold ; for them I will go to prison ii

Tieed be ; but your miscellaneous popular charities

64 SELF-RELIANCE.

the education at college of fools ; the building cA

meeting-houses to the vain end to which many now

stand ; alms to sots, and the thousand-fold Relief

Societies ;— though T confess with shame I some-

times 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

axception 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-appear-

ance on parade. Their works are done as an apol-

ogy 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 itseK 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 bleed-

ing. 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

SELF-RELIANCE. 55

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 at

ter 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, contrib-

ute 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

shaU know you. Do your work, and you shall re-

inforce 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 exv

66 SELF-RELIANCE,

pediency 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 empti-

est 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 gen-

eral 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 spoD

SELF-RELIANCE. 57

taneously moved but moved by a low usurping wil^

fulness, 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 miist know how

to estimate a sour face. The by-standers look ask-

ance on him in the public street or in the friend's

parlor. 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 culti-

vated classes. Their rage is decorous and prudent.

for they are timid, as being very vulnerable them-

selves. But when to their feminine rage the indig-

nation 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 mag-

nanimity and religion to treat it godlike as a trifle

of no concernment.

The other terror that scares us froiix self-trust is

our consistency ; a reverence for our past act or

'vord because the eyes of others have no other data

68 SELF-RELIANCE,

for computing our orbit than our past S'3ts, and weare loath to disappoint them.

But why should you keep your head over your

shoulder ? Why drag about this corpse of your

tnemory, lest you contradict somewhat you have

stated in this or that public place ? Suppose you

shoidd contradict yourself ; what then ? It seems

to be a rule of wisdom never to rely on your mem-

ory alone, scarcely even in acts of pure memory,

but to bring the past for judgment into the thou-

sand-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

90 bad then to be misunderstood? Pythagoras

i»^as misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, andf

SELF-RELIANCE. 59

Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton,

jind 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 liis will are rounded in by the law of

his being, as the inequalities of Andes and Him-

maleh are insignificant in the curve of the sphere.

Nor does it matter how you gauge and try him. Acharacter 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 re-

trospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found sym-

metrical, though I mean it not and see it not. Mybook should smell of pines and resoimd 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 im-

agine that they communicate their virtue or vic€'

only by overt actions, and do not see that virtue oi

lice 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 va-

rieties are lost sight of at a little distance, at a littl©

60 SELF-RELIANCE.

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 dis-

tance, and it straightens itself to the average ten-

dency. Your genuine action will explain itself and

will explain your other genuine actions. Your con

formit}^ 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 con-

sciousness of a train of great days and victories

behind. They shed an united light on the advanc-

ing actor. He is attended as by a visible escort of

angels. That is it which throws thunder into Chat-

ham's voice, and dignity into Washington's port,

and America into Adams's eye. Honor is venerable

to us because it is no ephemera. It is always an-

cient virtue. We worship it to-day because it is

Dot of to-day. We love it and pay it homage be-

cause it is not a trap for our love and homage, but

is self-dependent, seK-derived, and therefore of an

SELF-RELIANCE. 61

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 ga-

zetted 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 aU history, that

there is a great responsible Thinker and Actor

working wherever a man works ; that a true manbelongs to no other time or place, but is the centre

of things. Where he is, there is nature. He meas-

ures you and aU men and all events. Ordinarily,

every body in society reminds us of somewhat else,

or of some other person. Character, reality, re

minds 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 ac-

W)mplish \6s> design ;— and posterity seem to fo^

62 SELF-RELIANCE.

low his steps as a train of clients. A man Caesar

is born, and for ages after we have a Roman Em-

pire. 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 ; Abo-

lition, 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 bas-

tard, 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 forbidding 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

SELF-RELIANCE. 68

iead-drunk id 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, ex-

ercises his reason and finds himself a true prince.

Our reading is mendicant and sycophantic. Iq

history our imagination plays us false. Kingdom

and lordship, power and estate, are a gaudier vo-

cabulary 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 AKred and

Scanderbeg and Gustavus ? Suppose they were vir-

tuous ; did they wear out virtue ? As great a stake

depends on your private act to-day as followed theii-

public and renowned steps. When private meu

shall act with original views, the lustre will be trans,

ferred from the actions of kings to those of gen*

tlemen.

The world has been instructed by its kings, who

bave 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 joy-

ful loyalty with which men have everywhere suf-

fered the king, the noble, or the great proprietor to

64 SELF-RELIANCE.

walk among them by a law of his own, make hia

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 hie-

roglyphic by which they obscurely signified theii

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 aborigi-

nal Self, on which a universal reliance may be

grounded ? What is the nature and power of that

science-baffling star, without parallax, without cal-

culable 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 In-

stinct. We denote this primary wisdom as Intui

tion, 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 pro-

ceed. We first share the life by which things exist

SELF-RELIANCE. 65

and afterwards see them as appearances in nature

and forget that we have shared their cause. Here

is the fountain of action and of thou2:ht. Here

are the kings of that inspiration which giveth manwisdom and which cannot be denied without im-

piety 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 jus-

tice, when we discern truth, we do nothing of our-

selves, 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 dis-

criminates 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 state-

ment 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 whim-

sical, but fatal. If I see a trait, my children will

^e it after me, and in course of time all mankiad,vol. u. «

66 SELF-RELIANCE,

— although it may chance that no one has seen it

before me. For my perception of it is as mucl?

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 com-

municate, 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 an-

other. 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 mould

ered nation in another country, in another world,

believe him not. Is the acorn better than the oa>

which is its fulness and completion ? Is the pai

ent 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

samty and authority of the soul. Time and spac«

are but physiological colors which the eye makes,

SELF-RELIANCE. 67

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 cheerfu^

apologue or parable of my being and becoming.

Man is timid and apologetic ; he is no longer up-

right ; 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 for-

mer 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 fore-

see the future. He cannot be happy and strong un-

til 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 un-

less he speak the phraseology of I know not what

David, or Jeremiah, or Paul. We shall not al-

ways set so great a price on a few texts, on a few

lives. We are like children who repeat by rota

68 SELF-RELIANCE.

the sentences of grandames and tutors, and, as tliey

grow older, of the men of talents and character

they chance to see, — painfully recollecting the ex-

act 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 treas-

ures 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-oif remembering of the intui-

tion. That thought by what I can now nearest ap-

proach 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 footprints 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

i,nd new. It shall exclude example and experienca

Y^ou take the way from man, not to man. All per-

fions that ever existed are its forgotten ministers^

SELF-RELIANCE. 69

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 be-

holds 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 mo-

ment of transition from a past to a new state, in

the shooting of the guK, in the darting to an aim.

This one fact the world hates ; that the soul he-

comes ; for that forever degrades the past, turns all

/iches to poverty, all reputation to a shame, con-

founds 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 w^orks

and is. Who has more obedience than I masters

flie, though he should not raise his finger. Bound

TO SELF-RELIANCE,

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 ta 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 resolution 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 en-

ters into all lower forms. All things real are so by

so much virtue as they contain. Commerce, hus-

bandry, 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 re-

main 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-suf-

ficing and therefore self-relying soul.

Thus all concentrates : let us not rove ; let us sit

at home with the cause. Let us stun and astonisjj

SELF-RELIANCE. 71

the intruding rabble of men and books and institu-

tions 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 admonished to stay

at home, to put itself in communication with the in-

ternal ocean, but it goes abroad to beg a cup of wa-

ter 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. Whyshould 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 isola-

tion must not be mechanical, but spiritual, 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 :

72 SELF-RELIANCE.

oome not into their confusion. The power menpossess to annoy me I give them by a weak curios-

ity. No man can come near me but through myact. " 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 obe-

dience and faith, let us at least resist our tempta-

tions ; 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 hos-

pitality and lying affection. Live no longer to the

expectation of these deceived and deceiving people

with whom we converse. Say to them, ' O father,

mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have

lived with you after appearances hitherto. Hence-

forward I am the truth's. Be it known unto you

that henceforward I obey no law less than the eter^

nal law. I will have no covenants but proximities.

1 shall endeavor 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 un°

precedented 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

wiU stiU seek to deserve that you should. I will

not hide my tastes or aversions. I will so trust

SELF-RELIANCE. Tb

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 hy]^)ocritical attentions. If you are

true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to

your companions ; I will seek my own. I do thif

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 may you 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 popu-

lar standards is a rejection of all standard, 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 re-

74 SELF-RELIANCE.

lations to father, motlier, cousin, neighbor, town,

cat and dog ; whether any of these can upbraid

you. But I may also neglect this reflex standard

and absolve me to myseK. 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 thaA

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 te

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, de-

sponding whimperers. We are afraid of truth,

afraid of fortune, afraid of death and afraid of each

other. Our age yields no great and perfect per-

sons. We want men and women who shall reno-

vate life and our social state, but we see that most

natures are insolvent, cannot satisfy their own

wants, have an amoition out of aU proportion to

SELF-RELIANCE. 75

their practical force and do lean and beg day anc^

night continually. Our housekeeping is mendicant,

our arts, our occupations, our marriages, our relig'

ion we have not chosen, but society has chosen for

us. We are parlor soldiers. We shun the rugged

battle of fate, where strength is born.

If our young men miscarry in their first enter-

prises 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 dis-

heartened and in complaining the rest of his life.

A sturdy lad from New Hampshire or V^ermont,

who in turn tries all the professions, who teams it,

farms it., j)eddles, 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 them-

selves ; that with the exercise of self - trust, new

powers shall appear ; that a man is the word made

7f^ SELF-RELIANCE.

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 aUow themselves !

That which they caU 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 mi-

raculous. Prayer that craves a particular commod-

ity, anything 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 be-

holding and jubilant soul. It is the spirit of God

pronouncing his works good. But prayer as a

means to effect a private end is meanness and theft

It supposes dualism and not unity in nature and

consciousness. As soon as the man is at one witD

God, he will not beg. He will then see prayer u»

SELF-RELIANCE. 77

all action. The prayer of the farmer kneeling in

his field to weed it, the prayer of the rower kneel-

ing 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 raeaning lies in our endeavors;

Our valors are our best gods."

Another sort of false prayers are our regrets

Discontent is the want of self-reliance : it is infirm

ity 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 sym-

pathy is just as base. We come to them who weep

foolishly and sit down and cry for company, in-

stead of imparting to them truth and health in

rough electric shocks, putting them once more in

comnmnication 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 perse'

75 SELF-RELIANCE.

vering 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 manwith us, and we will obey.' Everywhere I am hin-

dered of meeting God in my brother, because he has

shut his own temple doors and recites fables mere-

ly 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 im-

poses 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 complar

cency. But chiefly is this apparent in creeds and

churches, which are also classifications of some pow

erful mind acting on the elemental thought of dutj

and man's relation to the Highest. Such is Cal

vinism, Quakerism, Swedenborgism. The pupi)

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 sea-

sons 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 aU unbaJ-

SELF-RELIANCE, (^

anced minds the classification is idolized, passes for

the end and not for a speedily exhaustible means.

80 that the walls of the system blend to their eye

in tkhe remote horizon with the walls of the uni%

verse ; the luminaries of heaven seem to them hung

on the arch their master built. They cannot imag-

ine 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

Aght, 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 joy-

ful, million-orbed, miUion-colored, wiU beam over

the universe as on the first morning.

2. It is for want of self-culture that the super

stition of Travelling, whose idols are Italy, Eng-

land, Egypt, retains its fascination for all educa-

ted 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 oui

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 for-

eign lands, he is at home still and shall make men

80 SELF-RELIANCE.

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.

1 have no churlish objection to the circumnaviga^

tion of the globe for the purposes of art, of study,

and benevolence, so that the man is first domesti-

cated, 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 jour-

neys discover to us the indifference of places. At

home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be in-

toxicated 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 meis the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identi-

cal, 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 systeiM

SELF-RELIANCE. 81

of education fosters restlessness. Our minds travel

when our bodies are forced to stay at home. Weimitate ; and what is imitation but the travelling of

the mind ? Our houses are built with foreign

taste ; our shelves are garnished with foreign orna-

ments ; our opinions, our tastes, our faculties, lean.,

and follow the Past and the Distant. The soul cre-

ated the arts wherever they have flourished. It was

in his own mind that the artist soue^ht 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, con-

sidering 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 sen-

timent will be satisfied also.

Insist on yourseK ; never imitate. Your own

gift you can present every moment with the cumu-

lative force of a whole life's cultivation ; but of the

adopted talent of another you have only an extem-

poraneous half possession. That which each can

do best, none but his Maker can teach him. Noman yet knows what it is, nor can, till that person

»OL. II. 6

82 SELF-RELIANCE.

has exhibited it. Where is the master who could

have taught Shakspeare? Where is the master

who could have instructed Franklin, or Washing-

ton, 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. Dothat which is assigned you, and you cannot hope

too much or dare too much. There is at this mo-

ment 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 dif-

ferent from all these. Not possibly wUl 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 a<lvances. It recedes as fast on

one side as it ginns on the other. It undergoes

continual ^hong^js , it is barbarous, it is civilized, it

SELF-RELIANCE. 83

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 be-

tween the well -clad, reading, writing, thinking

American, with a watch, a pencil and a bill of ex-

change in his pocket, and the naked New Zea-

lander, whose property is a club, a spear, a mat

and an undivided twentieth of a shed to sleep un-

der ! But compare the health of the two men and

you shall see that the white man has lost his abo-

riginal 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 alma-

nac 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 memory

;

is libraries overload his wit : the insurance-office

84 SELF-RELIANCE.

increases the number of accidents ; and it may be a

question whether machinery does not encumber

;

whether we have not lost by refinement some en-

ergy, by a Christianity entrenched in establish-

ments 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, re-

ligion, and philosophy of the nineteenth century

avail to educate greater men than Plutarch's he-

roes, 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 foimder of a sect. The

arts and inventions of each period are only its cos-

tume 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 Frank-

lin, whose equipment exhausted the resources of

science and art. Galileo, with an opera-glass, dis-

covered a more splendid series of celestial phenom-

SELF-RELIANCE. 85

cna than any one since. Columbus found the NewWorld in an undecked boat. It is curious to see

the periodical disuse and perishing of means and

machinery which were introduced with loud lauda-

tion a few years or centuries before. The great

genius returns to essential man. We reckoned the

improvements of the art of war among the tri

umphs 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 Cases, " 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 yeai

die, and their experience dies 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 havf

come to esteem the religious, learned and civil in-

stitutions as guards of property, and they deprt

86 SELF-RELIANCE.

cate assaults on these, because they feel them to be

assaults on property. They measure their es-

teem 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 robbei

takes it away. But that which a man is, does al^

ways by necessity acquire ; and what the man ac«

quires, 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 con-

course and with each new uproar of announcement,

The delegation from Essex ! The Democrats from

New Hampshire ! The Whigs of Maine ! the young

patriot feels himseK stronger than before by a new

thousand of eyes and arms. In like manner the re-

formers summon conventions and vote and resolve

in multitude. Not so O friends! will the God

SELF-RELIANCE. 87

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 ap-

pear the upholder of aU that surrounds thee. Hewho knows that power is inborn, that he is weak be-

cause he has looked for good out of him and else-

where, and, so perceiving, throws himself unhesitat-

ingly 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 caUed 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 chan-

cellors of God. In the WiU work and acquire, and

thou hast chained the wheel of Chance, and shalt sit

hereafter out of fear from her rotations. A politi-

cal 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.

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,

Bhoots 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 reav€

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 sss'

And, like thy shadow, follow tcoe.

111.

COMPENSATION.

Ever since I was a boy I have wished to write a

discourse on Compensation ; for it seemed to mewhen very young that on this subject life was ahead

of theology and the people 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 char-

acter, 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 inun-

dation of eternal love, conversing with that which

he knows was aAways and always must be, because

it really is now. It appeared moreover that if this

doctrine could be stated in terms with any resem-

92 COMPENSATION.

blance 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 jour-

ney, that would not suffer us to lose our way,

I was lately confirmed in these desires by hear-

ing a sermon at church. The preacher, a man es-

teemed for his orthodoxy, unfolded in the ordinary

manner the doctrine of the Last Judgment. Heassumed that judgment is not executed in this world i

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 par-

ties 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 ? Whatdid 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 despised ; and that a compensation is to be made

to these last hereafter, by giving them the like grati-

fications another day,— bank-stock and doubloons,

venison and champagne ? This must be the com-

pensation 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

COMPENSATION. 98

legitimate inference 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

6in now, if we could ; not being successful we ex

pect 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 defer-

ring to the base estimate of the market of what con-

stitutes 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.

1 find a similar base tone in the popular religious

works of the day and the same doctrines 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 their 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 demonstrate. For men are wiser than they

know. That which they hear in schools and pulpits

mthout afterthought, if said in conversation would

94 COMPENSATION.

probably be questioned in silence. If a man dog*

matize in a mixed company on Providence and the

divine laws, he is answered by a silence which con-

veys 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 expecta-

tion 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 fluids of the animal body ; in the

systole and diastole of the heart ; in the undulations

of fluids and of sound ; in the centrifugal and cen-

tripetal gravity ; in electricity, galvanism, and chem-

ical affinity. Superinduce magnetism at one end

of a needle, the opposite magnetism takes place at

the other end. If the south attracts, the north re-

pels. 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

h whole; as, spirit, matter; man^ woman; odd«

COMPENSATION. 9£

even; subjective, objective; in, out; upper, under

j

motion, rest ; yea, nay.

Whilst the world is thus dual, so is every one oi

its parts. The entire system ot things gets repre-

sented 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 ele-

ments, is repeated within these small boundaries.

For example, in the animal kingdom the physiolo-

gist 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 ex-

ample. 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 is another.

The cold climate invigorates. The barren soil does

not breed fevers, crocodiles, tigers or scorpions.

The same dualism underlies the nature and con-

dition 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

«t> COMPENSATION.

pleasure has an equal penalty put on its abuse. If

is to answer for its moderation with its life. Foi

every grain of wit there is a grain of folly. For

every thing you have missed, you have gained some-

thing else ; and for every thing you gam, 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. Na-

ture 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 circumstance that puts down the overbear-

ing, the strong, the rich, the fortunate, substantially

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 aU his

COMPENSATION. 97

peace, and the best of his manly attributes. To

preserve for a short time so conspicuous an appear-

ance before the world, he is content to eat dust be-

fore 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 liglit ? he must bear witness

to the light, and always outrun that sympathy

which gives him such keen satisfaction, by his fidel-

ity to new revelations of the incessant soul. Hemust hate father and mother, wife and child. Has

he all that the world loves and admires and covets ?

— he must cast behind him their admiration, and

afflict them bv faithfulness 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 jilot or combine against it,

Things refuse to be mismanaged long. Res nolunt

Jiu male admiiiistrari. Though no checks to a

new evil appear, the checks exist, and will appear.

If the government is cruel, the governor's life is not

»afe. If you tax too high, the revenue will yield

nothing. If you make the criminal code sanguin-

ary, juries will not convict. If the law is too mild,

j^rivate vengeance comes in. If the government is

voj.. n."

98 COMPENSATION.

a terrific democracy, the pressure is resisted by an

over-charge of energy in the citizen, and life glows

with a fiercer flame. The true life and satisfac-

tions of man seem to elude the utmost rigors or feli-

cities of condition and to establish themselves with

great indifferency under all varieties of circum-

stances. Under aU governments the influence of

character remains the same, — in Turkey and in

New England about alike. Under the primeval de-

spots of Eg\^t, history honestly confesses that man

must have been as free as culture could make him.

These appearances indicate the fact that the uni-

verse 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 meta-

morphosis, 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 compend 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. -4nd each one must somehow

accommodate the whole man and recite aU his

destiny.

COMPENSATION, 99

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 repro-

duction 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 omnipres-

ence 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 limitation.

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 i&

not postponed. A perfect equity adjusts its bal-

ance in all parts of life. Oi kv^ol Aio? dei cvTrtVrovo-t,

— 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 ^dU, 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 universal necessity

by which the whole appears wherever a part ap

too COMPENSATION.

pears. If you see smoke, there must be fire. li

you see a hand or a limb, you know that the trunk

to which it belongs is there behind.

Every act rewards itseK, or in other words inte-

grates itseK, in a twofold manner ; first in the thing,

or in real nature ; and secondly in the circumstance,

or in apparent 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 imtil

after many years. The specific stripes may foUow

late after the offence, but they follow because they

accompany it. Crime and punishment grow out of

one stem. Punishment is a fruit that unsuspected

ripens within the flower of the pleasure which con-

cealed it. Cause and effect, 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,

COMPENSATION. 101

Ae sensual bright, etc., from the moral sweet, the

moral deep, the moral fair ; that is, again, to con-

trive 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, knowl-

edge, beauty. The particular man aims to be

somebody ; to set up for himself ; to truck and hig-

gle 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 counter,

acted. Up to this day it must be owned no pro.

jector has had the smallest success. The parted

water reunites behind our hand. Pleasure is

taken out of pleasant things, profit out of profitable

things, power out of strong things, as soon as w«

102 COMPENSATION.

geek 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 an-

other brags that he does not know, that they do not

touch him ;— but the brag is on his lips, the con-

ditions are in his soul. If he escapes them in one

part they attack him in another more vital part.

K he has escaped them in form and in the appear-

ance, 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 exper-

iment would not be tried, — since to try it is to be

mad,—but for the circumstance that when the dis-

ease began in the will, of rebellion and separation,

the intellect 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 j he sees the mermaid's head but

uot the dragon's taU, 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 cei^

COMPENSATION. 103

Cain 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 un-

awares. 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.

Prometheus knows one secret which Jove must bar-

gain 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 Indian 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 sar

cred waters did not wash the heel by which Thetis

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

1 St. Augustine. Confeasions. B- I

104 COMPENSATION.

it covered is mortal. And so it must be. Tliera

is a crack in every thing God has made. It would

seem there is always this vindictive circumstance

stealing 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 back-stroke, 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 trans-

gress his path they would punish him. The poets

related that stone waUs and iron swords and leath-

ern thongs had an occult sympathy with the wrongs

of their owners ; that the belt which Ajax gave

Hector dragged the Trojan hero over the field at

the wheels of the car of AchiUes, and the sword

which Hector gave Ajax was that on whose point

Ajax fell. They recorded that when the Thasians

erected a statue to Theagenes, a victor in the

games, one of his rivals went to it by night and en-

deavored 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

9ame from thous'ht above the will of the writer,

COMPENSATION. 105

That is the best part of each writer which has noth«

ing private in it ; that which he does not know j

that which flowed out of his constitution 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 Hellenic world that I would

know. The name and circumstance of Phidias,

however convenient for history, embarrass when wo

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 nations, which are always the

literature of reason, or the statements of an abso-

lute truth 'adthout 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 work-

shops by flights of proverbs, whose teaching i? as

Inie and as omniDresent as that of birds and flies.

106 COMPENSATION.

All tilings 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 fas-

tens itself around your own.— Bad counsel con-

founds 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 aiv

ranges itself by irresistible magnetism 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 por-

trait 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 other end

remains in the thrower's bag. Or rather it is a

harpoon hurled at the whale, unwinding, as it flies,

% ooil of cord in the boat, and, if the harpoon is

COMPENSATION-. 107

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 ir

fashionable life does not see that he excludes him-

self from enjoyment, in the attempt to appropriate

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 pimished. They are pun-

ished by fear. Whilst I stand in simple relations

to my fellow-man, I have no displeasure in meet-

ing him. We meet as water meets water, or as

two currents of air mix, with perfect diffusion and

interpen3tration of nature. But as soon as there

is any departure from simplicity and attempt at

balfness, or good for me that is not good for him,

my neighbor feels the wrong ; he shrinks from me

as far as I have shrunk from him ; his eyes no

longer seek mine ; there is war between us ; there

tL hate in him and fear in me.

108 COMPENSATION,

All the old abuses in society, universal and par-

ticular, all unjust accumulations of property and

power, are avenged in the same manner. Fear is

an instructor of great sagacity and the herald of all

revolutions. One thing he teaches, that there is

rottenness where he appears. He is a carrion crowj

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 obscene 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 volun-

tary 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 frugal-

ity. The borrower runs in his own debt. Has a

man gained any thing who has received a hundred

favors and rendered none ? Has he gained by bor-

rowing, through indolence or cunning, his neigh

COMPENSATION, 109

bor'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 su-

periority and inferiority. The transaction remains

in the memory of himself and his neighbor ; 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 neighbor'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 uni'

verse,— to receive favors and render none. In the

order of nature we cannot render benefits to those

from whom we receive them, or only seldom. But

the benefit we receive must be rendered again, liae

110 COMPENSATION.

for line, deed for deed, cent for cent, to somebody.

Beware of too much good staying in your hand. It

will fast corrupt 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 application of good sense to a common

want. It is best to pay in your land a skilful gar-

dener, or to buy good sense applied to gardening

;

in your sailor, good sense applied to navigation ; in

the house, good sense applied to cooking, sewing,

serving ; in your agent, good sense applied to ac-

counts and affairs. So do you multiply your pres-

ence, or spread yourself throughout your estate.

But because of the dual constitution of things, in

labor as in life there can be no cheating. The thief

steals from himseK. The swindler swindles him-

seK. 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, knowl-

edge 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 mo-

tives. The cheat, the defaulter, the gambler, can-

not extort the knowledge of material and moral na^

ture which his honest care and pains yield to the

COMPENSATION. Ill

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 construction of a city

or an epic, is one immense illustration of the per-

fect compensation 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 without its

price, — is not less sublime in the columns of a

leger than in the budgets of states, in the laws of

light and darkness, in all the action and reaction of

nature. 1 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 mani-

fest 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 im-

agination.

The league between virtue and nature engages

all things to assume a hostile front to vice. The

beautiful laws and substances of the world perse-

cute and whip the traitor. He finds that things

fitte arranged for truth and benefit, but there is no

112 COMPENSATION.

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 damn-

ing circumstance always transpires. The laws and

substances of nature, — water, snow, wind, gravita-

tion,— become penalties to the thief.

On the other hand the law holds with equal sure-

ness 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 royal armies sent against Na-

poleon, when he approached cast down their colors

and from enemies became friends, so disasters of

all kinds, as sickness, offence, poverty, prove bene-

factors :—

" Winds blow and waters roll

Stren^h 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 de-

COMPENSATION. 118

feet 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 against

it, so no man has a thorough acquaintance with the

hindrances or talents of men imtil he has suffered

from the one and seen the triumph of the othei-

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 seK-help ; and thus, like the wounded oys-

ter, 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

«orely assailed. A great man is always willing to

be little. Whilst he sits on the cushion of advan-

tages, he goes to sleep. When he is pushed, tor-

mented, defeated, he has a chance to learn some-

thing ; 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 assailants. It is more his interest than

it is theirs to find his weak point The woimd cica-

vou n 9

114 COMPENSATION.

trizes and falls off from him like a dead skin and

when they would triumph, lo ! he has passed on in-

vulnerable. 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 assur-

ance of success. But as soon as honeyed words of

praise are spoken for me I feel as one that liea

unprotected before his enemies. In general, every

evil to which we do not succumb is a benefac-

tor. 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 temp-

tation we resist.

The same guards which protect us from disaster,

defect and enmity, defend us, if we will, from self-

ishness 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 bargains. The nature and

soul of things takes on itself the guaranty of the

fulfilment 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 pay-

COMPENSATION. 115

ment is withlioldeii, the better for you; for com-

pound interest on compound interest is the rate and

usage of this exchequer.

The history of persecution is a history of en-

deavors 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 voluntarily be-

reaving themselves of reason and traversing its

work. The mob is man voluntarily descending

to the nature of the beast. Its fit hour of activity

is night. Its actions are insane, like its whole con-

stitution. It persecutes a principle ; it would whip

a right ; it would tar and feather justice, by inflict-

ing 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 mar-

tyr cannot be dishonored. Every lash inflicted is a

tongue of fame ; every prison a more illustrious

abode ; every burned book or house enlightens the

world ; every suppressed or expunged word rever-

berates 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.

116 COMPENSATION.

Thus do all things preach the indrfferency of cir-

cmnstances. 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 representa-

tions,— 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 indifferent.

There is a deeper fact in the soul than compensa-

tion, to wit, its own nature. The soul is not a com-

pensation, 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 affirma-

tive, excluding negation, self-balanced, and swal-

lowing 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

[t cannot work any good ; it cannot work any

harm. It is harm inasmuch as it is worse not to

be than to be.

COMPENSATION. 117

We feel defrauded of the retribution due to evil

acts, because the criminal adheres to his vice and

contumacy and does not come to a crisis or judg-

ment anywhere 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 wis-

dom ; they are proper additions of being. In a vir-

tuous action I properly am ; in a virtuous act I add

to the world ; I plant into deserts conquered from

Chaos and Nothing and see the darkness receding

on the limits of the horizon. There can be no ex.

cess to love, none to knowledge, none to beauty,

when these attributes are considered in the purest

sense. The soul refuses limits, and always affirm^

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

ihe souli and not of its absence , the brave man y

118 COMPENSATION.

greater than tlie coward ; the true, the benevolent^

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 abso-

lute 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 law-

ful 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 buried gold,

knowing that it brings with it new burdens. I do

not wish more external goods,— neither posses-

sions, 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 ex-

ists and that it is not desirable to dig up treasure.

Herein I rejoice with a serene eternal peace. I

contract the boundaries of possible mischief. 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

sufferer 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

COMPENSATION, 119

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. Healmost shuns their eye ; he fears they will upbraid

God. What should they do ? It seems a great in

justice. But see the facts nearly and these moun

tainous inequalities vanish. Love reduces them a^l

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 mj

brother and my brother is me. If I feel overshad

owed and outdone by great neighbors, I can yet

love ; I can still receive ; and he that loveth maketh

his own the grandeur he loves. Thereby I make

the discovery that my brother is my guardian, act-

ing 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 myown 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 intrin-

sic necessity quitting its whole system of things, its

120 COMPENSATION.

friends and home and laws and faith, as the shell*

fish crawls out of its beautiful but stony case, be*

cause 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, be-

coming as it were a transparent 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 character, in which

the man is imprisoned. Then there can be enlarge-

ment, and the man of to-day scarcely recognizes

the man of yesterday. And such should be the

outward 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 es-

tate, resting, not advancing, resisting, not cooperat-

ing 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 idol-

aters 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 beautiful yesterday. We lin-

ger in the ruins of the old tent where once we had

COMPENSATION. 121

bread and shelter and organs, nor believe that the

spirit can feed, cover, and nerve us again. Wecannot again find aught so dear, so sweet, so grace-

ful. But we sit and weep in vain. The voice of

the Almighty saith, ' Up and onward for ever-

more !

' 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 back-

wards.

And yet the compensations of calamity are made

apparent to the understanding also, after long inter-

vals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disap-

pointment, 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 pri-

vation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a

guide or genius ; for it commonly operates revolu-

tions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of in-

fancy 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 ac-

quaintances and the reception of new influences

that prove of the fii'st importance to the next years

;

and the man or woman who would have remained

122 COMPENSATION.

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 banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to

wide neighborhoods of men

SPIRITUAL LAWS.

The living Heaven thy prayers respect

House at once and architect,

Quarrying man's rejected hours,

Builds there with 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 OSem^The silver seat of Innocence.

IV

SPIRITUAL LAWS.

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 foolish 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. Neithei

126 SPIRITUAL LAWS,

vexations nor calamities abate our trust. No manever stated his griefs as lightly as he might. Allow

for exaggeration in the most patient and sorely rid-

den 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 obstructions and doubts.

Our young people are diseased with the theological

problems of original sin, origin of evil, predestina-

tion and the like. These never presented a practi-

cal 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 mea-

sles and whooping-coughs, and those who have not

caught them cannot describe their health or pre-

scribe 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 ex-

pound 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 pla?n rules ** siiffice us.

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 127

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 belongs to it.

In like manner our moral nature is vitiated by

any interference of our will. People represent vir-

tue as a struggle, and take to themselves great airs

upon their attainments, and the question is every-

where 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. Timole-

on's victories are the best victories, which ran and

flowed like Homer's verses, Plutarch said. Whenwe see a soul whose acts are aU 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 hia

fmmting resistance to aU his native devils.*

128 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

Not less conspicuous is the preponderance of nat

ture over will in all practical life. There is less in-

tention 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 Destiny, 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 visible 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 hoUow. That which ex-

ternally seemed will and immovableness was willing-

ness and self-annihilation. Could Shakspeare give

a theory of Shakspeare ? Could ever a man of

prodigious mathematical genius convey to others any

insight into his methods? If he could communi.

cate that secret it would instantly lose its exagger-

ated value, blending with the daylight and the vital

energy the power to stand and to go.

The lesson is forcibly taught by these observa-

tions that our life might be much easier and simpler

than we make it ; that the world might be a happier

SPIRITUAL LAWS. Vi5

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 mis-

create our own evils. We interfere with the opti-

mism 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 les-

son. 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. Whenwe come out of the caucus, or the bank, or the

Abolition-convention, 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 un-

happy. 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

iolk, and we do not think any good will come of it.

VOL. II. 9

130 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

We have not dollars, merchants have ; let them

give them. Farmers will give corn ; poets wil/

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 inquire 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 trav-

esty of truth. Our society is encumbered by pon-

derous machinery, which resembles the endless

aqueducts which the Romans built over hiU 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

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 131

walking of man and all animals is a falling for-

ward. All our manual labor and works o\

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. Heis 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-peddler. There is no per-

manent wise man except in the figment of the

\5t0ics. We side with the hero, as we read or

132 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

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

as 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 contenting ourselves with obedience we be-

come divine. Belief and love,— a believing love

will relieve us of a vast load of care. O my broth-

ers, God exists. There is a soul at the centre of

nature and over the will of every man, so tha^

none of us can wrong the universe. It has so in-

fused its strong enchantment into nature that we

prosper when we accept its adrice, 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. Weneed 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 re*

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 133

ality, a fit place and congenial duties. Place your-

self in the middle of the stream of power and wis-

dom which animates all whom it floats, and you are

without effort impelled to truth, to right and a per-

fect contentment. Then you put aU gainsayers in

the wrong. Then you are the world, the meas-

ure of right, of truth, of beauty. If we would 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 com-

monly 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 aspire after, is the state or circum.

stance 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 profes-

sion. It is not an excuse any longer for his deeds

pnat they are the custom of his trade. What busi*

134 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

ness has lie with an evil trade ? Has he not a cMing in his character ?

Each man has his own vocation. The talent ia

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 rims 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 determined by the

breadth of the base. Every man has this call of

the power to do somewhat unique, 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 per-

sons thereift:

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 135

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 him-

self. It is the vice of our public speaking that it

has iiot abandonment. Somewhere, not only ever}'

orator but every man should let out all the length

of all the reins ; should find or make a frank and

hearty expression of what force and meaning is in

him. The common experience is that the man fits

himseK 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 ma-

chine he moves ; the man is lost. Until he can

manage to communicate himself to others in his

full stature and proportion, 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 apprehension is

worth doing, that let him communicate, or men

will never know and honor him aright. Fool-

ish, 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

136 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

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 cat-

gut, 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 condition 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 hospi-

tality, the connection of families, the impressiveness

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 infin-

ite 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 selec-

ti'>n of what is fit for him, the rejection of what is

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 137

anfit, determines for liim the character of the uni-

verse. A man is a method, a progressive arrange-

ment ; a selecting principle, gathering his like to

him wherever 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 conscious-

ness 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 worthy go by it, to whom I

give no regard. It is enough that these particularly

speak to me. A few anecdotes, a few traits oi

character, manners, face, a few incidents, have an

emphasis 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 grea*v

IS great. The soul's emphasis is always right.

138 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

Over all things that are agreeable to his nature

and genius the man has the highest right. Every-

where he may take what belongs to his spiritual es-

tate, nor can he take anything else though all doors

were open, nor can all the force of men hinder

him from taking so much. It is vaiu to attempt to

keep a secret from one who has a right to know it.

It will teU 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 di-

plomacy. But Napoleon sent to Vienna M> de Nar-

bonne, one of the old noblesse, with th« morals,

manners and name of that interest, saying that it

was indispensable to send to the old aristocracy of

Europe men of the same connection, which in fact

constitutes a sort of free-masonry. M. de Nai-boune

in less than a fortnight penetrated all the secrota of

the imperial cabinet.

Nothing seems so easy as to speak and to be un

derstood. Yet a man may come to find that the

strongest of defences and of ties,— that he has been

understood ; and he who has received an opin.vju

may come to find it the most inconvenient of

bonds.

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 18&

If a teacher have any opinion which he wishes to

conceal, his pupils will become as fully indoctri

nated into that as into any which he publishes. li

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. Menfeel 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 rea-

soning 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 secret doctrine, had

he ? What secret can he conceal from the eyes of

Bacon ? of Montaigne ? of Kant ? Therefore Aris-

totle 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 ob-

ject. 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 evermore from premature

ideas. Our eyes are holden that we cannot see

things that stare us in the face, until the hour ar-

rives when the mind is ripened ; then we behoW

140 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

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 in-

debted 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 un-

affecting

!

People are not the better for the sun and moon,

the horizon and the trees ; as it is not observed that

the keepers of Roman galleries or the valets of

painters have any elevation of thought, or that li-

brarians are wiser men than others. There are

graces in the demeanor of a polished and noble per-

son 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 ^dsions

of the night bear some proportion to the visions of

the day. Hideous dreams are exaggerations of the

tins of the day. We see our evil affections em-

1)odied in bad physiognomies. On the Alps the

traveller sometimes beholds his own shadow magni-

^ed to a giant, so that every gesture of his hand is

terrific. " My children," said an old man to his

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 141

boys scared by a figure in the dark entry, "mychildren, you will never see anything worse than

yourselves." As in dreams, so in the scarcely 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 per-

son and avoids another, according to their likeness

or unlikeness to himself, truly seeking himself in

his associates 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'

longue. It is with a good book as it is with good

142 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

company. Introduce a base person among gentle*

men, it is all to no purpose ; lie is not their fellow.

Every society protects itself. The company is per-

fectly 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 enamored 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 conversation

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 lit-

tle 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 ac-

complishments, 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 imgratefuJ in us not

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 143

to praise them loudly. Then, when all is done, a

person of related mind, a brother or sister by na-

ture, 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. Wefoolishly think in our days of sin that we must

court friends by compliance to the customs of soci-

ety, to its dress, its breeding, and its estimates.

But only that soul can be my friend which I en-

counter 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. Noth-

ing 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 oth-

ers' eyes.

He may set his own rate. It is a maxim worthy

of all acceptation that a man may have that allow-

ance he takes. Take the place and attitude whicli

144 SPIRITUAL LAWS,

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 wiU certainly ac-

cept 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 con-

cave 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 communicate 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 transfusion takes place ; he is you and

you are he ; then is a teaching, and by no unfriendly

chance or bad company 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 wiU deliver an oration on the Fourth

of July, and Mr. Hand before the Mechanics' As-

sociation, and we do not go thither, because we

know that these gentlemen wiU not communicate

their own character and experience to the company.

If we had reason to expect such a confidence we

Ihould go through all inconvenience and opposition,

rhe sick would be carried in litters. But a public

SPIRITUAL LAWS, 145

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 ut-

tered in words is not therefore affirmed. It must

affirm itseK, or no forms of logic or of oath can

give it evidence. 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 instruct 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

practice, I may well doubt will fail to reach yours.

But take Sidney's maxim :— " Look in thy heart,

and write." He thai; 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

iseems to have gained, and when the empt}^ booir

VOL. II. 10

14b SPIRITUAL LAW:^.

has gathered all its praise, and half the people say,

* What poetry ! what genius !' it still needs fuel t<i

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 pres-

entation-copies to all the libraries will not preserve

a book in circulation beyond its intrinsic date. It

must go with all Walpole's Noble and Royal Au-

thors 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 generation 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 b}

jio effort, friendly or hostile, but by their own spe»

cilc gravity, or the intrinsic importance of theh

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 147

contents to the constant mind of man. " Do not

trouble yourself too much about the light on your

statue," said Michael Angelo to the young sculptor

;

" the light of the public square will test its value."

In like manner the effect of every action is meas-

ured by the depth of the sentiment from which it

proceeds. 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 particu-

lars 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, phy-

sicians say, are as beautiful as the laws of health*

Our philosophy is affirmative and readily accepts

the testimony of negative facts, as every shadow

points to the sun. By a divine necessity every

fact in nature 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.

148 SPIRITUAL LAW9.

If you act you show character ; if you sit still, ij

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 socie-

ties, on the college, on parties and persons, that

your verdict is still expected with curiosity as a re-

served wisdom. Far otherwise;your silence an-

swers 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 imbelief 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

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 149

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

described a group of persons in the spiritual world

endeavoring 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 tiling,—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 action 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 pock-

ets, with airs and pretensions ; an older boy says

to himself. ' It 's of no use ; we shaU find him out

150 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

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 hu

man beings. Pretension may sit still, but cannot

act* Pretension never feigned an act of real great-

ness. Pretension never wrote an Iliad, nor drove

back Xerxes, nor christianized the world, nor abol-

ished slavery.

As much virtue as there is, so much appears ; as

much goodness as there is, so much reverence it

(5ommands. All the devils respect virtue. The

high, the generous, the self-devoted sect will alwaya

instruct and command mankind. Never was a sin-

cere word utterly lost. Never a magnanimity fel)

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 itseK 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 im-

pression. Men know not why they do not trust

him, but they do not trust him. His vice glasses

bis eye, cuts lines of mean expression in his cheekf

SPIRITUAL LAWS, 161

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 kno^vn 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 lachimo be mistaken for Zeno or Paul? Con-

fucius exclaimed, — " How can a man be con-

cealed ? 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 relatr

mg of the incident. Virtue is the adherence in ac-

tion to the nature of things, and the nature of

things makes it prevalent. It consists in a perpet-

ual substitution of being for seeming, and with sub-

lime 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 di-

irine circuits. Let us unlearn our wisdom of tb«

152 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

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 benediction. Shine with real light and not

with the borrowed reflection of gifts. Commonmen are apologies for men; they bow the head,

excuse themselves with prolix reasons, and accumu-

late appearances because the substance is not.

We are full of these superstitions of sense, the

worship of magnitude. We call the poet inactive,

because he is not a president, a merchant, or a por-

ter. 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

oiu* 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 ao

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 163

cording to their ability execute its will. This re*

visal or correction is a constant force, which, as a

tendency, reaches through our lifetime. The ob-

ject 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 so-

ciety, 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, detecting

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 con-

tented. 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 sit-

test 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

164 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

and superserviceable ? 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 unsea-

sonable 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 ne

discontent. The good soul nourishes me and un-

locks new magazines of power and enjoyment to

me every day. I will not meanly decline the im-

mensity 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-meeting, 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 sim and sleeps, and is Na-

toe To think is to act.

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 155

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 celestiai

air until it eclipses the sun and moon. Let u?

seek one peace by fidelity. Let me heed my duties.

Why need I go gadding into the scenes and philos-

ophy of Greek and Italian history before I have

justified myself to my benefactors ? How dare I

read Washington's campaigns when I have not an-

swered 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 neighbors. It is peeping. B3rron says

of Jack Bunting,—" He knew not what to say, and so he swore."

1 may say it of our preposterous use of books,—Heknew 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 Gen-

eral Washington. My time should be as good as

their time,— my facts, my net of relations, as good

us theirs, or either of theirs. Rather let me do mywork so weU 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

156 SPIRITUAL LAWS.

Pericles, this under-estimate of our own, comes from

a neglect of the fact of an identical nature. Bona-

parte knew but one merit, and rewarded in one

and the same way the good soldier, the good as-

tronomer, the good poet, the good player. The

poet uses the names of Caesar, of Tamerlane, of

Bonduca, of Belisarius ; the painter uses the con-

ventional 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 seKsame 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 in-

comparable 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

m. 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 daybeams cannot be muffled or

hid, but to sweep and scour will instantly appear

supreme and beautiful actions, the top and radiance

SPIRITUAL LAWS. 157

of human life, and all people will get mops and

brooms ; until, lo ! suddenly the great soul has en-

shrined 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 gold-

/eaf and tinfoil that measure the accumulations oi

the subtle element. We know the authentic effects

of the true fire through every one of its million dis'

guises.

LO^K,

I was as a gem concealed

;

Me my burning ray revealed.'*

LONTE.

Every promise of the soul has innumerable fui

filments ; e<tch 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 aU particular regards

in its general light. The introduction to this felic-

ity 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

^outh and maid should confess to be true to th^ir

162 LOVE.

throbbing experience, one must not be too old. The

delicious fancies of youth reject the least savor of

a mature philosophy, as chilling with age and ped

antry their purple bloom. And therefore I kno\«

I incur the imputation '^f unnecessary hardness and

stoicism from those who compose the Court and

Parliament of Love. But from these formidable

censors I shall appeal to my seniors. For it is to

be cc'usidered that this passion of which we speak,

tliough it begin with the young, yet forsakes not the

old, or rather suffers no one who is 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 kindling its

first embers H the narrow nook of a private bosom,

caught from a wandering spark out of another pri-

vate 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

,^^hole world and all nature with its generous flames.

It matters not therefore whether we attempt to de-

scribe the passion at twenty, thirty, or at eight}'

years. He who paints it at the first period wili

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

Co that inward view of the law which shall describe

a truth ever young and beautiful, so central that i*

LOVE. 163

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 im-

agination. 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 mature 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. De-

tails are melancholy ; 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

^ef cleaves to names and persons and the partial

interests of to-day and yesterday.

The strong bent of nature is seen in the propor*

tion which this topic of personal relations usurps in

tiie conversation of society. What do we wish ta

164 LOVE,

know of any worthy person so much as how he haa

sped in the history of this sentiment ? What books

in the circulating library 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 shaU

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 interest in the development of the ro-

mance. 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 in-

stantly 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 personality. Or who can

avert his eyes from the engaging, haK-artful, half

artless ways of school-girls who ^o into the country

LOVE. 165

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 })retty 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 theii

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 disparag-

ing 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 in-

Btincts. For though the celestial ranture falling

166 LOVE.

out of heaven seizes only upon those of tender age,

and although a beauty overpowering all analysis oi

comparison and putting us quite beside ourselves

we can seldom see after thirty years, yet the remem.

brance of these visions outlasts all other remem.

brances, and is a wreath of flowers on the oldest

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 de-

licious memory of some passages wherein affection

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 embalmed 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 anew ; which war

the dawn in him of music, poetry and art ; whicL

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 as-

sociated with one form is put in the amber of mem-

ory ; 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

LOVE. 167

of a glove, a veil, a ribbon, or the wheels of a car-

riage ; 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, tho motions, the words of the beloved

object are not, like other images, written in water,

but, as Plutarch said, "enamelled ld 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

Bong ; when all business seemed an impertinence,

and all the men and women running to and fro in

the streets, mere pictures.

168 LOVE.

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 intelli-

gent ; and he almost fears to trust them with the

secret which they seem to invite. Yet nature soothes

and sympathizes. In the green solitude 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 ! Heis 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 versa

It is a fact often observed, that men have written

good verses under the inspiration of passion, wha

cannot write well under any other circumstances

LOVE. 169

The like force has the passion overall his nature.

It expands the sentiment ; it makes the clown gen-

tle and gives the coward heart. Into the most pit-

iful 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 so-

ciety ; he is somewhat ; he is a person ; Ae is a

soul.

And here let us examine a little nearer the na-

ture of that influence which is thus potent over the

human youth. Beauty, whose revelation to man

we now celebrate, welcome as the sun wherever ifc

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, bud-

ding, informing loveliness is society for itseK ; and

she teaches his eye why Beauty was pictured with

Loves and Graces attending her steps. Her exis-

tence makes the world rich. Though she extrudes

all other persons from his attention as cheap and

Jtnworthy, she indemnifies him by carrying out her

own being into somewhat impersonal, large, mun-

dane, so that the maiden stands to him for a repre-

no LOVE.

Bentative of all select things and virtues. For that

reason the lover never sees personal resemblances

in liis 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 vir-

tue. Who can analyze the nameless charm which

glances from one and another face and form ? Weare touched with emotions of tenderness and com-

placency, but we cannot find whereat this dainty

emotion, this wandering gleam, points. It is de-

stroyed for the imagination by any attempt to refer

it to organization. Nor does it point to any rela-

tions 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 del-

icacy and sweetness, to what roses and violets hint

and foreshow. We cannot approach beauty. Its

nature is like opaline doves'-neck lustres, hovering

and evanescent. Herein it resembles the most ex-

cellent things, which all have this rainbow charac-

ter, 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

©f things which in all my endless life I have nol

LOVE. 171

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 incom-

prehensible, when it is passing out of criticism and

can no longer be defined by compass and measur-

ing-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 repre"

sented in a transitiony>'om that which is represent-

able 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 at-

tained when it lulls and satisfies, but when it as-

tonishes and fires us with new endeavors 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 cannot 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 saj' so because we feel that

172 LOVE.

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 od

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 nat-

ural 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 nms 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 in-

deed is within the beauty, and the cause of the

beauty.

If however, from too much conversing with mar

terial objects, the soul was gross, and misplaced its

satisfaction in the body, it reaped nothing but sor-

row ; body being unable to fulfil the promise which

beauty holds out; but if, accepting the hint of

these visions and suggestions which beauty makea

to his mind, the soul passes through the body ancj

LOVE. 173

falls to adniire strokes of character, 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 extinguishing the base affection, as the

sun puts out 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 apprehension 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 soci-

ety 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, with-

out offence, to indicate blemishes and hindrances

in each other, and give to each all help and com-

fort in curing the same. And beholding in many

souls the traits of the divine beauty, and separating

in each soid that which is divine from the taint

which it has contracted in the world, the lover as-

cends to the highest beauty, to the love and knowl-

edge of the Divinity, by steps on this ladder of

sreated souls.

Somewhat like this have the truly wise told us oi

174 LOVE.

love in all ages. The doctrine is not ord5 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 presides at marriages

with words that take bold of the upper world, wbilst

one eye is prowling in the cellar ; so that its gravest

discourse has a savor of bams and powdering-tubsc

Worst, when this sensualism intrudes into the ed-

ucation of young women, and withers the hope and

affection of human nature by teaching that mar-

riage 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 every utensil and

toy, on nurses and domestics, on the house and yard

and passengers, on the circle of household acquaint-

ance, on politics and geography and history. But

things are ever grouping themselves according to

higher or more interior laws. Neighborhood, size,

numbers, habits, persons, lose by degrees thei^

power over us. Cause and effect, real affinities, the

longing for harmony between the soul and the cip-

ftumstance, the progressive, idealizing instinct, pre'

LOVE. 175

dominate 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 tliink the youth and

maiden who are glancing at each other across

crowded rooms with eyes so full of mutual intel-

ligence, of the precious fruit long hereafter to pro-

ceed 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 en-

souled ;—

" 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 Ro-

meo. Night, day, studies, talents, kingdoms, relig-

ion, 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 imagre of the other. Does

176 LOl^E.

that other see the same star, the same melting

cloud, read the same book, feel the same emotion,

that now delights me ? They try and weigh their

affection, and adding up costly advantages, friends,

opportunities, properties, exult in discovering 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 ar-

rive to them as to all. Love prays. It makes cov-

enants 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, pro^

testations, nor even home in another heart, content

the awful soul that dwells in clay. It arouses it-

self at last from these endearments, as toys, and

puts on the harness and aspires to vast and univer-

sal aims. The soul which is in the soul of each,

craving a perfect beatitude, detects incongruities,

defects and disproportion in the behavior of the

other. Hence arise surprise, expostulation and

pain. Yet that which drew them to each other

was signs of loveliness, signs of virtue ; and these

rirtues are there, however eclipsed. They appear

LOVE. 177

and reappear and continue to attract ; but the re-

gard changes, quits the sign and attaches to the

substance. This repairs the wounded affection.

Meantime, as life wears on, it proves a game ot

permutation and combination of all possible posi-

tions of the parties, to employ all the resources of

each and acquaint each with the strength and weak-

ness 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 :—

" Tlie 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 sobered by time in either breast, and losing in

violence what it gains in extent, it becomes a thor-

ough good understanding. They resign each other

without complaint to the good offices which manand woman are severally appointed to discharge iq

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

VOL II. 12

178 LOVE.

other's designs. At last they discover that all which

at first drew them together, — those once sacred

features, that magical play of charms, — was decid.

uous, 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 rrisis 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.

Thus are we put in training for a love which

imows not sex, nor person, nor partiality, but whio^

seeks virtue and wisdom everywhere, to the end oi

increasing virtue and wisdom. We are by naturf

observers, and thereby learners. That is our per-

manent state. But we are often made to feel thax

our affections are but tents of a night. Though

slowly and with pain, the objects of the affectioui.

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 pep

LOVE. 179

son 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 «»o on for ever.

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, ray bosom said.

Through thee alone the sky is arched,

Through thee the rose is red,

All things through thee take nobler fonc

And look beyond the earth.

The mill-round of our fate appears

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 faiTe

VI.

FRIENDSHIP.

We have a great deal more kindness than is ever

Bpoken. Maugre aU 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 1 Read the language of these

wandering eye-beams. The heart knoweth.

The effect of the indulgence of this human affec-

tion is a certain cordial exhilaration. In poetry

and in common speech the emotions of benevolence

and complacency which are felt towards others are

likened to the material effects of fire ; so swift, or

mud? more swift, more active, more cheerLug, are

these fine inw&rd irradiations. From the highest

degree of passionate love tc the lowest degree o^

good-wiU, they make the sweetness of lifet

184 FRIENDSHIP.

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 forth-

with 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 com«

mended stranger is expected and announced, and

an uneasiness betwixt 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 conversation and action with such a

man, and are uneasy with fear. The same idea ex-

alts 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 the^

FRIENDSHIP. 186

^ho 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 con-

versation, 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, misapprehen-

sion 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 communica-

tions of the soul, no more.

What is so pleasant as these jets of affection

which make a young world for me again ? Whatso 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 in-

dulge our affections, the earth is metamorphosed

;

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 be-

loved persons. Let the soul be assured that some-

where 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

«all God the Beautiful, who daily showeth himself

186 FRIENDSHIP.

80 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 pos-

session for all time. Nor is Nature 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 ne longer strangers and

pilgrims in 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 derides and cancels

the thick walls of individual character, relation, age,

sex, circumstance, at which he usually connives, and

now makes many one. High thanks I owe you, ex-

cellent 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,— hjman, ode and epic,

poetry still flowing, Apollo and the Muses chanting

still. Will these too separate themselves from meagain, or some of them ? I know not, but I fear

'It not ; for my relation to them is so pure that we

hold bv simple affinity, and the Genius of my lif«

FRIENDSHIP. 187

being thu8 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 ajffec-

tions. A new person is to me a great event and

hinders me from sleep. I have often had fine fan-

cies about persons which 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 prop-

erty 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.

Every thing 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 iheir analogy in the ebb and flow of love.

Friendship, like the immortality of the soul, is too

good to be believed. The lover, beholding hi*

maiden, half knows that she is not verily tha*

which he worships ; and in the golden hour ol

188 FRIENDSHIP.

friendship we are surprised with shades of suspV

cion and unbelief. We doubt that we bestow on

our hero the virtues in which he shines, and after-

wards worship the form to which we have ascribed

this divine inhabitation. In strictness, the soul does

not respect men as it respects itself. In strict sci=

ence 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 chap-

lets and festoons we cut the stem short. And I

must hazard the production of the bald fact amidst

these pleasing reveries, though it should prove an

Egyptian skull at our banquet. A man who stands

united with his thought conceives magnificently of

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 myown 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

cay. I hear what you say of the admirable parti

FRIENDSHIP. 189

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 last 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. Is it 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 for evermore.

Each electrical state superinduces the opposite.

The soul environs itself with friends that it may en-

ter into a grander self-acquaintance or solitude;

and it goes alone for a season that it may exalt its

conversation 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 insula-

tion 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: —

190 FRIENDSHIP.

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 go-

ings. I am not very wise ; my moods are quite at

tainable, 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 in-

dulged. This is to weave cobweb, and not cloth.

Our friendships hurry to short and poor conclu-

sions, because we have made them a texture of wine

and dreams, instead of the tough fibre of the hu-

man heart. The laws of friendship are 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. Weseek our friend not sacredly, but with an adulterate

passion which would appropriate him to ourselves.

In vain. We are armed aU over with subtle aib

tagonisms, 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

FRIENDSHIP. 191

be a compromise, and, what is worst, the very

flower and aroma of the flower of each of the beau*

tiful 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, the joy I find in all the

rest becomes mean and cowardly. I should hate

myself, if then I made my other friends my asy-

limi :—" 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. Bash-

fulness and apathy are a tough husk in wkich a del-

icate 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

192 FRIENDSHIP.

and own it. Respect the naturlangsamheit 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 lux-

ury 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 re-

sisted, and I leave, for the time, all account of sub-

ordinate 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 frostwork, but the solidest

thing we know. For now, after so many ages of ex<

perience, what do we know of nature or of our-

selves? Not one step has man taken toward the

solution of the problem of his destiny. In one con=

demnation 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

FRIENDSHIP. 193

the nut itself whereof all nature and all thought is

but the husk and shell. Happy is the house that

fihelters 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 candi-

date for that covenant comes up, like an Olympian,

to the great games where the first-born of the world

are the competitors. He proposes himself for con-

tests 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 friend-

ship, each so sovereign that I can detect no superi-

ority 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 arrived at last in the presence of a

man so real and equal that I may drop even those

undermost 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. Sin-

cerity is the luxury allowed, like diadems and auVOL. II. 13

194 FRIENDSHIP.

thority, only to the highest rank ; that being per*

mitted 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 be-

.gins. We parry and fend the approach of our fel-

low-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 undei

a certain religious frenzy cast off this drapery, and

omitting all compliment 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 acquain-

tance 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 sincer-

ity to the like plaindealing, 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 haj

FRIENDSHIP. 195

some fame, some talent, some whim of religion or

philanthropy^ in his heacl that is not to be questioned,

and which spoils all conversation wath him. But a

friend is a sane man who exercises not my ingenuity,

but me. My friend gives me entertainment with-

out 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 exist-

ence 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 di-

rectly to the heart of this matter in books. Andyet I have one text which I cannot choose but re-

member. My author says, — "I oifer myself

faintly and blimtly to those whose I effectually am,

and tender myself least to him to whom I am the

196 FRIENDbMTP.

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 fu-

neral ; 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 prostitu-

tion of the name of friendship to signify modish

and worldly alliances. I much prefer the company

of ploughboys and tin-peddlers to the silken and

perfumed amity which celebrates its days of en-

counter by a frivolous display, by rides in a curri-

cle 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 experience. It is for aid and com-

fort through aU the relations and passages of life

and death. It is fit for serene days and graceful

^fts and country rambles, but also for rougli

reads and hard fare, shipwreck, poverty and perse

FRIENDSHIP, 197

mtlon. It keeps company with the sallies of the

tvit and the trances of religion. We are to dignify

fco each other the daily needs and offices of man's

life, and embellish it by courage, wisdom and unity.

It should never fall into something usual and set-

tled, but should be alert and inventive 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 hap-

pily adapted, and withal so circumstanced (for

even in that particular, a poet says, love demands

that the parties be altogether paired), that its sat-

isfaction 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, betv/ixt

more than two. I am not quite so strict in myterms, 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 vari-

ously related to each other and between whom sub-

sists a lofty intelligence. But I find this law of

one to one peremptory for conversation, which is

the practice and consummation of friendship. Donot 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

Uiall not have one new and hearty word. Two

198 FRIENDSHIP.

may talk and one may hear, but three cannot taki

part in a conversation of the most sincere and

searching sort In good company there is nevei

such discourse between two, across the table, at

takes place when you leave them alone. In good

company the individuals 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 sis-

ter, 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,

<vhich good sense demands, destroys the high free-

dom of great conversation, which requires an ab-

solute 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, wiU never suspect

the latent powers of each. We talk sometimes of

a great talent for conversation, as if it were a per-

manent property in some individuals. Conversa-

tion is an evanescent relation,— no more. A man

IS reputed to have thought and eloquence ; he can-

not, for all that, say a word to his cousin or his un^

ele. They accuse his silence with as much reason

lA they would blame the insignificance of a dial ir

FRIENDSHIP. 199

the shade. In the sun it will mark the hour.

Among those who enjoy his thought he will regaiu

liis tongue.

Friendship requires that rare mean betwixt like-

ness and unlikeness that piques each with the pres-

ence of power and of consent in the other partyc

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 conces-

sion. Better be a nettle in the side of your friend

than his echo. The condition which high friend-

ship demands is ability to do without it. That

high office requires 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, be-

neath these disparities, unites them.

He only is lit for this society who is magnani-

mous ; who is sure that greatness and goodness

are always economy ; who is not swift to intermed-

dle with his fortunes. Le^* him not intermeddle

vith this. Leave to the diamond its ages to grow.

200 FRIENDSHIP.

nor expect to accelerate the births of the eternal

Friendship demands a religious treatment. W«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 par*

ticulars, 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-con-

founding pleasure, instead of the noblest benefit.

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 jour friend? Whygo to his house, or know his mother and brother

and sisters ? Why be visited by him at your own?

A.re 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 an^

FRIENDSHIP, ^1

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

eve, that scornful beauty of his mien and action,

do not pique yoursell on reducing, but rather for-

tify 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 for ever a sort of beautiful enemy, untama-

ble, 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 impa-

tience for its opening. We must be our own he-

Core we can be another's. There is at least this

satisfaction in crime, according to the Latin prov-

eib;— you can speak to your accomplice on eveu

202 FRIENDSHIP.

terms. Crimen quos inquinat., cequat To those

whom we admire and love, at first we cannot. Yet

the least defect of self-possession vitiates, in myjudgment, the entire relation. There can never be

deep peace between two spirits, never mutual re-

spect, 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 any

thing to such ? No matter how ingenious, no mat-

ter how graceful and bland. There are innumera-

ble 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 them-

selves 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 never catch a true glance

of his eye. We see the noble afar off and they re-

pel us ; why should we intrude ? Late,— very

late,— we perceive that no arrangements, no intro-

ductions, no consuetudes or habits of society would

be of any avail to establish us in such relations

FRIENDSHIP. 203

mth them as we desire, — but solely the uprise of

Qature 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 other regions of the universal power, souls are

now acting, enduring and daring, which can love us

and which we can love. Wo may congratulate our-

selves that the period of nonage, of follies, of blun

ders 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

unpatience 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.

Yow demonstrate yourself, so as to put yourseK out

3f the reach of false relations, and you draw to vou

204 FRIENDSHIP.

the first-bom of the world,— those rare pilgrims

whereof only one or two wander in nature at once,

and before whom the vulgar great show as spectres

and shadows merely.

It is foolish to be afraid of making our ties too

spiritual, as if so we could lose any genuine lovec

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 re-

pay 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 /rill call it out and reveal us to ourselves.

Beggars all. The persons are such t^s we ; the Eu-

rope, an old faded garment of dead persons ; the

books, their gho«M. 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 v/e are more

our own ? A friend is Janus - faced ; he looks to

the past and the future. He is the child of all myforegoing 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 booka

FRIENDSHIP, 205

f 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 myfriend If he is great he makes me so great that

I cannot descend to converse. In the great days,

presentiments hover before me in the firmament.

1 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 only 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 seek-

ing, 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 shaK

have languid moods, when I can well afford to oc-

eupy myself with foreign objects ; then I shall re-

gret 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 lustres, and I shall not

be able any more than now to converse with you.

So I will owe to my friends this evanescent inter-

course. I will receive from them not what the^

206 FRIENDSHIP,

have but what they are. They shall give me that

which properly they cannot give, but which ema«

nates 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 1

knew, to carry a friendship greatly, on one side, with-

out 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 compan-

ion. 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 friend,

ship is entireuess, a total magnanimity and trust

It must not surmise or provide for infirmity, li

treats its obiect as a £:od, that it may deify both.

PRUDENCE.

TsEME no poet gladly eung,

Fair to old and foul to young

;

Scorn not thou the love of part^^

And the articles of arts.

Grandeur of the perfect sphere

Thanks the atoms that cohere.

VII.

PRUDENCE.

What right have I to write on Prudence, where,

of I have little, and that of the negative sort ? Myprudence 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 money spend well, no genius in myeconomy, and whoever sees my garden discovers

that 1 must have some other garden. Yet I love

facts, and hate lubricity and people without percep-

tion. Then I have the same title to write on pru-

dence 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 foi

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

Uot to balance these fine lyric words of Love and

VOL. II. 14

SIO PRUDENCE.

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 symbolic char-

acter; and a true prudence or law of shows recog

nizes the co-presence of other laws and knows that

its own office is subaltern ; knows tliat it is surface

and not centre where it works. Prudence is false

when detached. It is legitimate when it is the Nat-

ural 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 symbol, as the poet and artist and

the naturalist and man of science. A third class

tive above the beauty of the symbol to the beauty

PRUDENCE. 211

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, — reverencing

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 devo-

tion 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 pro-

ject, — 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 pru-

dence 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

BO, as if a great fortime, the achievement of a civil

or social measure, great personal influence, a grace-

212 PRUDENCE.

fill 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 sensual-

ism by admitting the knowledge of an internal and

real world. This recognition once made, the or-

der of the world and the distribution of affairs and

tirass, being studied with the co-perception of their

subordinate place, will reward any degree of atten-

tion. For our existence, thus apparently attached

in nature to the sun and the returning 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

PRUDENCE. 213

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 re-

straints 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 trans-

acted with a man without heart or brains, and the

stinging recollection of an injurious or very awk-

ward word,— these eat up the hours. Do what

we can, siunmer will have its flies ; if we walk in

the woods we must feed mosquitos ; if we go a-fish-

ing w^e 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 re-

gard the clouds and the rain.

We are instructed by these petty experiences

which usurp the hours and y^ars. The hard soil

and four months of snow make the inhabitant of

214 PRUDENCE.

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, with-

out 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 inex-

haustibly significant, the inhabitants of these cli

mates 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 willing to spare any one.

Time is always bringing the occasions that disclose

their value. Some wisdom comes out of every nat-

ural and innocent action. The domestic man, who

loves no music 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

PRUDENCE. 215

fiiiop than in the tactics of party or of war. The

good husband finds method as efficient in the pack-

ing 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-cham-

bers, 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 satis-

factions. 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 o£ that,— whip him." Our American

216 PRUDENCE.

character is marked by a more than average delight

in accurate perception, which is shown by the cur-

rency of the byword, " No mistake." But the dis-

comfort of unpunctuality, of confusion of thought

about facts, 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 shiftless 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 effect which gives life to the figures, and to

the life an irresistible truth. This property is the

bitting, in all the figures we draw, the right centre

dl gravity. I mean the placing the figures firm

PRUDENCB. 217

upon their feet, making the hands grasp, and fasten-

ing 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 oscillat-

ing appearance. The Raphael in the Dresden gal-

lery (the only great 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 resistless 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

;vith trust.

But what man shall dare task another with im-

prudence? Who is prudent? The men we call

greatest are least in this kingdom. There is a cer-

tain fatal dislocation in our relation to nature, dis-

torting our modes of living and making every law

»ur enemy, which seems at last to have aroused all

218 PRUDENCE.

the wit and virtue in the world to ponder the ques-

tion of Reform. We must call the highest prudence

to counsel, and ask why health and beauty and ge-

nius should now be the exception rather than the

rule of human nature ? We do not know the prop-

erties of plants and animals and the laws of nature,

through our sympathy with the same ; but this re-

mains 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 b}

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 or-

ganization should be universal. Genius shoidd be

the child of genius and every child should be in-

spired ; 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

gift to refine luxury, not to abolish it. Genius is

PRUDENCE. 219

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 sen-

suality 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 deduction from his holi-

ness, 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 de-

spiseth small things will perish by little and little.

Groethe'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 con-

sistent and true to them, the other fired with all di-

vine 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 unfrequent case in modem biography. Aman of xrenius. of an ardent temperament, reckless

220 PRUDENCE.

of physical laws, self-indulgent, becomes presentb

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 ad-

mirable ; 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 tran-

quil and glorified seers. And who has not se*^n

the tragedy of imprudent genius struggling for

years with paltry pecuniary difficulties, at last sink-

ing, 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, so-

cial position, have their importance, and he will

PRUDENCE, 221

Q^ve them their due. Let him esteem Nature a

perpetual coimsellor, 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 b^. expended on a private economy as

on an empire, and as much wisdom may be drawn

from it. The laws of the world are wi-itten out for

iiim on every piece of money in his hand. There

is nothing 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 agricidturist, to

stick a tree between whiles, because it will grow

ivhilst he sleeps ; or the prudence which consists in

husbanding little strokes of the tool, little portions

of time, particles 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 hioh 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 depreciation of the particular kind of

stock. Strike, says the smith, the iron is white ;

keep the rake, says the haymaker, as nigh the

»cythe as you can, and the cart as nigh the rake.

Our Yankee trade is reputed to be very much on

222 PRUDENCE,

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 practise the minor virtues.

How much of human life is lost in waiting ! let him

not make his feUow-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

likewise feel the admonition to integrate his being

across all these distracting forces, and keep a slen-

der human word among the storms, distances and

accidents that drive us hither and thither, and, by

persistency, make the paltry force of one man re-

PRUDENCE. 223

appear 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 pru-

dence 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 recon-

cilable. Prudence concerns the present time, j)er«

sons, 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

coui'se 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 them-

selves great, though they make an exception in

your favor to all their rules of trade.

So, in regard to disagreeable and formidable

flings, prudence does not consist in evasion or in

224 PRUDENCE.

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 stout-

ness will commonly make his fear groundless. The

Latin proverb says, " In battles the eye is first over-

come." Entire seK-possession may make a battle

very little more dangerous 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

ihe path of the ball. The terrors of the storm are

chiefly confined to the parlor and the cabin. The

drover, the sailor, buifets it all day, and his health

renews itself at a^ ngorous a pulse under the sleet

as under the sun o£ June.

In the occurrence of unpleasant things among

neighbors, fear comes readily to heart and magni-

fies the consequt:nce of the other party ; but it is a

bad counsellor Every man is actually weak and

apparently strong. To himseK he seems weak ; to

others, formiUable. You are afraid of Grim ; but

Grim also is afraid of you. You are solicitous of

the good-wilA of the meanest person, uneasy at his

ill-will. Bu^ the sturdiest offender of your peace

and of the neighborhood, if you rip up Ms claims,

is as thin and timid as any, and the peace of society

is often kept, because, as children say, one is afraid

PRUDENCE. 225

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 neces-

sary 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, hj^ocritical people an argument on

religion wiU 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 con-

quer there, and not a thought has enriched either

party, and not an emotion 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 say-

ing precisely that which all think, and in the flow

of wit and love roll out your paradoxes in solid

VOL. II. 15

226 PRUDENCE,

c»>lTimn, 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

proportioned and in its true bearings, but bears ex-

torted, hoarse, and half witness. But assume a con-

sent 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 sympa-

thy 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,

approaching us. We are too old to regard fashion,

too old to expect patronage of any greater or more

powerful. Let us suck the sweetness of those affec-

tions 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

whisper names prouder, and that tickle the fancy

more. Every man's imagination hath its friends ,•

Vid life would be dearer with such companions.

PRUDENCE. 227

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 th( virtues range themselves on the side of

prudence, or the art of securing a present well-be

ing. 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 ow'-

ten commandments.

HEROISM.

'Paradise is under the shadow of swords."

EuBY 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 saila

YUL

HEROISM.

In the elder English dramatists, and mainly in

the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a con-

stant 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 Yalerio 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 MadLover, the Double Marriage, — wherein the speaker

is so earnest and cordial and on such deep grounds

of character, that the dialogue, on the slightest ad-

ditional incident in the plot, rises naturally into

poetry. Among many texts take the following. The

Roman Martins has conquered Athens,— all but

the invincible spirits of Sophocles, the duke of Ath-

ens, and Dorigen, his wife. The beauty of the

232 HEROISM.

latter inflames Martins, and he seeks to save hei

husband ; but Sophocles will not ask his life, al-

though 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, 't is 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 't is to die ?

Soph. Thou dost not, Martins,

And, therefore, not what 't is 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. 'T is 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 't will do.

Val. But art not grieved nor vexed to leave tiiy life thus!

Soph. Why should I grieve or vex for being sent

To them I ever loved best ? Now I '11 kneel,

But with my back toward thee: 't is the last duty

This trunk can do the gods.

Mar. Strike, strike, Valerius,

Or Martins* heart will leap out at his mouth.

HEROISM. 238

This is a man, a woman. Kiss thy lord,

And'Jire \fith all the freedom you were wont.

love! thou doubly hast afflicted meWith virtue and with beauty. Treacherous hearty

My hand shall cast thee quick into my urn,

Ere thou transgress this knot of piety.

Val. What ails my brother ?

Soph. Martins, O Martins,

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 captivated me.

And though my arm hath ta'en liis body here,

His sold hath subjugated Martius' soul.

By Romulus, he is all soul, I think;

He hath no flesh, and spirit camiot be gyved,

Then we have vanquished nothing; he is free,

And Martius walks now in captivity."

1 do not readily remember any poem, play, ser-

mon, 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*

234 HEROISM.

acter, has suffered no heroic trait in his favorites \a

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 readc

And Simon Ockley's History of the Saracens re-

counts the prodigies of individual valor, with admi-

ration all the more evident on the part of the narra-

tor that he seems to think that his place in Christian

Oxford requires of him some proper protestations

of abhorrence. But if we explore the literature of

Heroism we shall quickly '^.ome 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 theorists.

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 mora

than books of political science or of private econ*

omy. Life is a festival only to the wise. Seen from

the nook and chimney-side of prudence, it wears a

ragged and dangerous front. The violations of the

laws of nature by our predecessors and our contem-

poraries are punished in us also. The disea^s^ aD<^'>

HEROISM. 235

Aetonnity around us certify the infraction of natural,

intellectual and moral laws, and often violation on

violation to breed such compound misery. A lock-

jaw that bends a man's head back to his heels ; hy»

drophobia that makes him bark at his wife and

babes ; insanity that makes him eat grass ; war.

plague, cholera, famine, indicate a certain ferocity

in nature, which, as it had its inlet by human crime,

must have its outlet by human suffering. Unhap-

pily 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 common-

wealth 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 oi

his speech and the rectitude of his behavior.

Towards all this external evil the man within

the breast assumes a warlike attitude, and affirms

his abUity 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

286 HEROISM.

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. Neverthe-

less we must profoundly revere it. There is some-

what 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 dif-

ferent breeding, different religion and greater in-

tellectual activity would have modified or even re-

versed 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 qual-

ity in him that is negligent of expense, of health,

of life, of danger, of hatred, of reproach, and knows

that his wiU is higher and more excellent than aU

aotnal and all possible antagonists.

Heroism works in contradiction to the voice of

HEROISM. 237

mankind and in contradiction, for a time, to the

voice of the great and good. Heroism is an obedi-

ence to a secret impulse of an individual's charac-

ter. Now to no other man can its wisdom appeal

as it does to him, for every man must be supposed

to see a little farther 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.

SeK-trust is the essence of heroism. It is the

state of the soul at war, and its ultima.te 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, gener-

ous, hospitable, temperate, scornful of petty calcula-

tions 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, quap

238 HEROISM.

rels, cards and custard, wliich rack the wit of all

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 inno-

cently, works in it so headlong and believing, is

born red, and dies gray, arranging his toilet, at-

tending 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 lit-

tle 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

tiote how many pairs of silk stockings thou hast,

namely, these and those that were the peach-col-

ored 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 receiving strangers

ftt their fireside, reckon narrowly the loss of time

and the unusual display ; the soul of a better qual-

ity thrusts back the unseasonable 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 heroio

extreme in the hospitality of Sogd, in Bukharia.

HEROISM. 239

•* 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 rea-

son, 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 re-

ception 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 coun-

try." The magnanimous know very well that they

who give time, or money, or shelter, to the stran^

ger,— so it be done for love and not for ostenta-

tion,— do, as it were, put God under obligation to

them, so perfect are the compensations of the uni-

'^erse. In some way the time they seem to lose is

redeemed and the pains they seem to take remuner^

ate 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 pidls down the host. The brave

soul rates itself too high to value itself by the

splendor of its table and draperies. It gives whai

it hath, and all it hath, but its own majesty can

lend a better grace to bannocks and fair water thai

belong to city feasts.

The temperance of the hero proceeds from the

same wish to do no dishonor to the worthiness ha

240 HEROISM.

has. But he loves it for its elegancy, not for its

austerity. It seems not worth his while to be sol-

emn and denounce with bitterness flesh-eating or

wine - drinking, the use of tobacco, or opium, ot

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 remem-

ber, 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 per-

ception that virtue is enough. Poverty is its orna-

ment. It does not need plenty, and can very well

abide its loss.

But that which takes my fancy most in the he«

ipoic class, is the good-humor and hilarity they ex«

HEROISM. 241

hibii. It is a height to which common duty can

very well attain, to suffer and to dare with solem-

nity. 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 pecidation, refuses to do him-

self 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's condemnation of himself to be main-

tained 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 any thing 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 ciun-

bered the earth long thousands of years. Simple

hearts put all the history and customs of this world

behind them, and play their own game in innocent

Y6U VL 16

242 HEROISM.

defiance of the Blue-Laws of the world ; and sucli

would appear, could we see the human race assem-

bled in vision, like little children frolicking to-

gether, 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 de-

light 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 domesti-

cating 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 su-

perstitious associations with places and times, with

number and size. Why should these words, Athe-

nian, Eoman, 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 Bos-

ton Bay you think paltry places, and the ear loves

m mes of foreign and classic topography. But

ht re we are ; and, if we will tarry a little, we may

C(/me to learn that here is best. See to it only that

thyself is here, and art and nature, hope and fate,

Ci-iRods, angels and the Supreme Being shall not bf

HEROISM. 243

absent from the chamber where thou sittest. Epam-

inondas, 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 Washing-

ton to tread, and London streets for the feet of Mil-

ton. 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 perform-

ance in actual life was not extraordinary. When^e see their air and mien, when we hear them

speak of society, of books, of religion, we admire

their superiority ; 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 al*

244 HEROISM.

ways make the Actual ridiculous ; but the tougli

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

r-alor and a purer truth shaU one day organize

their belief. Or why should a woman liken her-

self to any historical woman, and think, because

Sappho, or S^vign^, or De Stael, or the cloistered

Bouls who have had genius and cultivation do not

satisfy the imagination and the serene Themis, none

can,— certainly 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 soid, 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;

friend, never strike sail to a fear I Come into

port greatly, or sail with God the seas. Not in

Tain you live, for every passing eye is cheered and

refined by the vision.

HEROISM. 245

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

common, 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 extrava-

gant and broken the monotony of a decorous age.

It was a high counsel that I once heard given 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 of-

fice to my fellow-creature. Has nature convenanted

with me that I should never appear to disadvan-

tage, never make a ridiculous figure? Let us bd

246 HEROISM.

generous of our dignity as well as o£ 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 capi-

tal blunder ; as you discover when another man re-

cites his charities.

To speak the truth, even with some austerity, to

live with some rigor of temperance, or some ex-

tremes 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 brotherhood with the great multitude of suf-

fering men. And not only need we breathe and

exercise the soul by assuming the penalties of absti-

nence, 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

shis 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 opin.

HEROISM. 247

ion. But whoso is heroic will always find crises

io try his edge. Human virtue demands her cham-

pions and martyrs, and the trial of persecution al-

ways 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 himself in those courses he ap-

proves. The unremitting retention of simple and

high sentiments 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 happened to men may be*

fall 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 in-

quire how fast he can fix his sense of duty, braving

such penalties, whenever it may please the next

newspaper and a sufficient number of his neighbors

to pronounce his opinions incendiary.

It may calm the apprehension of calamity in the

most susceptible heart to see how quick a bound

Kature has set to the utmost infliction of malice.

248 HEROISM.

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 shaU 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 endeavor ? Who that sees the

meanness of our politics but inly congratulates

Washington 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 subju-

gated 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 curi-

ous complacency the speedy term of his own con-

versation with finite nature ? And yet the love

that wiU be annihilated sooner than treacherous

has already made death impossible, and affirms it-

self no mortal but a native of the deeps of absolute

and inextinguishable being.

THE OVER-SOUL.

"Bjrt souls that of his own good life partake,

He loves as his own self ; dear as his eye

They are to Him : He '11 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 irith«

Every quality and pith

Surcharged and sultry with a power

That works ita will on age and hour.

THE OVER-SOUL.

INHERE 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

t'onstrains us to ascribe more reality to them than

to all other experiences. For this reason the argu-

ment which is always forthcoming 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. Wegrant 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 ? Whatis the universal sense of want and ignorance, but

the fine innuendo by which the soid makes its enor-

mous claim ? Why do men feel that the natural

history of man has never been written, but he is al«

ways leaving behind what you have said of him, and

t becomes old, and books of metaphysics worthless f

252 THE OVER'SOUL,

The philosophy of six thousand years has ndsearched 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 incalcidable may not balk the very next

moment. I am constrained every moment to ac-

knowledge 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

l6ok 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 prophet 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 con-

futes our tricks and talents, and constrains every

THE OVER-SOUL, 253

•ne to pass for what he is, and to speak from his

character and not from his tongue, and which ever-

more 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, o^

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

Baith. 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 in-

spire 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, ii

254 THE OVER-SOUL.

I may not use sacred, to indicate the heaven of this

deity and to report what hints I have collected of

the transcendent simplicity and energy of the High-

est 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 distant notice,— we shall catch

many hints that will broaden and lighten into knowl-

edge 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 pos-

sessed 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, counting

man, does not, as we know him, represent himself,,

but misrepresents himself. Him we do not re

spect, but the soul, whose organ he is, would he lei

THE OVER-SOUL. 255

Hi appear through his action, would make our knees

bend. When it breathes through his intellect, it is

genius ; when it breathes through his wQl, it is vir-

tue ; when it flows through his affection, it is love.

And the blindness of the intellect begins when it

would be something of itself. The weakness 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 prevades and contains us. Weknow 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 omheads and the infinite heavens, so is there no bar o\

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

Uo 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

k made known by its independency of those limit*

266 THE Ol'^R-SOUL.

tions which circumscribe us on every hand. The

Boul circumscribes all things. As I have said,

it contradicts all experience. 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 sporta

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 poetry

or a profound sentence, and we are refreshed ; or

produce a volume of Plato or Shakspeare, or re-

mind us of their names, and instantly we come into

a feeling of longevity. See how the deep divine

thought reduces centuries and millenniums, anc'

THE OVER-SOUL 257

makes itself present through all ages. Is the teach-

ing 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 im

mensely sundered stars to one concave sphere. Andso 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 institu-

tion 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, leav-

ing 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 flow-

ing robe in which she is clothed.

VOL. n. 17

258 THE OVER-SOUL.

After its own law and not by arithmetic is tli«

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 repre-

sented by metamorphosis, — from the Qgg to the

worm, from the worm to the fly. The growths of

genius are of a certain total character, 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 par*

ticular 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 ; re*

quires justice, but justice is not that ; requires be*

aeficence, but is somewhat better ; so that there ig

a, kind of descent and accommodation felt when w%

THE OVER-SOuL. 259

(eave speaking of moral nature to urge a virtue

which it enjoins. To the well-born child all the vir-

tues are natural, and not painfully acquired. Speak

to his heart, and the man becomes suddenly virtuous.

Within the same sentiment is the germ of intel

lectual growth, which obeys the same law. Those

who are capable of humility, of justice, of love, of

aspiration, stand already on a platform that com

mands the sciences and arts, speech and poetry, ac^

tion and grace. For whoso dwells in this moral

beatitude already anticipates those special powers

which men prize so highly. The lover has no tal-

ent, no skill, which passes for quite nothing with

his enamored maiden, however little she may pos-

sess of related faculty ; and the heart which aban-

dons itself to the Supreme Mind finds itself related

to all its works, and will travel a royal road to par-

ticular 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 antici

pate the universe, which is but a slow effect.

One mode of the divine teaching is the incarna-

tion 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

obedienoe to the great, instincts to which I live. J

260 THE OVER-SOUL.

see its presence to them. I am certified of a coi»

mon 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, ha«

tred, fear, admiration, pity ; thence come conver-

sation, 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 aU the world in them.

But the larger experience of man discovers the

identical nature appearing through them aU. Per-

sons themselves acquaint us with the impersonal.

In all conversation between two persons tacit ref-

erence 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 solemrity. All are conscious of attaining

to a higher 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 ouJ*

rzrz ovER-souL. 261

Drdinary education often labors to silence and ob'

struct. 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 every-

where, 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 peo*

pie 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. 1

feel the same truth how often in my trivial conver-

sation with my neighbors, 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

^.ean service to the world, for which they forsake

their native nobleness, they resemble those Arabian

eheiks who dwell in mean houses and affect an ex.

ternal poverty, to escape the rapacity of the Pacha,

262 THE OVER-SOUL.

and reserve all their display of wealth for their in-

terior 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 accomplishments and my money stead

me nothing ; but as much soul as I have avails. If

1 am wilful, he sets his wiU 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.

W^e know truth when we see it, let skeptic and

scoffer say what they choose. Foolish people ask

you, when you have spoken what they do not

vfi^h. 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 sen-

tence of Emanuel Swedenborg, which would alone

indicate the greatness of that man's perception, —" It is no proof of a man's understanding to be able

to affirm whatever he pleases ; but to be able to dis-

cern that what is true is true, and that what is

false is false,— this is the mark and character of

THE OVER-SOUL. 283

intelligence." In the book I read, the good

thought returns to me, as every truth will, the im-

age of the whole soul. To the bad thought which

I tind in it, the same soul becomes a discerning,

separating sword, and lops it away. We are wisei

than we know. If we will not interfere with our

thought, but will act entirely, or see how the 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 omniscience through us over things.

But beyond this recognition of its own in partic-

ular passages of the individual's experience, it also

reveals truth. And here we should seek to rein-

force 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 some-

what 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 individual rivulet before the flow

264 THE OVER-SOUL.

ing surges of the sea of life. Every distinct api

prehension 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 separated 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

invaded 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 duration of this enthusiasm vary

with the state of the individual, from an ecstasy

and trance and prophetic inspiration, — which is

its rarer appearance, — to the faintest glow of vir-

tuous emotion, in which form it warms, like our

household fires, aU the families and associations of

men, and makes society possible. A certain ten-

dency 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, the vision of

Porphyry, the conversion of Paul, the aurora of

Behmen, the convulsions of George Fox and his

Quakers, the illumination of Swedenborg, are of this

kind. What was in the case of these remarkable

THE OVER-SOUL. 265

persons a ravishment, has, in innumerable in-

stances in common life, been exhibited in less strik-

ing manner. Everywhere the history of religion

betrays a tendency to enthusiasm. The rapture of

the Moravian and Quietist ; the opening of the

eternal 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 de-

light with which the individual soul always mingles

wdth 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.

Kevelation is the disclosure of the soul. The

|,opular notion of a revelation is that it is a telling

of fortunes. In past oracles of the soul the under-

standing seeks to find answers to sensual questions,

and undertakes to tell from God how long men

shall exist, what their hands shall do and who shall

he their company, adding names and dates and

places. But we must pick no locks. We must

e^eck this low curiosity. An answer in words is

delusive ; it is really no answer to the questions you

afik. Do not require a description of the countries

266 THE OVER-SOUL.

towards which you sail. The description does not

describe them to you, and to-morrow you arrive

there and know them by inhabiting them. Menask concerning the immortality of the soul, the em-

ployments 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 sublime 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 separation 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 immor-

tality of the soul as a doctrine, and maintain it by

evidences. The moment the doctrine of the immor-

tality is separately taught, man is already fallen.

In the flowing of love, in the adoration of humility,

there is no question of continuance. No inspired

man ever asks this question or condescends to these

evidences. For the soul is true to itseK, 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

THE OVER-SOUL. 267

future are a confession of sin. God has no answer

for them. No answer in words can reply to a ques-

tion 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 obtaining 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 sou)

has built and forged for itself a new condition, ana

the question 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, authentic signs had

jret passed, to signify that he might be trusted as

one who had an interest in his own character. Wesnow each other very well,— which of us has been

268 THE OVUR-SOUL.

just to himself and whether that which we teach oi

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 in-

tercourse of society, its trade, its religion, its friend-

ships, its quarrels, is one wide judicial investiga=

tion of character. In full court, or in small com-

mittee, or confronted face to face, accuser and ac-

cused, 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 verdict.

By virtue of this inevitable nature, private will

is overpowered, and, maugre our efforts or our im-

perfections, 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 never left

open, and thoughts go out of our minds through

avenues which we never voluntarily opened. Char,

acter teaches over our head. The infallible inde:^

of true progress is found in the tone the man takes,

Neither his age, nor his breeding, nor co.mpany.

THE OVER-SOUL. 269

nor books, nor actions, nor talents, 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 sentences, 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 aU the

disguises of ignorance, of ungenial temperament,

of unfavorable circumstance. The tone of seeking

is one, and the tone of having is another.

The great distinction between teachers sacred or

literary, — between poets like Herbert, and poets

like Pope, — between philosophers like Spinoza,

Kant and Coleridge, and philosophers like Locke,

Paley, Mackintosh and Stewart, — between men of

ihe world who are reckoned accomplished talkers,

and here and there a fervent mystic, prophesying

half insane under the infinitude of his thought, —

'

is that one class speaky^om loithin^ or from expe-

rience, as parties and possessors of the fact ; and

the other classy^om without^ as spectators merely,

or perhaps as acquainted with the fact on the evi-

dence of third persons. It is of no use to preach

to me from without. I can do that too easily my-

self. Jesus speaks always from within, and in a

degree tliat transcends all others. In that is the

miracle. I believe beforehand that it ought so to

270 THE OVER-SOUL

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 confess

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 il-

luminated class of men are no doubt superior to

literary fame, and are not writers. Among the

multitude of scholars and authors we feel no hallow-

ing 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 over-

grown member, so that their strength is a disease.

In these instances the intellectual 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

other men. There is in aU 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 Spea

•er, iD Shakspeare, in Milton. They are content

THE OVER-SOUl. 271

w^ith truth. They use the positive degree. They

seem frigid and phlegmatic to those who have been

spiced with the frantic passion and violent color-

ing of inferior but popular writers. For they are

poets by the free course which they allow to the in-

forming soul, which through their eyes beholds

again and blesses the things which it hath made.

The soul is superior 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 com-

positions. 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 intelligent activ-

ity as to suggest a wealth which beggars his own ;

and we then feel that the splendid 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 travel-

ler 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 possession. It

somes to the lowly and simple ; it comes to whom-

soever will put off what is foreign and proud ; ill

272 THE OVER-SOUL,

comes as insight ; it comes as serenity and gran-

deur. When we see those whom it inhabits, we are

apprised 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 pleas-

ing, poetic circumstance,— the visit to Rome, the

man of genius they saw, the brilliant friend they

know ; still further on perhaps the gorgeous land-

scape, the mountain lights, the moimtain 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 mo-

ment 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

THE OVER-SOUL. 273

tttterances are worthiest to be written, yet are they

BO 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 con-

fession and omniscient affirmation.

Souls such as these treat you as gods would, walk

as gods in the earth, accepting without any admira-

tion 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 re-

buke their plain fraternal bearing casts on the mutual flattery 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 con-

front them, a king to a king, without ducking or

eoncession, and give a high nature the refreshment

and satisfaction of resistance, of plain humanity, of

even companionship and of new ideas. They leave

YOL. II. 18

274 THE OVER-SOUL.

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 compli-

ment you can pay. Their " highest praising,"

said Milton, " is not flattery, and their plainest ad-

vice 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 seK

is new and unsearchable. It inspires awe and aston-

ishment. 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 conviction, but the sight, that the

best is the true, and may in that thought easily dis-

miss all particular uncertainties and fears, and ad-

journ to the sure revelation of time the solution of

bis private riddles. He is sure that his welfare \%

dear to the heart of being. In the presence of la*

THE OVER-SOUL. 275

to his mind he is overflowed with a reliance so uni-

rersal 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

fo\xv 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 wdth eagerness to

go and render 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 by-

word that belongs to thee for aid or comfort, shall

Burely come home through open or winding pas-

sages. Every friend whom not thy fantastic will

but the great and tender heart in thee craveth,

shall lock thee in his embrace. And this because

the heart in thee is the heart of all ; not a valve,

'aot a wall, not an intersection is there anywhere in

nature, but one blood rolls uninterruptedly an end-

2T'f) THE OVER-SOUL.

less circulation through all men, as the water of

the globe is all one sea, and, truly seen, its tide i?

one.

Let man then learn the revelation of all nature

and all thought to his heart ; this, namely ; that the

Highest dwells with him ; that the sources of na-

ture 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 him-

self 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 ^odgarly stands on numbers of believers.

Whenever the appeal is made,— no matter how in-,

directly,— 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 shaU

dare to come in? When I rest in perfect humility,

when I bum 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 au-

thority is not faith. The reliance on authority

measures the decline of religim, the withdrawal of

ttie soul. The position men have given to Jesus^

THE OVER-SOUL. 277

now for many centuries of history, is a position of

authority. It characterizes themselves. It cannot

alter the eternal 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 experi-

ence, 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 faUs by a law inferior to, and

dependent on, its nature. Behold, it saith, I am

278 THE OVER-SOUL.

born Into the great, the universal mind. I, the in*

perfect, adore my own Perfect. I am someho\i

receptive of the great soul, and thereby I do over<

look 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 en-

ter into me, and I become public and human in myregards and actions. So come I to live in thoughts

and act with energies which are inmaortal. 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 profane his-

tory ; that all history is sacred ; that the universe is

represented in an atom, in a moment of time. HewiU weave no longer a spotted life of shreds and

patches, but he will live with a divine unity. Hewill 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 fm

ture in the bottom of the heart.

CIRCLES.

^ATlTRE centres into baUa^

And her proud ephemerals

Fast to surface and outside,

Scan tlie profile of the spheffg.

Sjiew they what that signifie;^

A new genesis were here.

aRCLES.

The eye is the first circle ; the horizon whicb il

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 readinfj the co-

pious sense of this first of forms. One moral W6

have already deduced in considering the circular or

compensatory character of every human action.

Another analogy we shall now trace, that every ac-

tion admits of being outdone. Our life is an ap-

prenticeship to the truth that around every circle

another can be drawn ; that there is no end in na-

ture, but every end is a beginning ; that there is

always another dawn risen on mid-noon, and imder

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

282 CIRCLES,

the inspirer and the condemner of every success,

may conveniently serve us to connect many illus-

trations 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 predom-

inance 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

;

nere and there a solitary figure or fragment re-

maining, 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 some-

what else. The Greek letters last a little longer,

but are already passing under the same sentence

and tumbling into the inevitable pit which the cre-

ation 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 use-

less by hydraulics; fortifications, by gunpowder .-

roads and canals, by railways ; sails, by steam

;

Bteam by electricity.

You admire this tower of granite, weathering the

CIRCLES. 283

hurts of so many ages. Yet a little waving hand

built tins 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. Everj

thing looks permanent until its secret is known. Arich 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 til-

lage, 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. Na-

ture looks provokingly stable and secular, but it

has a cause like all the rest ; and when once I com-

prehend that, will these fields stretch so immovably

wide, these leaves hang so individually considera-

ble ? Permanence is a word of degrees. Every

thing is medial. Moons are no more bounds to

spiritual power than bat-baUs.

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 show-

ing him a new idea which commands his own. The

life of man is a self-evolving circle, which, from s(

284 CIRCLES.

ring imperceptibly small, rushes on all sides out-

wards to new and larger circles, and that without

end. The extent to which this generation of cir-

cles, 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 in-

stance 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 at-

tempt 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 se-

ries. Every general law only a particular fact of

some more general law presently to disclose itself.

There is no outside, no inclosing wall, no circum-

ference 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 cir-

cle 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 forthr

CIRCLES. 285

fvith 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 generaliza-

tion. 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. Menwalk 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 contra^

dieted 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 ot

scepticism. 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 rev-

elation 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 r«fin€

and raise thy theory of matter just as much.

286 CIRCLES.

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 believes that he has a greater possi.

bility.

Our moods do not believe in each other. To-day

[ 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 nat-

ural 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

}n nature ; I am a weed by the wall.

The continual effort to raise himself above him-

self, to work a pitch above his last height, betrays

itself in a man's relations. "We thirst for approba-

tion, yet cannot forgive the approver. The sweet

of nature io love ; yet if I have a friend I am tor«

mented by my imperfections. The love ofme accuses

the other party. If he were high enough to slight

CIRCLES. 287

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 myfriends, why should I play with them this game of

idolatry? I know and see too well, when not vol-

untarily 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. Oblessed 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 ? Mencease 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 expressionr

of one law. Aristotle and Plato are reckoned the

Wwpoctive heads of 4wo schools. A wise man will

288 CIRCLES.

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 generaliza-

tion. Generalization is always a new influx of the

divinity into the mind. Hence the thrill that at

tends it.

Valor consists in the power of self-recovery, st

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 ac-

ceptance of it from whatever quarter ; the intrepid

conviction that his laws, his relations to society,

his Christianity, his world, may at any time be su

perseded and decease.

CIRCLES. 289

There are degrees in idealism. We learn firs^

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 good-

ness 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 culture would instantly revolutionize the

entire system of human pursuits.

Conversation is a game of circles. In conversa-

tion we pluck up the termini which bound the com-

mon 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-mor-

VOL. u. . 19

290 CIRCLES.

row 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 sjrmbols 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

DLanifest. 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

Bwift circumscription ! Good as is discourse, si-

lence is better, and shames it. The length of tl^

CIRCLES. 291

discourse indicates the distance of thought betwixt

the speaker and the hearer. If they were at a per-

fect understanding in any part, no words would be

necessary thereon. If at one in aU parts, no words

would be suffered.

Literature is a point outside of our hodiernal cir-

cle 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. Wefill ourselves with ancient learning, install ourselves

the best we can in Greek, in Punic, in Roman

houses, only that we may wiselier see French, Eng-

lish 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 weU seen

from within the field. The astronomer must have

iiis 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 Divin-

ity, 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

292 CIRCLES.

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 pas-

tures, 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 sy»

CIRCLES. 293

tcm of concentric circles, and we now and then de-

tect in nature slight dislocations which apprise us

that this surface on which we now stand is not

fixed, but sliding. These manifold tenacious qual-

ities, this chemistry and vegetation, these metals

?.nd 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

naturalist or chemist learned his craft, who has ex-

plored the gravity of atoms and the elective affini-

ties, who has not yet discerned the deeper law

whereof this is only a partial or approximate state-

ment, 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 approximate also, and not final.

Omnipresence is a higher fact. Not through subtle

subterranean channels need friend and fact be

drawn to their counterpart, but, rightly considered,

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 aU

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 wiU

be so much deduction from his grandeur. But it

behooves each to see, when he sacrifices prudence.

294 CIRCLES.

to what god jbe 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 faU 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 express-

ing 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 transcendentalism 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 con-

sists in paying debts, and has no measure in his ab-

horrence of another who is very remiss in this duty

CIRCLES. 295

and makes the creditor wait tediously. But that

second man has his own way of looking at thingsj

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 gen-

ius 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 pay-

ment of moneys. Let me live onward;you shall

find that, though slower, the progress of my charac-

ter will liquidate all these debts without injustice

to higher claims. If a man should dedicate him-

self to the payment of notes, would not this be in-

justice ? Does he owe no debt but money ? And

are all claims on him to be postponed to a land-

lord'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 mast cast

away our virtues, or what we have always esteemed

such, into the same pit that has consumed oul

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 tha^

296 CIRCLES.

they abolish our contritions also. I accuse myseli

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

omnipresence 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 Pyr-

rhonism, at an equivalence and indifferency of all

actions, and would fain teach us that ifwe 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 amgladdened by seeing the predominance of the sac-

charine 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 self-

ishness 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

CIRCLES, 297

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 ex-

periment, an endless seeker with no Past at my

fcack.

Yet this incessant movement and progression

which all things partake could never become sensi*

ble to us but by contrast to some principle of fix

ture or stability in the soul. Whilst the eternal

generation of circles proceeds, the eternal geTierator

abides. That central life is somewhat superior to

creation, superior to knowledge and thought, and

contains all its circles. Forever 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. Whyshould 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. Wecall it by many names,— fever, intemperance, in-

sanity, stupidity and crime ; they are all forms of

old age ; they are rest, conservatism, appropriation,

inertia ; not newness, Aot the way onward. Wegrizzle every day. I see no need ot it. Whilst we

sonrerse with what is above us, we do not grow

898 CIRCLES,

old, but grow young. Infancy, youth, receptive, as.

piring, 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 renounce 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 energiz-

ing spirit. No love can be bound by oath or cove-

nant 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-mor-

row, 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,

ae hideth , they are incalculable. I can know that

CIRCLES. 29?

truth is divine and helpful; but how it shall help

me I can have no guess, for so to he is the sole in-

let of so to know. The new position of the advanc-

ing 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 forti-

fies 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 hadi

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 over^

come ; 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 con*

300 CIRCLES.

quest is the causing the calamity to fade and disap.

pear as an early cloud of insignificant result in a

history so large and advancing.

The one thing which we seek with insatiable de-

sire is to forget ourselves, to be surprised out of our

propriety, to lose our sempiternal memory and to

do something without knowing how or why ; in

fthort 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 gen-

ius 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

cpium and alcohol are the semblance and counter-

feit of this oracular genius, and hence their danger-

ous 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 generosi-

ties of the heart.

INTELLECT.

Go, speed the stars of Thought

On to their shining goals ;—

The sower scatters broad his seec

The wheat thou strew'st be souls

XL

INTELLECT.

Every substance is negatively electric to that

which stands above it in the chemical tables, posi-

tively to that which stands below it. Water dis-

solves wood and iron and salt; air dissolves water;

electric fire dissolves air, but the intellect dissolves

lire, gravity, laws, method, and the subtlest un-

named relations of nature in its resistless men-

struum. Intellect lies behind genius, which is intel-

lect constructive. Intellect is the simple power an-

terior 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 es»

sence? The first questions are always to be asked,

and the wisest doctor is gravelled by the inquisi-

tiveness of a child. How can we speak of the ac-

tion 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 ijv

304 INTELLECT.

Its vision is not like the vision of the eye, but )S

union with the things known.

Intellect and intellection signify to the common

ear consideration of abstract truth. The consider-

ations of time and place, of you and me, of profit

and hurt tyrannize over most men's minds. Intel-

lect 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 / and mine. He who is immersed in what con-

cerns person or place cannot see the problem of

existence. This the intellect always ponders. Na-

ture shows all things formed and bound. The in-

tellect pierces the form, overleaps the wall, detects

intrinsic likeness between remote things and re-

duces 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

INTELLECT. 305

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, im-

prisoned in mortal life, lies open to the mercy of

coming events. But a truth, separated by the in-

tellect, is no longer a subject of destiny. We be-

hold 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 em-

balmed. A better art than that of Egypt has

taken fear and corruption out of it. It is eviscer-

ated of care. It is offered for science. What is

addressed to us for contemplation does not threaten

us but makes us intellectual beings.

The growi;h of the intellect is spontaneous in

every expansion. The mind that grows could not

predict the times, the means, the mode of that spon^

taneity. 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 af-

ter 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

VOL. II. 20

306 INTELLECT.

In the most worn, pedantic, introverted self-tormen.

tor's life, the greatest part is incalculable by him^

unforeseen, unimaginable, and must be, until he can

take himseK up by his own ears. What am I ?

What has my wiU done to make me that I am ?

Nothing. I have been floated into this thought,

this hour, this connection of events, by secret cur-

rents 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 direc-

tion given by our wiU, as by too great negligence.

We do not determine what we will think. Weonly open our senses, clear away as we can all ob-

struction 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 faU out of that rapture, be^

INTELLECT. 307

think 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 at-

tempt to correct and contrive, it is not truth.

If we consider what persons have stimulated and

profited us, we shall perceive the superiority of the

spontaneous or intuitive principle over the arith-

metical 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

proportionate unfolding of the intuition ; but its

virtue is as silent method; the moment it would

appear as propositions and have a sej^arate 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 il-

lustrate to him important laws. All our progress

is an imfolding, 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 in-

stinct 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.

308 INTELLECT.

Each mind has its own method. A true man

never acquires after college rules. What you have

aggregated in a natural manner surprises and de-

lights when it is produced. For we cannot oversee

each other's secret. And hence the differences

between men in natural endowment are insignifi-

cant in comparison with their common wealth. Doyou think the porter and the cook have no anec-

dotes, 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 think-

ing 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 ( ulture. At last

comes the era of reflection, when we not only ob

serve, 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 con-

verse, 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

INTELLECT. 30^

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 mac

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. Weall 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 can-

not 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 unan-

nounced, 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 na-

ture 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 youi brains, and now you

must forbear your activity and see what the great

8oul showeth.

The immortality of man is as legitimately

810 INTELLECT.

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 per-

sons is not in wisdom but in art. I knew, in an ac-

ademical club, a person who always deferred to me

;

who, seeing my whim for writing, fancied that myexperiences 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 thai

INTELLECT. Bll

he possessed a strange skill of using, of classify-

ing his facts, which we lacked. For notwithstand-

ing our utter incapacity to produce anything like

Hamlet and Othello, see the perfect reception thi&

wit and immense knowledge of life and liquid ela

quence find in us all.

If you gather apples in the smishine, 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 mem-

ory, though you know it not ; and a thrill of pas-

sion 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 alwa^^s we are fishing up some won-

derful article out of that pond ; until by and by we

begin to suspect that the biography of the one fool-

ish person we know is, in reality, nothing less than

312 INTELLECT.

the miniature paraphrase of the hundred volumes

of the Universal History.

In the intellect constructive, which we popularl>^

designate by the word Genius, we observe the same

balance of two elements as in intellect receptive.

The constructive intellect produces thoughts, sen-

tences, 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 rev-

elation, always a miracle, which no frequency of

occurrence or incessant study can ever familiarize,

but which must always leave the inquirer stupid

with wonder. It is the advent of truth into the

worlds a form of thought now for the first time

bursting into the universe, a child of the old eter-

nal 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 fash-

ion 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.

INTELLECT. 313

When the spiritual energy is directed on something

outward, then it is a thought. The relation be-

tween 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 de-

scend 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 re-

spect 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 de-

tached, but lie in a web. The thought of genius

is spontaneous ; but the power of picture or expres-

sion, in the most enriched and flowing nature, im-

plies a mixture of will, a certain control over the

spontaneous states, without which no production is

possible. It is a conversion of aU nature into the

rhetoric of thought, under the eye of judgment,

with a strenuous exercise of choice. And yet the

imaginative vocabidary seems to be spontaneous

also. It does not flow from experience only or

mainly, but from a richer source. Not by any conr

314 INTELLECT.

scious 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. Whois the first drawing-master ? Without instructior

we know very well the ideal of the human form.

A child knows if an arm or a leg be distorted in £

picture ; if the attitude be natural or grand or

mean ; though he has never received any instruc-

tion in drawing or heard any conversation on the

subject, nor can himself draw with correctness a

single feature. A good form strikes all eyes pleas,

^ntly, long before they have any science on the

5ubject, and a beautiful face sets twenty hearts in

palpitation, prior to all consideration of the me.

chanical 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 I 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 awkward-

ness 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 lifelike and apt to touch

us with terror, with tenderness, with desire and

liith grief. Neither are the artist's copies from ex^

INTELLECT. 315

perience 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 memo-

•able for a long time. Yet when we write with

aase 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 in-

closures, 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 discern-

ing intellect of the world is always much in ad-

Vance of the creative, so that there are many com-

petent 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 integi'ity in

every work. This is resisted equally by a man's

devotion to a single thought and by his ambition to

^mbine too many.

Truth is our element of life, yet if a man fasten

rtis attention on a single aspect of truth and apply

31

B

INTELLECT,

himself to that alone for a long time, the truth "be*

comes 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 sin-

gle topic. It is incipient insanity. Every thought

is a prison also. I cannot see what you see, be-

cause 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 of-

fence and to liberalize himself, aims to make a me-

chanical 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 ana-

lyzed 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 en-

cyclopaedia the net value of all the theories at which

the world has yet arrived. But year after year oui

tables get no completeness, and at last we discover

that our curve is a parabola, whose arcs will nevei

meet.

INTELLECT. 317

Neither by detachment neither by aggregation

is the integrity of the intellect transmitted to its

works, but by a vigilance which brings the intel-

lect 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 woild reappear

in miniature in every event, so that all the laws of

nature may be read in the smallest fact. The in-

tellect must have the like perfection in its appre-

hension and in its works. For this reason, an in-

dex or mercury of intellectual proficiency is the per-

ception 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 lodg-

ing and table. But the poet, whose verses are to

be spheral and complete, is one whom Nature can-

not deceive, whatsoever face of strangeness she may

put on. He feels a strict consanguinity, and de-

tects 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

w^as reflected to us from natural objects ; and the

818 INTELLECT.

profound genius will cast the likeness of all crear

tures 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 wor-

ship 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 j)re-

dominates wiU accept the first creed, the first phi-

losophy, 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 him-

self aloof from all moorings, and afloat. He will

abstain from dogmatism, and recognize all the op-

posite negations between which, as walls, his being

is swung. He submits to the inconvenience of sus-

pense and imperfect opinion, but he is a candidate

for truth, as the other is not, and respects the high-

est law of his being.

INTELLECT. 319

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 lim-

its to my nature. The suggestions are thousand-

fold 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 Soc-

rates 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

ehe more inclination and respect. The ancient sen-

tence 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 imiversal. Every

roan's progress is through a succession of teachers,

each of whom seems at the time to have a superla-

tive 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.

820 INTELLECT.

Who leaves all, receives more. This is as true in-

tellectually as morally. Each new mind we ap-

proach 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 Sweden-,

borg, 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, be-

cause it is not his own. Entire self-reliance be-

longs to the intellect. One soul is a counterpoise

of all souls, as a capillary column of water is a bal-

ance for the sea. It must treat things and books

and sovereign genius as itself also a sovereign. If

^schylus 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 ap«

INTELLECT. 321

prove himself a master of delight to me also. 1\

he cannot do that, all his fame shall avail him noth-

ing with me. I were a fool not to sacrifice a thou-

sand ^schyluses to my intellectual integrity. Es-

pecially 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 see-

ing, 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 an-

other 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 recon-

dite, 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 pre-

sume 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 se-

questered class who have been its prophets and ora

VOL. u. 21

322 INTELLECT.

cies, the high-priesthood of the pure reason, the

Trismegisii^ 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 par-

venues and popular ; for " persuasion is in soul,

but necessity is in intellect." This band of gran-

dees, Hermes, Heraclitus, Empedocles, Plato, Plo-

tinus, Olympiodorus, Proclus, Synesius and the

rest, have somewhat so vast in their logic, so pri-

mary in their thinking, that it seems antecedent to

all the ordinary distinctions of rhetoric and litera-

ture, and to be at once poetry and music and danc-

ing 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 com-

mands 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 se-

renity 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

INTELLECT, 323

thing in the world, they add thesis to thesis, with-

out 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 enamored 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.

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 sweHi

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

XII.

AKT.

Because the soul is progressive, it never quite

repeats itself, but in every act attempts the produc*

tion of a new and fairer whole. This appears in

works both of the useful and 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 land-

scapes 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 ex-

presses 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 in-

scribe the character and not the features, and must

esteem the man who sits to him as himself only ao

328 ART.

imperfect picture or likeness of the aspiring origi-

nal within.

What is that abridgment and selection we ob-

serve in all spiritual activity, but itself the crea-

tive impulse? for it is the inlet of that higher illu-

mination which teaches to convey a larger sense

by simpler symbols. What is a man but nature's

finer success in self-explication ? What is a man

but a finer and compacter landscape than the hori-

zon 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 over-

powers 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 In-

evitable, the Divine. No man can quite exclude

this element of Necessity from his labor. No man

can quite emancipate himself from his age and

ART, 329

country, or produce a model in which the educa^

tion, 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 in-

dividual talent can ever give, inasmuch as the ar-

tist's pen or chisel seems to have been held and

gTiided 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 hu-

man 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 his-

tory ; as a stroke drawn in the portrait of that fate,

perfect and beautiful, according to whose ordina-

tions all beings advance to their beatitude ?

Thus, historically viewed, it has been the office

of art to educate the perception of beauty. We are

330 ART

immersed in beauty, but our eyes bave no clear vi

sion. 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 deal-

ing with one at a time. Love and all the passions

concentrate all existence around a single form. It

is the habit of certain minds to give an all-exclud-

ing 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 or-

ators, the leaders of society. The power to detach

and to magnify by detaching is the essence of rhet-

oric in the hands of the orator and the poet. This

rhetoric, or power to ^ 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 con-

templates. For every object has its roots in ceiv

ART. 331

tral 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 itseK. 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 dis-

covery. 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 ob-

jects, 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 than the

frescoes of Angelo. From this succession of excel-

lent 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

332 ART,

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 *• land-

scape with figures " amidst which we dwell. Paint-

ing seems to be to the eye what dancing is to the

limbs. When that has educated fche frame to

self-possession, to nimbleness, to grace, the steps

of the dancing-master 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 bound-

less 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;

long-haired, grizzled, white-faced, black-faced, wrin-

kled, 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,

ART, 333

so sculpture the anatomy of form. When I have

seen fine statues and afterwards enter a public as-

sembly, 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 gymnastics of the eye, its training to the nice-

ties and curiosities of its function. There is no

statue like this living man, with his infinite advan-

tage over all ideal sculpture, of perpetual variety.

What a gallery of art have I here ! No mannerist

made these varied groups and diverse original sin-

gle figures. Here is the artist himself improvising,

gi-im 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 ea-

sels, 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 abo-

riginal Power explains the traits common to all

works of the highest art,— that they are imiver-

sally intelligible ; that they restore to us the sim-

plest states of mind, and are religiouSc Since what

skill is therein shown is the reappearance of the

original soul, a jet of pure light, it should produce a

timilar impression to that made by natural objects.

In happy hours, nature appears to us one with art

334 ART.

art perfected,— the work of genius. And the irii

dividual in whom simple tastes and susceptibility

to all the great human influences overpower the ac-

cidents 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 travel-

ler who visits the Vatican and passes from cham-

ber 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 ori

gin from thoughts and laws in his own breast. He

ART. 535

studies the teclinical rules on these wonderful re-

mains, but forgets that these works were not al-

ways thus constellated ; that they are the contribu-

tions 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 hin-

dered 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. Heneed not cumber himseK with a conventional na-

ture 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 un-

painted wood cabin, on the corner of a New Hamp-

shire 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

S^6 ART.

serve as well as any other condition as the symba

of a thought which poui's itself indifferently througi

aU.

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 for-

eign wonder, barbaric pearl and gold, like the spon-

toons 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. WhenI came at last to Rome and saw with eyes the pic-

tures, 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 famil-

iar and sincere ; that it was the old, eternal fact 1

had met already in so many forms, — unto which

I lived ; that it was the plain you and mel knew

so well,— had left at home in so many conversa-

tions. 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 thai

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 camo

to Rome and to the paintings of Raphael, Angel(^

ART. 337

Bacchi, 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 travel-

ling 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 pictur-

esque. Nothing astonishes men so much as com-

mon-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 expecta-

tions ! This familiar, simple, home-speaking coun-

tenance 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 capa-

ble of being touched by simplicity and lofty emo-

tions.

Yet when we have said all our fine things about

the arts, we must end with a frank confession thai

the arts, as we know them, are but initial. Oul

VOL. u. 22

338 ART.

best praise is given to what they aimed and prom.

ised, 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 pro°

duce, 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 ad-

dresses them with a voice of lofty cheer. There is

higher work for Art than the arts. They are abor-

tive 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 mon-

sters, 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 en-

ergy. 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 uni

7ersal relation and power which the work evince(^

in the artist, and its highest effect is to make ne^

^trtists.

ART.

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 sculp-

ture, 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 Ne^vton, 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

sold and false before that new activity which needs

840 ART.

to roll through aU things, and is impatient of conn

terfeits and things not alive. Picture and sculp

ture 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 ir

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 morn-

ing, 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. Agreat man is a new statue in every attitude and ac-

tion. 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 almshouse 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 in-

trusion of such anomalous figures into nature, -«

ART. 341

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 ex-

travagances, — 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 asy-

lum from the evils of life. Men are not well

pleased with the figure they make in their own im-

aginations, and they flee to art, and convey their

better sense in an oratorio, a statue, or a picture.

A.rt makes the same effort which a sensual prosper-

ity makes ; namely to detach the beautiful from the

useful, to do up the work as unavoidable, and, hat-

ing 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 ef-

feminate, 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

tan inspire.

The art that thus separates is itself first sepa-

rated. 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

842 ART.

statue which shall be. They abhor men as taste-

less, 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

£y 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 imagi-

nation 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 func-

tions of life ? Beauty must come back to the use-

ful 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 baautiful.

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 Eng-

land or America its history in Greece. It will

come, as always, unannounced, and spring up be'

tween the feet of brave and earnest men. It is in

vain that we look for genius to reiterate its mira»

ART 343

cles 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. Pro-

ceeding from a religious heart it will raise to a di-

vine 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 self-

ish 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 At-

lantic 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. Petersburg, which plies along the Lena by

magnetism, needs little to make it sublime. Whenscience is learned in love, and its powers are

wielded by love, they will appear the supplements

l-nd continuations of the material creation.

ESSAYS

SECOND SERIES

Olympian Lards who sung

Divine ideas below,

Which always find us young.

And always keep ua so.

THE POET.

Those who are esteemed umpires of taste are

uften persons who have acquired some knowledge

of admired pictures or sculptures, and have an in-

clination 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.

us 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 doc-

trine of beauty as it lies in the minds of our ama-

teurs, 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. Wewere put into our bodies, as fire is put into a pan

to be carried about; but there is no accurate ad

,justment between the spirit and the organ, much

10 THE POET.

less is the latter the germination of the former. S<3

in regard to other forms, the intellectual men do

not believe in any essential dependence of the ma-

terial 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 con-

tract, 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, Emped-

ocles, Heraclitus, Plato, Plutarch, Dante, Swe-

denborg, 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 chil-

dren of the fire, made of it, and only the same di-

vinity 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 tho

present time.

THE POET. MThe 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 au interpreter, but the great major-

ity of men seem to be minors, who have not yei

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

12 THE POET.

does not suffer them to yield the due effect. Toe

feeble fall the impressions of nature on us to makf

us artists. Every touch should thrill. Every mai

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 with-

out impediment, who sees and handles that which

others dream of, traverses the whole scale of expe-

rience, and is representative of man, in virtue of

being the largest power to receive and to im-

part.

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, esser

tially, so that he cannot be surmounted or ana

lyzed, and each of these three has the power of the

others latent in him, and his own, patent.

THE POET. 18

The poet is the sayer, the namer, and represents

beauty. He is a sovereign, and stands on the cen-

tre. 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 cre-

ator 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 materi-

alism, which assumes that manual skill and activity

is the first merit of all men, and disparages such

as say and do not, overlooking the fa(?t thai; 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, s*»condaries

and servants ; as sitters or models in the studio of

a painter, or as assistants who bring building-mate-

rials 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 tc

14 THE POET.

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 faith-

fully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, be^

come 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 di\'ine energy. Words are also ac-

tions, 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 be-

holder of ideas and an utterer of the necessar}^ 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

Sternal man. He does not stand out of our low

TUE POET. 15

imitations, like a Chimborazo under the line, run«

ning up from a torrid base through all the climates

of the globe, with belts of the herbage of every lat-

itude on its high and mottled sides ; but this gen-

ius 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 chil-

dren of music. The argument is secondary, the

finish of the verses is primary.

For it is not metres, but a metre-making argu-

ment that makes a poem,— a thought so passionate

and alive that like the spirit of a plant or an ani-

mal 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 or-

der of genesis the thought is prior to the form. The

poet has a new thought ; he has a whole new expe-

rience to unfold ; he will tell us how it was \\dth

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 kneMJ

16 THE POET,

whither, and had written hundreds of lines, but

could not tell whether tliat 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 Kome ? Plutarch and Shak-

speare were in the yellow leaf, and Homer no more

should be heard of. It is much to know that po-

etry 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

"One 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. Amountain 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

e4ds. Mankind in good earnest have availed so fai

THE POET. IT

ji 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 un-

erring 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 I 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 transpar-

ent,— 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 ani-

mated 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 shaU

be better than my birthday : then I became an ani

mal ; now I am invited into the science of the real.

Such is the hope, but the fruition is postponed. Of-

tener it falls that this winged man, who will carry

me into the heaven, whirls me into mists, then leapi

Bnd frisks about with me as it were from cloud to

tloud, still affirming that he is bound heavenward

:

18 THE POET.

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

gTOund or the water; but the all-piercing, all-feed^

ing, 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 Lope, observe how nature, by worthier im-

pulses, has insured the poet's fidelity to his office

of ajmouncement and affirming, namely by the

beauty of things, which becomes a new and higher

beauty when expressed. Nature offers all her crea-

tures to him as a picture-language. Being used as

a type, a second wonderful value appears in the ob-

ject, far better than its old value ; as the carpen-

ter'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 be-

ing 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 ; aU condition, of the quality of

THE POET. IS

the life ; all harmony, of health •, and for this rea-

son a perception of beauty should be sympathetic,

or proper only to the good. The beautiful rests on

the foundations of the necessary. The soul make*

the body, as the wise Spenser teaches :—

** So every spirit, as it is more 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 critieai

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 Appear-

ance and Unity into Variety.

The Universe is the externization 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 nat'ores.," Therefore scienof

20 THE POET,

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-knowl-

edge. Since every thing in nature answers to a

moral power, if any phenomenon remains brute and

dark it is because 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 ali the

sense ; to the poet, and to all others ; or, ii you

please, every man is so far a poet as to be suSciep-

tible of these enchantments of nature ; for all men

have the thoughts whereof the universe is the cele-

bration. 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 af-

fection in their choice of life and not in their choice

of words. The writer wonders what the coachman

or the himter 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

lie is commanded in nature by the living power

which he feels to be there present. No imitation or

{)laying of these things would content him ; he loves

THE POET. 21

the earnest of the north wind, of rain, of stone, and

wood, and iron. A beauty not explicable is dearei

than a beauty which we can see to the end of. It

is nature the symbol, nature certifying the super-

natural, body overflowed by life which he worships

with coarse but sincere rites.

The inwardness and mystery of this attachment

irive 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 al3

poets and mystics

!

Beyond this universality of the symbolic language,

we are apprised of the divineness of this superi^C

tise o^ things, whereby the world is a temple whoM

252 THE POET.

walls are covered with emblems, pictures, and comi

mandments of the Deity,— in this, that there is nd

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 everything fit for use. The vocab-

ulary of an omniscient man would embrace words

and images excluded from polite conversation.

What would be base, or even obscene, to the ob-

scene, becomes illustrious, spoken in a new connec-

tion of thought. The piety of the Hebrew prophets

purges their grossness. The circumcision is an ex-

ample 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 need-

ful 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

ivas preparing to speak in Parliament. The poor-

est 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

^w books, a few actions, serve us as well as would

THE POET. 23

all trades and all spectacles. We are far from

having exhausted the significance of the few sym-

bols 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 usp

defects and deformities to a sacred purpose, so ex

pressing 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. Read-

ers of poetry see the factory-village and the rail-

way, 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. Be-

sides, in a centred mind, it signifies nothing how

uany mechanical inventions you exhibit. Though

£4 THE POET.

you add millions, and never so surprising*, the fact

of mechanics has not gained a grain's weight. The

spiritual fact remains unalterable, by many or by

few particulars ; as no mountain is of any appreci-

able height to break the curve of the sphere. Ashrewd 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 wam-

pum 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

;

und though all men are intelligent of the symbols

through which it is named; yet they cannot origi-

nally use them. We are symbols and inhabit sym.

bols ; workmen, work, and tools, words and things,

birth and death, all are emblems ; but we sympa.

thize with the s5rmbols, and being infatuated with

the economical uses of things, we do not know that

they are thoughts. The poet, by an ulterior intel-

lectual perception, gives them a power which makes

tiieir old use forgotten, and puts eyes and a tongue

THE POET, 25

Into every dumb and inanimate object. He per-

ceives the independence of the thought on the sym-

bol, the stability of the thought, the accidency and

fugacity of the symbol. As the eyes of Lync8eu3

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 bet-

ter 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, ges-

tation, 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. Heuses forms according to the life, and not according

to the form. This is true science. The poet alone

knows astronomy, chemistry, vegetation and anima-

tion, for he does not stop at these facts, but employs

them as signs. He knows why the plain or meadow

of space was strown 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

Uiought.

26 THE POET

By virtue of this science the poet is the Namei

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 dead-

est 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 baptize hei

but baptizes herself; and this through the meta^

morphosis again. I remember that a certain poet

iescribed it to ipe thus : -^

THE POET. 2?

Genius is the activity whicli repairs the decayl

of things, whether wholly or partly of a materia;

and finite kind. Nature, through all her king-

doms, insures herself. Nobody cares for planting

the poor fungus ; so she shakes down from the gills

of one agaric 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 de-

taches from him a new self, that the kind may be

safe from accidents to which the individual is ex-

posed. 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 acci'

dents 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) whicli

carry them fast and far, and infix them irrecovera-

bly 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

•lamorous flights of censures, which swarm io faf

28 THE POET.

greater numbers and threaten to devour them ; bu.

these last are not winged. At the end of a very

short leap they fall plump down and rot, having re-

ceived from the souls out of which they came no

beautiful wings. But the melodies of the poet as

cend 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 pro-

duction 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, imable

to tell directly what made him happy or unhappy,

but by wonderful indirections he could tell. Herose 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 himseK to his mood,

and that thought which agitated him is expressed,

but alter idem, in a manner totally new. The ex-

pression is organic, or the new type which thinga

THE POET. 2^

ftiemselves take when liberatedo As, in the sun, ob

jects 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 es-

sence 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 super-exist, in pre-can-

tations, 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. Andherein 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 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 mod*

ulate these, glide into our spirits, and we partiov

Oate the invention o£ nature ?

00 THE POET.

This insigHt, whicli expresses itself by what ia

called Imagination, is a very high sort of seeing,

which does not coro.e 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 pos-

sessed 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 un-

locking, 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,

bis speech is thunder, his thought is law, and hia

words are imiversally intelligible as the plants and

animals. The poet knows that he speaks ade-

|uately then only when he speaks somewhat wildlyj

or "* with the flower of the mind ;" not with the ta

THE POET, nlellect used as an organ, but with the intellect re-

leased from all service and suffered to take its di

rection 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 procurers of

animal exhilaration. All men avail themselves of

iuch means as they can, to add this extraordinary

power to their normal powers ; and to this end they

prize conversation, music, pictures, sculpture, danc-

ing, theatres, travelling, war, mobs, fires, gaming,

i^olitics, or love, or science, or animal intoxication,

— which are several coarser or finer g'l^asi-mechan-

Ical substitutes for the true nectar, which is the rav-

ishment of the intellect by coming nearer to the

fact. These are auxiliaries to the centrifugal ten-

dency of a man, to his passage out into free space,

%nd they help him to escape the custody of that bod^

B2 THE POET,

in which he is pent up, and of that jail-yard of m>

dividual relations in which he is enclosed. Hfence

a great number of such as were professionally ex-

pressers 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 i&^

who received the true nectar ; and, as it was a spu

rious mode of attaining freedom, as it was an eman-

cipation not into the heavens but into the freedom

of baser places, they were punished for that advan-

tage 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 sor-

ceries of opium or of wine. The sublime vision

eomes 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 wina

It is with this as it is with toys. We fill the hands

md nurseries of our children with all manner of

doUs, drums, and horses ; Avithdrawing their eyes

from the plain face and sufficing objects of nature,

ihe sun, and moon, the animals, the water, and

THE POET. 38

Stones, which should be their toys. So the poet's

habit of living should be set on a key so low 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 duU

March sun shines, comes forth to the poor and hun*

gry, and such as are of simple taste. If thou fill

thy brain with Boston and New York, with fash-

ion 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 foimd

^thin their world another world, or nest of worlds;

vou m. 3

34 THE POET.

for, the metamorpliosis once seen, we divine that it

does not stop. I will not now consider how much

this makes the charm of algebra and the mathemat

ics, 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 con-

tained ;— or when Plato defines a line to be a flow^

ing 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 af-

firms 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 Chap-

man, 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 Pro-

clus calls the universe the statue of the intellect

;

when Chaucer, in his praise of ' Gentilesse, com*

THE POET, 35

pares good blood in mean condition to fire, which,

though caTTied to the darkest house betwixt this

jnd the mount of Caucasus, will yet hold its natu-

ral office and burn as bright as if twenty thousand

men did it behold ; when John saw, in the Apoca

lypse, the ruin of the world through evil, and the

stars fall from heaven as the figtree casteth her

untimely fruit ; when ^sop reports the whole cat-

alogue of common daily relations through the mas-

querade of birds and beasts ;— we take the cheer-

ful hint of the immortality of our essence and its

versatile habit and escapes, as when the gypsies say

of themselves "it is in vain to hang them, they

cannot die."

The poets are thus liberating gods. Tlie ancient

British bards had for the title of their order,

" 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 stim-

nlating 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

Uke an insanity, let me read his paper, and you

may have all the arguments and historic.* and criti'

56 THE POET,

cism. All tlie value which attaches to Pythagoras,

Paracelsus, Cornelius Agrippa, Cardan, Kepler,

Swedenborg, Schelling, Oken, or any other who in-

troduces questionable facts into his cosmogony, as

angels, devils, magic, astrology, palmistry, mesmer-

ism, and so on, is the certificate we have of depar-

ture 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 com-

municates to the intellect the power to sap and up-

heave 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 re-

ligion, 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 ?

THE POET, 37

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

'^liains 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 intel-

lect. Therefore all books of the imagination en*

dure, all which ascend to that truth that the writer

sees nature beneath him, and uses it as his expo-

nent. Every verse or sentence possessing this vir-

tue will take care of its own immortality. The re-

ligions of the world are the ejaculations of a few

iLtiaginative 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 ob-

jects 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

6S THE POET,

for an universal one. The morning-redness hap

pens to be the favorite meteor to the eyes of Jacot

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 pre-

fers 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 whoai they are sig-

nificant. 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 ha\e

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 was 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.

1 do not know the man in history to whom things

stood so uniformly for words. Before him the

ttietamorphosis contiuually plays. Everything on

vhich his eye rests, obeys the impulses of mora*

mature. The figs become grapes whilst he eats

THE POET. 89

tfaem. 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 com-

plained of the darkness, and were compelled to

ahut the window that they might see.

There was this perception in him which makes

the poet or seer an object of awe and terror, name-

ly that the same man or society of men may wear

one aspect to themselves and their companions,

and a different aspect to higher intelligences. Cer-

tain 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, yon-

der 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 propoimded the same

question, and if any poet has witnessed the tran&

^rmation he doubtless found it in harmony with

40 THE POET,

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 sufficient

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 jdeld

as 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 auto-

biography in colossal cipher, or into universality.

We have yet had no genius in America, with tyran-

nous eye, which knew the value of our incompa-

rable 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 Calvin-

ism. 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 Del-

phi, and are as swiftly passing away. Our logroll*

ing, our stumps and their politics, our fisheries

our Kegroes and Indians, our boats and our repu

THE POET. 41

diations, the wrath of rogues and the pusillanimity

of honest men, the northern trade, the southern

planting, the western clearing, Oregon and Texas,

are yet imsung. 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 mycountrymen 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. Mil-

ton is too literary, and Homer too literal and his-

toricai.

But I am not wise enough for a national criti-

cism, 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 abundant-

ly, not dwarfishly and fragmentarily. They found

42 THE POET.

or put themselves in certain conditions, as, the

painter and sculptor before some impressive human

figures ; the orator, into the assembly of the peo-

ple ; 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 every 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 noth-

ing 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

THE POET, 4S

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 pei-sist. Say ' It is in

ne, and shall out.' Stand there, balked and dumb,

stuttering and stammering, hissed and hooted, stand

ind strive, until at last rage draw out of thee that

?rea7w-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 mean-

ing. 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. Andtherefore the rich poets, as Homer, Chaucer, Shak-

speare, 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 gToves

and pastures, and not in castles or by the sword-

blade any lon^rer. The coviditions are hard, but

44 THE POET.

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 ab-

dicate 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 re-

nunciations 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 well-beloved 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 trouble-

some to thy invulnerable essence. Thou shalt have

the whole land for thy park and manor, the sea foi

THE POET. 45

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

ulouds or »own 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 shouldst walk the world ovoTj

thou shalt not be able to And a condltioD inoppG£i

tune or ignoble.

EXPERIENCE

Ibe lords of life, the lords of HIl,—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

!

To-morrow they will wear another faceu

The founder thou ! these are thy race

!

EXPERIENCE.

Where do we find ourselves? In a series ol

jrhich 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^

VOL. UI. 4

50 fLLUSION,

jret we have no superfluity of spirit for new creation f

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 to-day whether we are busy or idle.

In times when we thought ourselves indolent, we

have afterwards discovered that much was accom-

plished and much was begun in us. All our days are

so unprofitable while they pass, that 't is 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 intercalated 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 re-

treating and reference. ' Yonder uplands are rich

EXPERIENCE. 51

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. 'T is the trick of nature thus

to degrade to-day ; a good deal of buzz, and some-

where a result slipped magically in. Every roof is

agreeable to the eye until it is lifted ; then we find

tragedy and moaning women and hard-eyed hus-

bands 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,

Warton, or Schlegel— 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 dis-

turb 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 slipperjl

52 ILLUSION.

sliding surfaces ; we fall soft on a thought ; AU.

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 meinto the reality, for contact with which we would

even pay the costly price of sons and lovers. Wasit Boscovich who found out that bodies never come

in contact ? Well, souls never touch their objects.

An innavigable sea washes with silent waves be-

tween 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 to-morrow 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 ncrf

EXPERIENCE, 53

louch me ; something which I fancied was a part of

(ne, which could not be torn away without tear-

ing me nor enlarged without enriching me, falls off

from me and leaves no scar. It was caducous. I

grieve that grief can teach me nothing, nor carrj

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 ob-

jects, which lets them slip through our fingers then

when we clutch hardest, to be the most unhand-

some 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 cas-

ual.

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

54 TEMPERAMENT.

to be many-colored lenses which paint the world

th'';>ir own hue, and each shows only what lies in its

^ocus. From the mountain you see the mountain.

j^e animate what we can, and we see only what

re animate. Nature and books belong to the eyes

iha,t 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 al-

ways genius ; but only a few hours so serene that

we can relish nature or criticism. The more or

less depends on structure or temperament. Tem-

perament 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 asleep in his chair ? or it he laugh and gig-

gle ? or if he apologize ? or is infected 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 con-

cave and cannot find a focal distance within the

actual horizon of human life ? Of what use, if the

braia is too cold or too hot, and the man does not

care enough for results to stimulate him to experi-

ment, 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

ioa <^tlet? Of what use to make heroic tows of

EXPERIENCE. b%

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 depend-

ent on the seasons of the year and the state of the

blood ? I knew a witty physician who found the

creed 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 ex-

perience that some unfriendly excess or imbecility

neutralizes the promise of genius. We see young

men who owe us a new world, so readily and lav-

ishly 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 crea-

tures 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 w&

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. Menresist the conclusion in the morning, but adopt it

as the evening wears on, that temper prevails o^ei

66 TEMPERAMENT.

everything of time, place, and condition, and is in

consumable in the flames of religion. Some modi-

fications 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 plat-

form 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 contracting influences of so-called

science. Temperament puts all divinity to rout. 1

know the mental proclivity of physicians. I hear

the chuckle of the phrenologists. Theoretic kid-

nappers and slave-drivers, they esteem each man

the victim of another, who winds him round his

finger by knowmg the law of his being; and, by

such cheap signboards as the color of his beard or

the slope of his occiput, reads the inventory of his

fortunes and character. The grossest ignorance

does not disgust like this in?.pudent knowingness.

The physicians say they are not materialists ; but

they are :— Spirit is matter reduced to an extreme

thinness ; O so thin ! — But the definitioii of spiV'

itual should be, that which is its own evidence.

What notions do they attach to love ! what to relig-

km I One would not willingly pronounce these

EXPERIENCE. Gf

vrords 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 8

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, whenever and in what dis-

guise 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 shaU

buy me for a cent. ^ But, sir, medical history

;

the report to the Institute ; the proven facts !'— I

distrust the facts and the inferences. Tempera-

ment 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 pres-

ence, 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. Onthis platform one lives in a sty of sensualism, and

68 SUCCESSION.

would soon come to suicide. But it is impossibU

that the creative power should exclude itself. Into

every intelligence there is a door which is never

closed, through which the creator passes. The in-

tellect, 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 our-

selves 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

:

I^ero si muove. 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 perma-

nence, but health of body consists in circulation,

and sanity of mind in variety or facility of associa-

tion. 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

EXPERIENCE. 69

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 pic-

tures 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 deduc-

tion must be made from the opinion which even tb*

wise express on 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

^rusted 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 th«

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 re-

gard 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 ol

60 SUCCESSION.

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 suc-

cessfid 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 cannot recall any form of man who is not super-

fluous 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 party-colored wheel must

revolve very fast to appear white. Something is

earned too by conversing with so much folly and

defect. In fine, whoever loses, we are always of

the gaining party. Divinity is behind our failures

and follies also. The plays of children are non-

sense, but very educative nonsense. So it is with

the largest and solemnest things, with commerce,

government, church, marriage, and so with the his-

tory of every man's bread, and the ways by which

EXPERIENCE. 61

6e is to come by it. Like a bird which alights no

where, 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 prom-

ises to western roads, which opened stately enough,

with planted trees on either side to tempt the trav-

eller, 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 headache. Un-

Bpeakably sad and barren doe^ life look to those

62 SURFACE.

who a few months ago were dazzled with the splen«

dor 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 objec-

tions to every course of life and action, and the

practical wisdom infers an indi:fferency, from the

omnipresence of objection. The whole frame of

things preaches indifferency. Do not craze your-

self with thinking, but go about your business any-

where. 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 vict-

uals, and say no more of it." To fill the hour,—that is happiness ; to fill the hour and leave no crev-

ice 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 it-

self is a mixture of power and form, and will not

bear the least excess of either. To finish the mo-

ment, 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,

EXPERIENCE, 63

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 to-

day are worth as much to me as five minutes in the

next millennium. Let us be poised, and wise, and

Dur own, to-day. 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 la-

bor. It is a tempest of fancies, and the only bal-

last I know is a respect to the present hour. With

out any shadow of doubt, amidst this vertigo o\

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 compan

ions and circumstances, however humble or odious

as the mystic officials to whom the universe ha;

delegated its whole pleasure for us. If these ar*

mean and malignant, their contentment, which ia

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 tliink that how-

ever a thoughtful man may suffer from the defects

and absurdities of his company, he cannot without

Stffectation deny to any set of men and women a

64 SURFACE.

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 ca-

pricious way with sincere homage.

The fine young people despise Hfe, 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 lit

tie eager and sentimental, but leave me alone and

I should relish every hour and what it brought me,

the potluck of the day, as heartily as the oldest gos-

sip in the bar-room. I am thankful for small mer-

cies. I compared notes with one of my friends

who expects everything of the universe and is dis-

appointed 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 pic-

ture 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 shaU have heaping

measures. The gieat gifts are not got by analysis.

EXPERIENCE. fjft

fclverything good is on the highway. The middle

region of our being is the temperate zone. Wemay 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 Pous-

sin, a crayon-sketch of Salvator ; but the Transfig-

uration, the Last Judgment, the Communion of Sfc

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

ijay 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 hun-

dred and fifty-seven guineas, an autograph of Shak-

speare ; but for nothing a school-boy can read Ham-let 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 im-

patient of so public a life and planet, and run hither

and thither for nooks and secrets. The imagination

delights in the woorlcraft of Indians, trappers, and

6ee-hunters. We fancy that we are strangers, andVol. ui. 5

(96 SURFACE.

not so intiiaately domesticated in the planet as the

wild man and the wild beast and bird. But the ex-

clusion reaches them also ; reaches the climbing, fly-

ing, 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 corn-eaters, 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 har-

bor such disconsolate consciences, borrowed too

from the consciences of other nations. We must

set up the strong prese.at tense against all the ru-

mors 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

EXPERIENCE. 67

century cr two, New and Old England may keep

shop. Law of copyright and international copy-

right 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 writ-

ing 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 I 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

iy 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 elementSj

power and form, and the proportion must be inraf

68 SURFACE.

riably 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 ex-

cess ; every good quality is noxious if unmixed,

and, to carry the danger to the edge of ruin, na-

ture causes each man's peculiarity to superabound.

Here, among the farms, we adduce the scholars as

examples of this treachery. They are nature's vic-

tims 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 farm-

ers, and themselves victims of partiality, very hol-

low and haggard, and pronounce them failures, not

heroes, but quacks, — conclude very reasonabh'

that these arts are not for man, but are disease.

Yet nature will not bear you out. Irresistible na-

ture 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 millioDS who read and behold, but incipient

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 per-

ceives that nature joined with his enemy. A man

IS a golden impossibility. The line he must walk

is a hair's breadth. The wise through excess oi

witjdom is made a fool.

EXPERIENCE. 69

How easily, if fate would suffer it, we might

keep forever these beautiful limits, and adjust our-

selves, 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 busi-

ness that manly resolution and adherence to the

multiplication-table through all weathers will in

sure 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! To-morrow again every thing 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 busi-

ness on this understanding would be quickly bank-

rupt. Power keeps quite another road than the

turnpikes of choice and will ; namely the subterra^

nean and invisible tunnels and channels of life. It

is ridiculous that we are diplomatists, and doctors,

and considerate people ; there are no dupes liice

these. Life is a series of surprises, and would not

be worth taking or keeping if it were not. Goddelights 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 anothei

behind us of purest sky. ' You will not remember,*

70 SURPRISE.

he seems to say, * and you will not expect.' Al]

good conversation, manners, and action, come from

a spontaneity which forgets usages and makes the

moment great. Nature hates calculators ; her

methods are saltatory 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 cas-

ualties. 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 obser-

vation." 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 untii

EXPERIENCE. 71

he is born ; every thing impossible until we see a

Buccess. 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 1 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 some-

what comes of it all, but an unlooked-for result.

The individual is always mistaken. He designed

many things, and drew in other persons as coadju*

tors, quarrelled with some or all, blundered muchf

and something is done ; all are a little advanced,

but the individual is always mistaken. It turn?

out somewhat new and very unlike what he prom-

ised 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

72 REALITT.

at the spark, wMch 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 ex-

pounded 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 coactive 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 «

deeper cause, as yet far from being conscious,

knows not its own tendency. So is it with us, now

skeptical or \vithout unity, because immersed in

forms and effects all seeming to be of equal yet

hostile value, and now religious, whilst in the re-

ception of spiritual law. Bear with these distrac-

tions, 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 inhar-

monious and trivial particulars, is a musical per-

fection ; 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

aave good thoughts, I do not at once arrive at sat.

isfactions, as when, being thirsty, I drink water ; ox

EXPERIENCE. 73

go to the fire, being cold ; no ! but I am at first ap-

prised of my vicinity to a new and excellent region

of life. By persisting to read or to think, this re-

gion gives further sign of itself, as it were in

flashes of light, in sudden discoveries of its prO'

found beauty and repose, as if the clouds that cov-

ered it parted at intervals and showed the ap-

proaching 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 open-

ing to me of this august magnificence, old with the

love and homage of innumerable ages, young with

tho 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 amready 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 cha7?ges f^ot

74 REALITY,

and wliicli 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 for-

borne, but at whose command you have done or for-

borne it.

Fortune, Minerva, Muse, Holy Ghost, — these

are quaint names, too narrow to cover this un-

bounded substance. The baffled intellect must still

kneel before this cause, which refuses to be named,

— ineffable cause, which every fine genius has es-

sayed to represent by some emphatic symbol, as,

Thales by water, Anaximenes by air, Anaxagoras

by (Novs) 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 generali-

zation. "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. Nour-

ish it correctly and do it no injury, and it will fill

up the vacancy between heaven and earth. This

EXPERIENCE. 75

dgor accords with and assists justice and reason,

and leaves no hunger."— In our more correct writ-

ing 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

Jhat we have not arrived at a wall, but at intermi-

>iable 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 fac-

ulty ; 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 uni'

versal impulse to believe^ that is the material cirv

cumstance 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

explainiQg, 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

T6 REALITY.

do them tliat office. They believe that we coitt

municate without speech and above speech, and

that no right action of ours is quite unaffecting to

our friends, at whatever distance ; for the influence

of action is not to be measured by miles. Whyshould I fret myself because a circumstance has

occurred which hinders my presence where I was

expected ? If I am not at the meeting, my pres-

ence where I am should be as useful to the com-

monwealth of friendship and wisdom, as would be

my presence in that place. I exert the same qual-

ity 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 mo-

ments 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 gratui-

tous or lawless, but are limitations of the affirma-

tive statement, and the new philosophy must take

them in and make affirmations outside of them,

just as much as it must include the oldest beliefs.

It is very unhappy, but too late to be helped, the

EXPERIENCE. 77

discovery we have made that we exist. That di*.

covery 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 dis-

torting 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, per-

sons, 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 cha-

grins which the bad heart gives off as bubbles, at

once take form as ladies and gentlemen in the

street, shopmen or bar-keepers in hotels, and

threaten or insult whatever is threatenable ana

insultable in us. 'T is the same with our idolatries.

People forget that it is the eye which makes the

iiorizon, and the rounding mind's eye which makes

this or that man a type or representative of human-

ity, with the name of hero or saint. Jesus, the

** providential man," is a good man on whom manv

78 SUBJECT OR THE ONE.

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 wiU

attach to any man so seen. But the longest lov©

or aversion has a speedy term. The great and

crescive 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 ob-

ject. 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 deity 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 pri-

vate sympathy is partial. Two human beings aro

like globes, which can touch only in a point, and

whilst they remain in contact aU other points of

each of the spheres are inert; their turn musli

also come, and the longer a particular union lasta

EXPERIENCE. 79

the more energy of appetency the parts not in union

acquire.

Life will be imaged, but cannot be divided nor

tloubled. Any invasion of its unity would be

chaos. Tiie 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 univer

sal 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 per-

mit aU things to ourselves, and that which we caU

sin in others is experiment for us. It is an in-

stance of our faith in ourselves that men never

speak of crime as lightly as they think ; or every

man thinks a latitude safe for himseK which is no-

wise 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 con-

founding of all relations. Especially the Crimea

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, or that the crime in him is aa

80 SUBJECT OR THE ONE.

black as in the felon. Because the intellect quaL

ifies in our own case the moral judgments. For

there is no crime to the intellect. That is antino^

mian or hypernomian, and judges law as well as

fact. " It is worse than a crime, it is a blunder,"

Baid Napoleon, speaking the language of the intel

lect. 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*

comparative. 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 had. The intellect namei*

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 imiverse wear our color,

and every object faU successively into the subject

itseK. 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, Co-

lumbus, Newton, Bonaparte, are the mind's minis-

ters. Instead of feeling a poverty when we encoui^

EXPERIENCE, 81

ler 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 ex-

travagance, ere the soul attains her due sphericityo

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 per-

forming complex dramas, with tragic and comic is-

sues, 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 tambourines, laughter, and shout-

ing, 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 Kep-

ler 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

bate these developments, and will find a way to

pimish 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 hmnore.

82 SUBJECT on THE ONE.

And yet is the God the native of these bleak rocka*

That need makes in morals the capital virtue of

self-trust. We must hold hard to this poverty, how-

ever scandalous, and by more vigorous self-recover-

ies, after the sallies of action, possess our axis more

firmly. The life of truth is cold and so far mourn-

ful ; 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 per-

suades 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 drown-

ing 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. Awise and hardy physician wiU 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 com-

pliance takes away the power of being greatly use-

ful. 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

EXPERIENCE SS

other people; an attention, and to an aim which

makes their wants frivolous. This is a divine an-

swer, and leaves no appeal and no hard thoughts.

In Flaxman's drawing of the Eumenides of ^schy-

lus, Orestes supplicates Apollo, whilst the Furies

sleep on the threshold. The face of the god ex=

presses a shade of regret and compassion, but is calm

with the conviction of the irreconcilableness of the

two spheres. He is born into other 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, Sur-

prise, 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

yoimg yet by some ages to compile a code. I gos-

sip for my hour concerning the eternal politics.

I have seen many fair pictures not in vain. A won*

derful time I have lived in. I am not the novice I

84 EXPERIENCE.

was fourteen, nor yet seven years ago. Let wIk)

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 recep-

tion ; 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 an-

noyed by receiving this or that superabundantly.

I say to the Genius, if he will pardon the proverb,

Infor a mill, infor 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 overrun the merit ever since.

The merit itself, so-called, I reckon part of the re-

ceiving.

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. Hard-

est roughest action is visionary also. It is but a

choice between soft und turbulent dreams. Peopk

EXPERIENCE. 85

disparage knowing and the intellectual life, and

urge doing. I am very content with knowing, if

only I could know. That is an august entertain-

ment, and would suffice me a great whilcc 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 ihinh. I ob.

serve that difference, and shall observe it. One

day I shall know the value and law of this dis-

crepance. 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

86 EXPERIENCE.

time to eat or to sleep, or to earn a hundred doV

lars, and a very little time to entertain a hope and

an insight which becomes the light of our life. Wedress our garden, eat our dinners, discuss the house-

hold with our wives, and these things make no im-

pression, are forgotten next week ; but, in the soli-

tude 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 transformfltion of

genius into practical power.

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 matcned 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 grieres

Pleads for itself the fact

;

As unrepenting Nature leavers

Her every act.

III.

CHAKACTER.

I HAVE read that those who listened to Lord

Chatham felt that there was something finer in the

man than any thing 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 esti-

mate of his genius. The Gracchi, Agis, Cle-

omenes, 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 Ra-

leigh, 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 ex-

ploits. 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 re-

sided in these men which begot an expectation that

outran all their performance. The largest part ol

90 CHARACTER.

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 com«

pany 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 b^

talent or by eloquence, this man accomplishes by

some magnetism. " Half his strength he put not

forth." His victories are by demonstration of su-

periority, and not by crossing of bayonets. Heconquers because his arrival alters the face of af-

fairs. " O lole ! how did you know that Hercules

was a god ? " " Because," answered lole, " I was

content the moment my eyes fell on him. WhenI beheld Theseus, I desired that I might see him

offer battle, or at least guide his horses in the char,

lot-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 pen*

dant to events, only half attached, and that awk-

wardly, to the world he lives in, in these examplei

•ppears to share the life of things, and to be an ex-

CHARACTER. 91

pression 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

cecur in its coarsest form, we sufficiently under-

stand 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 send-

ing 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 ; no-

where 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

92 CHARACTER.

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 suc-

ceeds, as, if you see Napoleon, you would compre-

hend 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 percep-

tions 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

a;li his own faith that contracts are of no private

interpretation. The habit of his mind is a refer-

ence to standards of natural equity and public ad-

vantage; and he inspires respect and the wish to

deal with him, both for the quiet spirit of honor

w5iich attends him, and for the intellectual pastime

vhich the spectacle of so much ability affords.

This immensely stretched trade, which makes the

D^pes of the Southern Ocean his wharves and the

CHARACTER. 98

Atlantic Sea his familiar port, centres in his brain

only ; and nobody in the universe can make hia

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 himior, 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 ap-

pears 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 extraordi-

nary and incomputable agent. The excess of phys-

ical strength is paralyzed by it. Higher natures

overpower lower ones by affecting them with a cer-

tain 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

94 CHARACTER.

of a true master realized all the tales of magic ! Ariver 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 influ-

ence 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 Thra-

so the turnkey? Is an iron handcuff so immu-

table 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 Tons

saint 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 rela-

tive 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 w#

CHARACTER. 95

feci 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 ves

sel. 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 faU ; and what-

ever 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 it-

self believed. Character is this moral order seen

through the medium of an individual nature. Anindividual is an encloser. Time and space, liberty

and necessity, truth and thought, are left at large

no longer. Now, the imiverse is a close or pound.

All things exist in the man tinged with the man-

ners 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, aa

the patriot does his country, as a material basio rof

his character, and a theatre for action. A healthy

06 CHARACTER.

Boul stands united with the Just and the True, a?

the magnet arranges itself with the pole ; so that he

stands to all beholders like a transparent object be-

twixt them and the sun, and whoso journeys to-

wards the sun, journeys towards that person. Heis thus the medium of the highest influence to all

who are not on the same level. Thus men of char-

acter are the conscience of the society to which they

belong.

The natural measure of this power is the resist-

ance 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 preexisted 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 a 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. Men of character like to hear of their faults

;

he other class do not like to hear of faults ; thej

CHARACTER. 97

worsMp events ; secure to them a fact, a connection,

a certain chain of circumstances, and they will ask

no more. The hero sees that the event is ancil-

lary ; 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 supersti-

tions ; 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 Nep-

tune, 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 opin-

ion, the public opinion as we call it ; or at the threat

of assault, or contumely, or bad neighbors, or pov-

erty, 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 temper-

ament 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 so-

ciety, is my own. I am always environed by myself*

98 CHARACTER.

On the other part, rectitude is a perpetual victory;

celebrated not by cries of joy but by serenity, whicli

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

30 excellent as to throw all our prosperities into

the deepest shade.

The face which character wears to me is self-

^ufficingness. I revere the person who is riches

;

>o that I cannot think of him as alone, or poor, or

exiled, or unhappy, or a client, but as perpetual pa-

tron, 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 my*

self poorly entertained if he give me nimble pieces

e£ benevolence and etiq^uette ; rather he shall stand

CHARACTER. 99

Btoutly in Lis 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 non-

eonformity 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 can-

not 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 eccen-

tric, — 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, 't is the best

we can do,' by illuminating the untried and un-

known. 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, the

seK-moved, the absorbed, the commander because

he is commanded, the assured, the primary, — they

are good ; for these announce the instant presenee

of supreme power.

100 CHARACTER.

Our action should rest mathematically on oui

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 inimita-

ble 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 insti-

tutor. 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 under-

standing 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

^here been something latent in the man, a terribk

CHARACTER. 101

tmdemonstrated 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 ex-

istence, nor take the ground to which we are en-

titled, 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 in-

telligent and earnest. They must also make us feel

that they have a controlling happy future opening

before them, whose early twilights already kindle

in 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, add-

ing 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 explana-

tions 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

dse up again will burden you with blessings.

We have no pleasure in thinking of a benevo^

fence that is only measured by its works. Love ia

102 CHARACTER.

inexhaustible, and if its estate is wasted, its gran*

ary 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. Weknow 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 fu-

ture 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

«o. For all these of course are exceptions, and the

rule and hodiernal life of a good man is benefac-

tion. The true charity of Goethe is to be inferred

from the account he gave Dr. Eckermann of the

VHARACTER. 103

fray in which he had spent his fortune. " Each

hon-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 mywritings 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 sur-

render 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 charac-

ter. Strange alternation of attraction and repul-

sion! 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. Some-

what is possible of resistance, and of persistence,

104 CHARACTER.

and of creation, to this power, which will foil all

emulation.

This masterpiece is best where no hands but na-

ture'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 nonconformity ; I

never listened to your people's law, or to what they

call their gospel, and wasted my time. I was con-

tent 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 con-

stitutionally 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

^.aptivating is their devotion to their favorite books,

H/hether ^schylus, Dante, Shakspeare, or Scotti

CHARACTER. 105

B8 feeling that they have a stake in that book

;

who touches that, touches them ; — and especially

the total solitude of the critic, the Patmos of

thought from which he writes, in unconsciousness

of any eyes that shall ever read this writing.

Oould 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. Sol'

emn friends will warn them of the danger of tlie

head's being turned by the flourish of trumpets,

but they can afford to smile. I remember the in-

dignation of an eloquent Methodist at the kind ad-

monitions 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

106 CHARACTER.

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 inter-

vals, 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 usualty 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 re-

semblance 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 unprecedented

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

{he A-poUo and the Jove impossible in flesh and

CHARACTER. 107

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

iction 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 as-

sembly. 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

108 CHARACTER.

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 hun-

dred 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 em-

pire 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 influ-

ences. 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 theif

cartilages; the entrance of a friend adds grace,

boldness, and eloquence to him ; and there are per-

sons he cannot choose but remember, who gave a

transcendent expansion to his thought, and kindled

another life in his bosom.

CHARACTER. 109

What is so excellent as strict relations of amity,

when they spring from this deep root ? The suf-

ficient 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 post-

pones 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 friend-

ship, 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 any-

thing 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

110 CHARACTER,

the unwritten statutes, and make an experiment of

their efficacy ? Could we not pay our friend the

r>ompliment of truth, of silence, of forbearing?

Need we be so eager to seek him ? If we are re-

lated, we shall meet. It was a tradition of the an-

cient world that no metamorphosis could hide a

god from a god ; and there is a Greek verse which

runs, —" The Gods are to eacli other not unknown."

Friends also follow the laws of divine necessity;

they gravitate to each other, and cannot other-

wise :—

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 Olym-

pus, 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 th-e best. All the great*

ness of each is kept back and every foible in pain-

ful activity, as if the Olympians should meet to ex

change snuff-boxes.

Life goes headlong. We chase some flying

scheme, or we are hunted by some fear or com«

mand behind us- But if suddenly we encounter a

CHARACTER. Ill

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 rela-

tions.

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. Menwrite 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 an(^

encouragements to us in this direction. The history

of those gods and saints which the world has writ

ten and then worshipped, are documents of charac-

ter. The ages have exulted in the manners of a

Y^outh who owed nothing to fortune, and who was

iiang^d at the Tyburn of his nation, who, by the

112 CHARACTER.

pure quality of his nature, shed an epic splendoi

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 oui

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 ani-

mal 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 gran-

deurs, 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 myfriends 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 ce-

lestial land, then to be coarse, then to be critical

and treat such a visitant with the jabber and sus-

picion 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 senti^

ment we cherish has opened into a flower, it blooma

CHARACTER. 113

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 mygloom 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 in-

capable ; but when that love which is all-suffering,

all-abstaining, all-aspiring, which has vowed to it*

sgK that it will be a wretch and also a fool in this

world sooner than soil its white hands by any com-

pliances, 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 oMOi it.

Vol- ni. S

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

Kn their true motions found."

BJ5N JOIJSON

MANNERS.

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 in-

habitants of Gournou (west of old Thebes) is

philosophical to a fault. To set up their house-

keeping nothing is requisite but two or three

earthen 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 Bel-

zoni, 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

118 MANNERS,

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 Bor-

noos 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 him-

self 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, espe«

cially, establishes a select society, running through

all the countries of intelligent men, a self-consti-

tuted aristocracy, or fraternity of the best, which,

without written law or exact usage of any kind,

perpetuates itself, colonizes every new-planted isl-

and and adopts and makes its own whatever per-

sonal beauty or extraordinary native endowment

^ywhere 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

MANNERS. 119

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 tc

it, is a homage to personal and incommunicable

properties. Frivolous and fantastic additions have

got associated with the name, but the steady inter«

est of mankind in it must be attributed to the valu-

able 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 av

erage result of the character and faculties univer-

sally found in men. It seems a certain permanent

average ; as the atmosphere is a permanent compo-

sition, whilst so many gases are combined only to

be decompounded. Comme ilfaut^ is the French-

man's description of good society : as we must he.

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, it 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 en-

120 MANNERS.

ters 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 so-

cial cultivation, because the quantities are fluxional,

and the last effect is assumed by the senses as the

cause. The word gentleman has not any correla-

tive abstract to express the quality. Gentility is

mean, and gentilesse is obsolete. But we must

keep alive in the vernacular the distinction he-

tweenfashion, a word of narrow and often sinister

meaning, and the heroic character which the gentle-

man imports. The usual words, however, 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 de-

pendent and servile, either on persons, or opinions,

or possessions. Beyond this fact of truth and real

force, the word denotes good -nature or benevo-

lence: manhood first, and then gentleness. The

MANNERS. 121

popular notion certainly adds a condition of ease

and fortune ; but that is a natural result of per-

sonal force and love, that they should possess and

dispense the goods of the world. In times of

dolence, 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 par-

amount to-day, 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 de.

scribes a man standing in his own right and work

ing 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

122 MANNERS.

sense of power, which makes things easy to be

done which daunt the wise. The society of the en-

ergetic 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 sup-

plies 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 gentle-

man 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 fat

MANNERS. 123

Clous gentlemen of Asia and Europe have been of

this strong type ; Saladin, Sapor, the Cid, Julius

Caesar, Scipio, Alexander, Pericles, and the lordli-

est 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 tran-

scends the habits of clique and caste and makes it-

self felt by men of all classes. If the aristocrat is

only valid in fashionable circles and not with truck-

men, 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 or-

der, 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 mycontemporaries. Fortune will not supply to every

generation one of these well - appointed knights,

but every collection of men furnishes some exam-

ple of the class; and the politics of this country,

%nd the trade of every town, are controlled by these

124 MANNERiS.

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 asso«

ciation of these masters with each other and with

men intelligent of their merits, is mutually agreea-

ble and stimulating. The good forms, the happiest

expressions of each, are repeated and adopted. Byswift 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. Man-

ners 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 travel-

ling, 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

MANNERS. 125

civil distinctions. Thus grows up Fashion, an

equivocal semblance, the most puissant, the most

fantastic and frivolous, the most feared and fol-

lowed, 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 Fau-

bourg 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 vir-

tue. It is virtue gone to seed : it is a kind of post-

humous 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

haUs ; they are absent in the field : they are work-

ing, not triumphing. Fashion is made up of theii

children; of those who through the value and vir

tue of somebody, have acquired lustre to their name*

marks of distinction, means of cultivation and gen-

erosity, and in their physical organization a certain

health and excellence which secure to them, if not

the highest power to work, yet high power to enjoj

,

126 MANNERS.

The class of power, the working heroes, the Cortez^

the Nelson, the Napoleon, see that this is the festiv-

ity 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 theh^ sons, in

the ordinary course of things, must yield the pos-

session of the harvest to new competitors with

keener eyes and stronger frames. The city is re-

cruited from the country. In the year 1805, it is

said, every legitimate monarch in Europe was imbe-

cile. 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 to-day.

Aristocracy and fashion are certain inevitable re-

sults. 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 cop.

led by the other. You may keep this minority out

MANNERS. 127

of Sight and out of mind, but it is tenacious of life,

and is one of the estates of the reahn. 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 senti-

ment 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 impas-

sable line. Here are associations whose ties go

over and under and through it, a meeting of mer-

chants, a military corps, a college class, a fire-club,

a professional association, a political, a religious

convention ;— the persons seem to draw insepara

bly 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 de*

128 MANNERS,

pends on some symmetry in his structure or some

agreement in his structure to the symmetry of so-

ciety. Its doors unbar instantaneously to a natu-

ral 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 un-

derstands itself;good-breeding and personal supe-

riority 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. Wecontemn 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 chiv-

alry. 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 circum-

stance, and the iron shoes do not wish to dance in

2fANNERS. 129

^tzes 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 countrjrman 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 per-

fectly 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 ^sks 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. Aman should not go where he cannot carry his whole

sphere or society with him, — not bodily, the Tv]\<;^la

Vou III. 9

130 MANNERS.

circle of his friends, but atmospherically. Heshould preserve in a new company the same atti-

tude 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 wiU at any time determine for the curious

their standing in the world. These are the cham-

berlains 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 with-

out their own merits. But do not measure the im-

portance of this class by their pretension, or imag-

ine 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. Wepointedly, and by name, introduce the parties to

each other. Know you before aU heaven and earth,

that this is Andrew, and this is Gregory,— they

MANNERS. 131

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 hospitali-

ties ? Is it your draperies, pictures, and decora-

tions? Or do we not insatiably ask, Was a man

in the house ? I may easily go into a great house^

hold where there is much substance, excellent pro-

vision for comfort, luxury, and taste, and yet not

encounter there any Amphitryon who shall subop

dinate 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 Tuileries

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 him-

seK with a fine house, fine books, conservatory, gar^

dens, 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 nar

ture, and dreaded nothing so much as a fuU ren:

132 MANNERS.

contre front to front with his fellow ? It were utt

merciful, 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 to-

gether 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 him-

self 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 freebom eyes, but fenced himself with eti-

quette 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 dig-

nify 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 tra^St

MANNERS. 133

ration, 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. Wher-

ever he goes he pays a visit to whatever prince oi

gentleman of note resides upon his road, as a duty

to himseK 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 per-

petual sign to the house, as was the custom of gen-

tlemen.

The complement of this graceful self-respect, and

that of all the points of good breeding I most re-

quire 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 fel-

lowship. Let the incommunicable objects of nature

and the metaphysical isolation of man teach us in-

dependence. Let us not be too much acquainted.

I would have a man enter his house thi'ough 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 for^

eign countries, and, spending the day together,

should depaz^ at night, as into foreign countries.

In all things I would have the island of a man in

violate. Let us sit apart as the gods, talking fron

134 MANNERS.

peak to peak all round Olympus. No degree oi

affection need invade this religion. This is myrrh

and rosemary to keep the other sweet. Lover?

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 understand-

ing 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 nat-

oral function can be dignified by deliberation and

privacy. Let us leave hurry to slaves. The com-

pliments and ceremonies of our breeding should re-

call, however remotely, 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, th« brain as well as the flesh and the heart

MANNERS. 185

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 vir-

tues 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

hi.de the want of measure. This perception comes

hi to polish and perfect the parts of the social in-

•xjtrument. Society will pardcn much to genius aii!J

136 MANNERS,

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 be-

sides the general infusion of wit to heighten civil-

ity, 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 wiU

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 busi-

ness 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

MANNERS. 137

game, and not spend himself on surfaces ; an ignor-

ing 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 de-

mands in its patrician class another element al-

ready 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 conversa-

tion 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 com-

pany ; contented and contenting, at a marriage or a

funeral, a ball or a jury, a water-party or a shoot-

ing-match. England, which is rich in gentlemen,

furnished, in the beginning of the present century,

138 MANNERS.

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. Par-

liamentary 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 ten-

derness that the house was moved to tears. An-

other 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 Sheri-

dan 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 Tuileries."

We may easily seem ridiculous in our eulogy of

courtesy, whenever we insist on benevolence as its

foundation. The painted phantasm Fashion rises to

MANNERS. 13S

©ast a species of derision on what we say. But 1

will neither be driven from some allowance to Fash-

ion 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

. ontrasts. 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 imagi-

nation 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 de-

tails 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, beaut}-, 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 proba-

tion and admission, and not the best alone. There

is not only the right of conquest, which genius pre-

tends,— the individual demonstrating his natural

aristocracy best of the best ;— but less claims will

pass for the time; for Fashion loves lions, and

140 MANNERS.

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 inte-

rior of the earth ; and Monsieur Jovaire, who came

down this morning in a balloon ; Mr. Hobnail, the

reformer ; and Reverend Jul Bat, who has con-

verted the whole torrid zone in his Sunday school;

and Signor Torre del Greco, who extinguished Ve-

suvius by pouring into it the Bay of Naples ; Spahi,

the Persian ambassador ; and Tul Wil Shan, the

exiled nabob of Nepaul, whose saddle is the new

moon. — But these are monsters of one day, and

to-morrow 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,

win their way up into these places and get 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 groimded 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 command^

MANNERS. 141

ments even liave 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 self-

ishness ? 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 ser-

vice 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 re-

stored: if a woman gave him pleasure, he sup-

ported her in pain : he never forgot his children

;

and whoso touched his finger, drew after it hi^

whole body." Even the line of heroes is not ut-

terly 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 stiU

some absurd inventor of charities ; some guide and

comforter of runaway slaves ; some friend of Po-

land ; some Philhellene ; some fanatic who plants

£42 MANNERS.

shade-trees for the second and third generation^

and orchards when he is grown old ; some well-con-

cealed piety ; some just man happy in an ill fame;

some youth ashamed of the favors of fortune and

impatiently tsasting them on other shoulders. Andthese are the centres of society, on which it returns

for fresh impidses. 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 Sid-

ney, 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 senes-

chals, who do not know their sovereign when he

appears. The theory of society supposes the exist,

ence and sovereignty of these. It divines afar off

Uieir 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;

4 power, more strong in beauty, bom of us.

MANNERS. 118

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 so

*ety there is a narrower and higher circle, concen

fcration of its light, and flower of courtesy, to whicB

there is always a tacit appeal of pride and refer-

ence, as to its inner and imperial court : the parlia-

ment 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 sa

ciety, and the power to embellish the passing day.

If the individuals who compose the purest circles of

aristocracy in Europe, the guarded blood of cen-

turies, 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. Be-

cause 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 be«

havior is as rare in fiction as it is in fact. Scott is

praised for the fidelity with which he painted ih»

U4 MANNERS.

demeanor and conversation of tlie superior classes.

Certainly, kings and queens, nobles and great la.

dies, 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 epigrammatic 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 dia-

logue 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 aU 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

MANNERS. 145

commanding and held out protection and prosper-

ity ; 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 eti-

quette, with happy, spirited bearing, good-natured

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 pub-

lic 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 behav-

ior, 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 cer-

tain 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 en-

tirely in her inspiring and musical nature, that 1

believe only herself can show us how she shall he

served. The wonderful generosity of her seuti

TOL. lU. Jb

146 MANNERS.

ments raises her at times into heroieal 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 van-

ished and left us at large ; we were children play-

ing 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 Ilafiz or Firdousi that said of his

Persian Lilla, She was an elemental force, and as-

tonished 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 sol-

vent powerful to reconcile all heterogeneous per-

sons into one society ; like air or water, an element

of such a great range of affinities that it combines,

re&dily with a thousand substances. Where she is

MANNERS, 147

present all others will be more than they are wont

She was a unit and whole, so that whatsoever &uc

did, became her. She had too much sympathy and

desire to please, than that you could say her man-

ners were marked with dignity, yet no princesy

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 ful-

ness 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 sci-

ence 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 rel-

ative ; it is great by their allowance ; its proudest

gates wiU fly open at the approach of theii courage

148 MANNERS,

and virtue. For the present distress, however, of

those who are predisposed to suffer from the tyi^

annies 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 sus

ceptibility. For the advantages which fashion vaL

ues are plants which thrive in very confined locali-

ties, 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 so-

ciety, 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. Every-

thing that is called fashion and courtesy hum-

bles 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 gran-

deur but its own. What is rich ? Are you rich

enough to help anybody ? to succor the unfashion^

able and the eccentric? rich enough to make tha

Canadian in his wagon, the itinerant with his ccH'

Wil's paper which commends him " To the chan

MANNERS. 149

table," the swarthy Italian with his few broken

words of English, the lame pauper hunted by over-

seers from town to town, even the poor insane or

besotted wreck of man or woman, feel the noble ex-

ception 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 mad-

ness in his brain, but fled at once to him ; that great

heart lay there so sunny and hospitable in the cen-

tre 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 shaU hear without pain that I play th©

courtier very ill, and talk of that which I do not

150 MANNERS.

well understand. It is easy to see that what i

called by distinction society and fashion has goo*U

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 tra-

dition 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 indeter-

minate 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 wa»

no one person or action among them which wouh^

not puzzle her owl, much more all Olympus, t«

know whether it was fundamentally bad or good.'

GUb^l'B.

'3ifts of one who loved me,

T was high time they came

;

#hen he ceased to love me,

rhoe they stopped for shaiBP

GIFXa

It is said that the world is in a state of bank-

ruptcy; 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 Christ-

mas 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 im-

pediment 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 al-

ways 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 stem countenance of ordinary

nature : they are like music heard out of a work'

house. Nature does not cocker us ; we are chil^

dren, not pets ; she is not fond ; everything is

154 GIFTS.

dealt to us without fear or favor, after severe uni-

versal 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. Some-

thing 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 val-

ues 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 summer-fruit,

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 im-

perative 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 con-

dition 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 inconven-

ience. If it be a fantastic desire, it is better to

GIFTS. 155

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

oi compliment and love are for the most part bar-

barous. Eings 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 the pri-

mary basis, when a man's biography is conveyed

in his gift, and every man's wealth is an index oi

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 gold-

smith'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

156 GIFTS,

the office of a man to receive gifts. How dare yi>4i

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 as*

sumes 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, rever-

ence, 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 imto

GIFTS. 157

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 usurpa-

tion, and therefore when the beneficiary is ungrate-

ful, 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 in-

sensibility of the obliged person. It is a great hap-

piness 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 bene-

factors."

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 magnani-

mous person. After you have served him he at

once puts jou in debt by his magnanimity. The

158 GIFTS.

service a man renders his friend is trivial and self,

ish 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 sel-

dom have the satisfaction of yielding a direct bene-

fit which is directly received. But rectitude scat-

ters 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

ihat I am not much to you;you do not need me r

y^ou do not feel me ; then am I thrust out of door&

GIFTS. 169

lliough you proffer me house and lands. No ser-

vices 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.

NATURE.

The rounded world is fair to see,

Nine times folded in mystery

:

Though baffled seers cannot impart

The secret of its laboring heart,

Tlirob thine with Nature's throbbing breas^

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*

NATURE.

Theke are days which occur in this climate, a^

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

lipper sides of the planet, nothing is to desire that

we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and webask in the shining hours of Florida and Cuba

;

when everything that has life gives sign of satis-

faction, and the cattle that lie on the ground seem

to have great and tranquil thoughts. These halcy-

ons may be looked for with a little more assurance

m that pure October weather which we distinguish

by the name of the Indian summer. The day, im-

measurably long, sleeps over the broad hills and

warm wide fields. To have lived through all its

sunny hours, seems longevity enough. The soli-

tary places do not seem quite lonely. At the gates

of the forest, the surprised man of the world if

forded to leave his city estimates of great and

164 NATURE.

Binall, wise and foolish. The knapsack of custom

falls off his back with the first step he takes into

these precincts. Here is sanctity which shames

our religions, and reality which discredits our he-

foes. 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 majes-

tic beauties daily wrap us in their bosom. Howwillingly we would escape the banders which ren-

der them comparatively impotent, escape the so-

phistication 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 speUs 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. Howeasily we might walk onward into the opening land*

scape, absorbed by new pictures and by thoughts

fast succeeding each other, until by degrees the rec-

ollection 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.

NATURE. 166

These enchantments are medicinal, they sober

and heal us. These are plain pleasures, kindly and

native to us. We come to our own, and mak<

friends with matter, which the ambitious chatter

of the schools would persuade us to despise. Wenever 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 in-

fluence, from these quarantine powers of nature, up

to her dearest and gravest ministrations to the im-

agination 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. Wenestle 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

166 NATURE.

fchink 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 ryefield ; 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 odor-

ous south wind, which converts all trees to wind-

harps ; 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 myfriend 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 spot-

ted man to enter without novitiate and probation.

We penetrate bodily this incredible beauty ; we

dip our hands in this painted element; our eyes

NATURE. 16T

are bathed in these lights and forms. A holi-

day, a villeggiatura, a royal revel, the proudest,

most heart-rejoicing festival that valor and beauty,

power and taste, ever decked and enjoyed, estab-

lishes 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 ugli-

ness of towns and palaces. Art and luxury have

early learned that they must work as enhancement

and sequel to this original beauty. I am overin-

«tructed 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 auxil.

iaries. These bribe and invite ; not kings, not pal

168 NATURE.

aces, 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 provoca-

tion 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 other-

wise bawbles. When the rich tax the poor with ser-

vility 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 hiQ coun-

try, in the Notch Mountains, for example, which

converts the mountains into an ^olian harp,—and this supernatural tiralira restores to him the

Dorian mjrthology, Apollo, Diana, and aU divine

hunters and huntresses. Can a musical note be so

lofty, so haughtily beautiful t 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 somo

NATURE. 169

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

listant cities,— these make the groundwork from

vhich he has delineated estates of romance, com-

mred with which their actual possessions are shan-

ties 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, home-

liest common with all the spiritual magnificence

which they shed on the Campagna, or on the mar-

ble deserts of Egypt. The uproUed clouds and the

colors of morning and evening will transfigure

170 NATURE.

maples and alders. The difference between land

Acape and landscape is small, but there is great

difference in the beholders. There is nothing so

wonderful in any particular landscape as the neces-

sity of being beautiful under which every landscape

lies. Nature cannot be surprised in undress. Beau-

ty 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 in-

dulge 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 hunt-

ers 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 drawing-rooms of all the "Wreaths"

and " Flora's chaplets " of the bookshops ; yet or-

dinarily, whether we are too climisy for so subtle a

topic, or from whatever cause, as soon as men begin

r^TATURB. 171

lo write on nature, they fall into euphuism. Fri-

volity is a most unfit tribute to Pan, who ought to

be represented in the mythology as the most con-

tinent 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 accred-

its the true religion. Literature, poetry, science arc

the homage of man to this unfathomed secret, con-

cerning which no sane man can affect an indiffer-

ence 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 na-

ture. 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

\s inseparable from our protest against false society.

Man is fallen ; nature is erect, and serves as a

172 NATURE.

differential thermometer, detecting the presence oi

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. Nature 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 natu-

rans, 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 ancients

represented nature by Proteus, a shepherd,) and in

undescribable variety. It publishes itself in crea*

tures, reaching from particles and spiculse through

transformation on transformation to the highest

symmetries, arriving at consummate results without

a shock or a leap. A little heat, that is a little mo-

tion, is all that differences the bald, dazzling white

and deadly cold poles of the earth from the prolific

tropical climates. All changes pass without vio

NATURE. 173

lence, by reason of the two cardinal conditions of

boundless space and boundless time. Geology has

initiated us into the secularity 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 per-

spective. 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,

Faima, Ceres, and Pomona to come in. How far

off yet is the trilobite ! how far the quadruped

!

how inconceivably remote is man ! All didy 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

174 NATURE.

year to year arrives at last at the most compleai

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. Com-

pound it how she will, star, sand, fire, water, tree.

man, it is still one stuff, and betrays the same prop-

erties.

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 crea-

tures ; 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 aU

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

lasted the first drop from the cup of thought, are

NATURE. 17A

ilready dissipated : the maples and ferns are still

uncorrupt ; yet no doubt when they come to con-

sciousness they too will curse and swear. Flowers

so strictly belong to youth that we adult men soon

come to feel that their beautiful generations con

cern 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 in-

tervals on our customary scale. We talk of devia-

tions 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 es-

sences 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 supersti-

tious about towns, as if that terrific or benefic force

did not find us there also, and fashion cities. Na-

ture, who made the mason, made the house. Wemay easily hear too much of rural influences. The

176 NATURE.

cool disengaged air of natural objects makes thein

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 sur-

prises 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 charac-

tered 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 recognizing laws which

bind the farthest regions of nature : moon, plant,

gas, crystal, are concrete geometry and numbers.

Common sense knows its own, and recognizes 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 coun-

ter action runs also into organization. The astron-

omers said, ' Give us matter and a little motion and

We win construct the universe. It is not enough

NATURE. 17?

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 centrip-

etal forces. Once heave the ball from the hand,

and we can show how all this mighty order grew.'

—' A very unreasonable postulate, ' said the meta-

physicians, 'and a plain begging of the question,

Could you not prevail to know the genesis of pro^

jection, 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.

Nature 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 th^

impulse ; so to every creature nature added a littU

violence of direction in its proper path, a shove to

put it on its way ; in every instance a slight gen-

erosity, a drop too much. Without electricity the

air would rot, and without this violence of direc-

tion which men and women have, without a spice of

vou ni 12

178 JSATURE.

bigot and fanatic, no excitement, no efficiency. Weaim above the mark to hit the mark. Every act

hath some falsehood of exaggeration in it. Andwhen 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 Na-

ture 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

wrong-headed in that direction in which they are

Tightest, 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 com-

pare and rank his sensations, abandoned to a whistle

or a painted chip, to a lead dragoon or a ginger-

bread-dog, individualizing everything, generalizing

nothing, delighted with every new thing, lies down

at night overpowered by the fatigue which this day

of continual pretty madness has incurred. But Na-

ture has answered her purpose with the curly, dim-

pled lunatic. She has tasked every faculty, and has

secured the sjonmetrical 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

NATURE. i1^

ids eye to insure 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 filla

the air and earth with a prodigality of seeds, that,

if thousands perish, thousands may plant them-

selves ; 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 pro-

fusion. The excess of fear with which the animal

frame is hedged round, shrinking from cold, start-

ing at sight of a snake or at a sudden noise, pro-

tects 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 happi'

ness her own end, namely progeny, or the perpe-

tuity 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 com-

position, 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 re*

180 NATURE.

duced to particulars to suit the size of the partisans,

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 him-

self cannot do without wise men." Jacob Behmen

and George Fox betray their egotism in the perti-

nacity of their controversial tracts, and James Nay-

lor 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

Bhoes sacred. However this maj'^ discredit such per-

sons with the judicious, it helps them with the peo-

ple, as it gives heat, pungency, and publicity to

their words. A simUar 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

ure 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 soid, and her life still cir.

eulat^s in the babe. The umbilical cord has notyeil

NATURE. 181

been cut. After some time has elapsed, he begins

to wish to admit his friend to this hallowed experi-

ence, and with hesitation, 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. Hesuspects 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 any-

thing well who does not esteem his work to be of

182 NATURE.

importance. My work may be of none, but I musff

not think it of none, or I shall not do it with im*

pimity.

In like manner, there is throughout nature some-

thing 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. E irery end is prospec-

tive of some other end, which is also temporary

;

a round and final success nowhere. We are en-

camped 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 satis-

factions, 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 bank-stock

and file of mortgages ; trade to all the world, coun-

try-house and cottage by the waterside, all for a

Uttle conversation, high, clear, and spiritual ! Could

NATURE, 188

It not be had as well by beggars on tbe high-

way? No, all these things came from successive

efforts of these beggars to remove friction from the

wheels of life, and give opportunity. Conversar

tion, 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 differ-

ent 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

accessary 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 ridi-

cule 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 forgot-

ten what he went to say. The appearance strikes

184 NATURE,

the eye everywhere of an aimless society, of aim.

less 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 flat-

tery, together with a failure to yield a present sat-

isfaction. 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 lov&

NATURE. 185

Eness ki 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

\s among the silent trees ; always a referred exist-

mce, an absence, never a presence and satisfac

-^ion. Is it that beauty can never be grasped ? in

persons and in landscape is equally inaccessible?

The accepted and betrothed lover has lost the wild-

est 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 appear-

ance of that first projectile impulse, of this flattery

and balking of so many well-meaning creatures?

Must we not suppose somewhere in the universe a

slight treachery and derision ? Are we not en-

gaged 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 aU petulance at rest, and soothes us to wiser

convictions. To the intelligent, nature converts it*

self into a vast promise, and will not be rashly ex-

plained. Her secret is untold. Many and many

an CEdipus arrives ; he has the whole mystery teem-

ing in his brain. Alas ! the same sorcery has spoiled

his skill; no syllable can he shape on his Hps. Hei

186 NATURE.

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 spir-

itual agents, and a beneficent purpose lies in waif

for us. We cannot bandy words with Nature, or

deal with her as we deal with persons. If we meas-

ure our individual forces against hers wft may easily

feel as if we were the sport of an insuperable des-

tiny. 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 fath-

omless powers of gravity and chemistry, and, over

them, of life, preexisting within us in their highest

form.

The uneasiness which the thought of our help-

lessness 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 seK-

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

NATURE. 187

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 for-

ever embodied, a present sanity to expose and cure

the insanity of men. Our servitude to particu-

lars betrays us 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 salad shall be grown from the seed

whilst your fowl is roasting for dinner ; it is a sym-

bol of our modern aims and endeavors, of our con-

densation and acceleration of objects ;— but noth-

ing is gained ; nature cannot be cheated ; man's life

is but seventy salads long, grow they swift or grow

they slow. In these checks and impossibilities how-

ever we find our advantage, not less than in the im-

pulses. 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 possi-

bility, lends that sublime lustre to death, which

philosophy and religion have too outwardly and lit-

erally 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 dis-

eontinuity, no spent ball. The divine circulations

^•ver rest nor linger. Nature is the incarnation of

188 NATURE,

a thought, and turns to a thought again, as ice be-

comes water and gas. The world is mind precipi-

tated, and the volatile essence is forever escaping

again into the state of free thought. Hence the vir-

tue 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 la-

bor ; we did not guess its essence until after a long

tune.

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 heartllj

Then the perfect State is come,

The republican at home.

POLITICS.

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 su-

perior 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 institu*

tions 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 parti-

cle may suddenly become the centre of the move-

ment and compel the system to gyrate round it ; as

every man of strong will, like Pisistratus or Crom-

^eU, 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

192 POLITICS.

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, ed-

ucation, and religion, may be voted in or out ; and

^hat 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

\n 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 pop-

ulation which permits it. The law is only a mem-

orandum. 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 to-day ? Our statute

is a currency which we stamp with our own por-

trait : it soon becomes unrecognizable, and in pro-

cess 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, th^

POLITICS. 193

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 to-day, but shuns the ridicule of saying

aloud, shall presently be the resolutions of public

bodies ; then shall be carried as grievance and biU

of rights through conflict and war, and then shall

be triumphant law and establishment for a hun-

dred years, until it gives place in turn to new pray-

ers and pictures. The history of the State sketches

in coarse outline the progress of thought, and fol-

lows at a distance the delicacy of culture and of as-

piration.

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 revolu-

tions, considers persons and property as the two ob-

jects 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

nnequal. One man owns his clothes, and another

owns a county. This accident, depending primari-

ly on the skill and virtue of the parties, of whicli

volm uv 13

194 POLITICS.

there is every degree, and secondarily on patrimo

ny, 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 Midian-

ites, 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 ques-

tion arise whether additional officers or watch-tow-

ers 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 foi

persons.

But property passes through donation or inheriti

POLITICS. 105

Bnce to those wlio 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 pat-

rimony, 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-pro-

prietors, 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 struc-

ture given to our usages as allowed the rich to en-

croach on the poor, and to keep them poor ; but

mainly because there is an instinctive sense, how-

ever obscure and yet inarticulate, that the whole

constitution of property, on its present tenures, is

njurious, 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

196 POLITICS.

govemment is the culture of men ; and that if men

can be educated, the institutions will share their

improvement and the moral sentiment wiU write

the law of the land.

If it be not easy to settle the equity of this ques-

tion, the peril is less when we take note of our nat

ural 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 be-

lieve 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 wiU 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 wiU always attract

POLITICS. 197

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, imder any

law or extinguishing tyranny, their proper force,

— if not overtly, then covertly ; if not for the law,

then against it ; if not wholesomely, then poison*

ously ; with right, or by might.

The boundaries of personal influence it is impos

sible to fix, as persons are organs of moral or super

natural 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. Anation of men unanimously bent on freedom or con-

quest can easily confound the arithmetic of statists,

and achieve extravagant actions, out of all propor-

tion 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 be-

longs its own attraction. A cent is the representa'

tive of a certain quantity of corn or other commod-

ity. 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

wiU still attach to the cent. The law may in a

mad freak say that aU shall have power except the

198 POLITICS.

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 wiU 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 wheel-barrow, 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 meth-

ods 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 mem-

ory of living men, from the character and condition

of the people, which they still express with suffi-

cient 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 relig

POLITICS. 199

ion consecrated tlits monarchical, that and not this

was expedient. Democracy is better for us, be-

cause the religious sentiment of the present time

accords better with it. Bom democrats, we are no-

wise qualified to judge of monarchy, which, to our

lathers living in the monarchical idea, was also rel-

itively right. But our institutions, though in coin-

cidence 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^ intimat-

ing that the State is a trick ?

The same benign necessity and the same practi-

cal 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 ori-

gin, 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

200 POLITICS.

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 belong-

ing to their system. A party is perpetually cor-

rupted by personality. Whilst we absolve the as-

sociation from dishonesty, we cannot extend the

same charity to their leaders. They reap the re-

wards of the docility and zeal of the masses which

they direct. Ordinarily our parties are parties of

circumstance, and not of princij)le ; as the planting

interest in conflict with the commercial ; the party

of capitalists and that of operatives : parties which

afe 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 so-

cieties of opinion) is that they do not plant them-

selves on the deep and necessary grounds to which

they are respectively entitled, but lash themselves

to fury in the carrying of some local and momen<

tary measure, nowise useful to the commonwealth.

Of the two great parties which at this hour almost

POLITICS. 201

share the nation between them, I should say that

one h»8 the best cause, and the other contains the

best men. The philosopher, the poet, or the relig-

ious 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 conserva-

tive 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 conmiensurat*

with the resources of the nation.

202 POLITICS.

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 al-

ways 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 institu-

tioES lapsing into anarchy, and the older and more

cautious among ourselves are learning from Euro-

peans to look with some terror at our turbulent

freedom. It is said that in our license of constru-

ing the Constitution, and in the despotism of pub-

lic 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

ttiousand fold, it cannot begin to crush us, as long

POLITICS. 203

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 devel-

ops the other. Wild liberty develops iron con-

science. 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 neces-

sity 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 ori-

gin 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 par-

ties, 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 de-

cisions 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 appli*

204 POLITICS.

cation of to the measuring of land, the apportion*

ment 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 awk-

ward 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 con-

fiding the government to one, who may himseK

select his agents. All forms of government sym-

bolize an immortal government, common to all dy-

nasties 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 myt3eK not sufficient for me, and undertake the direo

POLITICS. 205

fcion 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 ex-

press 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

imdertaking 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, guess-

ing 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 an

206 POLITICS.

other. A man who cannot be acquainted with mc^

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. Be-

hold 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 gTowth of

the Individual ; the appearance of the principal to

eupersede 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,

POLITICS, 207

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 morn-

ing 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 pres-

ence of worth. I think the very strife of trade and

ambition is confession of this divinity ; and suc-

cesses in those fields are the poor amends, the fig*

808 POLITICS.

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

haimted by a conscience of this right to grandeui

of character, and are false to it. But each of ue

has some talent, can do somewhat useful, or grace-

ful, 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 tal-

ent 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 perma-

nent energy. Most persons of ability meet in so-

ciety 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 be-

cause 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

iheir compensation to themselves for being of 9

POLITICS. 209

{K>or, 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, of

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 pom-

pous 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 constitu-

tion; which work with more energy than we be-

lieve whilst we depend on artificial restraints. The

movement in this direction has been very marked

in modern history. Much has been blind and dis-

creditable, 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

VOi* IH. li

210 POLITICS.

been tried. We must not imagine that all things

are lapsing into confusion if every tender protest-

ant 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 ? coidd not a nation of friends even devise

better ways ? On the other hand, let not the most

conservative and timid fear anything from a pre-

mature 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 ab-

jure 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 prop-

erty, 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 na-

tions, a reliance on the moral sentiment and a suf-

ficient belief in the unity of things, to persuade

them that society can be maintained without artifi-

Qial restraints, as well as the solar system ; or tha4

POLITICS. 311

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 re-

formers, 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 faith 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

tklent and women of superior sentiments cannot

hide their contempt. Not the less does nature con-

tinue to fill the heart of youth with suggestions of

this enthusiasm, and there are now men, — if in-

deed I can speak in the plural number,— more ex-

actly, 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 sentimentSi

as well as a knot of friends, or a pair of lovers

fW^MINALIST AND REALISl

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 Ms »|

KUs for his proper sake

vin.

NOMINALIST AND REALIST.

I CANNOT often enough say that a man is only a

illative 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 stu-

dent, 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

216 NOMINALIST AND REALIST.

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 lib-

eral 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 in-

ferred 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 de-

baters 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

NOMINALIST AND REALIST. 217

of his body is small or deformed. I observe a per-

son who makes a good public appearance, and con-

clude thence the perfection of his private character,

on which this is based ; but he has no private char-

acter. He is a graceful cloak or lay-figure for holi=

days. 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 An-

gelo, nor Washington, such as we have made. Weconsecrate a great deal of nonsense because it was

allowed by great men. There is none without his

foible. I believe that if an angel should come to

chant 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 use

ful, but it is worse that no man is fit for society'

who has fine traits. He is admired at a distanccr

but he cannot come near without appearing a crip

pie. 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.

218 NOMINALIST AND REALIST

Our native love of reality joins with this expeii-

ence to teach us a little reserve, and to dissuade

a too sudden surrender to the brilliant qualities of

persons. Young people admire talents or particu-

lar 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 soli-

tary 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 incommuni-

cable !' Whilst we speak the loadstone is with-

drawn ; 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 mag-

netism, not for the needles. Human life and its

persons are poor empirical pretensions. A personal

influence is an ignisfatuus. 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 speak-

ers; the WiU-of-the-wisp vanishes if jou go too

NOMINALIST AND REALIST. 219

ttear, 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 particu-

lar 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 terres-

trial landscape. We are practically skilful in de-

tecting 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 ad-

dition of all their measurable properties. There

/s 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 play-house, at dinner-tables, I might see a

great number of rich, ignorant, book-read, conven-

tional, 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 io

520 NOMINALIST AND REALIST.

America, where, from the intellectual quickness of

the race, the genius of the country is more splen-

did in its promise and more slight in its perform-"

ance. 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 can-

not be debauched. In any controversy concerning

morals, an appeal may be made with safety to the

sentiments which the language of the people ex-

presses. Proverbs, words, and grammar-inflections

convey the public sense with more purity and pre-

cision 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

NOMINALIST AND REALIST. 221

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 individ-

ual also. How wise the world appears, when the

laws and usages of nations are largely detailed, and

the completeness of the municipal system is consid-

ered! 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 ap-

pear 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 mys

teries, the Egyptian architecture, the Indian as

tronomy, the Greek sculpture, show that there al

ways were seeing and knowing men in the planet

The world is full of masonic ties, of guilds, of se

cret and public legions of honor ; that of scholars,

for example ; and that of gentlemen, fraternizing

with the upper class of every count ly and everv

<;)ulture.

222 NOMINALIST AND REALIST,

I am very mucli struck in literature by the ap^

pearance that one person wrote all the books ; as il

the editor of a journal planted his body of report-

ers in different parts of the field of action, and re-

lieved 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 to-day 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. 'T is not Proclus, but a piece of

tiature 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 con-

eert, where I went to hear Handel's Messiah. Aa

NOMINALIST AND REALIST. 228

the master overpowered the littleness and incapa-

bleness of the performers and made them conduc-

tors 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 ai-tist, is propor-

tion, 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 de-

notes. Proportion is almost impossible to human

beings. There is no one who does not exaggerate.

In conversation, men are encumbered with person-

ality, 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

224 NOMINALIST AND REALIST.

study in exceptions the law of the world. Anom.

alous 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 insig-

nificant as an art of healing, but of great value as

criticism on the hygeia or medical practice of the

time. So with Mesmerism, Swedenborgism, Fou-

rierism, and the Millennial Church ; they are poor

pretensions enough, but good criticism on the sci-

ence, 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 exe-

cute with too much pains some one intellectual, or

sesthetical, 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 v/e 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.

( wish to speak with all respect of persons, but some*

NOMINALIST AND REALIST. 226

dmes I must pinch myself to keep awake and pre-

serve 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 conven-

iency 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 sur*

face of the water. But this is flat rebellion. Na-

ture will not be Buddhist : she resents generalizing,

and insults the philosopher in every moment with a

million of fresh particulars. It is aU 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 re-

main orbed in a thought, but rushes into persons

;

and when each person, inflamed to a fury of person-

ality, 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 some-

body else, and the world will be round. Everything

must have its flower or effort at the beautiful,

VOL. III. 15

NOMINALIST AND REALIST,

coarser or finer according to its stuff. They re-

lieve and recommend each other, and the sanity of

society is a balance of a thousand insanities. She

punishes abstractionists, and will only forgive an in-

duction 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 rowen, and swine shall eat the waste

of his house, and poultry shall pick the crumbs,—so our economical mother dispatches 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 mao

NOMINALISi AND REALIST. 227

ercry property in the universe, establishes thou-

sandfold occult mutual attractions among her off-

spring, that all this wash and waste of power may

be imparted and exchanged.

Great dangers undoubtedly accrue from this in.

carnation and distribution of the godhead, and

hence Nature has her maligners, as if she were

Circe; and Alphonso of Castile fancied he could

have given useful advice. But she does not go un-

provided ; she has hellebore at the bottom of the

cup. Solitude would ripen a plentiful crop of des-

pots. The recluse thinks of men as having his

manner, or as not having his manner ; and as hav-

ing 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 mod-

estly enough of his own endowment. When after-

wards he comes to imfold it in propitious circum-

stance, it seems the only talent ; he is delighted

with his success, and accoimts 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

228 NOMINALIST AND REALIST.

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 op-

portunity 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 1

It is like that brute advantage so essential to as<

tronomy, of having the diameter of the earth's or

bit for a base of its triangles. Democracy is mo.

rose, and runs to anarchy, but in the State and iu

the schools it is indispensable to resist the consoL

idation of all men into a few men. If John was

perfect, why are you and I alive ? As long as any

NOMINALIST AND REALIST. 229

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 re-

fuse 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 baptize 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. Wecame this time for condiments, not for corn. Wewant 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 impossi-

ble to arrive at any general statement,— when we

have insisted on the imperfection of individuals,

our affections and our experience urge that every

280 NOMINALIST AND REALIST.

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 states-

man looks at many, and compares the few habitu-

ally with others, and these look less. Yet are they

not entitled to this generosity of reception ? and ig

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 con-

test 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 limita-

tions. For rightly every man is a channel through

which heaven floweth, and whilst I fancied I was

criticising him, I was censuring or rather terminat-

ing my own soul. After taxing Goethe as a cour-

tier, 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 brier-rose.

But care is taken that the whole tune shall be

NOMINALIST AND REALIST. 231

played. If we were not kept among surfaces,

everything 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 ail things subsist and

do not die but only retire a little from sight and

afterwards return again. Whatever does not con-

cern 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, aU things

and persons are related to us, but according to

our nature they act on us not at once but in suc-

cession, 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 ^jZeriwm or solid ; and if we saw all

things that really surround us we should be impris-

oned and unable to move. For though nothing is

anpassable to the soul, but aU things are pervious

232 NOMINALIST AND REALIST,

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 at-

tempts to pass through it, but takes another way.

When he has exhausted for the time the nourish-

ment 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 look-

ing 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 volimtary and conscious

steps in the admirable science of universals, let us

eee the parts wisely, and infer the genius of nature

iSOMINALIST AND REALIST, 233

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 com-

monly 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 mar-

riage 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 bet-

ter 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*

234 NOMINALIST AND REALIST.

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 pri-

vate affair, works out, though as it were under

a disguise, the universal problem. We fancy men

are individuals; so are pumpkins; but every pump-

kin in the field goes through every point of pump-

kin history. The rabid democrat, as soon as he is

senator and rich man, has ripened beyond possibil-

ity 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 imiversality if we can, but it ap-

pears at all points. We are as ungrateful as chil-

dren. 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

NOMINALIST AND REALIST, 235

making tlie commonest offices beautiful by the en-

ergy and heart with which she does them ; and see-

ing this we admire and love her and them, and say,

* Lo ! a genuine creature of the fair earth, not dis-

sipated 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 to-

morrow 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 I 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.

236 NOMINALIST AND REALIST.

How sincere and confidential we can be, saying

all that lies in the mind, and yet go away feeling

that aU is yet unsaid, from the incapacity of the

parties to know each other, although they use the

same words I My companion assumes to know mymood 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 in-

curable partialist, and himself a universalist ? I

talked yesterday with a pair of philosophers ; I en-

deavored to show my good men that I liked every-

thing 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 under-

stand that I loved to know that they existed, and

heartily wished them God-speed, yet, out of mypoverty of life and thought, had no word or wel-

come 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.

ISTEW 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.

NEW ENGLAND REFOMlfili^.

M. LECTURE READ BEFORE THE SOCIETY IN AMOKYHALL. ON SUNDAY, MARCH 3, 1844.

Whoever has had opportunity of acquaintance

with society in New England during the last twen-

ty-five years, with those middle and with those lead-

ing sections that may constitute any just represen-

tation 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 relig-

ious party, is falling from the Church nominal, and

is appearing in temperance and non-resistance socie-

ties; in movements of abolitionists and of social-

ists ; and in very significant assemblies called Sab-

bath 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 mem-

bers of these Conventions to bear testimony against

240 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

the Church, and immediately afterwards to declare

their discontent with these Conventions, their inde-

pendence 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 I Oneapostle thought all men should go to farming, and

another that no man shoidd 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 agricul-

ture, 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

2^EW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 241

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 mosqui-

tos was to be incorporated without delay. With

these appeared the adepts of homoeopathy, of hy-

dropathy, of mesmerism, of phrenology, and their

wonderful theories of the Christian miracles I Oth-

ers assailed particular vocations, as that of the law-

yer, 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 protest •

ing against existing evils, and there were changes

of employment dictated by conscience. No doubt

there was plentiful vaporing, and cases of backslid-

ins: mijrht occur. But in each of these movements

emerged a good result, a tendency to the adoption

of simpler methods, and an assertion of the sufii-

viency of the private man. Thus it was directly in

lahe spirit and genius of the age, what happened in

VOL. lU. 16

242 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

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 busi-

ness ; the threatened individual immediately ex-

communicated 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 vio-

lent 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 origi-

nality and truth to character in it.

There was in all the practical activities of NewEngland for the last quarter of a century, a grad-

ual withdrawal of tender consciences from the so-

cial organizations. There is observable throughout,

the contest between mechanical and spiritual meth-

ods, but with a steady tendency of the thoughtful

and virtuous to a deeper belief and reliance on spii>

itual facts.

IireW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 243

In politics for example it is easy to see the pro-

gress of dissent. The country is full of rebellion;

the country is full of kings. Hands off ! let there

be no control and no int'^rference in the adminis-

tration 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 ex-

periment, in the face of what appear incontestable

facts. I confess, the motto of the Globe news,

paper is so attractive to me that I can seldom find

much appetite to read what is below it in its col-

umns :" The world is governed too much." So

the country is frequently affording solitary exam-

ples of resistance to the government, solitary nul-

lifiers, 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 ap.

peared 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 ? Whyshould professional labor and that of the counting-

house be paid so disproportionately to the labor of

the porter and woodsawyer? This whole business

244 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

of Trade gives me to pause and think^ as it conati

tutes false relations between men ; inasmuch as I

am prone to count myself relieved of any respon-

sibility 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 per-

son ? is there not a wide disparity between the lot

of me and the lot of thee, my poor brother, mypoor sister ? Am I not defrauded of my best cul-

ture 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 pop-

ular 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,

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 245

and do not know a thing. We cannot use oui

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 ex-

perimental also. The sight of a planet through a

telescope is worth all the course on astronomy ; the

shock of the electric spark in the elbow, outvalues

aK the theories ; the taste of the nitrous oxide, the

firing of an artificial volcano, are better than vol-

umes of chemistry.

One of the traits of the new spirit is the in-

quisition it fixed on our scholastic devotion to the

dead languages. The ancient languages, with great

beauty of structure, contain wonderful 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

246 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

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 activ-

ity in physical science. These things became ste-

reotyped 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 styled, he

shuts those books for the last time. Some thou-

sands 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? Whatwas the consequence? Some intelligent persons

said or thought, 'Is that Greek and Latin some

spell to conjure with, and not words of reason ? 11

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 247

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 af-

fairs.' 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 conserva-

tive 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 democratical move-

ments, through all the petulance and all the puer-

ility, 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 philos-

ophy, 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?

248 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

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 saUy against

evil by some single improvement, without sup-

porting 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

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 249

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 impor-

tance 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

supernatural advantages do easily see to the end

of it,— do see how man can do without it. Nowall 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, no?

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

«ome 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

250 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

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 Asso-

ciation. 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

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 251

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 proper-

ty that, in separate families, would leave every

member poor. These new associations are com-

posed of men and women of superior talents and

sentiments;yet it may easily be questioned wheth-

er such a community will draw, except in its begin-

nings, the able and the good ; whether those who

have energy will not prefer their chance of superi-

ority and power in the world, to the humble cer-

tainties of the association ; whether such a retreat

does not promise to become an asylum to those who

have tried and failed, rather than a field to the

strong ; and whether the members will not necessa-

rily be fractions of men, because each finds that he

cannot enter it without some compromise. Friend-

ship and association are very fine things, and a

grand phalanx of the best of the human race, band-

ed for some catholic object ; yes, excellent ; but re-

member that no society can ever be so large as one

man. He, in his friendship, in his natural and mo-

mentary associations, doubles or multiplies himself

;

but in the hour in which he mortgages himself to

two or ten or twenty, hp dwarfs himself below tba

stature of one.

262 ISIEW ENGLAJSD UEFORMERS.

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 house-

keeping 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 myparty 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

GoQ 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 diffeiv

ent kind. What is the use of the concert of th«

talse and the disunited ? There can be no concerl

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 253

in two, where there is no concert in one. Whenthe individual is not individual^ but is dual ; when

his thoughts look one way and his actions another ;

when his faith is traversed hy his habits ; when his

will, enlightened by reason, is warped by his sense r

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 in-

spire. 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 com-

municate, 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 astonish-

254 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

ment of all, the work will be done with concert^

though no man spoke. Government will be ada-

mantine 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 re-

gard, from the consideration that the speculations

of one generation are the history of the next fol-

lowing.

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 mem-

bers : 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. Wedo 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 re*

mark is too honest, and comes from the same ori

gin as the maxim of the tyrant, " If you would rul^

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 255

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 be-

lieve that any education, any system of philosophy,

any influence of genius, will ever give depth of in-

sight to a superficial mind. Having settled our-

selves into this infidelity, our skill is expended to

procure alleviations, diversion, opiates. We adorn

the victim with manual skill, his tongue with lan-

guages, his body with inoffensive and comely man-

ners. 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 tlirough 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 sar

cred thoughts amongst which he dwelt, but used

them to selfish ends. He was a profane person,

266 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS,

and became a showman, turning his gifts to a mar*

ketable 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 po-

etry, 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 dis-

heartened and sensualized by unbelief. What rem-

edy ? Life must be lived on a higher plane. Wemust 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 be-

lieve 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 malig-

nants, or of materialists. I do not believe in two

classes. You remember the story of the poor wo

N£W ENGLAND REFORMERS. 267

man who importuned King Philip of Macedon to

grant her justice, which Philip refused : the womanexclaimed, " I appeal :

" the king, astonished, asked

to whom she appealed : the woman replied, " From

Philip drunk to Philip sober." The text wiU 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

holydays of a diviner presence. It would be easy

to show, by a narrow scanning of any man's biog-

raphy, that we are not so wedded to our paltry per-

formances 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 ene.

mies, 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

YOU ID. !'

258 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

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

sUent 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 chil-

dren of virtue,— and feel their inspirations in our

happier hours. Is not every man sometimes a rad-

ical in politics ? Men are conservatives when they

are least vigorous, or when they are most luxurious.

They are conservatives after dinner, or before tak-

ing their rest ; when they are sick, or aged : in the

morning, or when their intellect or their conscience

has 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 Eng-

land, 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 wiU begin to love,

these unmovable statues will begin to spin and re-

volve. I cannot help recalling the fine anecdote

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 259

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, hav'

ing 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 to-

gether with earnestness, exclaiming, ' Let us set out

with him immediately.' " Men in all ways are bet-

ter than they seem. They like flattery for the mo-

ment, 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 re^

sent your honesty for an instant, they wiU 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, in-

stead 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

!2t)0 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

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 dis-

gust at the indigence of nature : Rousseau, Mira-

beau, 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 li^dng

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, Caesar, have treated life and fortune as

a game to be well and skilfully 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, dis-

courses 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 witn his mates. All that he has

will he give for an erect demeanor in every com-

pany and on each occasion. He aims at such

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 261

fihings 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 pro-

fession ; a naval and military honor, a general's

commission, a marshal's baton, a ducal coronet, the

laurel of poets, and, anyhow procured, the acknowl-

edgment of eminent merit,— have this lustre for

each candidate that they enable him to walk erect

and unashamed in the presence of some persons be-

fore whom he felt himself inferior. Having raised

himself to this rank, having established his equal-

ity with class after class of those with whom he

would live well, he still finds certain others be-

fore whom he cannot possess himself, because they

have somewhat fairer, somewhat grander, somewhat

purer, which extorts homage of him. Is his ambi-

tion 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 itseK as it ought,

262 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

high and unmatchable in the presence of any man \

if the secret oracles whose whisper makes the sweet-

ness and dignity of his life do here withdraw and

accompany him no longer, — it is time to under-

value 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 an-

other 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

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 263

fragments of ice, melted and carried away in the

gfreat 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 mine, and

use me and mine freely to your ends !' for I could

not say it otherwise than because a great enlarge^

ment had come to my heart and mind, which made

me superior to my fortunes. Here we are para-

lyzed 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, al-

though 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 com-

mand 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 meas-

ures. We wish to hear ourselves confuted. Weare 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 evei^

264 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

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 athe-

ism 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 amsatisfied that the largest part of these men, on ei-

ther side, mean to vote right." I suppose consider-

ate 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 gen-

eral purpose in the great number of persons is fidel-

ity. The reason why any one refuses his assent to

your opinion, or his aid to your benevolent design,

is in you : he refuses to accepr 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 thi&

general doctrine of the latent but ever soliciting

Spirit, it would be easy to adduce illustration in

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 265

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 com.

plained 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 Sweden'

borg 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 inarti-

ficial a contrivance is our legislation. The man

whose part is taken and who does not wait for

"ociety in anything, has a power which society can-

not choose but feel. The familiar experiment called

the hydrostatic paradox, in which a capillary col-

umn of water balances the ocean, is a symbol of the

relation of one man to the whole family of men.

The wise Dandamis, on hearing the lives of Soc-

rates, 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 vir»

tue must abate very much of its original vigor."

And as a man is equal to the Church and equal

(o the State, so he is equal to every other man.

266 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

The disparities of power in men are superficial;

and all frank and searching conversation, in wliicli

a man lays himself open to his brother, apprises

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 inequal-

ity such as men fancy, between them ; that a per-

fect understanding, a like receiving, a like perceiv-

ing, abolished differences ; and the poet would con-

fess that his creative imagination gave him no deep

advantage, but only the superficial one that he

could express himseK 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 hindeiv

ance operates as a concentration of his force.

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 267

These and the like experiences intimate that

man stands in strict connection with a higher fact

never yet manifested. There is power over and

behind us, and we are the channels of its commu-

nications. We seek to say thus and so, and ovei

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 answers 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

60 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 un-

spoken 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 an-

swer : but it is of small consequence that we do

268 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS.

not get it into verbs and nouns, whilst it abidei

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 connection

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 suc-

cess 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 appro-

bation, 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

NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS. 2Q\f

surfaces, and to see how this high will prevails

without an exception or an interval, he settles him-

self 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 oi

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 aU 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 cir-

cuits, 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.

£70 NEW ENGLAND REFORMERS,

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 val*

iantly conducted will yield the imagination a higher

joy than any fiction. AU around us what powers

are wrapped up under the coarse mattings of cus-

tom, 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 shoidd 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 ?